Husband Material

by Emily Belden

  cheeky, but also because I’m wondering what other things I

  might have missed or gotten wrong about Chad.

  “Wait. So have you ever been divorced?” The question pops off my tongue involuntarily. As soon as the words come out,

  I remember he reserves the right to ask me the same question

  in return and immediately regret posing it. I’m not ready to

  explain the demise of my first marriage.

  “Me? Nah. Never married.”

  Luckily, a server reappears to take our dinner order. But let

  it be known that if Chad had asked, I would have explained

  that I didn’t give up on my life partner because I was frus-

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  way. I didn’t just get bored and say “screw it,” chalking the

  whole thing up as just a starter marriage (google it, this is a thing now). In fact, if anyone abruptly left anyone, he abandoned me out of nowhere.

  “Would you like the chicken and veggies or the short rib

  and scalloped potatoes?” the caterer asks me.

  “Short rib and potatoes,” I say, a game-time decision made

  entirely by my growling stomach.

  At that, Chad looks at me like I rolled into the Vatican

  wearing a tube top. “You sure about that, Char? There are

  so many hidden carbs in potatoes,” he whispers with a hint

  of disgust.

  First off, Char is reserved for people with a little more tenure in my life, thankyouverymuch. And secondly—

  “Yes, I’m sure. An extra scoop of potatoes if possible,” I

  say, loud enough for our waitress who jots down the special

  instruction.

  “Chicken for me. Extra veggies,” my 74 percent match re-

  quests.

  There it is. His wellness obsession f laring up again. I’m

  racking my brain for what to say next to a guy who screams

  “dead end” to me.

  “Excuse me, hon. It’s the firm. I’ve got to take this.” Chad’s

  waving his phone at me.

  Hon?

  He leaves the table to take his call by the hallway to the

  outhouses.

  I spot the vision herself, Monica, in the chicest strapless

  Vera Wang ball gown to ever have existed and make my way

  over to her.

  “Oh my god, Mon! You look amazing!” I squeal as I give

  the bride a hug. “I can’t believe you’re married!

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  Emily Belden

  “Aww thanks, Char. We’re about to do speeches, so I can’t

  chat long. Hey, did I see you brought a date?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I hope you don’t mind,” I say, caught.

  “It’s all good. You’re at the ‘Work Table’ and Zareen texted

  that she couldn’t make it out of Palm Springs in time. Dust

  storm or something.”

  I was wondering why the table looked so empty.

  “That sucks,” I say about our boss missing her big day. “But

  the good news is, I brought that Chad guy.”

  “You did?! LACMA Chad? Where is that chiseled Greek

  god? Wait, can I say things like that now?” She flashes her

  shiny diamond band my way.

  “Over there in the doorway on his phone.”

  She diverts her attention his way and a smile purses her

  ruby-red lips. She’s seemingly so satisfied with her match-

  making abilities, she doesn’t care that I amended her guest list.

  “See? I told you he was hot,” she says.

  I’m not sure I’d call him hot. There’s a bulging vein in his

  forehead and he looks like he’s cross-examining an invisible

  Brad Pitt.

  “He’s better looking than me, that’s for sure,” I concede.

  “That’s not true, Charlotte. But my two cents? Take your

  hair down and put this on.”

  Monica pulls bright red Chanel lipstick from her cleavage

  and jerks it my way like she’s offering me a cigarette. I stare at the tube of lip lacquer with the same skepticism I would a

  shot of warm bottom-shelf tequila.

  “Hurry up, put it on. You ought to play up that whole

  Zooey Deschanel thing you’ve got going on. A bold lip is

  going to work wonders on you.”

  I sweep the lipstick across my mouth and rub my lips to-

  gether while handing the tube back to Monica. My lips feel

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  creamy and smooth, although I wonder how much of the red

  stuff is stuck to my teeth.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it looks like Danny needs me

  for a toast.”

  Monica tucks the lipstick back where it came from and

  scurries away amid the whir of clinking champagne glasses.

  The crowd is demanding that the newlyweds kiss, and I pick

  up my knife and flute to join the movement.

  Monica’s beaming. Well, she’s always beaming. But today’s

  glow is different. I remember what it felt like to get married.

  The wedding was the best day ever. Regardless of how things

  ended up for me, I’m thrilled for her and wish them the best.

  “Sorry about that. My partner is trying to get some re-

  sidual business from Gavin and Gwen,” Chad says, rejoining

  me at the table.

  “Rossdale and Stefani?”

  He makes the click sound with his tongue again and points at me. I guessed right, I suppose.

  “Look, I know what you’re thinking,” says Chad. “How

  does a guy who makes a living divorcing people think he can

  be in a genuine relationship?”

