by Emily Belden
“Is the class over?” Brian asks.
“Yup,” I say.
“And is the crisis averted?”
“Yup.”
“Well then… Remember it’s WeHot with one t—ONE
T!” Brian shouts to the crowd, his voice lost in the din of whispered plans to grab kale salads from Whole Foods and
take “Outfit of the Day” pics in front of the new Restoration
Hardware on Sunset Boulevard.
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary. They’re already Snap-
chatting the rolled ice cream food truck that’s parked across
the street,” I explain as I pack my computer bag up.
“Kids these days. Well look, it sounds like you don’t need
my help with the whole Decker thing.”
“That is correct,” I confirm.
“And that’s fine. But I do have a request. Can I…come over
and see him? Or if that’s too forward, me coming to your
place, can you bring him to a coffee shop? I have to admit I
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didn’t make it up to Pala much and before he goes away again
to wherever you decide, I’d love to—”
“I get it,” I say, cutting him off before I embark on another
strange conversation with a man, dead, alive or otherwise.
“But I have to get to my office and run some reports now. So
how about I get back to you on that, okay?”
He says nothing. Instead he offers me a closed-mouth smile.
“What?” I say.
“Will you though? Will you get back to me? You’ve played keep away with me for the last four years.”
“Four and a half. But I promise,” I assure him. “I will text
you.”
Brian comes in to hug me, a move I’m not expecting. I
think it’s meant to be comforting, cordial, but I know it can’t be. And he should know that too.
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9
Casey agrees to take Leno out for me as I head into the bath-
room to get ready for the big Voyager dinner. I start with a
liquid concealer. As I dab it just above my cheekbones to can-
cel out the purple-green hues that have occupied that space
since turning twenty-nine, I notice my left eye is twitching.
It’s not an all-out tick, more of just a flutter—like a flickering fluorescent light bulb that needs to be changed. In the past,
this was something my eye did only when I was overly caf-
feinated or underrested. It used to happen a lot while work-
ing my studio job. Coffee was its own food group there and
the hours were long, coupled with the fact that when I was
off the clock, I was with Decker, and we had a habit of stay-
ing up late on “school nights” (which was every night; he was
a high school history teacher) just talking, watching movies,
thrilled to be in each other’s company. Anyone who has ever
been in love knows what that restless, giddy phase is like. It’s a phase where time stops mattering. Wide awake still at two
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to answer hypothetical would-you-rather questions, watch me
struggle to do the too-hard New York Times crossword puzzle my mom sent me, and make out until the birds start chirping.
That’s just…how we rolled.
“Relax, babe. The eye twitch is just your thing,” he’d say as
I’d hold down my cheek, trying to get it to stop. “It matches
the way you crinkle your nose when you’re stuck on a cross-
word clue.” God, I haven’t done an NYT crossword puzzle in years, I think to myself as I move on to bronzer, blush, eye shadow, and finally end the application with sweep of jet-black lengthening mascara.
Sorry to bother u, but have u thought anymore about me seeing D?
The text from Brian triggers an eye roll. He’s not being a
bother, but he is right. I did completely zone out on follow-
ing up on his cavalier request to hang with the ashes of my
dead husband, his best friend.
I’ve got a super important client meeting tonight. Can I get back 2 u tmrw?
Sure. Good luck tonight.
I appreciate Brian’s understanding as I slip into navy-blue
cigarette pants with a side zipper and toss on a crisp white
button-down shirt. I take my hair down from the messy bun
held together for the last six hours by a ballpoint Bic pen and a little leftover sweat from my five minutes on the spin bike.
There’s a visible crease where the pen was, but the volume is
good and the overall style has somehow managed to go from
“blah” to “beach waves,” which rest nicely on my shoulders.
I take one final look in the mirror, proud of how I’ve cobbled
myself together once again.
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Emily Belden
“Duuuuuude,” Casey says, barreling back into the apart-
ment with a panting Leno. Denise is at our apartment.”
“Who?” I say, packing my Birkin (okay, Firkin) with a
nude-colored lip gloss.
“Darlene? Donna? Oh, whatevs. Decker’s ma.”
“Debbie is here?”
“Yeah, I think so. Some wine-wasted middle-aged woman
tailed this GrubHub delivery man but the front desk guy in-
tercepted her. When he asked who she was here to see, I over-
heard her saying, ‘My son, Decker Austin.’ Doorman said the
name wasn’t on the residence list and he’d have to call the po-
lice if she didn’t leave.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I exclaim, setting my bag
down and marching to the door.
