Sweet Nothings by Janis Thomas

Author:Janis Thomas
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2013-05-31T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

By the time we reach the 101, Jacob has laid waste to four of the white-chocolate-macadamia-nut cookies, miraculously consuming them without getting a single crumb on his person. I made the cookies this morning as a thank-you because they are a no-brainer when it comes to sweets, reliable and delicious. The white chocolate is still warm, the outside of the cookies are golden brown and crisp, and the insides are perfectly gooey, and Jacob has been vociferously appreciative of their merit. Let’s just say that my legs are clamped together like a steel trap.

“I usually wait until after noon to eat sweets,” he tells me. “But I just can’t help myself.”

“I had a T-shirt once that said ‘Life’s Short. Eat Dessert First.’ I loved that shirt.”

He laughs. “A wise proverb,” he agrees.

He has relaxed visibly since our earlier discussion; his manner is more at ease, his posture less stiff, and the tension lines on his face have faded dramatically. In short, he is even more attractive to me now.

“You know, this is my favorite kind of cookie,” Jacob reveals.

“Mine, too.”

“My ex-wife used to make them for me . . . back in the day.” (Read: back when she liked penises.) “Of course, she used those frozen premade dough balls. Her niece sold them through the school, for a fund-raiser.”

I nod. Jacob has returned to “serious mode,” as if it is his turn to get something off his chest. I remain silent.

“She’s a great girl, Phoebe. Wow, she must be fourteen by now. I haven’t seen her for three years. Well, that’s divorce for you. You don’t just separate from your spouse. You lose their entire family, too.”

“You liked your in-laws?”

“I didn’t dislike them,” he replies. “Kristen’s parents were—are—a little straitlaced.” This comment strikes me as humorous coming from Mr. Straitlaced himself, but then I realize that I don’t know Jacob Salt at all. Maybe he secretly cross-dresses or slathers himself with mayonnaise or watches clown porn.

“I used to play golf with my brother-in-law. Joe. Every Sunday at the country club. That stopped faster than you can say ‘Rosie O’Donnell.’ It’s not even that you take sides. You just have nothing in common anymore.”

I think of my own in-laws, Lorraine and Todd McMillan, who were killed in an auto accident five years ago. Of course, their loss hit our family hard at the time, especially Walter, but I’m relieved that they aren’t here to see what he has done. They would have been mortified. But then, maybe if they were still alive, Walter wouldn’t have left. From the moment we buried them, Walter started waxing on about his own mortality, about the speed with which time flies, about how it all can come to a screeching halt at any instant. Perhaps the idea of his leaving was formulated even then, years ago, when he was confronted with his own fragile place in history and the finite number of hours and minutes and seconds he had left on the planet.

Or maybe he’s just an ass.

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