Page 61 of Bad Words
“Oh. Huh.” He scratched one half of his mustache. “Well, her name’s Maria.”
“And she is lovely!” Mom gushed, which I guessed meant she was Filipina.
“See?” said Kevin. “And she is lovely.”
“Excited to meet her. Will you be around in March?”
“More like will she be around in March,” muttered Elena.
Hurt flashed across Kevin’s face. He opened his mouth.
“Lena, it’s Christmas,” I cut in.
Her purple-lipsticked mouth pursed. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
Kevin grunted.
“Well,” said Christi in that purposefully breezy way that broadcasted her irritation, “we should let you get going, Park. Love you so much! Kids, say bye.”
“Bye, Tito Parker,” Jenna and Manuel chorused.
“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,” my mom said, her hands pressed to her heart. “Maligayang Pasko, Pijay, love you.”
As everybody else joined in, the speakers blared indistinguishable noise. My eyes found the Christmas tree behind them, the geometric star at the top, and the parols hung around my mother’s living room, glowing constellations of paper. “Love you guys,” I said repeatedly, unsure they could hear me, until the call ended.
I closed my laptop. My apartment seemed to echo in the quiet. I pictured my family standing up from the sofa, breaking into twos and threes in the living room, chitchat and logistical conversations masking loaded silence.
I came back into my body, into my empty room, with a shameful sensation of relief.
The snow had stopped this morning. I wound a wool scarf around my neck and headed out into the clean cold air for my walk. Crossing the park, I passed a couple whose reddened hands were joined and swinging, and I remembered Christmases with Kate, the exhaustion I’d felt every night when I’d shut off the light, staring into the dark, waiting to sleep.
I’d spent so much time in that relationship telling myself I was happy. It had been the same with Cecilia, my girlfriend for half of undergrad, and Vivian, whom I’d dated for a year right after school, and whom I’d dutifully accompanied to raves every other week, despite being a person who, left to my own devices, would probably seek out a chemical waste treatment plant before a rave.
I hadn’t dated anybody seriously since my breakup with Kate. We’d split up several months before the book deal for These Extraordinary Times, at which point my life had changed so dramatically that I’d had no room in my mind for relationships. In the past few years, I’d intermittently tried the apps, which had led to a couple of one-night stands and a dozen first and second dates that had felt pleasant and meaningless, like massages.
It was easy to look at these couples in the park and fantasize about dating again, but maybe I wasn’t cut out for partnership. By the end of all my relationships, I’d felt unmoored from myself, as though the effort of forming myself into the right partner had made me forget what I was, if I was anything. At least, on my own, I knew that I was myself.
On the way home, I checked my phone. My Bay Area group chat—which, for some reason I couldn’t remember, we’d named “The Obviously Evil Bird Archive”—was an avalanche of Santa emojis and photos of enormous meals from Christmas Eve. I was typing replies, crunching past a stand of snowy evergreens, when an email alert popped up.
I paused at the open gate to the park.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Dec 25, 2:10 PM
Re: Kavan Retrospective
I’m guessing you’ll like this book. Its author also doesn’t know how to streamline a paragraph. [LINK: Heron at Night by Charles Roxbury]
I sighed.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Dec 25, 2:11 PM
