We released them from the baby swings and set them on the ground to run.
“Please don’t call him,” I said as we pushed the empty strollers to the sandbox. “My life is complicated enough. I’m not interested in romance right now.”
“Who said it would be a romance? He’s an old friend. And you need to get out and have some adult conversations. Your brain can’t survive on Disney cartoons alone. Believe me, I know.”
I laughed. “I won’t disagree with that, but still . . . promise me you won’t set anything up. I just want to be a grieving widow right now. I’m content with that.”
Rachel sighed. “Fine. I’ll let it go.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
We dug juice boxes out of our lunch bags and called the girls over for drinks and snacks.
The following Wednesday, about an hour after I put Rose to bed, the telephone rang. I was on my knees at the coffee table, inserting pictures into a photo album.
I leaped to my feet and hurried to answer the phone before it woke her up. “Hello?”
“Hi, Olivia?”
I recognized the caller’s voice immediately and blinked a few times. “Yes.”
“It’s Gabriel. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
I paused and slowly began to twirl the telephone cord around my index finger. “No, not at all. I put Rose to bed an hour ago, and I was just . . .” I glanced at the mess of pictures spread all over the floor in the living room. “I was tidying up.”
He said nothing for a few seconds, and I pulled a chair out at the kitchen table and sat down.
“How did you get my number?” I asked.
“I called your mother, and she gave it to me. I hope that’s okay.”
“Of course. It’s fine,” I replied, remembering how my mother had kept in touch with him for a long time after we broke up.
“How did you enjoy that movie the other night?” he asked. “Did you watch it?”
“Jacob’s Ladder? Yes, I watched it. It was terrific. The ending took me by surprise.”
“Me too,” he replied. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Thanks for recommending it,” I said.
“You’re most welcome.”
He was quiet again, and I began to chew on my thumbnail.
“The reason I’m calling,” he finally said, “is to ask if you’d like to have dinner with me this week. Maybe Thursday or Friday?”
I didn’t respond right away, so he added, “No pressure. Just as friends.”
“Oh . . .” My belly turned over with unease. I hated this. He was such a good person, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I wasn’t interested in any sort of relationship—platonic or otherwise.
“Now I’m embarrassed,” he said. “I’ve put you on the spot.”
“No, you haven’t. I’m so sorry. You just caught me off guard. I’m not used to getting dinner invitations. I’ve been keeping a low profile lately. Not really interested in having a social life these days.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. It was painfully awkward.
“I understand,” he said, and I felt a rush of guilt.
“Please don’t think I’m trying to brush you off, Gabriel. It’s not that at all. It’s just . . .”
“Yes?”
“I live a very boring life. I give Rose a bath every night, and I read her a story, and I put her to bed. That’s my routine, and I’m comfortable with it. I like the boredom.”
He paused. “And I’m too exciting?”
I laughed. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”
Silence. Awkwardness again.
“That’s unfortunate,” he said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, don’t feel bad,” he replied, “and I know you do. I can hear it in your voice. Honestly. I just thought, since we live in the same neighborhood and we’re both on our own, that we could have a meal together. But I understand. It’s okay.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Gabriel . . .”
“No, it’s fine, Olivia. Please. Don’t worry, okay? It’s all good. But if you ever change your mind and just want to get out of the apartment for some food or to see a movie or whatever, call me, okay? We’re friends. I’ll leave you my phone number.”
“Okay. Let me grab a pen.”
I found a small notepad, jotted down his number, thanked him for calling, and hung up.
For a moment I sat there, staring at the magnets on the refrigerator door and the jar of crayons on the counter. The living room floor was still strewn with photographs, and they weren’t going to insert themselves into the photo album, so I returned to the coffee table, sat down on the floor, and continued my task.
A half hour later, it was done. But as I put everything away, I couldn’t stop thinking about my conversation with Gabriel. I felt bad about it—as if I had rejected him all over again when he was just calling to be a Good Samaritan and get together as friends.
Maybe I was resisting his friendship because a part of me still believed he wanted more. It was why I had taken Dean with me to the coffeehouse that night when Gabriel was playing his saxophone. It had seemed like the only way I could make him see that I was moving on and he needed to do the same. I couldn’t let him go on waiting for me forever. And when he came to visit me the Christmas when I was pregnant with Rose, I was relieved to hear that he was dating someone. It took the pressure off. At last, I didn’t need to feel guilty anymore about breaking his heart.
But here we were, both single again, and I didn’t know how to make him understand that I didn’t want to start anything. I just wanted to be on my own.
On the other hand, maybe I was utterly conceited to imagine that he wanted me back. Maybe he had no interest in me romantically whatsoever, and he felt sorry for me—a single mother who spent every day pushing a stroller around the streets of New York and renting Disney cartoons at Blockbuster, then watching old classics at home alone on Friday nights.
It was true. That’s all I ever did. Rose was my entire life, the center of my existence. Sometimes I worried that I wouldn’t even remember how to have an intelligent conversation with grown-ups at a formal dinner party. What would I talk about? Diaper rash? Hopscotch?
For a while, I stood in my kitchen with a cup of chamomile tea, and before I could change my mind, I grabbed the notepad with Gabriel’s phone number on it and called him back.
“Hello?” he said, answering after the third ring.
“Hi, it’s Olivia. I hope I’m not calling too late?”
“Not at all.” There was a coolness in his voice, and I suspected he wasn’t keen on playing a game of hot and cold.
“Listen,” I said, “I just want to apologize for being so . . . I don’t know . . . standoffish earlier. I know you were just trying to be a good friend.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he said. “I get it.”
“No, I don’t think you do. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my friends. It means a lot to me that you called. You’re very special to me, and I hate how things ended with us, back in college. That night at the coffeehouse in SoHo . . . I’m so sorry about that. I shouldn’t have brought Dean there, and I’ve always regretted that.”