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: : : —SO, JAKOB SAYS. He digs into his watermelon Italian ice. —I heard you've been dating someone? What's she like?
—She's cool, says Fletcher. He uses his spoon to tamp down his lemon ice so that it is perfectly level with the rim of his cup. —Let's see. She's tall. She knows how to make those, what do you call them, those stuffed grape leaves? She reads poems. She's writing a book about conceptual art. And, uh, she's been married once before, and she's now divorced, with a four-year-old kid.
—I'd heard that, says Jakob. —What's that like?
—Weird, Fletcher says. He eats a spoonful of lemon ice. He watches two guys on the grass kick around a hacky sack. He nods. —Yeah, he says. —It's definitely one of the weirdest things I've ever done.
—What's weird about it? Jakob asks.
—I feel, Fletcher says, and then he pauses for a moment to sort through the field of possible answers. —I just feel unprepared for it. It's like, I don't know, at the beginning of the year I'd never even really thought about having a kid, or when I did think about it I thought about it as, you know, like a thing I wouldn't want. And now suddenly there's this woman in my life, and I like her, I mean I really like her, and there's this kid that's a part of her life, and so the kid is sort of becoming a part of my life, and I just—suddenly I'm almost a parent. A parent of a four-year-old boy. It's like I leapfrogged past several years of my life.
—Freya told me that you haven't met him yet.
—That's true, Fletcher says. —But he's, I don't know, he's definitely present. All the time. I mean, we talk about him every time we're on the phone together. You know, he goes in for a tuberculosis screening or whatever, I hear about it. But even when she's not talking about him he's there. Like—OK, he spends one weekend a month with his dad, and usually I'll go down to her place, so we can spend some, uh, private time together. But even then—kids have a lot of stuff. You can't get away from it. We'll be like making out on the couch and then I'll feel something jabbing me in my back and it'll be one of those, you know, those Fisher-Price Little People? He holds his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, to indicate.
—Oh no, Jakob says.
—Yeah, Fletcher says. —Which sort of, I don't know, brings my buzz down a little bit?
—I'd imagine.
—But, no, I mean, it's cool, I guess. She’s actually agreed to let me meet him for the first time this weekend, so that will kind of put me at rest, I think. Other than that? I don’t know. She doesn't have a lot of free time and sometimes something comes up with the kid and she needs to cancel—I know that must sound horrible, but it's kind of nice for me. I kind of enjoy being the one who's doing the pursuing.
—I guess, Jakob says. —I don't think I could do that.
— It's a change, Fletcher says. He pokes around in his cup with his spoon. —I don't think I want any more of this, he says.
Jakob's cup is empty. He gets up off the bench. —You want me to trash it for you? he asks.
—I'll come with you, Fletcher says, also rising. They walk along a trail worn into the grass. They pass under the full canopies of trees.
—I'm glad you came out with me today, Jakob says.
—No problem, Fletcher says. —It's good to catch up with you.
—Yeah, Jakob says. —About that? I just wanted to apologize.
—What do you mean? Fletcher says.
—Well, Jakob says. —Just how—I don't know. After New Year's Eve, you know—I mean, I saw what happened that night, I guess you know that, and after that there was a period where I didn't really—I just had kind of a strong reaction.
—Love will make a man do crazy things, Fletcher says.
—I guess, Jakob says. He frowns. I wouldn't go so far as to say that it was crazy for me to have a strong reaction, he thinks. Then he realizes that maybe Fletcher isn't talking about him.
They reach the trash can, and Jakob throws his cup in, disturbing the irregular orbits of the yellowjackets.
—Anyway, Jakob says. —I just wanted you to know that I'm over it, and I'm sorry if I was, you know, an asshole.
—Don't worry about it, Fletcher says. —It's cool.
Jakob waits. He wants to hear Fletcher offer up an apology as well. He thinks he's earned the right to hear something like and I'm sorry, too, I shouldn't have kissed your girlfriend; that was kind of an asshole thing to do in its own right. But Fletcher doesn't say anything like that.
What Fletcher is thinking is: it was worth it.
Fletcher eats a final spoonful of Italian ice, then puts his hand on his stomach and says —Ugh. He tosses his cup. Jakob keeps waiting.
—Listen, Fletcher says. —I should get going. I've got a lot of reading to do.
—Yeah, Jakob says. —I should get back to my packing, too, I guess.
—Cool, Fletcher says.
: : :
:: Year entries
Index | << | 77 | >>
:: Jakob entries
Index | << | 12 | >>
:: Fletcher entries
Index | << | 14 | >>
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