“I want things to get better,” I said. “And I know it will take a while, but I think—” My voice broke here and I waited a second to continue. “I think we can do that.”
Matt squeezed my hand and then took his away and put it in his lap in a way that felt slightly unfriendly. But then his voice was soft and agreeable as he said, “Me too.”
That night we were polite to each other as we got ready for bed, standing next to each other at the sink while we brushed our teeth, taking turns spitting and rinsing like we were new roommates who didn’t know each other very well. We’d been apart for two weeks, but it felt like much longer. Our good-night kiss was dry and chaste, and as I pulled the covers over me I wondered how long this was going to last. Maybe we’d have to live like a prudish Amish couple for a while; maybe that was our price to pay. I guess it wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but it certainly wasn’t great.
But then the next morning, I felt Matt reach over for me, pulling me toward him, surprising me because he hadn’t in so long. I was half awake as he tugged my pajamas off, and I stayed underneath him, both of our movements sleepy and slow. When we were done, we lay on our backs, our limbs just barely touching. Neither of us spoke, but it felt like we’d started to erase something, and it seemed like it was enough for now as Matt rested his hand on my stomach and said, “Morning, Buzz.”
Washington, DC
Washington isn’t a city, it’s an abstraction.
Chapter 22
Here’s what I still hate about DC: the way that nothing is permanent, the feeling that everything and everyone you know, could (and does) wash away every four or eight years. All of these important people, so ingrained in the city — you can’t imagine that this place could exist without them. But one day they’re gone and everything keeps moving just the same.
Who can get their footing in a place like this? It feels like quicksand to me.
—
Once Matt was back, we moved quickly. He took a job (with the help of Mr. Dillon’s connections) as deputy political director at the DNC, and that same week we started looking at houses in Maryland and made an offer on one. A few weeks later, I was hired to edit a monthly newsletter at an adult literacy nonprofit. It paid less than I’d made at DCLOVE, but I didn’t have to write blind items about White House love affairs and golf games, which was a good trade-off.
I’m sure a therapist would’ve gotten a kick out of analyzing us, the way we raced ahead, like if we changed enough things in our life, everything would be fine. Sometimes I worried about it too, but mostly we were too busy for me to second-guess everything, which maybe was the whole point.
The house we bought was in Silver Spring, on a street with well-kept lawns and brightly painted mailboxes. I thought maybe it would feel lonely out there, but in the end it was like any move — the surroundings seem strange until they don’t and one day the unfamiliar becomes normal.
Our neighborhood was full of young couples, most of them with kids but a few without. The day we moved in, our neighbor Ginny and her husband, Bob, brought over a welcome basket — a real-life welcome basket, full of jam, cookies, and gift certificates to the local pizza place. “We’re such a social block,” she told us. “You’ll love it here.” Ginny was the president of the neighborhood social committee, a title she said with so much pride, she could’ve been announcing that she was President of the United States. “It’s a lot of work,” she said. “But it’s worth it.”
Within a week, I was invited to join a book club and a Bunco group — a game I’d never played that was apparently all the rage in suburban Maryland. These people didn’t joke around about their Bunco.
Ginny was telling the truth about our neighborhood — there were BBQs and block parties and group outings to Nats games. There was always something going on and there were nights we turned down invitations just to get a little break, so we could be alone, closing our blinds so we wouldn’t offend anyone.
There were a few times that I’d be in someone’s backyard, talking about the quality of our public schools or getting a recommendation for a housepainter, and across the lawn, Matt would be discussing the Redskins and flooded basements while someone cooked cheeseburgers on the grill, and I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, how ordinary and boring it all was.
But those moments were few and far between. They honestly were. Mostly, I enjoyed myself at these gatherings. I liked all of our neighbors — they were funny and kind and welcoming, and I knew we’d never get to know them really well, that we’d always keep a little distance. We wouldn’t have friends like the Dillons again, another couple so entangled in our lives, and that was okay. It was probably the way it was supposed to be.
Sunday nights still belonged to the Kellys, and we showed up there every week without fail. Babs was still herself, but I didn’t feel her scrutiny as much — it’s possible I was just used to it or maybe it wasn’t as intense as before. Either way, I didn’t dread the dinners the way I once had. And at least once a week, I met up with Jenny and Nellie, sometimes for lunch or dinner, but mostly to go for walks together; just a bunch of outlaws power-walking through the suburbs of Maryland.
We saw Bruce and Colleen more than we had before, had them over for dinner often, the four of us sitting on the patio and watching Bea run around in the backyard. And maybe it’s because I’m older or less judgmental, but I see good things about them as a couple that I didn’t before — the way Bruce listens to Colleen’s long stories, how nicely she repeats things to him when he can’t hear. So much of what I used to think was ridiculous about them, now seems right. They balance each other out.
During our first year in Maryland, I felt Matt coming back to me, little by little. It happened in small ways — how he’d touch my hair as I sat nearby, when he’d bring me coffee in bed. Once, as he leaned down to hug me from behind, I drew in a sharp breath to keep from crying. Because it was only when he was back that I realized how much had been gone.
—
We see the Dillons sometimes, not alone, but when they’re in town we run into them at parties, and everything is perfectly pleasant, almost normal really. Maybe we know we can’t avoid each other and the best option is to act friendly. Maybe enough time has passed. Maybe we remember the good parts of our friendship. Or maybe we’re all really good at pretending.
They sent us a beautiful gift when our son, John, was born — a blue quilt with his name and birth date embroidered in the corner. I called Ash to thank her, but she didn’t answer, so I left a message. She responded with a text, which was fine with me. Texting (didn’t you know?) is the best way to keep in touch with people you don’t really want to talk to.
I do feel guilty that we’re Viv’s godparents, and I make sure to send presents on her birthday and Christmas and whenever else I think to. I’m sure this will slow down over time, that over the years I’ll send fewer things and then eventually stop. I can imagine that when she talks about us, she’ll say, “They were friends of my parents a long time ago, but we never see them now.” She’ll probably look at the pictures of the four of us and try to figure out why these random people were chosen to be her spiritual guides. I’m sure Ash will water down the relationship in her retelling. “We spent so much time with them in DC,” she’ll say. “Matt ran your dad’s first campaign in Texas.” But as Viv’s friends have their godparents show up at graduations with presents and envelopes full of money, I doubt she’ll care about any of that. She’ll just understand that she got pretty screwed in the godparent department.