Chapter_14_Five_Weeks

In bed the next morning, I slowly wake up, thinking about those kids from last night.

The screaming and the hitting and the jittery, high energy I couldn’t begin to match no matter what designer club drug I tried.

I pray those kids are not an indication of our future. But maybe their behavior says more about their parents. I hope?

Wyatt is of course wide-awake next to me, holding a mug of coffee with his mom’s smiling real estate face on the side. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he reads something on his phone. Matilda yawns at our feet.

He’s shirtless and sexy and it’s turning me on. I want to jump him right now.

But I still feel blocked by a distance between us. A wall stands in the way of our intimacy.

This feels like the night we first met and I was immediately shy around him. Like this smart, hot, athletic, successful guy would never give me the time of day.

My phone vibrates and I reach for it. A message in the epic group text I’ve had with my five older sisters for years.

Today it’s from Zia.

ZIA

FIVE MORE WEEKS!!!

Their weekly countdown freaks me out and always reminds me of how unprepared I feel, but I smile at the patchwork of emojis each sister sends. I start typing back, when Wyatt notices I’m up.

“Good morning to you too,” Wyatt says. His scratchy morning voice always gets me going.

“Good morning. I didn’t want to disturb you. You seem so focused,” I say, sitting up, the air mattress making noises like we’re on a raft. Our shoulders are in line now, almost touching. “What time is it? What are you doing?” I ask.

“Almost eight. I’m working on getting us a refund with the rental company for the Provincetown house. It may be twenty-five percent of the total but it’s something. Oh, and I redid our itinerary. We can leave first thing tomorrow for Saugatuck. We can make up some lost Provincetown time there, spend a few extra days, which is perfect.”

“Can we talk about that and some other things for a sec?”

Wyatt puts his phone down and climbs out of bed, getting dressed.

“Maybe we can later? My mom is already texting me to help fix the back screen door. I’m like her handyman when I come home. Makes me realize how much Alex is never around.”

Wyatt really knows how to slip out of any meaningful conversation when he wants to.

“Okay, but we need to talk,” I remind him.

“We’ll have plenty of time to talk on the road,” Wyatt says. “I’ll meet you downstairs?” He goes without giving me a chance to protest.

I need to tell Wyatt about my job. But we’re on his home turf and I don’t want us getting into it in front of his mom. I sigh and stretch, realizing our conversation will have to wait.

But the news about my job is eating me up and I have to spill to someone. I splinter off my family group text and message Zia. She’s the closest sister to me in age and we tell each other everything.

BIZ

i got fired.

I don’t find a need to sugarcoat it.

ZIA

WHAT?!?!?!?!?

Zia reacts immediately. She’s always on her phone and I love her for that.

BIZ

yup. in a fucking group email.

It feels good to let this information out.

ZIA

What assholes. I’ve read how companies are doing that now. That sucks!!!!

BIZ

i know. especially with the baby coming.

ZIA

I didn’t want to say anything about that. What are you gonna do for work? This is kind of huge news.

BIZ

maybe i’ll go back into acting? i dunno. this is the worst possible timing. please don’t tell anyone.

ZIA

I won’t. I’m so sorry Biz.

BIZ

yeah. thanks.

ZIA

Wyatt better make that $$$$ now.

BIZ

ugh. so depressing. we’ll make it work.

ZIA

You always do.

BIZ

oh—i think i want to come home.

ZIA

WHEN???????

BIZ

like this week. tomorrow maybe? i have to convince wyatt first.

ZIA

On your babymoon? Where are you now??

BIZ

why not? we’re at wyatt’s mom’s house right now. long story.

ZIA

Oh, if you’re visiting his family, you HAVE to come home. We can finally throw you a baby shower!

BIZ

do we have to? haha

ZIA

Yes!!! Text me later. Driving now.

BIZ

i will. love u

ZIA

Love you too.

Later, the three of us spend the morning grabbing coffee and popping into more shops.

“Alex texted and said they can’t come to dinner tonight,” Wyatt informs me and Beverly in between bites of clam chowder at their favorite lunch spot.

“Why? Is he okay?” Beverly asks, growing concerned.

“He said he’s headachy and wants to take it easy.”

“Oh, god. I better go over there.”

“Mom, he’s fine. Megan is there. You know Alex. He likes his downtime.”

“But we should all be together on your last night,” Beverly says.

“We had dinner the other night, and we’ll come back with the baby,” Wyatt says.

“I’ll have to change our reservation to three then,” Beverly says, giving in.

“I can cook tonight,” I offer.

Beverly perks up. It’s probably not often someone makes dinner for her, and I can tell she loves the idea. To be honest, I’m getting tired of Wyatt’s generic childhood restaurants and need something delicious. “This one’s a keeper,” she says about me.

Wyatt and I share a look of mutual appreciation.

The rest of the afternoon, I hit the grocery store, then hop on Beverly’s Peloton in the basement for a good thirty minutes while Wyatt fixes a towel rack in the powder room. He’s a good handyman to have around.

I make a feast of a dinner. Bruschetta with sheep’s milk ricotta, sea salt and herbs, pappardelle al limone and homemade tiramisu. We even polish off a bottle of red wine with Beverly drinking more than both of us.

“I think it’s time for bed,” Beverly says, unexpectedly early.

“What about our nightcap and Golden Girls?” Wyatt asks. This is now our nightly routine.

“I just need to collapse,” Beverly says.

“I was hoping we’d at least get to finish our conversation about my father,” Wyatt says to everyone’s surprise.

Beverly suddenly goes quiet and tries to redirect.

“Honey, with one son just out of the hospital and the other driving across the country about to have a baby, all this worrying has gotten to me,” Beverly says, standing up from the dining table. “I can’t have too many things on my plate,” she says while surveying the mess of pots and pans.

“Don’t worry,” I say, swigging my wine. “Wyatt and I will clean up.”

Wyatt stays silent, disappointed.

“That was an incredible meal, Biz. I’ve decided I’m going to make you guys a nice send-off breakfast in the morning,” she says, not wanting to be outdone by my culinary skills.

“Mom, no,” Wyatt says, knowing his mom isn’t exactly the best cook on the planet. “We’ll grab something on the way out of town.”

“I have it all planned. But do me one favor. I’ve been asking you this since day one. Clean out some of your boxes downstairs before you leave? Biz can help you.”

“We will,” Wyatt says as we watch Beverly wave and wobble out of the room. That’s when I notice something. Wyatt’s mom is getting older. She’s not limping or anything dramatic, just a slight stiffness and a vague look of someone climbing through her sixties. This was also the first trip we didn’t hear talk of her doubles tennis games or her speed-walks for charities, I suddenly realize.

And Beverly making a meal at home is unheard of. She’s self-described “better at making reservations,” always on top of the latest restaurants and local nightlife. She really must be slowing down.

When Wyatt’s eyes meet mine, I sense he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Neither of us has paid much attention to our parents’ health or state of being—a luxury for a child to think of their parents as immortal, godlike creatures.

“She’s looking older,” Wyatt whispers. “And of course she won’t talk about anything.”

I shrug, not wanting him to focus on it. “We should do what she wants and clean out your boxes.”

Wyatt sighs deeply, knowing I’m right.

Who knows. Maybe this unexpected activity can bring us closer and give us a chance to chat about everything. I grab another bottle of wine, two glasses and we head downstairs.