We’ve been at Erin’s all afternoon for a barbecue for Saint Paddy’s Day. Just the six of us: Erin, Ryan, and Mattie; Jack, Graham, and me.

Mattie is two years older than Jack—but they get along great and Jack doesn’t mind Mattie bossing him around, fussing over him. I think he craves the attention. They chased each other around the backyard while burgers sizzled on the grill. Graham and Ryan sipped craft beers while Erin and I shared a bottle of prosecco.

Their house is a funky 1960s ranch, all endless dark-paneled halls and a sunken living room, the windows lined with pots of houseplants in varying stages of germination.

I love it. Precisely because of its unhipness. It’s refreshing, relaxing.

As the men talked sports and Jack and Mattie started a water gun fight, Erin and I stumbled into the house to refresh our wine. I was leaning against her linoleum counter in the kitchen, admiring the collage of photos on the wall, when I saw a flyer pinned to her fridge.

MINT JULEPS FOR THE MUSEUM

A Garden Party

Hosted by Mr. and Mrs. Roger Banks

Tuesday, March 20th, 6:30 p.m. at their estate

710 Castle Hill

“What’s this?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant. There was no way, of course, I was going to tell her about my ridiculous online crush on Margot.

“Oh,” Erin exhaled, swirling her prosecco around in her glass. “Yet another stupid fundraiser for the children’s museum. And guess who’s on the committee? So, I have to attend. Shoot me now.”

I kept staring at it.

“Wait . . . do you and Graham want to go?”

“Actually, yeah,” I said, a roar of excitement building in my chest. “It sounds like an excuse to dress up!” I had to bite down my smile, try and contain my open glee.

“God, you are bored,” she said. “Hang on, I’ve got a wad of tickets to get rid of,” she said, crossing the kitchen to wrench open an overstuffed drawer.

As she began digging for the tickets, I gazed out the window at Graham. His head was thrown back in a laugh, ever the affable houseguest.

* * *

—

WE’D FIRST MET at a café on the ground floor of the high-rise where the magazine office and his firm were located. I had been behind him in line and he grabbed two trays and offered me one. I ordered everything he did—steak salad, dressing on the side, a fruit cup, and a Coke with no ice.

“Do you know you just ordered everything the same way as me?” he’d asked, the corners of his eyes winking in a smile.

“No, you ordered everything I did,” I had replied.

“Well, are you going to pick the same table as me as well?” he asked, guiding me to a sun-filled two-top next to the window. By the end of lunch, I was smitten with him. His strong, caramel forearms against the white cuffs of his shirtsleeves; his wavy, golden hair that catches the light; but more than anything, his earthy kindness and wit. And by the end of our third date—a wine-soaked dinner at an Italian place where we lingered for hours—I was in love.

He was so starkly different from the boys I used to date in college and in my late twenties. And I’m using the term dating loosely here because my relationships never lasted more than a few dates and always ended abruptly. I was drawn to tortured, bad-boy types. The darkly handsome ones who’d never call but would magically reappear just when you’re moving on.

I had convinced myself that it was me, that I was damaged goods. I’d never even had a boyfriend growing up, but had attributed this to our moving around so much, to always being the new face at school. It wasn’t my looks that I was unsure about—I mean, I’m no knockout and I’d always been self-conscious of my stringy hair and bony knees, but I’d gotten far too many men interested in me to think it was just about my appearance. It had to be something deeper, something inherently wrong with me that made men not return my calls after a few nights out. Was I too clingy? Too needy? Not needy enough?

But in walked Graham that day and everything just felt right for a change. Erin had told me, long ago, that when I finally met the right one, there wouldn’t be any more games. And obviously, she knew what she was talking about.

Staring out the window at Graham just then and watching him chat with Ryan made my insides ache—at his dashing looks, yes, but also at the charming ease he always radiates.

Erin slapped two tickets on the countertop and refilled my glass. I guzzled it down in a few hard swallows and stashed the tickets in my back pocket.

