Hate You Not

I can’t help a laugh. Well, we know how you feel about pigs.

Pigs are a delightful barnyard animal. A definite asset for any small farm. 10/10 would recommend. BTW the kids would like a picture of you in your shirt.

I grin and text, “The kids.”

I look around my office, like the walls are watching. Then I unzip my briefcase and pull the shirt out. It’s navy blue and silky, with a faux Ravenclaw tie design going down the front, and a pocket with a pair of round-framed reading glasses printed on the fabric.

I inhale it again. It smells like her house. Which smells like cinnamon and flowers.

I push my office chair back and step over to the door, twist the doorknob lock, and unbutton my work shirt. Then I pull that off and drape it over my chair. I pull the silky shirt over my head, ruffle my hand back through my too-long hair, and take a selfie where I’m doing this weird crooked smile.

I frown down at the shot. And then I send it.

She replies a second later.

THAT’S THE WRONG SHIRT!

I type: If the shirt fits…

Snort.

I think the convo’s over at that, but a few minutes later she sends another text. So are you at work? Or are those stark white walls at your house?

My place also has white walls. And isn’t a house. But this is my office.

You can’t really live in an apartment?

Google street view it & u’ll see.

What?! Really? There was no apartment number when you gave me your address the other day!

That’s because my building only has two penthouses, and they have different addresses.

Pfft, she sends. I knew you lived in a mansion. I didn’t Google it because I kind of didn’t want to know.

Why not? I frown down at the phone.

Why do you think?

I rub a hand over my face, rubbing my temples with my fingertips. That’s why I’m asking, I say. I don’t know.

I don’t want to see the place where Margot and Oliver could live if I had let you take them with you. Duh.

There are more dots, as if she’s saying more. They disappear and return a few times before the screen settles without them.

Do u know how long I was in Paris? I ask her.

Negatory.

I was gone almost two weeks. When I got back, there was a problem with a technical element of the app’s development. I was at the office for three nights in a row, all night. Now I have pneumonia, not that I’m telling her that. I’m also going to be up here tonight again for sure. That startup life.

Next week, I’m going to Hong Kong to meet someone for three days. Then back here, and then I have to go to Manhattan.

Just to make her feel a little better, I add: I live on the fourteenth floor. The floors above floor four are mandatory child-free. I don’t even have a fish at my place. It’s a hipster place, so even if I did sneak kids in, they would have to climb all the stairs.

Again, with the dots appearing and disappearing. Is it weird that I like knowing she’s taking her time with every text? Finally she says just: Thank you.

You’re so welcome, Gryffy. I delete that and instead ask, How are you guys? Things going ok?

Yep. A few minutes later, she adds, We have a nice routine now, I think.

I toss my phone from one hand to the other, cough until my head feels like it’s going to explode, and then rub my temples till they stop pounding. Then I man up and just ask her: You gonna cash some of those checks, Gryff? Make things easier for you three?

She doesn’t reply for almost two hours. I’m stepping into the men’s room after a meeting when the phone vibrates in my pocket. Her text is very June-like, therefore not surprising: I don’t need your money.

I lean on the cool wall of the bathroom. I’m not saying you do. I sent it because I want you to have it. No because you have to have it, but to make things easier. To me, it’s not much—$3,000 a month. I can spare it without thinking twice.

Dots and then no dots. Dots as she types and no dots as she deletes.

I know you know I’m poor, okay? That the farm’s not making like a robust income right now. But it’s going to. We’re planting the biggest crop of peanuts we’ve ever had. I have goats now, and I’m going to make goat cheese. I’m also getting subsidies at times, which help things. We’re fine. I know to you it probably seems terrible, but I promise they are fed and happy.

To me…it sounds terrible—is what she said. I blow my breath out, do my business, and wash my hands before replying. I know, June. I know the kids are fucking fed. That’s not the problem.