Page 16 of Play Along With Me
"That's... a shame," I offer, trying to sound sincere rather than secretly pleased that Janine is already making missteps.
Evelyn reaches across the table and pats my hand. "I wish it had been you, Audrey. I've always wished it was you."
And there it is—the moment in every dinner with Evelyn where she explicitly states what has been implicit throughout the conversation: that she wishes I were her daughter-in-law instead of Janine.
"I know, Evelyn," I say gently. "But Daniel made his choice."
"A terrible choice," she sniffs. "I told him so. I even sent you an invitation to the wedding, hoping you'd object during the ceremony like in the movies."
"You really thought I would do that!"
"Make no mistake," she says proudly. "I was hoping for a dramatic last-minute intervention, but the cake incident did just fine."
She lifts her glass as if to celebrate my horrific accident. I nearly spit out my wine.
I think about my disastrous cake incident and decide Evelyn is going to assume whatever she wants. There is no needfor me to elaborate or defend myself. It is what it is. (I need more wine!)
"Something memorable needed to happen," Evelyn declares, signaling for more wine. And for that I am grateful. "Now, tell me about you. How's the writing going? Any new men in your life? Have you considered freezing your eggs? Daniel's cousin Marianne just did it, and she said the process was quite manageable."
And we're off to the races, with Evelyn's signature conversational whiplash. For the next two hours, I field questions about my reproductive plans, listen to detailed accounts of Daniel and Janine's domestic arrangements (apparently Janine insists on organic cleaning products that "don't actually clean anything"), and receive unsolicited advice about everything from my hairstyle to my career path.
By the time dessert arrives—tiramisu for Evelyn, chocolate mousse for me—I'm exhausted but also oddly comforted. Evelyn may be a hurricane, but she's a hurricane that's firmly on my side.
"You'll find someone, Audrey," she says, reaching for my hand again. "Someone better than Daniel. Though preferably someone I already know and like, so I don't have to start over with a new family."
I laugh. "I'll do my best to accommodate your social preferences in my future romantic endeavors."
"That's all I ask," she says with a wink. "And that you keep coming to dinner with me, even when you do find someone new."
"Promise," I tell her, and not sure how much I mean it.
As we leave the restaurant, Evelyn hugs me tightly. "You're the daughter I never had, Audrey. Remember that."
I watch her climb into her cab, feeling that familiar mix of affection and melancholy that always follows our dinners. Evelyn Westfield: the mother-in-law I never had, from the marriage that never happened.
On the way home, I check Instagram (breaking my twice-daily rule yet again) and see that Daniel has posted a photo of their new dining room set. The caption reads: "Adulting level: Expert. #homeowners #newlywedlife"
I roll my eyes and put my phone away. If posting pictures of furniture is "adulting level: expert," then my standards for adulthood have been way too high all this time.
When I get home, Mr. Darcy is waiting at the door, eager for his dinner and completely uninterested in my emotional state.
"The good news," I tell him as I scoop his food into his bowl, "is that Evelyn still loves me more than Janine. The bad news is that I spent another evening orbiting Planet Daniel instead of moving on with my life."
Mr. Darcy purrs in response, which I choose to interpret as "Your self-awareness is commendable, but ultimately useless without action."
"Harsh but fair," I concede, scratching him behind the ears.
I glance at my refrigerator, eyes landing on Jake's note among the collection of mementos.For your Lego-free future. —The Door Pounder.
Professional hockey player. Neighbor’s friend. Not a spoon collector or a dinosaur enthusiast or any of the other speed dating specimens from last night.
Probably not my future anything. But at least he made me laugh, which is more than I can say for most men these days.
I open my laptop and add another line to my character sketch of him:
Somehow more interesting than twelve speed dates combined, which is a terrifyingly low bar but still worth noting.
Friday night at the Liberty Bar is predictably chaotic. Weekend warriors in town for bachelor parties, couples splurging on fancy hotel stays, and business travelers drowning the sorrows of another week away from home—all converging on my bar section with varying degrees of neediness and alcohol tolerance.
