Roomies

A sudden panic about the interview barrels through me. “Oh shit. Did something—”

“No emergency.” He seems to reconsider this. “I mean, at least I hope not? I’d texted a couple times because Calvin called me, looking for you.”

“He called you?”

Well. That’s something, at least. My anger dims, minutely. I give Jeff a grumpy look with my I’ll explain in one second finger gesture, and then finish dialing Brian’s number. Thank all that is holy—it goes to voicemail. “Brian, it’s Holland. I’m unable to make it in tonight. If you need anything, call me at Robert and Jeff’s.” I hang up and immediately step into Jeff’s arms.

He speaks into my hair. “I take it all is not well in Married Land?”

My “no” comes out muffled against his suit.

“Marriage is hard,” he says.

“I think fake marriage might be harder.”

He stills, and then hums sympathetically. “Let me change into comfy clothes, and then we can have a night in.”

I make tea while he puts on University of Iowa Hawkeye pajama pants and a Yankees T-shirt, and we meet on their enormous, fluffy couch. Jeff sits, pulling one leg up so he can turn and face me. Only a single lamp is on in the room, and it gives his cheeks a hollow, gaunt look. Jeff has always been slender, but for the first time in my life, I think he’s starting to look old. My heart breaks a little.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s have it.”

I take a bracing breath; there’s no use warming up slowly to any of this: “Things with Calvin have been really good. We’re actually . . . together.”

My uncle laughs in mock-scandal. “No. What will the ton say about two married people having an affair together!” He leans in and whispers, “We had a hunch.”

I tilt my eyes skyward and ignore his teasing. “So, last night, we were mobbed outside the theater, and it was so surreal. Afterward, we had this moment—this super-intense moment that felt really grounding—where I felt like we were in this together. I felt so protective, and he was so grateful, and it was just . . .”

“Loving,” Jeff finishes, with a question in his voice.

“Yeah . . . But then we went to meet Lulu at Dutch Fred’s”—Jeff groans knowingly—“and she got really drunk—per usual, I guess—and told Calvin how I used to basically stalk him.”

Jeff pauses, eyes narrowing. His voice goes low like it does when he’s turning more protective animal than uncle. “You had a crush on him, and were justifiably infatuated—in part because of his talent.”

“Well, she put on a pretty great show and made me sound super creepy. She told him what I used to call him, how I’d go see him play, how I knew his schedule. It wasn’t just that she was being a dick, she completely shattered this really great moment we were having, and I feel like we went back to being strangers.”

He runs a hand down his face.

“So we got home,” I continue, “and Calvin wanted to talk about it—”

“Which is good,” he gently interrupts with a hand on my arm.

“Right, it was good, but not the way he did it. I got pretty pissed.” I look at him and explain how the conversation went, how Calvin made it sound like I’m getting the most out of this arrangement, how he feels lied to.

“I hit a wall,” I say. “I did this for Robert, and for him—and maybe also for me—but why is that bad?” I stand up, walking across the room and back. “It’s not like I expected this marriage to turn real. It’s not like I put a video camera in the bookcase and took footage of him sleeping and stole his underwear.”

“Of course not, honey,” he says. “You have an incredible ear for music, and of the tens of thousands of people who probably heard him, only you were able to connect him to Robert—to make this happen.”

“But last night, the way he was talking about it, just made me feel so gross—just when I had accomplished something, when I was feeling good about having a voice and protecting Calvin like I did. I have nothing going for me,” I say, squeezing my eyes closed. “Nothing except you guys, and your support and hopes for me. I’m not Calvin. I’m not Robert. I’m not you.”

“You’re right,” Jeff says, laughing. “You aren’t a buttoned-up financial analyst.”

“You may not always love your job, but you’re good at it—and you found a hobby that you love doing.” I pull my shoulders up, feeling tense everywhere. “I have no idea what I want to do. I want to write and read and talk about books with people. I want to listen to music, and go out to dinner, and just live.”

“That is a life,” he insists. “That is a good life.”

“But I have to be able to support myself, too. I have all these things I wanted to do, and I haven’t done any of them.”

“I didn’t find pottery until I was fifty,” Jeff reminds me. “Honey, you are only twenty-five. You don’t need to have it all figured out.”

I fall back down on the couch, covering my face with my hands. “But shouldn’t I have some of it figured out?”

He places a large hand on my knee. “That perception is only coming from you.”

“Last night, it was coming from Lulu and then Calvin.” I drop my hands. “I love you guys, but I have to take your sentiment with a grain of salt. You’re biologically and/or legally obligated to love me.”

Jeff leans in, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Hollsy, think of it this way: If I compared myself to Robert when we first met, I would constantly feel behind. He was a musical prodigy. I was a waiter, trying to figure out if I had the grades to get into the mediocre MBA programs in my area.” He smiles at me. “But I knew I wanted to be with him, and he wanted to be with me, too, and also knew what he wanted to do with his life. So, we compromised. He took the job in Des Moines, and it was my responsibility to get a job that would make enough money for what we needed, and that I enjoyed enough. I didn’t have to love it, but it didn’t matter whether I did, either, because I had him. I kept trying new things, too, and eventually discovered pottery. It’s fun, of course, but the most important part is that I didn’t feel like my job had to be my everything.”

This is what I have to keep reminding myself. Sometimes a job can just be a job. We aren’t all going to win the rat race. “I know.”

“You know I didn’t approve of your marriage,” he says quietly, and guilt floods my bloodstream. “You didn’t know each other, and your feelings being what they were, I worried you would get hurt.”

I groan into a pillow, but Jeff pulls it away.

“I’m not chastising you. Listen. All of that was true, but I also didn’t expect things to turn romantic between the two of you. Seeing you two lately is wonderful for us.”

“I’m not sure it’s real, though.” I pull at my lower lip, working not to cry. After all the walking and righteous anger, not only am I physically exhausted, but the softer emotions are starting to rise to the surface. The thought that Calvin has been toying with me all this time is painful. It was easy to push the worry away when he was kissing me, when he was smiling at me. “Maybe it’s just a game.”