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“Zoe, no one’s ever going to like you and you’ll die alone. Is that what you want us to say?”
dipping into Ethan’s savings from his career as a child actor, a rapidly draining pot.
My longtime literary agent, LeeLee,
my bespectacled, tattooed New York editor, Sidonie,
Yes, my hit was great. But it was a single; I hadn’t proven myself with a home run yet. And, apparently, it wasn’t enough to keep their eyes on me.
It wasn’t fair that talent didn’t equate success, that some wildly popular authors weren’t the best at their craft, whereas some gifted novelists sold, like, two copies of their book. To their parents.
Poppies disappeared from the list like a one-night stand slinking out the door the next morning, still buckling his belt.
LMAO well said
But with Ethan’s theater producer job not exactly bringing in the big bucks—there are, like, three plays a year in LA—and with my writing stalling, it was tough paying two private-school tuitions and everything else.
The hair loss must be killing him. And yet he was plenty happy weighing in on my hair color. Really. The nerve!
He looked so sweet when he was asleep. If only it would stay that way.
I’d launched an underground Instagram account documenting the hidden parts of luxurious houses on the market in LA.
For whatever reason, I loved sneaking into strangers’ homes, trying to figure out their stories. My old therapist would’ve had a field day with that: searching for a home given my own fractured family.
Her kids were making omelets. Meanwhile my kids needed me to pour Honey Nut Cheerios in a bowl for them.
“You know, Mom, it’s really not good to eat on the go. We’re all supposed to sit down and be mindful of what we’re eating,” Zoe said. Classic. One minute she was waking me up in a panic about the doomed state of her love life; the next she was lecturing me on proper eating habits. Oh, the joys of parenting a teenager.
“Mom, you’re supposed to wake us up,” Max said. “Remember how I taught you about those things called alarm clocks? You’re old enough to take responsibility for your morning routines. You know that!”
I didn’t want my obit—not that I would even get one—to be “Aging one-hit-wonder author dies in freak Botox incident.” Too pathetic to contemplate.
Ethan’s child-actor days had peaked with the middle-grade sitcom Crazygate about a group of misfits who took over their school. He had been Misfit #2. And yes, his BMW license plate read “MZFIT2.” Those Misfits were supporting our entire lifestyle. His theater job? Not so much.
How many original plotlines could there even be? Around a hundred thousand new novels came out each year. Was there even enough material to go around?
Gabriela’s flirtations had really escalated lately; her husband’s lack of attention and constant travel certainly didn’t help.
And books take, like, fifty-seven years to come out.
“Ohhhh, good point,” I said, reaching for my phone. “I thought ‘no phones at the table,’ Mom?” Max said. I smiled and put it down. “You’re right! See? I was just testing you. You passed! Way to go, Max.”
My mother always said, “Darling, it’s not a vacation with kids; it’s a trip.”
You know, so I can help the writing community. We all need a leg up, don’t we?” She smiled and Cindy smiled back, nodding. “Bitch,” I said.
LOL
“Ella, what about the man?” Cindy asked. “The one who wanted to be on your show?” “Oh, well, sadly he’s gone to prison, but at least we all got a book out of it, didn’t we?” Cindy and Kevin laughed nervously.
After a few hours of rage and indignation, I perched in front of my laptop and dragged my whole draft into the trash, then I pressed Empty Trash. At least I got to hear the little crumpling paper sound as I cried. And then I cried some more. I’d been struggling to find a new topic ever since.
“Oh, hi . . . you!” I was clearly missing a name in that sentence. I’d started calling everyone “honey” if they were under age twenty-one or “you” if they were older.
“Okay, listen. We have an issue here.” “Don’t beat around the bush. Who needs small talk anyway? I’m listening.”
We all know you came close with Podlusters. By the way, you must feel validated now that Ella’s version sold over a million copies! You were on the right track! What an idea!” I sighed. “Thank you?”
“Hey Siri. Shoot me.” Pause. “Searching for . . . shoot me. Found it. There are . . .”
We weren’t particularly religious—Reform, not Orthodox. For us, that meant showing up a few times a year for the High Holidays, lighting the Shabbat candles when we remembered, and hosting a Passover seder. Orthodox was something else entirely. But the Jewish values were the same: giving back, being kind, being “people of the book.”
“See, this is why I could never write a book. I like TV. TV is immediate. I’m on. It’s on. Then it’s over.” “Profound thoughts. Really helpful, thanks. And by the way, you should write a book,” I said, grabbing the oat milk. “Your career is falling apart and you want me to take on the same issue?”
From Ethan, emailing me from bed upstairs: “Can we host three of the actors I might work with for dinner tonight? Otherwise, I’m going to head out to dinner with them.”
Lol wut is this guy serious!? First that's extremely short notice also why didnt he just text her ?
We locked eyes like in the movies, and he held on to my hand a beat too long. I could hear Kelly clearing her throat, wanting her turn to say hello, but he was only looking at me.
The lack of foreplay? Soon that wouldn’t be romantic, just annoying.
“A little presumptuous?” I asked. “What if I’d said no to coming to your room?” “Oh, I would’ve found someone else,” he said. “Hey!” “But she wouldn’t have been as special as you.”
We didn’t leave the room the entire weekend. It was steamy and hot and raw and messy and everything I’d ever longed for.
Now we’d been married seventeen years. Seventeen. Long. Years. I still respected him and was insanely attracted to him even though I wished I weren’t. But his complete lack of physical affection and the brutal way he interpreted sex wore me down. Year after year. Until it felt like I was living a lie. One I kept close to the chest.
soon I would do something simple, like reach out to hold his hand as we walked down the street, and he’d recoil like I’d bitten him.
You’ve totally stopped touching me . . .” “What do you mean? We have sex all the time.” “I know, but I mean actually touching me. Holding me. Holding my hand even.” “Oh, come on. I’m just not like that.” “Like what? Nice? Loving?” “I don’t like to be touched. Or touch in general.”
“I knew I had to do that stuff before.” “That stuff?” “Like touching you, holding hands, and all that.
“So what you’re saying is that the thought of your wife . . . me . . . touching you . . . makes you feel . . . like you’re in a HAUNTED HOUSE . . . with your mom?”
“Come on, you’re hot! I’m attracted to you. So just stop talking about all this and get over here. Can’t you see how excited I am?” He gestured down to the blankets. And that was the moment when a piece of me shriveled up and died.
WTH this guy is unbelievable
But I couldn’t live without touch: affection, cuddles, holding hands, sitting on his lap, nuzzling during movies, kisses, hugs. Could I? Without physical affection, all I’d feel was lonely. Touch was my love language.
“See?” he said as I lay there, my grip on the sheets slowly loosening. “I told you I love you,” he said, chuckling.
Um not sure if I'd call that a show of love, but it was certainly ... Something
This was all it was ever going to be. No kisses. No cuddles. Transactional sex. Nothing for me. For him, this was love.
When it came time to try for kids, I found out that I had a rare condition: my reproductive age was forty-five, although my body was only thirty. I wouldn’t be able to have children on my own.
My physical and emotional needs were never addressed. Apparently they just weren’t on the table.
I’d vowed to stay with him for life, so that’s what I was going to do. But no one warned you that sometimes those vows can be toxic.
I think the administration liked to throw in random Wednesdays off just to mess with the parents’ work schedules, as if to say, “See how you like it when kids mess up your entire day.”
