Page 66 of Caught in a Storm
It’s impossible to imagine any of this: his mom stoned, his mom getting kicked out of…well, anywhere, his parents together and kissing. “The story continues, though,” he says. “So, I’m standing there pretty much frozen in terror at the record shop, wondering if Rebecca Yang is gonna punch me in the balls or have me arrested. Then, boom, Margot takes off. Just runs right out the door like the place is on fire.”
“I don’t blame you,” says Robyn.
“I was still fifty-fifty on whether they were murderers.”
“And then,” says Caleb, “dopest move of the century. Dad goes after her, leaves poor Grady and me standing there with our mouths open, chases his old-school crush down Thames Street. Epic.”
It’s been fun for Caleb these last few minutes, having the full attention of a room of adults. As he says this last thing, though, something changes. Aaron is still laughing. “Strong move, William,” he says. Margot is enjoying it, too, having inched herself slightly closer to his dad. His parents, though, aren’t laughing. His mom sets her wineglass down. She smiles, but it’s a smile that makes her look hurt. “You went after her?”
“Yeah,” his dad says. “Just an impulse, I guess. A reflex.”
He’s only seen his mother cry a few times—sad movies, mostly, and after the 2016 election. This is different, though, because she’s so obviously trying to hide it. “Mom, are you okay?”
“Ha. What? Stop it.” She stands, gathers some plates. “I’m fine. I’m just gonna get these out of the way. You all sit, keep talking.”
Chapter 38
Nineteen years ago, Robyn waited outside La Scala in Little Italy.
She was pregnant, nauseous, uncomfortable with incessant heartburn, a little chilly. She stood for a bit, paced. When she got tired of standing, she leaned on a parking meter. At one point she sat at a bus stop, but buses kept trying to pick her up.
“You gettin’ on or what, hon?”
That whole time, she watched the door beneath La Scala’s awning, waiting for Billy to come after her.
If he’s not out here in sixty seconds, I’m leaving, she’d tell herself. But then a minute would come and go, and she’d still be standing, leaning, or sitting. “Come on, Billy,” she whispered. “What’re you doing in there?”
What he was doing was proving that all the doubts she’d ever had about him were well founded. She was young, but Robyn had had boyfriends since she was fourteen, and she knew without question that Billy was the sweetest guy she’d ever been with. Attentive and loving. Gentle. He made her laugh, and he joked about her being better looking than him, even though Robyn knew that Billy was cuter than he gave himself credit for. But he was also aimless and immature, and he showed no signs of ever being anything other than that. No signs of fight. No drive. He’d gotten his music degree from Towson, but he was a waiter at a terrible seafood restaurant who didn’t own a decent pair of shoes and had irrational crushes on rock stars and played piano in bars for crumpled bills on Thursday and Friday nights.
All of that may have been fine, because men are allowed to be children for as long as they want—they’re practically celebrated for it—but Robyn was ready to be an adult. And even if she wasn’t ready, she was pregnant. She didn’t have the luxury of arrested development.
When Billy knelt and showed her the ring, Robyn was eating crackers, which was about the only food she could keep down. At first, she thought he’d fallen out of his chair, like he’d fainted, which was just what she needed: dealing with a sick Billy while she herself felt like warmed-up garbage. But then…
“Robyn, will you marry me?”
It makes sense, in retrospect, that he interpreted her running out of the restaurant as a definitive no. It hadn’t been, though, not at first. In truth, with all those eyes on her in that stuffy little place, she just needed some air to deal with all that was suddenly happening. But then he never came after her.
If he’s not out in thirty seconds, I’m gone.
A half minute later, her future started to become clear. She began to make what was her first adult decision. She also started to make a plan. Robyn was going to have the baby, because she knew she could. She was lucky. She had a support system, career prospects, some savings built up. She’d just gotten into grad school, but she’d defer for a year. It would be hard, especially at first, but doable. She would head immediately to her parents’ house. They would help her. Billy would help her, too, because she knew he’d want to. He’d be involved. He’d be doting and sweet and all the things she knew he was capable of being. But they would not be together. No more artificial sixty-second deadlines. No more waiting for him to be the person she needed him to be. Robyn and Billy were done.
* * *
—
And now she’s alone on the deck at the side of the house listening to music coming from the apartment. It’s the Steinway, and if she’s not mistaken, Billy is singing.
Someone used the term doom scrolling recently, and Robyn thought it was the most perfect thing she’d ever heard. She’s doing a version of that now on her iPhone beneath the stars, flipping her thumb up and up, reading about how sweet and cute AF Billy and Margot are. Some woman posted a photo of Billy and Margot walking in Fells Point. The caption reads, Your daily dose of adorbz from Baltimore. #amiright
“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Robyn says.
She’s brought a thick flannel blanket out, but she’s still cold. The firepit sits empty at her feet.
The side door opens, and Aaron appears holding the bottle of cab. He fills her empty glass without comment and then goes about the quick work of building a fire for her. He puts on a pair of gloves, arranges wood into a tepee, twists some old newspaper. She watches, taking note, aware that she’s going to have to do this on her own soon. She’s getting the house, so she’ll be staying here. Aaron will move to an apartment downtown. He knows a few divorced guys who live in some big complex on the water. She imagines a building of lonely men, their TVs the size of sideways refrigerators.
Aaron strikes a long match and sets it into the structure he’s built. Smoke appears, and then a weak flame. “There we go.” He sits in the chair beside her.
Warmth touches her skin as the flame grows. “Thanks.”