* * *

I’M STILL STUFFED from the giant burgers at Erin’s, and Jack and I are curled up together on the rocker in his room, reading Goodnight Moon. His little doughy index finger points to the mouse in the story, finding it on each page. “Mouse, mouse,” he says, his brows creased with concentration. His arm is slung around me; his hair tickles my cheek. Three is my favorite age so far, I decide. And as the last fingers of sunlight seep through the blinds, I could fall asleep right here with him, but before I doze off, his chin drops to his chest and he’s out.

After a moment, I lift him up and nestle him into his bed, kiss his forehead, and tuck the covers around him.

I step across the hall to our bedroom, where Graham is sitting on the corner of the bed, remote in hand. The blue light from the TV flickers across his face. It’s a baseball game; the sound is low.

“Already asleep?” he asks, shutting off the TV. I nod.

He reaches for me, pulls me onto his lap, and kisses my neck. “Good girl,” he moans in my ear before slowly peeling off my shirt.

He’s still wearing his white oxford shirt, but it’s unbuttoned and it feels good to be pressed against his chest—which still smells like smoke from the grill—and to let his strong hands have their way with me.

* * *

—

AFTERWARD, HE’S ASLEEP on the bed, splayed out like an exhausted toddler. It took a bit longer with all the beer he’d had, but I enjoyed it, as I always do. I feel content lying here, but also, the contentment scares me: Is this what we are going to do every Saturday afternoon? Grill with our friends, as if our lives are already mapped out for us? I take a deep breath and try and push the thought aside, but as I pull the covers around me, my chest constricts and I feel as though the walls are closing in.

I climb out of bed and head to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. While I wait for the water to boil, I lean against the counter.

This was my idea, I remind myself. I used to sit in the noisy offices of the magazine’s headquarters, parked in my tiny cubicle as cars whirred past the glass window, and daydream about this. Daydream about a life with less exhaust, more trees, more nature, more time. Sloweddown meals with Jack and Graham. Being there for Jack at every stage of his childhood. Making Shrinky Dinks together on Friday nights, burrowing into the sofa with a metal bowl of popcorn to watch movies. Having time for these things instead of being overworked, overscheduled, our lives soldier-marched by a frenzied whip on our necks.

I look around the kitchen at Jack’s fingerprint paintings taped to the fridge, at the roots of the cilantro plants splayed on the cutting board, at the calendar hanging on the wall, blissfully tidy and not crammed with activity. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I wanted all of this.

So why isn’t all of this enough?

8

Sunday, March 18, 2018

I’VE THROWN THE windows open, and fresh morning air, tinged with honeysuckle, floods the room. I’m in the kitchen whisking eggs in a wonky, oversize ceramic bowl I made years ago in college. I’ve got the jazz station from Chicago streaming on my iPhone; Nina Simone purrs through the room.

Jack sits at the table, swinging his legs in time to the music, slurping a bowl of Cheerios. Graham stumbles down the hall, all rumpled and worn-looking.

He tousles Jack’s hair, says, “Morning, bud!” and comes over to me, his hands circling my waist. His breath smells like mint and he nibbles at my ear.

“Someone’s in a good mood.” He beams.

I smile back, and let him believe it was because of last night. But what I’m giddy about at the moment is something entirely different. Has nothing to do with him.

This morning I rose early, tiptoeing into the kitchen while Graham and Jack slept.

I logged on to Facebook.

Last night, before drifting off, I posted a picture of Jack and Mattie from Erin’s barbecue, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, both of them flashing silly grins for the camera.

This morning, when I logged on, there were already forty likes and a dozen comments.

From Erin:

I didn’t even know you snapped this! Too cute!

I tapped the “like” button and scrolled through the rest of the comments, clicking “like” on them all. But my heart seized in my chest when I saw a comment from Margot.

Too cute!!!

My finger hovered over the reply button. A bit shaky, I quickly typed: