This morning I let Caleb inspect his purchases, because as he pointed out, before he settled the bill he wanted to be sure everything was perfect. He's a perfectionist. His standards are high. I finally relented, first in the cashmere, then in the velvet, telling him he could look but not touch. He found that supremely amusing as we have sort of-almost made up here over the whole Joel-eviction thing.
While I did a slow turn, freezing to pieces in the Boathouse in my underthings he revealed something too. The news that he's going to sell the boat. That he has something else in mind but he'll tell me once it's official. He's simply not using it, though the private covered slip and extensive docks he built will be terrific for the resale value of this house someday.
(This is the part where I will perish from curiosity and he knows it. See how he plays? I'll find out what I need to but the cost will be huge.)
And in Joel-news:
Joel is going but we've come a mutual agreement to meet for brunch once a month. That way he gets a check-in (UNQUALIFIED) and I get a...free butternaut adventure since he always chooses a very fancy place when we go out, which is so interesting for that imaginary trust fund kid. The butter arrives on a little plate in pretty curls and instead of spreading it on bread I make it into little people with my knife. I call them butternauts and it's a welcome distraction from his endless counseling. I've mentioned them before (here and here, for example).
Caleb is somewhat satisfied that we came up with this ourselves. Then Joel and I promptly hunkered down and watched Annabelle, because Joel is only really good for horror, hockey and humility, as I always tell him.
He wishes I was as good with my emotions as I am with my observations, my words. I point out that for every gift there is a deficit somewhere and oh boy did I ever lose hard. Thank heavens I can express myself in the feelings I can't seem to control, or everyone would be left foundering in the darkness along with me.
That would not be good.
So now we have that space over the garage. Someone suggested we call Asher back. When I was done laughing I asked if we just hold it for Ruth. By the time she's 17 or 18 she'll want her own space I imagine. In the meantime I think I'll call August and ask if he'll come back or maybe come out for Spring Break/Easter/Summer/The Rest of my Life.
Though he'll probably gently refuse. Run, Augie. Run while you can.
