Emma Straub - Modern Lovers

It was amazing to think that that sperm — Jane’s younger brother’s, if you must know — had eventually turned into Ruby, who had been a full-cheeked baby, who had been a mermaid child, who had been a sullen tween, who had graduated from high school. Elizabeth had wiped her bottom dozens of times, had bathed her in the sink. And now Harry blushed at the sound of her name.

“She doesn’t know what she’s going to do next year,” Harry said, unprompted. They’d made it to the corner and turned right, still with no sign of Iggy.

“No? Zoe told me she was going to take a year off. In Europe, practically everyone does. I think it’s a great idea.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t even know what she wants to do, like, at all.”

Elizabeth looked at her son. “Next year, you mean? Or for the rest of her life?”

“Either. Both.”

“I didn’t know what I wanted to do for the rest of my life when I was eighteen.” Elizabeth waved to an elderly neighbor across the street. “I still don’t. And your father certainly doesn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Harry looked stricken.

“I mean, it’s never too late to decide to do something else. Becoming an adult doesn’t mean that you suddenly have all the answers.” Elizabeth stepped over a large crack in the sidewalk and then stooped down to check under a few more cars.

“I know,” Harry said. “I wasn’t raised in an igloo. But what do you mean that Dad certainly doesn’t?”

“Oh,” Elizabeth said. “That. I just mean that he has a lot of interests, and that he hasn’t had a conventional career path, you know, moving up the corporate ladder.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said. He seemed satisfied. They got to the next corner and turned right again. “Maybe we should make signs.”

“For your dad?”

“For the cat.”

“Right.” Elizabeth put her hands on her hips. The sun was setting. The neighborhood looked prettiest at dusk, as did the rest of the world. Sometimes she wished she could take all the photos for all the houses just before sunset, when every room looked alive with beauty and possibility. Harry’s curls were outlined with gold. She wanted to kiss her son on the mouth the way she had when he was a baby, and to remember every second of their lives together, like some sort of robot. Andrew was better at that, at remembering all the tiny moments of Harry’s development, what day of the week it was when he first smiled, and when he learned how to ride his bike without training wheels. There wasn’t enough time in the world, not for the things that mattered most, even counting all the endless days when Harry had a fever and was home from school and they didn’t move from the sofa. Even counting the days the three of them had spent marooned indoors during blizzards. Even counting the days before he was conceived and she and Andrew wanted nothing, nothing, nothing more than a wick to light and hold.

The house was a mess, with Ruby’s clothing everywhere, and dog hair, and half-empty abandoned glasses of water. Zoe knew how it must look to Elizabeth; like she wasn’t sure what to do next, as if the likeliest result would be for her to end up like the Collyer brothers, buried under mountains of her own junk. That morning, she’d weeded out the bookshelf next to her bed and her underwear drawer. She wasn’t sure if she was clearing things out in order to begin to think about maybe selling the house (she couldn’t even think about it declaratively) or whether clearing things out was a way of procrastinating even doing that much.

It was her favorite time of day, the window of time between lunch and dinner. All was quiet at home, and Hyacinth was recharging its batteries, the cooks readying everything for the evening rush and making staff meal, something large and comforting to feed everyone from the cooks to the waiters and the runners and the busboys. Zoe had always preferred staff meal to anything on the menu. She’d had everything so many times over the years — a bite here, a bite there, spoonfuls of everything at home — that even with the changing of the seasons, she couldn’t stomach another plate of Hyacinth’s polenta and mushrooms or shaved asparagus with pecorino. Staff meal could be anything — fried chicken, moo shu, burgers smothered in blue cheese. She wasn’t always around Hyacinth to eat, but Jane was cooking tonight — she’d been inspired and signed herself up — and Ruby was working, and so she went. All she was doing at home was moving things from one room to another, and she was happy enough to get away from it for a little while.

It took six minutes to walk to the restaurant. Ruby was sitting at the table in front of the window, her legs crossed underneath her and her long purple hair falling in her face. Zoe knocked gently on the window to get her attention, and Ruby stuck out her tongue.

Inside, Hyacinth smelled like basil and peaches and brown sugar. Zoe folded herself into the chair next to Ruby, and waved hello to the servers setting the tables.

“Hi, sweets,” she said, and tucked Ruby’s hair behind her ear.

“Mum,” Ruby said. “Please.” She untucked it.

There was a bowl of sugar snap peas in front of her, and Zoe popped one into her mouth.

“Hey,” Jane said, coming up from behind them. She was in her kitchen clothes, a stiff white jacket unbuttoned at the collar. Zoe loved seeing Jane in her chef coat — it had always been a turn-on. It was her formal wear, her version of a ball gown, when she looked most like herself, and most in charge. Jane had always seemed like an adult, even when they met, when Zoe was twenty-three and Jane was thirty. Unlike Zoe, who’d never had to work a job, who paid her rent late because she was disorganized but not because she didn’t have the money, Jane was already a grown-up. When she’d told Zoe that she wanted to open a restaurant, Zoe knew that she would make it happen. There was nothing adolescent about her, nothing wishy-washy. Jane put her hands on Ruby’s shoulders and squeezed.

“Hi,” Zoe said. “What’s for dinner?”

“Carnitas, baby. So rich, it tastes like chocolate. Watermelon salad. So good.”

“Sounds delicious.” Zoe loved it when Jane talked about food. She wasn’t one of those chatty chefs who killed a whole meal by telling you where every grain of rice was born. Jane cared about that, of course, but she’d rather just sit across from you and nod at your happy moans. She was more den mother than sommelier — she didn’t care whether or not you could identify the sage or the saffron, she just wanted to know that you liked what she’d given you. She’d cooked for Zoe early and often in their courtship — when Zoe thought about falling in love with Jane, she thought of the two of them sitting naked at Jane’s kitchen table, dragging their fingers through brownie batter and twisting their forks into perfect orange yolks, sending tendrils of richness down over handmade pasta. Jane was fresh out of the CIA and liked to practice her techniques. Fresh croissants, sometimes stuffed with almond paste. Zoe licked her fingers every day. She gained ten pounds in the first six months they were together. Whenever she’d lost weight in the intervening years, Jane would take it as a personal slight. It was a good quality in a wife.

Jorge waved from behind the bar. “You want a glass of something?”

Zoe shook her head, but Jane ducked back around the bar and returned with two glasses of cava. “Come on,” she said to Zoe. “Live a little.” Jane handed her own glass to Ruby. “Not the whole thing — I’ll get arrested. You’re sitting in the window.” Ruby slurped a little off the top. Zoe pursed her lips and then smiled.