  “Actually, I was thinking about how good those cheesy po-

  tatoes are going to be.”

  “The truth is,” he blazes on, “I see so much separation, I

  know exactly what it takes to have a serious relationship with someone.”

  “That’s interesting,” I say. “Kind of like that whole y ou have to know dark to know light concept.”

  “Exactly!”

  My curiosity is piqued for the first time since spotting a

  giant gourmet cupcake tower near the dance floor.

  “So then, tell me, what are the secrets to lasting relation-

  ship happiness?” I begin to pry.

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  Emily Belden

  He takes a sip of his whiskey before divulging. “First of all,

  prenups. Those are an absolute must. They just make people

  feel more secure in the marriage, knowing that if it all ends,

  they won’t rob each other to death.”

  Fair enough. Although I did not have a prenup with my first

  husband and things still managed to work out pretty fairly in

  the end as far as assets went.

  “Continue,” I say.

  “Then, a sex contract.”

  I nearly choke on the last few drops of my gin and tonic.

  “A sex contract? What…what the hell even is that?”

  “Relax. It’s not that big of a deal. Just something that binds

  a couple to engage in regular intimacy. So many couples stop

  having sex after marriage, or it becomes like a chore that hap-

  pens about as infrequently as a SoCal thunderstorm. For
me,

  I need sex four times a week at minimum and I don’t want

  that to stop just because I put a ring on it.”

  “What if your wife—”

  “Isn’t in the mood? I mean, of course we could work some-

  thing into the contract that would excuse you for a few days

  if you’re on your period or if someone close to you dies. Stuff like that.”

  And there it is: like malware, this date has been infected

  and is now crashing. Quickly.

  “Okay, Chad. You know what? I’m not sure we’re a good

  match here.”

  The fact: I’m 100 percent positive.

  “How can you possibly know that? We haven’t even danced

  together. Which, by the way, is a really good indication of

  how your sex life will be.”

  My appetite is officially gone.

  “I just…know.”

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  “Oh, come on. We were just getting to know each other,”

  he bargains.

  “I already know plenty about you, Chad. I think you should go.”

  “Go? The meal hasn’t even come yet. I’m not going any-

  where. And I want to know what you think you know about me.”

  The whites of his eyes are more pronounced than before

  and the vein in his forehead is pulsating at me like a blinking reflector on the back of a bicycle.

  I should say nothing. I should thank him for his spontane-

  ity in being my date to Monica’s wedding, then guide him to

  the door before he turns into The Hulk.

  But… I won’t do that. Because he struck a nerve. He struck

  a few, actually. Most importantly, Chad asked a question I

  can’t hold back on answering.

  “For starters, you’re telling me you’re ready for a genuine

  relationship, but you openly admitted trying to swoop up a

  nearly married Monica. I’m not sure that screams ‘genuine.’

  Secondly, never in a million years would I ever sign my name

  on a sex contract. What is this, Fifty Shades of Grey? Third, I researched the shit out of you and while I admittedly flubbed

  your professional credentials—which, by the way, will never happen again—I know more about you than I should for a

  first date, Chadwick Harold Johnston. Based on who you follow and what you’ve liked on social media over the last eigh-

  teen months, it appears that you tried your hand at becoming

  an amateur fitness model but didn’t qualify for the PowerBar

  open—whatever the hell that is—which is why you started

  working out like crazy and taking gym selfies every other

  day. Unfortunately, it didn’t grow your following enough or-

  ganically, so you started paying for Russian bots to like your

  posts. Sometime after that, you started dating a Norwegian

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  Emily Belden

  supermodel who dumped you for an ‘up and coming Sound

  Cloud rapper’—talk about an ego blow—and that’s when you

  switched your account to private. And only just recently, I’d

  say in the last three months—because that’s how long it’s been

  since your pics started getting more than eleven likes—did

  you go back to being public. My guess? So you could show off

  your thirteen-pound muscle gain in time for ‘summer body

  season’ in hopes that Nadia, your Norwegian ex, would some-

  how see it and want you back. But you’re here. With me. So

  that didn’t exactly go to plan, now, did it?”

  “How…how do you know all this?”

  I can’t tell if he’s horrified or impressed, but it doesn’t matter.

  “Not that you’ve asked any questions about my life, but let’s just say I’m sort of a master of internet research.”

  “You’re a freak and a stalker, that’s what you are.”

  “And finally,” I say, ignoring his dumb dig, “I don’t need

  social media to know that last week, you snuck into one of

  our invite-only influencer events at the LACMA.”

  “I didn’t sneak in to that event, okay? I am an influencer.”

  “The hell you are. You were never on the invite list because

  I made the invite list.”