“Relax,” Casey says, grabbing my arm. “She’s gone. The
doorman ended up escorting her out. It was harmless and sad
more than anything,”
Harmless? I doubt it. Clearly Debbie came to my place after
Brian failed at doing her dirty work. This lady is the defini-
tion of desperate. Not to mention, a trespasser.
“Well, did she see you? Did she see the dog?”
“Nah, Leno and I hid by the elevators like little secret
agents. It was so cool.”
“What do you think she wanted?”
“Considering she didn’t drop your name or bother calling, I think she’s after the urn, TBH.”
My brain jumbles like piece of bad code causing all my text
to turn into Greek letters. Let me get this straight: my former mother-in-law just reenacted a scene from The Walking Dead, and would have banged down the door of my apartment to
steal back the ashes of her dead son if it wasn’t for our building security guy? What if he was in the bathroom? Taking a
smoke break? Thank god he was there to hold down the fort.
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Debbie’s heist-like antics certainly make me realize the urn
isn’t so safe at my house after all.
I’m glad Casey has resolved that this all was a pathetic dis-
play of shock for Debbie, but it doesn’t change the fact that
I feel utterly violated. Who’s to say Debbie won’t come back
when it’s a different doorman’s shift and pose as my sweet
mother who just wants the spare key to our place for five min-
utes so she can leave behind “a surprise bouquet of flowers”
or some other seemingly innocent scheme to gain entry into
my unit so she can steal the urn? Who’s to say she won’t come
back and make it all the way up to my front door? I won’t let
it happen. Not on my (Apple) watch. I guess I’ll need to make
room in my bag for more than just lip gloss tonight, because
Decker’s coming with me to BOA.
This BOA place is nice, albeit kind of dark and pretty
crowded at 6:00 p.m. for a city full of people who don’t like
to dine until after 9:00 p.m. But that’s okay because I believe those things—dark and crowded—are helping to take the
attention off the fact that I’ve sausaged myself into cigarette pants that suddenly feel two sizes too small.
And that I have Decker’s urn in my purse.
I’ll admit that it feels inappropriate to have brought Decker
along to something like this, but what other choice did I have
given Debbie’s stop-at-nothing antics? I try not to think too
much about the fact that Decker in my bag makes us a party
of seven and glance down at my watch. This dinner will be
over relatively soon and once it is, I’ll head straight back to my place, where I will put Decker back on my nightstand or
the kitchen counter. Then tomorrow, I’ll take time over my
lunch break to hunker down and pick up on my mausoleum
research. I’ll even book a conference room later in the after-
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Emily Belden
noon to make some calls in private. I will put this task first, I promise myself.
A waitress zips by and swaps out Zareen’s lipstick-stained
water glass with a fresh one. I like their attention to detail
here. I admire and I appreciate it.
That said, I must give the interns major kudos not only for
having the balls to shit-talk me behind my back in the bath-
room of a small office building, but also for securing the early reservation Zareen was eyeing at the most coveted restaurant
in Beverly Hills. We’ve been here an hour already and every
seat is filled. I’m not sure how a simple steakhouse can be the hottest ticket in town—usually that’s a title reserved for places with celebrity chefs that serve twenty-course meals, one of
which is simply a marinara-flavored vapor that you inhale.
But for what it’s worth, we’ve cruised through our entrées
already and the meat was broiled to a perfect medium rare
and the spinach was sautéed in some sort of garlic-butter nir-
vana. Not to mention, James Van Der Beek has been sitting
at the table next to us all night and it’s taking everything in me not to walk over there and ask for a selfie with Mr. Daw-son’s Creek himself.
The waitress is pouring my third glass of pinot noir. The
pours are heavy, too. You can tell she’s trying to move through the expensive bottles to bring up the overall tab for our table—
oldest server trick in the book. Zareen secures a moment of
eye contact with me and makes a subtle “easy on the wine”
motion with her hand. The same one my driver’s ed instruc-
tor would make as I approached a stop sign with a little too
much heat.
To no one’s surprise, the dinner thus far has been largely the
Monica-and-Zareen Show. Zareen has an enchanting spirit
about her, which is only exemplified by her raspy smoker’s
voice (even though she doesn’t smoke) and heaps of dangly
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gold jewelry that clink together when she makes hand gestures.
She is also wearing a silk caftan that looks like more like an
ornate rug, a piece of clothing that is fascinating in and of itself. Looking at her is accepting that I’ll never be the type of woman who can pull off a caftan as “business casual” attire.
