Read Online Where We Belong by Emily Giffin - Free Book Online
Authors: Emily Giffin
Tags: marni 05/21/2014
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even among the closest of friends. After a fight with my boyfriend, no less. That is all beside the point now. Because she is right here, standing before me, waiting for me to say something.
In a haze of emotion, I insist that she come in, silently hanging her jacket in the hall closet and stowing her heavy backpack under a long ottoman in my foyer. I pause awkwardly, considering a venue for our first conversation. The living room feels too formal, while my small den, where I keep all my personal mementos, too intimate. I don’t think I’m trying to hide anything from her; I just don’t want to overwhelm her—or somehow give myself a home court advantage. So I settle on the kitchen, flipping on the lights, then dimming them, then turning them up again. I gesture toward two stools positioned at my marble-top island and we sit on opposite sides, nervously gazing at each other, our faces frozen in expectant smiles. I know that as uneasy as I am, she has to be more so, if only because she is half my age and in unfamiliar surroundings.
I frantically search for something to say, something weightier than idle small talk and something lighter than the cold, bare facts of how her life began. I come up empty-handed, which only makes me more anxious and flustered.
“Are you hungry?” I finally say, standing to open the refrigerator. I stare down at a row of Vitamin Waters, a bag of European lettuce, a container of egg whites, and a large container of Greek yogurt, cursing myself for not swinging by Dean & Deluca on the way home from work yesterday, my usual Friday routine.
“No, thank you,” she says as I repeat her name in my head, a name that never once occurred to me in all of these years of wondering what it could be. Kirby . Kirby. Kirby. I can’t decide whether I hate it or love it, but give her parents points for originality—and resist the sudden, overwhelming urge to ask about them. What do they do for a living? What are their politics and religion? Do they look anything like her? Like us, I think, still startled by our resemblance, one that is becoming increasingly clear to me despite the fact that I’ve never been good at seeing such likenesses. I suppress all questions about them, worried that my curiosity will come across as invasive or jealous, just as I realize that for the first time ever, I actually am a bit jealous that another woman had a hand in shaping the person sitting before me. The fact that I have absolutely no right to feel this way, that it was entirely my decision to give her to them, only makes the wistfulness grow and expand in my chest. I tell myself that I’ve endured none of the hardships of motherhood, that it’s like watching a marathon and wishing you were crossing the finish line. I tell myself to stop being so self-centered. This night is about her needs, not mine, and although I am not her mother in the true sense of the word, I try to conjure something of a maternal instinct. I think of my own mother, and her solution to many problems: comfort food and a good night’s sleep.
“Are you sure you’re not hungry? We can order. There’s a great deli nearby that will deliver a grilled cheese and tomato soup inside ten minutes. It’s like they always have one ready, figuring someone in a ten-block radius has to be in the mood for a grilled cheese.”
Realizing that I’m babbling, I stop talking, and she shakes her head, thanking me again.
Overcome with a fresh wave of emotion, I hide my face, turning back to the refrigerator. “Can I at least get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Vitamin Water?”
She hesitates, then, almost as if she’s humoring me, says, “Sure. I’ll take a Vitamin Water.”
“What flavor?” I ask. “Orange or lemon?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No. I guess it really doesn’t,” I say more to myself than her. Then I steady my hands as I select an orange one, unscrew the cap, and pour it into a tall glass.
“How did you get here?” I
In a haze of emotion, I insist that she come in, silently hanging her jacket in the hall closet and stowing her heavy backpack under a long ottoman in my foyer. I pause awkwardly, considering a venue for our first conversation. The living room feels too formal, while my small den, where I keep all my personal mementos, too intimate. I don’t think I’m trying to hide anything from her; I just don’t want to overwhelm her—or somehow give myself a home court advantage. So I settle on the kitchen, flipping on the lights, then dimming them, then turning them up again. I gesture toward two stools positioned at my marble-top island and we sit on opposite sides, nervously gazing at each other, our faces frozen in expectant smiles. I know that as uneasy as I am, she has to be more so, if only because she is half my age and in unfamiliar surroundings.
I frantically search for something to say, something weightier than idle small talk and something lighter than the cold, bare facts of how her life began. I come up empty-handed, which only makes me more anxious and flustered.
“Are you hungry?” I finally say, standing to open the refrigerator. I stare down at a row of Vitamin Waters, a bag of European lettuce, a container of egg whites, and a large container of Greek yogurt, cursing myself for not swinging by Dean & Deluca on the way home from work yesterday, my usual Friday routine.
“No, thank you,” she says as I repeat her name in my head, a name that never once occurred to me in all of these years of wondering what it could be. Kirby . Kirby. Kirby. I can’t decide whether I hate it or love it, but give her parents points for originality—and resist the sudden, overwhelming urge to ask about them. What do they do for a living? What are their politics and religion? Do they look anything like her? Like us, I think, still startled by our resemblance, one that is becoming increasingly clear to me despite the fact that I’ve never been good at seeing such likenesses. I suppress all questions about them, worried that my curiosity will come across as invasive or jealous, just as I realize that for the first time ever, I actually am a bit jealous that another woman had a hand in shaping the person sitting before me. The fact that I have absolutely no right to feel this way, that it was entirely my decision to give her to them, only makes the wistfulness grow and expand in my chest. I tell myself that I’ve endured none of the hardships of motherhood, that it’s like watching a marathon and wishing you were crossing the finish line. I tell myself to stop being so self-centered. This night is about her needs, not mine, and although I am not her mother in the true sense of the word, I try to conjure something of a maternal instinct. I think of my own mother, and her solution to many problems: comfort food and a good night’s sleep.
“Are you sure you’re not hungry? We can order. There’s a great deli nearby that will deliver a grilled cheese and tomato soup inside ten minutes. It’s like they always have one ready, figuring someone in a ten-block radius has to be in the mood for a grilled cheese.”
Realizing that I’m babbling, I stop talking, and she shakes her head, thanking me again.
Overcome with a fresh wave of emotion, I hide my face, turning back to the refrigerator. “Can I at least get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Vitamin Water?”
She hesitates, then, almost as if she’s humoring me, says, “Sure. I’ll take a Vitamin Water.”
“What flavor?” I ask. “Orange or lemon?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“No. I guess it really doesn’t,” I say more to myself than her. Then I steady my hands as I select an orange one, unscrew the cap, and pour it into a tall glass.
“How did you get here?” I
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