“What does ‘Confucius say’ mean?” Penny is studying a strip of white paper, crumbles of fortune cookie still clinging to her mouth.
“It means your father is going to flip when he sees you’ve already eaten all the fortune cookies, my little unfortunate cookie,” I say, giving the top of her head a quick kiss.
“Not all of them.” Penny, the picture of innocence, pulls out one cookie from the flapped pocket of her cargo pants, then another. They’re crumpled and battered in their plastic pouches. Used cookies.
“I saved one for you, Charlie Mac. And one for Daddy.” She examines the brown bag, now literally oozing kung pao sauce. “Mom never lets us have Chinese food. She says it has monster glutamate.”
She starts unwrapping chopsticks, breaking each set apart with a twist and a crack. “I’ll help,” she says, putting the two “saved” cookies on the counter.
Maybe mine will say “you are going on a long journey.” That would at least provide a much-needed segue to the unfortunate conversation I’m soon going to have. I’d already gone home to pack my suitcase for Atlanta and it’s waiting now in my trunk. My plan is to leave my Jeep in Josh’s garage until I get home. Turns out, our plane leaves first thing in the morning. Josh doesn’t know any of this. Yet. And I want to savor tonight as long as I can.
“Where’s your dad?” I ask.
“Right here, of course.” A voice comes down the hall, followed by my darling Josh. He looks just out of the shower, hair still damply tousled. And he’s particularly fetching in his oldest Levi’s, ripped at the knees, and a stretched-out V-neck sweater, gray T-shirt underneath. It’s all I can do to keep from running my hands up under that sweater. I’ve always thought he looks just like my teen pin-up heartthrob from To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch. At least how Gregory Peck looked as Atticus in the movie.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I say. I fiddle with some paper napkins to give my hands something more socially acceptable to do.
“Hey, Daddo.” Penny looks up from her chopsticks project. A pile of shredded chopstick sleeves now litters the counter. “I’m helping.”
“I see that, Pen. Great job. Hey, sweetheart.” Josh smells of citrus and toothpaste as he winds an arm around my waist. He gently kisses my ear. “Weekend plans,” he whispers. “Listen to this.”
Josh keeps his arm around me, but focuses on Penny. His voice changes to the parental tone designed to convey information to me without letting Penny know his true meaning. “So tell me again-what time is Emma’s mom coming to pick you up for the slumber party?”
“Oh, Daddo, you know it’s seven, right?” Penny says. She’s using her long-suffering-child tone. “And then I get to stay all night at Emma and Kristin’s. Then Mom will pick me up tomorrow. Don’t you remember anything?”
“Nope,” Josh says. He reaches over and taps her on the head with a duck sauce packet. “That’s why I have you.”
I see what’s going on. And any other night, I would be doing a quick personal inventory-slinky-enough underwear, sleek-enough legs, toothbrush available-in preparation for the deliciously private and child-free romance-novel evening Josh clearly has in mind. This night, though, I fear his plot is going to be thwarted.
My stomach twists with what’s ahead. And I don’t mean the monster glutamate.
I have to tell him soon. I’ve stalled through the spring rolls and dim sum. I’ve stalled through the reheated General Gau’s chicken. Penny’s upstairs doing the last of her slumber party packing and Josh and I are trying to figure out what’s in a dish the Shing Yee Palace carry-out menu calls “Two Delights in the Nest.”
“I couldn’t resist,” Josh says, picking through the exotic concoction with one chopstick. “I could only think of you as a ‘delight in the nest.’ And once I had that mental picture, well, it just seemed too perfect.”
“You’re in a goofy mood, Professor Gelston,” I say. “I remind you of Chinese food?”
“Well, it’s delicious. And unpredictable. And always wonderful.” Josh points to me with his chopstick. “And I love it. So why not?”
The three white pillar candles on the dining room table flicker and drip into their chunky glass holders. I had snipped some bronze and crimson leaves from the backyard maple, and arranged them as a centerpiece among the candles. It’s just the two of us, Josh at the end of the table, me beside him, both with a view of the first fire of the season-unnecessary but hypnotic-crackling softly in the living room. We’ve uncorked a special sauvignon blanc. Our favorite Ella CD plays in the background. We’re a glossy ad for middle-aged lust. Exploring the second time around. And as soon as Penny leaves, I’ve got to stop the music.
“So listen,” Josh interrupts my doomsday thoughts. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
I hold my chopsticks in midair. A noodle dangles, then slithers back to my plate. “Tomorrow…?”
“Yup. If you’re not busy-” He pauses, smiling mysteriously, letting this preposterous idea hang briefly between us. “If you’re not otherwise occupied, I have a little treat in store.”
My chopsticks haven’t moved. Tomorrow night at this time I’ll be in Atlanta. There’s no way out of that. Even under normal circumstances, that was going to be complicated enough to explain. Now some unknown “treat,” which my frazzled brain is unable to fathom, is about to be dropped like a grenade into my life. Our lives.
“Treat?”
“The Royal Shakespeare Company. One performance only. And you know it was instantly sold out.” Josh is looking so pleased with himself, it brings tears to my eyes.
This is unstoppable. Maybe I could faint. Maybe I could throw up. Which actually doesn’t seem too unlikely.
“So anyway,” Josh continues, apparently unaware of my increasing distress. “Westy Peabody? Big shot on the Bexter board. Had two tickets and couldn’t use them. And now they’re ours. Tomorrow, the Opera House, The Comedy of Errors. And I made dinner reservations at Grill 23. Your favorite.”
Josh points a chopstick at me. “What do you think of that, my little delight in the nest?”
I think I have to kill myself. The Comedy of Errors. Thanks, universe. Irony is always welcome.
The Chinese food, remnants still on the table, has congealed into a toxic waste site. Josh has pushed his chair back from the table. He’s still sitting next to me, but he’s positioned himself as far away as possible.
“But I couldn’t know.” I’m pleading with him to understand my hopeless case. “About the tickets. I mean, it’s wonderful. And you’re wonderful. I’m devastated. But I have no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Josh says. “I’m not sure how often I’ve said that to you. I’m not sure how often we’ve had exactly this same conversation. You do have a choice. And you always choose work.”
I put my elbows on the table, and drop my forehead into my hands. How can I convince him? I look up at Josh through my fingers.
“I know we’ve had the conversation. I know sometimes I have to work. But in my heart, I choose you. You know I do. And Penny. But this is the only time Franklin and I can get into the…”
Josh is shaking his head quickly and decisively. Dismissing.
“Charlie, maybe it’s not even you. Maybe I’m just not ready for this. Maybe the whole Victoria thing is still too raw. I never saw it coming, how she was pulling away. I worked, she worked. We had our jobs. And we had Penny. I thought everything was fine. And suddenly, it wasn’t.”