Then there’s Monica, who is not only a vision of beauty—
especially with her fresh Turks and Caicos tan and overall
marital bliss—but also a smooth talker who is currently charm-
ing the pants off the Voyager guys. It could also be her form-
fitting red bodycon dress that has captured their attention,
but who cares. They are eating out of the palm of her hand,
which will no doubt make my job easier when it’s my turn
to take the floor.
The Voyager team is comprised of three men who are
considering working with us largely for our ability to target
women in the influencer marketing space. I forgot their names
as soon as they said them, which is a personality flaw of mine.
Strangely, I find it difficult to retain the names of people who I haven’t first met (read: stalked) online. Associating a profile picture with a username is the only way I can remember
names these days. It’s kind of like the way I learned Spanish
vocab words with flashcards back in high school. Regardless,
I’ve since dubbed the gentlemen in our company this evening
as Eyebrows, Loafers, and Bald and resolve that when they
send a follow up thank-you-for-dinner email on their way to
the airport tonight, I’ll learn their names then.
“Okay everyone,” says Zareen. “In the interest of time, why
don’t we move on to our reporting capabilities now, shall we?
I don’t want any missed flights on my watch!” She taps her
wrist to bring her gold Rolex into frame, a true power move.
“Sounds fantastic,” says a buzzed Loafers.
“Charlotte, do you have Decker with you?” Zareen non-
chalantly asks in front of everyone.
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I wipe my face with my napkin as my stomach drops into
the seat of my burgundy leather dining chair. How does she
know about Decker? And that I have him in my bag?
“What was that?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“Do you have the deck…or is it with Monica?”
She said Deck-OR. She said Deck-OR, I repeat in my head as I attempt to safely bring my heart rate down.
“Oh, right. Yes, I have it,” I confirm. “I’ve actually loaded
the presentation onto these iPads for everyone to view indi-
vidually in the palms of your hands.”
At that, I dig into my Birkin for our five spare office tab-
lets. I didn’t tell Zareen I was doing this, but when your boss kindly asks for razzle-dazzle, you bring it. Her eyes light up, knowing that I’ve just introduced a new element of cool to
the table. The fact that everyone will be able to view the
slides on a personal handheld device as I control the presen-
tation from my iPhone should bring our clinch percentage
into the high 90s.
As I reach around for the iPads, I can’t help but acknowledge
that Decker is in the same bag. Right next to the thousands
of dollars of technology, in a fake Birkin from Chinatown, in
the swankiest restaurant on this side of the canyon.
“Ready?” I ask after handing the last iPad over to Zareen.
“Wow, a digital presentation? I�
��m already impressed,” says
Eyebrows as he elbows Bald.
“The iPads are a nice touch, right?” Bald volleys.
“They make it so easy to follow along,” chimes in a subtly
sales-y Monica.
“How do we get it to start?” asks a tech-challenged Loafers.
“Just swipe your finger across the bottom to activate the
screen,” I say, somewhat concerned that the screen might not
respond to his greasy fingers.
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“Aha! There we go! Would you look at that?” Bald nudges
Loafers.
They are loving this. Take that, Marigold.
I look to Monica and Zareen, who gives me a confident
nod that says, Go get ’em, girl.
“Okay, gentlemen. Slide one. As you can see, it all starts
with our proprietary—”
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” our waitress says as she does a
lap to refill our waters and wine. “But before you begin your
presentation, can I get any desserts sent over to you this eve-
ning? I can put the order in immediately and then we can stay
out of your way while you chat.”
“Sure. One of everything is fine,” Zareen answers for the
table. She then inconspicuously hands our server the company’s
black AmEx card. Only I’m sitting close enough to hear her
whisper: “Bring one more bottle of wine and tip yourself 30
percent. Don’t drop a bill when you bring my card back. I want
this to be smooth, you understand?” Her attention returns
to the table and she gives me permission to start once again.
“As I was saying, our proprietary software is configured to
understand your target demographic, which in this case we
have already determined to be fitness-minded women ages
eighteen to thirty-five. Because of our research, we can pitch
to them in creative new ways that’s never before been ex-
plored. For instance—”
“Excuse me, Charlotte,” says Loafers. “Zareen mentioned
you coded this program yourself. Is that correct?”
I’m not usually comfortable patting myself on the back
like this, but I remember Zareen mentioning this was a key
reason she wanted me here, to show off a bit. So I allow my-
self—or maybe the oaky red wine allows me—to soak up a
bit of the spotlight.
“Yes. I designed the ins and outs of this program entirely