Page 12 of Playing for Keeps

Gunnar leavesbefore dawn every day this week, and I practice until he returns, smelling freshly showered, to cook us dinner. And then he talks to me until we go to bed in our separate rooms. It’s a weird week, to be sure, but probably the most satisfying one I’ve spent… maybe ever. For the first time, I am fully in charge of how I spend my time. It’s exhilarating.

Gunnar and I made a shared calendar, so I know all the dates of his games and travel. At first, I felt anxious seeing no Emerson items on our agenda, but once I added “cello practice” in red for multiple hours each day, I liked the look of our schedule.

I spent a little time obsessing over the String Fury music group, following them on social media, downloading their albums. This light stalking leads me to a website for a music academy that caters to kids who don’t get access to lessons at school. The idea of a school with no music is so upsetting that I have to shut Gunnar’s laptop and think about something else, but the Scale Up Academy lingers in the back of my thoughts as something to explore more deeply.

I only leave the house a few times, seeing how far I can venture on foot. The city is not laid out in a grid, so I get turned around easily unless I can actually see the Allegheny River.

Which means it’s the day before his family brunch, and I don’t yet have a dress I can wear to the event. I didn’t want to order anything like that online because dresses rarely fit my body in a flattering way.

So today is not a day to make music. Today is a day to figure out the damn bus system and find myself a dress. I’ve got in-laws to impress, dang it.

I consider asking someone at the desk on the ground floor of the building. Heck, I even consider stealing one of the kayaks from the wall racks and paddling around until I find a shop. But it all feels rather hopeless, and the websites for the public transit apps here confuse me to no end.

Everything in Manhattan was easy. Avenues run the length of the city. Streets are short across the width of the island. While I wouldn’t say plus size boutiques are plentiful there, I could always find one pretty easily if I needed something to wear to an event.

I feel incredibly lonely here, alone in an unfamiliar city seemingly assembled by frantic goats. I can see another neighborhood atop a giant hill on one side of the street. Sprawling mansions cling to the wooded hills on the far side of the river, where Gunnar says the city ends and the suburbs begin. When I do venture out to the corner and glance up at the bus stop sign, I’m just confused all over again by the combinations of route names and letters that don’t seem to align with the timetable I pulled up on my phone.

I’ve come to terms with using Gunnar’s money for clothes and necessities to play the role of his infatuation. However, it just doesn’t feel right to splurge on a car service or any extras when I don’t even have a job on the horizon, or at least haven't identified what type of job I’d like.

Taking a deep breath, I decide I will just walk the length of Butler Street and find a shop that way. I wander in andout of cute boutiques selling skincare products and geodes. I pass yoga studios and candle-making businesses. But all the clothing stores are geared for tiny women. Thirty blocks past my new apartment building, and I haven’t found a single piece of clothing that will fit me other than a lovely autumnal scarf, which I do buy because I need something to hide my face as I start the long slog home, crying a little bit and regretting my impulsive choices that brought me here.

I’m sweaty and tired, and when I can’t even find shoes that fit me, I trudge back home empty-handed, apart from the scarf. I’m about to crawl into bed and hide when I hear Gunnar’s voice behind me in the hallway on our floor. “Emerson? What’s wrong?”

I stiffen. He hasn’t seen my face, which I’m sure is splotchy, so I have no idea how he could tell something is wrong. I feel him step behind me and place a hand on my shoulder. “You seem upset. Can I help?”

I turn to face him, and he notices my tears. His mouth drops open. Then his lips press together in a firm line. “What happened? Who do I have to punch?”

I wave a hand, but a tear slips down my cheek, either from relief or being overwhelmed. “It’s dumb. I just couldn’t figure out the bus, and this city’s layout is so weird.”

He reaches into his pocket for a key to the apartment and, opening it, steps inside and gestures for me to join him. “Why don’t you just take my car? You can always drive the Benz if I’ve got the Rover.”

I walk inside and set my bag on the counter, hesitating. “I don’t drive,” I tell him, patting the hard-won scarf into place on top of my bag. I turn to face him, gripping the counter behind me.

He scrunches his adorable face in confusion. “You don’t drive … at all?”

I roll my eyes. “I grew up in the city, on the Upper East Side. I never learned to drive or ever thought I’d need to.” I sigh and slump back against the counter. “But I really need a dress, and I don’t even know where to find one in my size, let alone how to get to wherever that is.”

Gunnar slides his gaze along my body and clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind potentially being mobbed in the food court, I can take you to the mall. We can hook you up at Nordstrom.” He grins hopefully.

My heart leaps a little at his offer. He does seem to truly like that store chain…for good reason. They are size-inclusive. “That would be really great. Thank you.”

He steps toward me. “Emerson. Of course. Let’s go.”

Buckled into the leather seat of his enormous SUV, I arrange my new scarf on my lap and smile at my husband as he navigates north. “We should figure some shit out before tomorrow anyway. This will give us time to talk.” He keeps his eyes on the road, easily crossing multiple lanes of traffic. I don’t know why something as ordinary as driving seems sexy when he does it. I just need to accept that pretty much everything about Gunnar Stag is sexy.

“Right,” I tell him. “We’re madly in love, in public.”

He nods. “And—sorry if this was overstepping—I told my family you’re private because your dad is super pushy and a little mean.”

I nod. “Well, all of that is accurate. Do you think they looked me up online?”

Gunnar spits out a giant laugh. “I’m certain they have a printed dossier all about you, Emerson Saltzer. My Uncle Tim is one of those cranky lawyer guys who knows everything abouteveryone. His mind is like a steel trap, which is greatandterrible because he can always pull out facts to use as leverage.”

“So, watch what I say around Uncle Tim. Got it.”

Gunnar shakes his head. “You don’t need to watch what you say. I want you to feel comfortable. I promise, everyone is really chill…they’re just loud and nosy because they want to know everything about everyone they care about.”

His words are like sparks from an exposed wire. “They care about me? They haven’t even met me.”

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