“Oh,” she says, her hands instinctively smoothing her hair.
“Not right now, but when I come back in the spring. So you have sufficient time to prepare if you’d like.”
“Oh good. So I can enjoy my Christmas, then?”
“Yes. You can enjoy your Christmas. Eat all the ice cream you’d like.”
Late the following night, Andrew and I are wandering the aisles at Walmart, getting in the last bit of shopping before everything closes. We did the important stuff at the mall in Boca earlier in the day. But the miscellaneous items—wrapping paper, tape, golden Birthday Cake Oreos—those are best left for after-hours scavenging at the megastore, the likes of which I’d never seen in New York and I’ve mostly avoided in France. And with it, a healthy dose of Americana.
It has become somewhat of a ritual for Andrew and me, winding our way through the double-wide aisles, mocking things American, while still filling our massive carts with items we couldn’t find in ouradopted homelands. Because it never fully leaves you, America. There is always invisible string tugging you back, reminding you of the grandeur you left behind. Walk-in closets and multiple-car garages and refrigerators that dispense filtered water in three forms.
“So how are things in LA?” he asks me, navigating his cart down one of the grocery aisles. Fran and Colin had stayed behind to watchDie Hardwith the kids, and it’s the first time Andrew and I have spent any real time alone.
“It’s nice. Pretty. I don’t know that I could live there long term, but two years seems doable.”
“Are there Walmarts?” His inflection has changed. More of a British lilt. He’s been gone too long. We both have.
“On the Westside of LA?”
He smirks.
“Have you found your people yet?”
“Not really. No.”
“It never really feels like home until you find your people,” he says, grabbing a box of Froot Loops with Marshmallows. “Ooh. Love these things.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“No, really.”
“I have a girlfriend.”
It comes out of nowhere. It feels huge, but at the same time I know that the term is flexible, and I can spin it, if necessary.
“That’s nice,” he says, and returns to weighing his options of junk cereals. And then he pauses and turns back to me. “A girlfriend? Like…? Okay.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” His eyes light up then, and he laughs. “What the fuck, Cee? Did not see that coming.”
“Neither did I.”
“Is your husband aware of this?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Oh-kay,” he says, again slowly. “Whodoesknow?”
“No one. Well, ostensibly her husband. But he’s okay with things like that.”
“Oh, Jesus fuck. She’s married?”
I nod, reaching for a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, before remembering I can get them in LA. Although, certainly not at Whole Foods.
“Who evenareyou?”
“Your big sister.”
