Page 43 of Just The Way You Aren't

“I was just asking Willow where Damien is. He’s not volunteering today, apparently.” Mrs. Baumgartner sighs in consternation.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Mr. Katz says. “He should volunteer more often.”

“He should!” She tsks back. “Such a handsome, kind young fellow. If I were thirty years younger…”

Irving makes a disgruntled noise on the other end. “I’d fight him for you.”

She laughs. “Oh, pish! I’d still choose you.”

“Good. Then I won’t have to lay him flat,” he growls.

I bite my lip against a chuckle, trying to imagine Mr. Katz, at the very end of his straining oxygen tubing, boxing with Damien. I envision Mr. Katz getting a solid punch in and Damien, very undignified, rubbing his sore cheek.

Would serve him right, I think sourly. My thoughts scold me. Don’t wish bad things on people. Damien is allowed to move on quickly. Maybe you’re just not his cup of tea. Maybe he got what he wanted and now he’s moving on to better things.

Mrs. Baumgartner titters. “You’re so sweet, Irving.”

“Anything for you, my flower,” he responds.

I busy myself in the kitchen, setting her dinner in thefridge and her lunch in the microwave. I think how nice it would be to have something like Mrs. Baumgartner and Mr. Katz have. Maybe not with the forced long distance, but something… sweet and deep and meaningful.

The microwave starts sparking.

My jaw drops. “Oh crap! Tinfoil!”

“What, dear?” Mrs. Baumgartner calls as I wrench open the microwave door.

“I forgot about the tinfoil!” I yell back, horrified. I yank the meal out of the microwave and yelp, dropping it on the floor.

The box explodes from the bottom, sending food flying everywhere. There, in the middle of it all, is a burnt piece of tinfoil.

Mrs. Baumgartner shuffles over to the kitchen, holding the phone. “Oh dear,” she says, looking at the mess.

“What’s ‘oh dear’?” Mr. Katz asks.

“Just a bit of a mess, love. Don’t worry about that, Willow. Cleaning gives me something to do.”

“I can’t possibly leave the floor this way!” I gasp. “Where are your cleaning supplies?”

Mrs. Baumgartner shakes her head. “Kathleen texted me about your bathroom debacle. I’ll take care of this. You go take care of that.”

I watch as a curl of smoke rises from the microwave. When I close the door, the screen is completely dead. I moan, shaking my head. “Oh no… I think I killed it.”

She pats my shoulder. “I’m sure there’s another microwave out there somewhere. Don’t worry. You’re not the first person to put metal in a microwave, and you won’t be the last. Why, my granddaughter Jenny was babysitting once and decided to make macaroni and cheese. She put a whole metal pot in the microwave!” She rubs her chin. “She wasnever one of my brightest grandchildren, but I love her to death anyway.”

I try to conceal the tightness in my throat by forcing a laugh, but it sounds like the croak of a dying toad. “The whole pot?”

“Oh yes, ingredients and all. Now, this was before Easy Mac, so whatever made her think she could make it without using the stove…” She shakes her head. “Ah Jenny. It’s a good thing she married well, I can tell you that.”

I sniffle. “That’s very old-fashioned of you to say.”

“I’m an old-fashioned kind of lady. Plus, it’s true.” She shuffles and puts her hand on my shoulder. “My dear, whatever is eating you up inside will pass. Take it from an old lady who knows just how quickly things slip through our fingers.”

Her kindness breaks me, and a tear falls free. I hurriedly wipe it away. If I let another fall, I might not be able to stop them at all, and I don’t want to cry more than one tear for a man who couldn’t be bothered to drive me home or pick up a phone and thank me for a nice evening—or even acknowledge I exist now. Had I imagined our moment on the dance floor? Was all of his kindness and support just strategy behind ulterior motives? Was he using me for business, or to get under my dress?

My fists clench.

Should I be crying? Or should I be angry?

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