I mix myself a Manhattan—drinking cocktails again is one perk of pregnancy purgatory—and put the chicken in the oven. At seven, I text again:Can you let me know you’re okay?
This time, the three dots do appear, but only for a second before fading away. So he’s deliberately ignoring me then. A twinge of fury jabs into my ribs. The apartment smells like Thanksgiving and my stomach sounds like a diesel engine, so you know what? Fuck him.I’m not going to sit here and starve.
I carve into the perfect golden bird and take a plate to the couch, along with a bottle of Malbec. Time to open Pinterest and design our dream home.
The kitchen is almost exactly what I want already, though I’m not sold on the oversize lantern-style pendants over the island. They’re a statement, sure, but are they the right one? I pin two alternatives: simple milk-glass globes with brass canopies from Schoolhouse, and a solid brass dome-shaped option from Shades of Light.
Zoe Estelle’s Instagram has persuaded me that painting the wainscoting in the dining room a high-gloss deep jewel tone is the only way to go. Then I’ll wallpaper the rest of the way up to the ceiling. I peruse the options on Farrow & Ball’s website and fall for a muted purple called Brinjal. Anthropologie has a few wallpapers that would really pick up that color well. I order samples of all of them and pour myself another glass.
Even though I couldn’t fully see the living room from the back deck, I can imagine it easily enough, and given the location of the house’s chimney, it must have a fireplace. What if I go with two of the same sofa, facing each other over a chunky, live-edge coffee table? That feels right. They’d frame the fire nicely. Chesterfields might be too traditional, but I want to keep the space cozy and inviting, so anything too minimal won’t work. Ooh, maybe I do a modern shape but in distressed leather? Or something curvy! In velvet. Moss? Hunter green? No, moss. Definitely moss. Crate & Barrel has a few curved sofas that I pin to my board. I top off my glass, then order some fabric swatches so I can be sure about the shade.
The house already has loads of curb appeal. But the one thing I didn’t love were the house numbers. I get it, a Colonial can lean stuffy if you don’t make the right choices. But those skinny black things are way too sterile for such a charming facade. What I need is a more classic font, in a warmer finish, maybe antique bronze?
I fill my glass and type those descriptors into Google. Here wego—a nice bold serif from Rejuvenation that looks just about perfect. I think the eight-inch numbers will match the scale of the portico and outdoor lanterns better than the standard six-inch. They’re made to order. Better buy them now so we’ll have them by the time we move in. So exciting! My first real purchase for our new home!
Shit, did I already polish off this whole bottle?
After the oven’s been on all day, the house swaddles me in its warmth. The oak tree in the backyard blazes a deep auburn. There’s a girl on the tire swing, her legs barely long enough to dangle through the opening. Is that Penny? I move closer to the French doors, squinting through them. My breath steams the glass as I let out a surprised little puff.
It’s me. I’m the girl.
Going by those purple overalls, the same ones I wore for my third-grade photo, I must be about eight. I look so happy, smiling and giggling, even though I’m all by myself.
My older brother—the adult version—doesn’t seem to realize I’m there. He and his boys toss around a football in the grass. I can’t believe Cheryl let Mitch take the kids on a holiday. It’s drizzling, so I’ll have to remind them to leave their shoes on the deck before they come inside.
I’m back at the Carrara marble island, apron on, tending to a homemade piecrust. The heft of this rolling pin, the roughness of its handles, affirm that it’s my grandmother’s. But how did it get here?
Maybe my mom brought it. She’s behind me, checking on the turkey roasting inside the Thermador. My dad’s voice dances in from the living room. Did I really invite him? Somehow, I don’t feel angry that he’s here. I don’t feel angry about anything anymore. He’s telling some story that’s obviously bullshit, but Ian’s parents and sister are laughing anyway.
Someone’s coming down the stairs now. That must be Ian. I catch a glimpse of him through the arched opening into the living room. He cradles a soft little lump against his chest—our baby.I wish he would turn around so I could see her face.
Fritter is curled up at my feet, hoping I’ll drop something delicious. Sweet potatoes, their skins crisp from the oven, rest on a baking sheet on the counter. They’re cool enough to cut open, so I run a knife through a small one and scoop the fluffy orange middle into a dish for my little muppet. I am so full of love that I can feel it radiating out of me, touching every corner of every room of the house.
I look up when I hear the French doors opening. My eight-year-old self runs through them. Before I can tell her to take off her Keds, her arms are around my waist.
“Margo,” she says, beaming up at me, “we did it.”
A key fumbling in the lock drags me back to consciousness. My mouth feels like I ate a glue stick; a sharpness drills into the backs of my eyes.
Am I still on the couch?
More sounds in the doorway. Keys hitting the shelf. Sneakers kicked off. I squint up at the ceiling; then a figure comes into view, lit only by the blue flickering of the television.
Ian.
“You made my mom’s chicken?”
7
When my alarm goes off, I wish for death.
Ian snores softly next to me, passed out on his stomach. He didn’t get home till after three, which means I’ve been asleep for maybe four hours. He’s never done anything like that before. Where the hell was he? Do I even care, as long as he feels bad enough about it to just do what I fucking want?
As soon as I sit up, my head begins to throb. I stumble into the bathroom and inspect the damage in the mirror. My lips and teeth are stained purple—Brinjal by Farrow & Ball. I hold my mouth to the tap and guzzle three Advil, then stand still for a minute to make sure I’m not going to be sick.
On mornings like this, I’m grateful my hair is so thick and straight that I couldn’t style it any other way even if I had the time to. I check my weather app—no rain, mid sixties. A wrap dress will do. I throw a pair of heels into my work bag and slip on some flats, since I’d have to be clinically insane to take the bus while teetering this close to puking.
Before I leave, I stick a Post-it note to the fridge:Don’t forget to bring some leftover chicken for lunch. XO.
