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“What happened?” Naomi asks, her concern evident. That was her second question; her first had been whether I was hurt. To which I answered, “Only my pride.”
I recount to Naomi the events leading up to my abrupt exit, specifically viewing Randy with his date. I don’t confess the extent of the pain that sight caused me, seeing him with another woman—even though Naomi is the person I confide in about everything.
“Jeez, Gina,” Naomi responds, her sigh heavy with a mix of concern and fatigue. “So what’s your plan?”
“What do you mean?” I snap back, a defensive edge creeping into my voice. Being friends with Naomi for so long, I can almost anticipate where her questions are leading. I brace myself, trying to think of something to say that might steer the conversation away from areas I’m not ready to delve into. “I mean, there’s nothing I can do. I’m just the girl Randy screws, and she’s the one he takes out on a date.”
Naomi, unfazed by my tone of defeat, simply signals a turn with the car’s blinker. “There’s always something you can do, Gina. Every action we take is a choice. Now that you know more, you have the opportunity to make a different choice.”
“Oh, goodness,” I moan, rolling my eyes and slouching deeper into the leather seats, wishing I could just melt away. “Don’t make this into a courtroom drama or therapy session, Nom. Fine, yes, I’ve got more insight now. Sure, I can stop sleeping with him.”
“But that’s only if you don’t actually have feelings for him,” she interjects promptly. “If you’re bolting because he’s with someone else, then…” She trails off, letting a simple shrug convey the rest of her thought.
I turn away, facing the passenger door, showing Naomi my back as I rest my head against the seat. “I know,” I murmur as fresh tears start to fill my eyes. “I know what I have to do.”
Chapter 6
Dining and Dodging with Parents
Gina
I asked Naomi to take me directly home last night instead of taking me back to the café to pick up my car—a decision I’m now thankful for. This morning, I received a voicemail from Jeremy detailing how he waited for me before eventually coming to the conclusion that I wouldn’t return. Despite his repeated phone calls, which I didn’t answer, and his voicemails requesting callbacks to discuss things properly, I find myself unable to reach out to him. I’m still unsure of what to say.
Before bed, I was primed to confront him with the truth, but after a night of restless sleep, my resolve has faded, now overshadowed by a sense of embarrassment. Jeremy, with his keen perception, will likely connect the dots and conclude that my sudden departure was tied to some unresolved feelings I might have for his cousin—a notion that Naomi subtly suggested last night, even if she didn’t say it outright. Thankfully, I’m off work today. The Calypso doesn’t serve dinner on Sunday evenings, and for that reason, Randy usually takes that day off. Basically, there’s no risk of an awkward encounter between us until Monday. It’s then that I’ll have to be straightforward with him: us having sex must end. And with that, a chapter closes.
So this morning, before Calypso opened, I caught an Uber to pick up my car simply to avoid seeing anyone at all. Since returning home, I’ve thrown myself into a flurry of activities to keep my mind off things. My routine cleaning of the apartment, a task reserved for my Saturdays off, was where I started. Following that, I dove into baking, creating a large batch of raspberry vanilla swirl cream cro-muffins. I carefully placed these divine pastries into a large pink box, one that could comfortably fit two dozen treats. With the box of desserts and a hefty load of laundry in tow, I then made my way to my parents’ house.
Mom and Dad bought this enchanting Tudor-style house, constructed in 1902, when I was just six years old. They initially described it as a “fixer-upper,” yet it wasn’t until I reached the age of ten that it truly transformed into the dream home they had always imagined. I adore this house. Crossing its threshold instantly eases me; my mind halts its relentless strategizing of how to maintain distance from Randy, especially since I suspect he and Jeremy might have finally run into each other on the pier. I’ve even imagined their possible exchange:
“Hey, Jeremy. What brings you here?” Randy might have asked.
“I was on a date with Gina, but I think she bolted when she saw you. One minute she was right beside me, and the next, she’s running away,” the Jeremy in my mind replied, searching longingly behind him for any sign of me. Then he turned to Randy and asked, “Any idea what might have prompted that?”
In the comforting embrace of my childhood home, I find relief from dwelling on last night’s embarrassment. Since arriving, I’ve kept busy—preparing dough for bread to go with dinner, which will be my mom’s signature beef stroganoff, my favorite. She also asked me to sort through my bedroom for items to donate to charity. Although I live on my own now, that room still holds a special place as mine in what my parents affectionately call our “forever home,” free for me to use as I see fit. And of course, I’ve been washing, drying, and folding a mountain of laundry.
“Gina, dinner’s ready!” My mom’s voice carries into the laundry room from downstairs.
“On my way!” I call back, tossing my final load of damp clothes into the dryer.
Just as I’m about to head to the kitchen table, I grab my cell phone off the top of the washing machine. It immediately begins to ring. It’s Jeremy calling again. I hesitate, uncertain about answering. By the third ring, his call goes to voicemail.
Why didn’t I just answer? It’s not like me to shy away from hard conversations. This whole situation only stiffens my resolve to do whatever it takes to end the sex-only relationship between Randy and me.
Next, I elevate my avoidance tactics by intentionally leaving my cell phone on the washing machine. This way, if Jeremy calls again, I won’t have to handle it in front of my parents. They typically don’t pry into my personal life, but they are astute at reading my reactions. They would instantly sense something was amiss if they saw how I reacted to Jeremy’s name popping up on my screen. That’s precisely why I choose to leave it in the laundry room—so that won’t happen.
* * *
All day long, my dad has been isolated in the backyard casita, busy working on a mysterious project. In our household, we stick to an unspoken rule: we refrain from probing about our individual endeavors until we’re gathered around the dinner table.
Savoring the beef stroganoff, its flavors dissolving deliciously in my mouth, I pause before helping myself to another generous bite. Dinner has officially begun, so I’m able to finally turn to my father and ask, “Okay, Dad, what have you been working on in the backyard?”
My parents exchange a meaningful glance, and I immediately try to decipher it. My mom’s eyes sparkle with excitement, while a subtle smile plays on my dad’s lips. They’re at it again. I recognize the looks on their faces. They’re up to something exciting, innovative, or what some might deem unconventional.
My mom sits up straighter, exuding confidence. “Love Bug, you’re now looking at one of the cohosts of the Empty Nesters Who Lunch podcast.”
“Faye’s diving back into her comedic roots,” my dad says.
“We’ll be airing our shows Monday through Friday from noon to one, and we’ll also broadcast live on YouTube. We’re doing big things,” my mom adds, exchanging a wink with my dad. “And Harold here is the producer and director.” Harold, of course, is my dad.
