ME: You ARE a funnier comedian than he is.
FRANKIE: Thank you.
ME: And I’m widely considered to be more handsome than he is.
FRANKIE: No comment.
ME: But this is definitely not more messed up than that. And you recently moved in with the guy you were obsessed with, so just ask Mia if she knows how I can find pics of our therapist online.
FRANKIE: *Pretends to text Mia to ask if she knows her therapist’s other last name*
FRANKIE: Sorry! She doesn’t know anything about her, other than what a great therapist she is.
ME: Could you just give me Mia’s number so I can ask her myself?
ME: Shit. I meant to say could you give me her number so I can ask her something totally unrelated to our therapist…
FRANKIE: Have a great night, buddy!
Balls.
This is the problem with liking someone who isn’t famous.
Or maybe the great thing about it.
I can actually get to know her the old-fashioned way—without checking her IMDB credits first.
I’m about to open up my food delivery app when I get a call from Miles’s home number. Frankie probably did a group text to everyone telling them that I asked her for intel about my therapist, and now he’s calling to give me shit about it. Asshole.
“What? There’s no harm in asking.”
“Hi, Uncle Dylan. I need you to come to my school on Monday.” It’s my eight-year-old niece, Macy.
“Oh, hi. I thought it was your dad calling me.”
“I know. It’s not. Can you please come? It’s really, really, really, really, really, really important to me.”
“This coming Monday?”
“Yes. After lunch. You aren’t allowed to eat with us though. I already asked. Can you come?”
“I don’t know. I mean, it’s kind of late notice. I don’t have any other plans for that time yet, but there are a lot of other things I could be doing then. Maybe if it’s really, really, really, really, really, really, really important to you. Then I’d think about it.”
“It is.” This kid has no sense of humor. None. “So can you?”
“What do you need me there for? It better not be as a math substitute because I hate math.”
“We only have one teacher,” she sighs. “Mrs. Bean. We’re supposed to invite someone we know to talk about their job and how they got to do it. You just have to stand in front of the class and talk and answer questions.”
“Your teacher’s name is Mrs. Bean?”
“Yes. She doesn’t like fart jokes, so don’t tell any.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“Uncle Dylan!”
“Okay, I’ll try not to. Is Sam in your class?”
“Noooo! I’m older than him. He’s still in second grade.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You aren’t allowed to see him when you come—you’re just coming for me.”
“Okay, okay. I’m all yours, after lunch, on Monday.”
“Yay!” She sounds genuinely happy and excited. She will probably stay that way for about thirty seconds and then go back to her reign of terror.
“Does your dad know you’re asking me to do this?”
I hear my brother grumbling in the background before taking the phone from her. “Yes, I know she’s asking you to do this.”
“Exactly how jealous are you that she wanted me to talk to her class and not you?”
“Exactly not at all. I wouldn’t be able to in the middle of a workday anyway.” He’s so grumpy. It’s wonderful.
“Wow, you’re exactly as jealous as I thought you would be. I feel really good about this.”
“So you’re going? I have to email her teacher and get you put on a list.”
“Like a guest list for a club? The club for students’ favorite uncles who are cooler and have way more interesting jobs than their dads.”
“The club for unemployed actors who walk into the ocean wearing jeans and a leather trench coat.”
“Hey. I was paid to do that. And I’m not unemployed. I’m taking a break so I can carefully choose my next project.”
“Just don’t forget to wear a shirt to Macy’s school. And don’t hit on her teacher. She’s married. I’ll email you the information.”
“If Mrs. Bean is hot, I will probably still flirt with her…” Crickets. “Hello?”
He hung up.
What an asshole.
It was a joke. Of course I’m not going to flirt with Mrs. Bean. I don’t flirt with other people’s wives, even if they’re hot. I only flirt with one person’s ex-wife—until she tells me not to. Even though I can tell she really wants me to.
7
Scarlett
My parents are moving to a smaller home, so I’ve arrived at their house armed with three empty boxes. I’ve done this every time I’ve come by this week, and I haven’t left until the boxes were filled with things that I can donate to Goodwill for them. It’s worse than pulling teeth, trying to get my mom to let go of things. It’s like pulling teeth that can talk to you and make you feel guilty in two different languages.
My mom and dad have lived in this four-bedroom house in Santa Monica ever since I was an undergrad. After Adam and I divorced and sold the place in Larchmont Village, I bought a small house in the same neighborhood to be closer to them. Whenever Noah is staying with me during the week, one or both of my parents pick him up from school and keep him until I get him after work. It’s been pretty great. But now that they’re both retired, they’ve sold the house and bought a condo near The Grove. It’s close to my office, which is a half-hour drive from Noah’s school at best, and my mom insists that she will continue to pick him up and keep him after school once they’ve moved.
I would insist on hiring a part-time nanny because I don’t want to trouble her, but since I’ve known my mother my entire life and have never once been able to change her mind about anything she insists on—I’ve honored the traditional Chinese tradition of adamantly refusing her offer three times, even though we both know that I’m just being polite and that surrender is inevitable.
But I can be stubborn too, and I am not leaving here tonight until I have three full boxes to take with me, and we all know it, including Noah. If he wants to get home in time to get his science report done, he needs to help me pack things up. Of course, he doesn’t actually care if he gets his science homework done or not, so he’s no help to me at all. He and my dad are watching The Great British Baking Show and totally pretending not to hear my conversation with the great, lovely, and very strong-willed Evelyn Chan Shepard.
“Again?! What happened to the boxes I gave you yesterday, huh?”
“I dropped them off at Goodwill on my way to work this morning. And there’s still plenty of stuff in this house that you don’t use and don’t need to take with you to the condo.”
“Pah!” She waves her hand dismissively. “You worry too much, Scarlett. Stop worrying so much.”
She’s not wrong. I do worry too much. But she’s also not right about everything… At least that’s what I keep telling myself.