Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

“Remind me again.” I clench Vanessa’s forearm as we hit a violent pocket of air. “Why Seattle?”

“Because you haven’t left New York in almost four years,” Vanessa says.

“That’s not true,” I reply. That can’t be true. Is that true? Shawn and I honeymooned in Hawaii. And then what? The air calms, and I feel my pulse slow, and I try to recall what other adventures I’ve tripped down since marrying Shawn. Finally, I remember. “We went to D.C. for that conference Shawn had.”

“D.C. doesn’t count. D.C. is an extension of New York, just with political junkies, not finance junkies.”

“Fine,” I say. “But still. Why Seattle?”

I want her to say it — because of Theo — but she shakes her head and offers something murkier: “Because if you’d been more daring, you’d have moved here in another life, in your other life. Maybe in your new life.”

I’d never move to Seattle, I think. It’s too green. And there’s so much coffee! And recycling! And…plaid! At least, I think Seattle’s all of these things. I really only know what I know from Grey’s Anatomy. And from googling it. I’ve never been here, but it’s not like I haven’t googled it, haven’t googled Theodore and wondered where he goes, what he does, what sort of company he keeps. (In fact, I googled him last night to see if our paths might cross, but the AP informed me he’s in New Orleans working with the Saints on a sexual harassment lawsuit.)

He asked me to move with him from New York when he founded Y.E.S. — he thought that Seattle, with its up-and-coming tech community and its (arguably) better quality of life (if you like mountain climbing or bike riding or boating or green markets or skiing or general outdoor healthful activities, which I do not), proved too good to pass up. But I was twenty-four and didn’t trust myself. Seattle was too daunting, too far from my parents, too far from everything.

Theodore and I met the day after I graduated from college. Vanessa and I were unloading our station wagon, dragging our boxes and our books and our Doc Martens and our half-drunk bottles of tequila (because college students would rather pack that than throw it out) up four stories to our walk-up on the Upper East Side, and he stopped to offer to help. It was sort of a self-serving offer since he lived in the apartment below us, and it was only in his best interest to get us in as quickly as possible, but still. He cruised up the sidewalk on his street bike, slung the bike over his shoulder, and grabbed a laundry bag stuffed full of dirty clothes in his free hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let me.”

I liked him immediately, so when he invited us over for dinner that night, Vanessa begged off and insisted I go. He made gourmet omelets from a cookbook, which I thought was sort of charming, until they landed me in the hospital because he infused them with truffle oil, and I am actually one of the five people on the planet with a truffle allergy.

But I think about that sometimes: how he rushed me to the ER when my lips blew up; how he calmed me without really knowing me when my breathing grew labored; how he didn’t even find me totally repulsive when my face developed a rash that can only be described as resembling the inside of a pomegranate. I think about it sometimes and consider that if he hadn’t made me an omelet, if he’d chosen spaghetti or warmed-up soup or thrown a steak in the broiler, and if he hadn’t dotted it with truffle oil, how I’d never have ended up in the ER and never fallen in love with him, right then, right there, with my lips the size of bananas, with my face dotted with a modern-day plague.

He sat with me in the ER and said:

“Maybe this is fate.”

And I said: “You believe in fate?”

And he said: “Actually, I don’t.”

So I said: “Hmmm.”

And he said: “But I do believe in truffle-infused omelets.”

And I laughed (even with my banana lips) and said: “You’re a jerk.”

And he laughed and said: “Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

And then, three years later, he moved to Seattle. Got funding for Y.E.S., and asked me to take the leap with him. But Theodore was big and brave and daring in ways I never could be. In three years, I’d never ridden a bike with him (“What if a taxi side-swipes me?”), never learned to cook because I could just as easily order in, never considered that saying “yes” could actually change anything, even though he built his entire life around it. So he asked me, and I did what I always did: I stayed the course, and he, knowing me too well, I suppose, didn’t fight it. He left, and then I met Shawn two years later on Match.com, and then Theo got engaged, and then he lost a testicle and found me on Facebook.

And now here we are. In Seattle, where maybe fate has meant to bring us all along.

I stare out the rental car window.

“Are you ready for this?” Vanessa breaks the silence.

“For what?”

“To start scaling mountains.”

“You’re speaking figuratively, right? Because you know how much I hate the mountains.”

She presses her foot to the gas. “Which is exactly why we’re going up.”

Email from: Richard Chandler

To: Willa Chandler

Subject: This book

Willa — I will get straight to the point. I have heard whispers (actually, Lana, my agent, has) that you are somehow involved in a book project that is intended to disprove my world-renowned theories and conclusions. Even worse, it is evidently tied to a REALITY SHOW!?!? Can this be true? Surely, it cannot be! Need I remind you that I was approached for a reality show by Simon Cowell, and that I turned it down after heated contract negotiations because reality shows are (I determined) the lowest common denominator in our society?

I assured Lana that she must be mistaken, that no child of mine, however doubtful, would seek out a reality show, much less set out to prove my theories incorrect. (Amended: Raina might perhaps, but not you, not you, William!) Anyway, if I am somehow wrong and you have plans to publicly publicize your issues with my theories, please take a moment and consider the harm this will bring me and our family. Perhaps this email is unnecessary, since I know that in the end, what will be will be, and of course you wouldn’t put such a blight on my reputation (did I mention that CNN has asked me to be a full-time contributor! I am very excited — also Cowell has reapproached Lana with a much more lucrative offer, so we shall see), but I wanted to go on record all the same.

Your mother has retreated to Palm Beach for a few weeks, and I remain in New York City. I have recently joined Match.com, which I am finding so very fascinating! I think there could be an entire dating book devoted to the inevitability of finding one’s spouse online. Would you be willing to contribute to it? The bounty of electronic dating is so plentiful! I find that my cup runneth over with prospects.

Your father,

Richard Chandler

Richard Chandler

Author of the #1 New York Times Bestseller , Is It Really Your Choice? Why Your Entire Life May Be Out of Your Control

Agent: Lana Delaney, Creative Artists Agency

Email: lifesplan@IsItReallyYourChoice.com

The Dare You! producers have put us up at a quaint, homey hotel that overlooks the Puget Sound. We arrive just in time to see the sun begin its descent below the mountainous horizon in the distance, and it’s as remarkable as anything I’ve ever seen — orange and ruby and breathtaking and magical and ethereal and perfect. The sun rises and sets every day. We go round and round every day. We walk the same path, the same destiny every day.