  “Um, do you guys still want this?” A waiter has been hov-

  ering at the side of the table with the steaming veggies in one hand and a platter of gooey potatoes on the next.

  “Yeah, she wants it.”

  I’m not surprised misogynistic Chad answers for me but am

  surprised, however, when he continues talking.

  “She wants it to go so she can eat it in the privacy of her own home, where she stalks people on the internet like a

  lonely, pathetic creep. Speaking of stalkers, Char, I was on

  MySpace back in the day if you’re looking for something to

  dig up tonight.”

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  I’m thankful that Monica and Danny are canoodling at

  the head table and see none of the scene we’ve just made. I’m

  even more thankful that Chad has taken the cue and decided

  to leave.

  “You can just leave both on the table,” I say to the waiter,

  never having been so happy to be alone with a double-scoop

  of au gratin potatoes.

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  “Dude. You’re home early,” my roommate, Casey, says.

  “How’d it go with Brad?”

  “Chad,” I say, handing her his business card. “And not

  good. Not good at all.”

  “Well, think of it this way. If you ever need a divorce…”

  Her blasé response is the reminder I need to tread lightly

  on the marriage subject. I don’t bring my first husband up to

  people who didn’t know him. Casey didn’t know him, and

  so now (or ever) is not the time to have that bridge-crossing

  conversation. I change the subject.

  “Has Leno gone out?” I ask, bending down and letting

  my dog lick my face as I scratch his cute little French bulldog butt. Even though I’m emotionally drained from my botched

  date with Chad, there’s something about my dog that instantly

  takes the edge off my mood, no matter what.

  “Yup, I took him out about an hour ago.”

  I tap my Apple Watch. It’s only 9:00 p.m. This is the earliest

  I’ve been home on a Saturday night in a long time, but what

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  can I say? When your date leaves before the bread basket has

  made its way around the dinner table, you’re just not in the

  mood to stick around for the Chicken Dance with strangers.

  “Wait a sec. Is that a dark lipstick I spy on you? I like it,

  Char!”

  I promptly wipe my fingers over my lips in an effort to dis-

  mantle the final remnants of Monica’s all-for-nothing vampy

  red lipstick that can be seen from space. The red stain on my

  fingertips is a reminder that I wasted effort on a guy who

  probably only agreed to go to a wedding with me to see if I

  know how to twerk. For the record, I don’t.

  “Tha
nks for taking Leno out, Casey. I owe you.”

  “Consider us even. I borrowed your car to get a tattoo

  earlier.”

  I’m not in the apartment but two minutes before Casey re-

  minds me for the hundredth time how she couldn’t be more

  different from me. For starters, she’s extremely scatterbrained and is addicted to Netflix and tattoos. Meanwhile, I’m über-focused, task-oriented, and haven’t had time to watch a show

  for leisure in about five years, and the only tattoo I have is the small one that needs to be removed. Other than that, she’s a

  wee bit Goth, totally brash, and I’m fairly certain her gauged

  ears are only the start of many body modifications for her.

  Yes, I found Casey on Craigslist. And yes, she’s the real-life

  Janis from Mean Girls.

  “I burned my damn ass when I got in and sat down on

  that leather seat. Holy greenhouse effect, Batman,” she goes

  on to say.

  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: an all-black car in Southern California is completely, utterly impractical. But then again, it’s a BMW 7 Series sedan. And it became mine after my marriage ended and there are no monthly payments on it, so who

  cares if it scorches your thighs every time you sit down in it?

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  Emily Belden

  “Is this for me?” I ask of a medium-sized brown box lobbed

  against the wall.

  “Yup. The doorman said there was package for you, so I

  snagged it on my way back up.”

  I breathe easier knowing the hard drive I ordered so my

  computer can handle combing through more stats has arrived,

  which means my plans for the rest of the night are baked. I

  thought about messaging the Bateman lookalike for a nightcap,

  but how can I go on a date with Mr. Right if I don’t know for

  a fact that he could be just that? Statistics so far have shown me I will likely need to date upwards of a hundred men before finding my ideal match. Chad was Lucky Sixty-Eight for

  me. Seeing how that crashed and burned, I’ve got some seri-

  ous work to do with vetting my remaining guys, and pseudo-

  Bateman is no exception.

  As I set my purse down on the counter, I see two tickets for

  the Catalina Singles Cruise. I’ve heard of this event before, a dinner cruise that companies and organizations pay big bucks

  to sponsor twice a year. Basically a ferry takes a bunch of yuppie singles out to Catalina Island and back. I’ve never heard of any guests getting married, but like all cruises, the entertainment and all-inclusive drink packages make it worth it, I guess.