Page 81 of The Apparent Trap

But where one part of my life is melting, Lee has become even more solidly ice.

He’s been in the studio twice, and I haven’t seen him in person either time. My eyes have flicked up to the screen when he’s been on, but I’ve never left my chair. I don’t know if I’m necessarily avoiding him, but I haven’t exactly wandered around when he’s nearby. He hasn’t strolled by my desk either.

I’ve thought about texting him, but I stop myself every time. Every potential text seems like swishing a finger through the icing on top of a cake when you know what it’s like to eat the entire slice. How can I send something mundane like “great segment today!” when I’ve admitted to this man that I always want to kiss him. When I’ve gotten off just from the sound of his voice. When he’s pressed me up against a wall and I’ve begged him not to stop.

Or—inexplicably much less sexy but somehow even more vulnerable—when he’s the man who understands why my pulse quiets when I eat a BLT. The man who rendered me speechless when he called me luminous. The man who talked to me in a bar and saw a kindred spirit whose life also needed a shift.

I don’t know how I can miss someone I only met a few months ago and I’ve spent so little time with. I don’t know how I can miss a man half a generation older than me whose idea of fun is working seven days a week.

But I do miss him. I hate how much I miss him. I can’t bite into a goddamned sandwich without wishing it was his. I’ve had to sit through edits of footage of his gorgeous mug in Sweden and be reminded that that face looks completely different when it’s focused on me in the dark. I even found and watched the stupid episode of Dateline with his murderous same-name doppelgänger.

He’s spinning circles around me without even being in the same room, and I just want it to go away. If this is how it feels to like someone, then I don’t think I’ve been missing out by staying single all these years. I do not recommend.

Especially because Georgia is sticking to her guns about not letting me avoid feelings anymore. On the contrary. Unlike the gently melting snow outside, she’s coming in with a torch.

She doesn’t push me to talk about Lee, but she is insisting on having what she’s calling “Girly Grief Time,” where, as she says, we do a “five-minute check-in on the daily to just scream out whatever’s making us sad.” For the first few days, I told her it was complete overkill and rolled my eyes a little every time she brought it up. By the end of the first week, though, I begrudgingly admitted it was kind of nice. There’s something tender about being able to say, “I really think my mom would’ve loved that segment on all the insane new doodle breeds that are popping up,” and just being able to leave it at that.

Someone once described grief to me as a stone in your pocket that’s always there but that gets lighter as you get stronger. That metaphor never really resonated with me, but in recent weeks I’m starting to believe in an adjacent one. Maybe grief is instead a lot of tiny pebbles. And sometimes it feels lighter when friends put some of yours in their pockets for a little while. Because the result of all this talking about my mom isn’t heaviness. It’s lightness. I feel lighter, not carrying her alone anymore.

And I wish I could tell Lee. I wish I could thank him for opening up that possibility for me, for letting me talk about her with him first.

So I can’t decide if I’m excited or nauseous when I get a text from Carmen that says, Since we’re working the Christmas morning show together, I was thinking after it’s done you could come over to my place and we could celebrate with pozole. My mom used to make it every Christmas and this is the first year I’m away from her, so I was going to make it ahead (it’s better made ahead anyway) and eat it after the show. But Mark thought it might be nice to all get together. So I’d love for you to join in, and I convinced my dad to join us too. What do you think?

I don’t know what to think.

But obviously I can’t say that. And I’d have no excuse to decline anyway, since she knows I have no actual plans.

Like pretty much all agnostic Jews, my dad and I always spend Christmas watching movies and eating Chinese food (I know, what a change for us). Maybe for other families that would be an unmissable tradition, but we can swap that activity to any other day of the week.

So I reply and tell her it’s a great idea, because why not continue lying at this point?

I guess there’s some solace at least in seeing whatever sliver Carmen is opening up to me—based on everything my dad has said, there’s clearly more to her than she’s sharing. And it’s not just this invite. Since the trip to Sweden, she’s changed ever so slightly, asking my advice just a little more, even grabbing me a coffee once. I guess for whatever Sweden did to emotionally crush me with Lee, at the very least it pushed Carmen toward believing in me as a producer even more.

So maybe some good can come from this mess.

I do, however, spend the next few days trying to not have reflux at the thought of being trapped with Lee. I can’t decide if us being in a room with only my dad and Carmen will make it better (an important, stark breathing reminder of why we can’t kiss again) or worse (hiding sexual tension is hard enough, but adding your dad to the equation makes it even more brutal).

When the day arrives, I’m like the upside-down version of a child on Christmas. I do not hop out of bed. I do not glimmer with the hope of a new dawn. I’m dragging my feet, my stomach full of lead (or maybe coal is a more apt Christmas metaphor?). I waffle over deciding whether I should gussy up to look amazing to see Lee—but run the risk of looking like I’ve tried way too hard—or just show up like the cool, nonchalant, uncaring woman I wish I could be. Of course, by overthinking it, I’m instead the victim of the secret third option: I’m dressed like I rolled out of bed and left my hair looking like I’d been electrocuted.

I make it to the studio just in time to chat with Carmen at the desk before the show. She seems subdued, but I guess that should be expected for having to work on a major holiday. We quickly go over the segments we have today—it’s pretty light since a lot of what we’re airing is pretaped Christmas content. It’s about as straightforward a morning as we could have.

When the show’s over, she finds me at my desk.

“Ready to go?”

I stand up and grab my coat. “You’ve promised me a giant vat of stew. I couldn’t possibly be more ready.”

She gives me a warm smile and links our arms together. I look at where we’re connected. It’s a shocking piece of affection from someone who’s never indicated she needs it. But with every interaction, I’m coming to realize more and more that maybe I’ve read her wrong. Maybe, like Lee, it takes a lot for Carmen to believe someone is on her side.

And somehow I’ve apparently crossed that threshold, even if I feel a little guilty for not deserving it. But the plans with Lee are over now. Maybe it’s time for me to move forward with her too. I squeeze her arm as we walk out.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” I say as we hop in her car to take us downtown.

“Me too,” she replies quietly, that young, hopeful expression back on her face. “I’m missing my mom today a lot.” But she seems to regret what she’s said right as it comes out of her mouth. “Not that you’re not missing yours more. Sorry. That was so insensitive. I—”

I shake my head. “Carmen, it’s okay. You can miss your mom, and I can miss my mom. One doesn’t negate the other. We’re both pretty lucky to have moms we love that much.” I take a breath, knowing there’s one other thing I want to say, even if it’ll never, ever stop being weird. “And also . . . my dad’s really lucky he’s been able to talk to you about my mom too. It’s meant a lot to him.”

Her eyes are misty, and she squeezes my hand.