Chapter 32
It was impressive, just how much emotion Pete could convey simply by putting out the recycling and doing the dishes — the cans crashing into the bin, the pots and pans clanging against each other and the sides of the sink, all announcing without words that he was irritated, frustrated, and just generally pissed off.
Willa, covering her head with her pillow, felt for her phone on the bedside table and then tapped a text to Natalie: “Not gonna make it to Rack Room this AM. But you prolly guessed that. Thx for coming to bday.”
Then she checked the time: 7 a.m.
Was it really necessary to do all of this aggressive housecleaning this early in the morning?
Natalie buzzed back. “Glad you are not dead. I’ll lift heavy this AM in your honor. Happy bday.”
Still hiding under the pillow Willa called up Instagram and looked for photographic evidence of last night. A group shot with Chinchilla at the exotic dancing studio. A boomerang of Willa spinning around the pole. A photo of three women dressed in green and gold cut-out, high-slit gowns similar to those worn by Destiny’s Child at the 2001 Grammy Awards. A filtered close-up selfie of Willa (all wrinkles and red-eye graciously removed) and the coaches. A shot of Willa with her arms around the waist of some tall, dark, rando. A short video of Willa dancing, euphoric and intermittently lit by a strobe.
Willa’s eyes were sticky from last night’s makeup, and the taste in her mouth reminded her of a fisherman’s boot that was filled with chili and left out in the sun. She shuffled into the bathroom, scrubbed her face, brushed her teeth, and scraped her tongue, twice each. Then she swished with Listerine, which made her gag a little, and put her hair in a messy bun.
“Hey,” she said. “I —“
Clang.
“Did —“
Crash.
“Hello, I —“
Bang.
She waited for a break in the action, then: “Hey, you OK?”
Pete dried his hands on a towel and didn’t turn around. “Yup.”
“OK, obviously you’re not,” Willa said. “What’s wrong?”
Pete braced his hands on the sink. “What time did you get home?”
Willa thought for a moment. “Hm, not sure. I think probably 2:30 a.m.? Maybe?”
“No, it was 5:45 a.m.,” Pete said, a bite in his voice.
No wonder she felt like she hadn’t slept at all.
“You know how I know that?” Pete said.
“I woke you when I came in? Sorry, I was trying to be quiet and —“
“No, Chase was heading out for his morning run and saw you,” Pete said, referring to a particularly disciplined and gossipy Hoodbro. “He said you were a drunken mess and that your ‘friends’” — air quotes here — “were practically carrying you into the house.”
Willa felt the flame of shame in her gut, which she hastily extinguished with indignation.
“Um, it was my birthday. You knew I was going out. I had a good time. Nobody got hurt,” Willa snapped. “What’s the big deal?”
“What if the boys had been awake when you stumbled in? What if they saw you like that?”
So we’re fighting about hypotheticals? Shame sparked up again. “They’re never up that early on weekends. And I was quiet.”
“How do you even know you were quiet if you don’t even know what time you got home?”
Now Willa was really aggravated. “What are we even arguing about here? Nothing happened. It was my birthday.”
“Right, your birthday,” Pete said, dropping forks noisily into the drawer, then looking her in the eye. “You’re 41. Don’t you think you’re a little old to be acting like that?”
Willa seethed, partly because that felt like a low blow, and partly because she believed he was right.
“I don’t need you to be my mother hen,” Willa said, knowing he’d feel that one. “I am an independent adult who can make her own decisions and use her own judgment. I did not endanger myself or anyone else. It was my birthday party. Can you please get off my back?”
“What’s going on?” Charlie asked, dressed only in backward underpants, wiping sleep from his eyes.
“Nothing, honey,” Willa said. “Go back to bed. You can’t have screens for another hour.”
Even in his semi-conscious state, Charlie huffed at the rule, then went to his room.
“I was worried,” Pete said quietly.
In Willa’s mind, “worry” was not a close cousin to “caring,” but rather a sister to “judgment” and “control.” Her high school boyfriend, a track star named Keith, was known to interrogate her any time she went out without him, which was fairly often, given his strict rules about sleep and nutrition before practices and meets. It frankly made Willa less interested in sex with him, because he sounded like her mother, who — when Willa would tiptoe in after curfew — would sit straight up from bed like a vampire from his coffin and yell “I’ve been worried sick!”
This never made Willa want to be more responsible and communicative. It drove her nuts.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” Willa said to Pete.
“Fine,” Pete said, forcefully shutting a kitchen drawer. “Whatever.”
“If you’d rather not handle the kids today, I can watch them,” Willa said.
On birthdays, Pete and Willa had a tradition — the celebrated person could have the day all to herself. She didn’t have to see or interact with any member of the family from morning until night. Pete had planned to take the boys to a trampoline park in the suburbs.
“No,” Pete said, sounding thoroughly put out. “We’ll go.”
He passed by her in the kitchen. She flipped the bird to his back.
Then, over his shoulder, Pete said: “Oh, there’s a gift for you on the counter. Happy birthday.”
Willa hadn’t seen it because of all the piles of papers, mail, magazines, Legos, and markers there.
“Thank you,” she squeaked, feeling really, truly like a total shithead.