Page 51 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Peter was happier than I’d ever seen him, reveling in our marriage and our arrangement—no matter how temporary. Hopefully, it would prove temporary and I’d have a job within a year. I suppose I was happy. I loved being married to Peter. I loved our breakfasts and dinners together. Our weekends at his parents’ house or sequestered in bed with each other. I loved our home. I loved the city. But I found that I was not a person for whom “househusband” was a deep enough purpose in life.

I needed my own purpose. My own reason to get out of bed each morning that had nothing to do with our union.

After a while, I began to wonder if the problem was me. Was it not simply that I was an immigrant? Was my personality off-putting when I called employers? Presented myself in person? Was I not adapting and conforming to American culture well enough? Was it my accent? My obvious differentness? I had no one but Peter to ask about those things, and, of course, as my husband, he assured me that I was wonderful. However, of course, Peter thought I was wonderful—why else would he have married me? There were no friends for me to turn to and ask for their honest opinion.

It’s not you, Enzo. You’re wonderful. They’re all just worried about your status as a citizen. That’s all.

That seemed true, but one can’t help to doubt even the opinions of their spouse when enough time goes by and one can’t even get a job interview.

I don’t have any friends here. It had slid out of my mouth over dinner one evening in early November.

I hadn’t intended to be so honest with Peter, or imply that he wasn’t enough to fulfill my social needs, but it happened. As I said it—as the words were leaving my mouth—I realized that what I’d said would sound rude. Maybe even cruel. I didn’t want to hurt Peter’s feelings, but I had to share mine. That’s what husbands are supposed to do.

Silence filled the kitchen as we sat at the table and ate, Peter’s eyes on his plate as his fork poked at the meal I’d prepared. For a moment, I felt that I’d offended Peter. That he might be upset with me. That I’d hurt his feelings. When he finally looked up at me, a smile on his face, he said:

That’s a good point. You need a friend besides me.

I managed to smile back.

We never had a real wedding. Or a reception or anything. Why don’t we throw a party?

A party?

Yeah. Peter had said. We’ll get someone to cater, I’ll invite some friends and coworkers. You need to meet some people.

Though I was nervous to meet more of Peter’s friends and coworkers—I’d met so few in the month I’d lived in Minneapolis—I was ecstatic. The potential to make new friends lifted my spirits immeasurably. Even if being in a room with strangers was not within my comfort zone, I could be perfect at that, too, if I had to be.

Anything to make life better.

Lady FiFi Knobhouse,

Heir to the Throne of Gang Bangs

Boxes and platters and foil pans full of food filled our kitchen. Hundreds of pork potstickers filled a few pans. Mini tortieres filled another. Meat and vegetable skewers, shrimp tartlets, sweet and savory mini meatballs on toothpicks, stuffed mushrooms, and bacon-wrapped apricots filled others. Trays of tiny dessert pastries filled others. The catering company and two waiters they’d sent along had taken over our kitchen for the evening. Trays that had been arranged beautifully by the waiters were set upon our dining room table for guests to help themselves to throughout the party.

Bottles of wine were arranged neatly on a side table. Liquor bottles containing drinks I knew nothing about filled another, and one of the waiters stayed stationed nearby, waiting to mix a cocktail for any partygoer unhappy with the wine selection. Peter had filled a cooler with ice and his favorite beers in the kitchen for guests who were not fond of wine or spirits. A selection of sodas and water was in the refrigerator for guests who were like me and did not partake in any of the offered alcohol.

Fancy little bone-white plates, tiny utensils, and linen napkins were stacked and ready by the platters of food on the dining room table. The display was far too fancy for me, but the food itself looked delectable. I’d spent the first hour of the party wishing that I could try one or two of the things the caterers had on offer. However, my stomach spent that hour grumbling quietly about being deprived of food as Peter introduced me to his friends and coworkers who arrived by the dozens. Before the first hour of the party had gone by, the front of our house was filled with people, every seat taken with people lining the walls huddled in small clusters and chatting.

Holding their fancy cocktails and stemmed glasses of wine, or possibly pawing an icy-cold bottle of beer, clad in cocktail dresses, slacks, and button-down shirts—some even wearing fancy dresses or suits—Peter’s friends looked extremely chic. Our house had been turned into a set from a movie where people with fancy jobs, fancy clothes, fancy haircuts, and endless fancy things to talk about gathered. As Peter paraded me through each room, squeezing between clustered people here and there, introducing me to this person or that, I realized that Peter’s friends were much different than I.

People who worked for the government or in finance or owned businesses or even weren’t required to work due to the provenance of their existence were…intimidating. Though unfailingly polite, it was obvious that they were aware that I was not one of them. It could have been that I had nothing to add to the discussion we fell into with each group I was introduced to by Peter. It could have been that I was shy and unsure of what to say, other than “nice to meet you.” It could have been that my clothes were not nearly as fancy as the rest.

Peter and I had gone and bought some nice slacks, a beautiful button-down shirt, and a tie for me to wear to the party, but it was a uniform. Anyone whose eyes landed on me at the party could easily guess that I was more suited to jeans and pullovers and sneakers. On any given day, I was not the type to prefer the glamour of a suit over comfort. For me, suits were reserved for church or weddings or funerals—not a party thrown in one’s own home.

To me, throwing a party—though this might have been residual from my time at university—was bowls of chips and dips and beverages served in cans. Peter and I obviously had lived in very different worlds. Potato chips and dip that may or may not have been kept at room temperature for too long were not exactly the preferred snack for Peter or his friends.

As we entered the second hour of the party, I realized that there was no one at the party similar to me. They were all a decade older, infinitely more sophisticated, and terminally disinterested in the young French guy who had married their friend and immigrated to America. Peter held my hand and pulled me around the party anyway.

I stood by his side, nodding along and smiling as he and his friends chatted and laughed at jokes that I struggled to understand. People I’d never met were discussed. Office politics I had no interest in were talked about. American politics I didn’t quite comprehend were argued about heatedly, though in a friendly manner. Insider gossip about industries flew over my head.

Finally, I had to excuse myself from Peter’s side. With a smile and a whispered assurance that I needed something to drink—and hoped to visit the food table—Peter gave me a quick kiss and let me excuse myself.

Even though I did one of the things I said I would do, getting a drink from the refrigerator, I found that I couldn’t force myself to return to Peter’s side. I knew that I would only be subjected to more talk that I didn’t understand from people who, though educated and chic, were boring. Instead, I found a mostly empty corner by the living room and propped myself against the wall. Intermittently, I sipped at my soda as I watched Peter’s friends delight themselves with each other’s boring observations about uninteresting topics.

The party had done nothing to make me feel more welcome in America. And it was obvious that finding a friend amongst Peter’s was a waste of time. A great sadness began to overwhelm me as I watched the clusters of guests chatting animatedly with each other, happy to ignore me.

Had I made a mistake? Coming to America?