Who Do You Love(123)
Author: Jennifer Weiner

“You look nice, too.”

It was true. Jay wore a slim-cut single-breasted suit of fine gray wool, a tie in alternating stripes of burnt-orange and gold, and lace-up wing tips polished to a high gloss. In our year apart he’d become significantly balder, a development that had revealed the rectangular shape of his skull, making him look a little Frankensteiny. He’d also gained the seven or eight pounds I’d lost. When we’d met, I’d been struck by his smile, his expressive mouth, the way he’d use his hands when he told stories, and I couldn’t wait to feel those hands on me. Maybe it was love that had made him look more attractive than he was. The man standing in front of me now was just another well-dressed guy with good taste, not anyone I would have taken special notice of if I’d seen him in a subway car or in line for a latte at one of the six sustainable coffee shops that had arrived in our neighborhood. Now Jay resembled his father, kind but phlegmatic, without much of a sense of humor, a man you’d want probating your will but not at your table during the last round on Trivia Night at the bar. Not in bed, either.

“These are for you.” The flowers were peonies, my favorite, and the candy was dark-chocolate-dipped orange peel. “Why’d you get that?” Delaney complained. “Nobody eats it but Mommy.”

“Maybe Mommy deserved a treat, after working so hard to get everything ready,” said Jay. He wore the look he always gave me since we’d split, soft-eyed and apologetic, only now I thought I saw something else in his expression . . . Was it hope? Desperation? Actual sadness?

I gave him a polite smile and thanked him, and instructed the girls to put coats in my bedroom, relishing the way Jay stiffened when I said my. Delaney, who loved dressing up, was arrayed in a pink party dress with crinolines under the skirt, white tights, and pink patent-leather Mary Janes and a pink bow in her hair. Adele detested waistbands and collars, and had avoided pants with zippers ever since she was five and had an accident because she couldn’t get out of her snowsuit fast enough, but I’d managed to get her to agree to a pair of black leggings and a long, silky white tunic. She’d even consented to a sparkly black band in her hair. Delaney, of course, had begged for a fancy ’do, and I’d watched YouTube tutorials until I could approximate the fishtail braid she’d requested.

With so many children at the meal, and, usually, at least a few adults who weren’t familiar with the Passover rituals, I’d condensed the Haggadah to a twenty-minute highlight reel. Wine was sipped (grape juice, in the kids’ cases), the Four Questions were asked, all the foods on the Seder plate were explained, and the story of the Exodus was read, round-robin-style, with everyone at the table who could read taking a turn. This year, Dante got the conclusion. “ ‘Once we were slaves, now we are free,’ ” Dante read, looking meaningfully at his mother, who smiled proudly—which meant, I thought, that she’d dumped yet another loser boyfriend. “ ‘This year we are here, next year in Jerusalem.’ ” We sang “Dayenu,” and I was reminded that Jay’s voice was surprisingly tuneful, and that the song was annoyingly long.

As soon as the final verse of “Chad Gadya” had been completed, Nana and my mother and I went to the kitchen to serve the gefilte fish and chopped liver. Delaney took orders, and she and Adele delivered the plates to the table. “Delicious!” Jay exclaimed, even though I’d never known him to be a gefilte fan. “These are just as good as I remember them,” he said of Nana’s matzoh balls. “Bernie, can I give you a hand?” he asked my dad, taking over the turkey-carving duties.

When I announced I was going to hide the afikomen, Jay gave me a private eyebrow waggle, the same one he’d done ever since I’d told him I thought that “hide the afikomen” sounded like a euphemism for sex. When the meal was over, Jay helped pack the leftovers into Tupperware to-go containers and bundle them into bags for everyone to bring home. He stayed until the last salad fork and soup spoon had been put in the dishwasher, and the Seder plate, the one Adele had made in Hebrew school, was washed and dried and restored to its spot in the cabinet. After my parents and Nana went back to their hotel in Manhattan and Brenda, my last guest, had hugged me goodbye, Jay was still there.

“Let me help you put the girls to bed,” he said. Adele had already brushed and flossed, hung up her party clothes, and put on her pajamas and was in bed, scrutinizing The Popularity Papers as if the book contained an actual blueprint for popularity, and Delaney was asleep on the couch with her shoes kicked off and the soles of her white tights grimy. “Come on, party girl,” he said, lifting her into his arms. With her eyes still shut, Delaney settled her head against his shoulder. I felt the familiar tearing sensation, the same pain I felt every time I heard the girls refer, with increasing nonchalance, to “Daddy’s house,” or whenever I watched them follow him out the door. I had never wanted this divided life for Adele and Delaney. I could have forgiven Jay for an affair, could maybe even have forgiven him for an affair with one of my best friends, if he hadn’t hurt his daughters this way.