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I’m unquestionably screwed.The SUV has to be fixed or I can’t make it to job interviews, but fixing it makes paying next month’s rent,andmy remaining deposit impossible. Without a vehicle I can’t deliver food, so there goes my current income source. My bad luck signs my eviction notice after just over a month in the apartment.
Friday night, I half-heartedly fib to myself and text Noah under the guise of setting up a playdate. What I need, and I’m hoping for, is a pick-me-up and a good laugh—something Noah delivers freely. Our chat’s been limited since I overheard the conversation with her brother, making it debatable she’ll feel up for casual texting.
Logan: You alive?
I start with humor. Girls like humor, I reason.
Playdate Noah: Depends. Who’s asking?
The unpredictability of her responses keeps me on my toes.
Logan: Your mom’s asking.
I toss a snarky comment back at her, making a play on the popular ‘your mom’ joke. Those were trendy at one time . . . did I just show my age?
Playdate Noah: That’s weird, considering my mom’s been dead for 27 years.
Goddammit. I struck a landmine. I know better—most of my jokes either fall flat or land with my foot firmly in my mouth. This time I’ve one-upped myself and stuffed both feet in my mouth. What can I possibly say to make this better?
I rub the back of my neck absentmindedly, not sure I can dig myself out of this hole. Several minutes pass and I have no appropriate response other than begging for her forgiveness. My phone rings, and ‘Playdate Noah’ pops up on the screen. Panicked, I slam my thumb on the red ‘f-you’ button, sending her straight to voicemail. On second thought, it wasn’t my best decision—but it’s done.
Playdate Noah: Call me back.
I’m not sure I can. Noah made a crass comment about my dead wife when she thought I was a philandering asshole. But she’d been fuming, and if her suspicions were true, I’d have deserved it. My comment—meant as a joke—feels unforgivable. My phone rings again, but this time I let it ring until the call goes to voicemail without my help.
Playdate Noah: If you don’t call me back, I’m getting in my car and coming over. Rainey’s at a sleepover. Don’t doubt I’ll do it.
I know Noah well enough to realize I have maybe two minutes to respond before she’ll be in her car and knocking on my door. I’m not in the mood for a visitor, leaving me no choice but to reply.
Logan: Hi.
Hi?My lack of human interaction in the preceding months is suddenly obvious.
Playdate Noah: Hi, back at you.
Logan: On a scale of 1 to a million, how much do you hate me?
Playdate Noah: A solid 50.
Fifty?I invoked her dead mother as a punch line and she only hates me a fifty. I don’t know if she’s unbothered by my joke or if she’s just giving me grace.
Logan: That’s it?
Playdate Noah: I’m not mad about the mom joke.
Logan: How is that possible? It was an asshole thing to say.
Playdate Noah: Did you know my mother was dead?
Logan: No.
Playdate Noah: Then you weren’t trying to hurt me. Your joke was poor in taste, though.
Logan: I’m incredibly sorry. I didn’t know. We’ve never talked about your family, and I assumed your parents were still alive. Now that I’m typing this I realize that was a dumb thing to assume.
Noah and I spend more of our conversations apologizing to one another than I’d like. It makes me question if our friendship is healthy for both of us.
Playdate Noah: You’re not dumb, and I’m not upset. We’ve both now learned the hard way not to assume anything about someone’s family.
