“So, what do you like to do when you’re not at work?”
“Lots of things. I crochet and read romance novels.”
“What are you most passionate about?” said Patrick.
“Passionate? You mean like sex?” she said with a seductive grin.
“No,” said Patrick, laughing, “I meant what’s important to you. What do you get excited about? If you could spend a day doing anything, what would it be?”
The beautiful blonde pursed her lips and looked off into the distance. After a long five seconds she locked eyes with Patrick. “Shopping. I’d spend the whole day going to designer sample sales. See this bag,” she said, lifting up a red leather handbag with a chain strap. “I got it for next to nothing at a sample sale in the garment district.”
“It’s very nice,” said Patrick. “Do you like to travel? It’s one of my passions. I try to do it whenever I can. I went to Prague last year and fell in love with the place.”
“I don’t know where Prague is but I went on a cruise to the Caribbean once. They had a midnight chocolate extravaganza.”
“It’s in the Czech Republic,” said Patrick.
“What?”
“Prague.”
“Oh.”
There was an awkward moment of silence. “Do you follow politics?” said Patrick, shifting gears.
The blonde snorted. “I don’t even vote.”
“Ever?”
“Nevuh.”
“You’ve never voted in your entire life?” said Patrick.
“Nope. It’s all a bunch of bull.”
“Don’t you want to have a say in what happens?”
The blonde started to laugh. “My vote doesn’t matter. Your vote doesn’t matter,” she said. “They only hold elections to make all the people think we have a say, but we really don’t. Elections are only to keep us calm, like what they do with livestock before the slaughter.” The blonde leaned in, looked into Patrick’s eyes, touched his arm and whispered, “It’s how they control us.”
“You should vote. Don’t you think it’s important to stand up for issues like protecting endangered species or the environment?”
“Ouch! My head is hurting from this conversation,” said the blonde, rubbing her temples. “It feels like I’m back in high school taking another test I didn’t study for.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, nothing’s ever going to change,” said the blonde. “That’s why I don’t worry about it. Can you order me another glass of wine? Let’s talk about our favorite series on Netflix.”
Patrick leaned back in his chair and let his body relax as the blonde steered them into a deep conversation about the nuances of a new TV series. She wasn’t interested in most of the things that mattered to him but she was great to look at and surprisingly entertaining. She was nothing like the Mystery Woman, but she made him laugh, and for the first time in a long time, he felt like his old self again—the non-committal “man about town.” It felt good to be out, having a few laughs and not thinking about a woman he’d never find.
30
The Fussy Virgin Guide:
“Mr. Right Enough”
You’re searching for Mr. Perfect, but is anyone really perfect? Finding this elusive creature is a little like searching for a mermaid or Bigfoot. You’ll never find one, because they don’t exist. What if the same is true for a soulmate? What if a soulmate is no more real than the Tooth Fairy? Sigh.
Let’s be realistic. Your plan to meet and marry your true love and raise a few kids has time constraints. He may have all the time in the world, but your biological clock is ticking. Periodically, we hear reports of women having babies in their late forties and early fifties with the help of science. But the reality is, most women can’t conceive and carry a baby after the age of forty-five, and some not after the age of forty. Given finite reproductive time parameters, if you’re thirty-eight and still searching for Mr. Perfect, you might want to lower your expectations.
This is where I’d like to introduce the concept of “Mr. Right Enough.” He may not be your “soulmate,” but he could be a great partner to join you on your life’s journey.
It’s like friends. You have a best friend, but that doesn’t mean you don’t thoroughly enjoy spending time with your other friends. They may not make you laugh quite as hard, but they’re a good time, too. Isn’t it better to go to a party with your second-best friend, than to stay home alone and watch reruns of Law and Order?
Bottom line—don’t be too picky or you may end up alone. While you’re holding out for Mr. Perfect, you might be turning your nose up at Mr. Right Enough. He could very well turn out to be Mr. Right After All.
31
Sitting across from Henry in a small French cafe, Callie sipped her glass of champagne. Le Champignons had recently opened and served authentic food typical of small bistros found in the French countryside. With a pressed tin ceiling and blue walls with dark wood molding, the place was bedecked with shiny brass accents and a traditional black and white checkerboard tile floor. Each table was covered by a sheet of thick white butcher paper. Callie was on her second glass of champagne and the bubbles tasted good tickling down the back of her throat.
She had been surprised when she received Henry’s text. They had only met briefly nearly six months earlier on that fateful night before Valentine’s Day. So preoccupied with the Mystery Man, she had paid little attention to Henry when they were introduced. After Callie finally abandoned her search for the MM, Jess called Henry and invited him to a few group gatherings but he never showed. Undaunted, Jess texted him and let him know Callie would be open to “talking to him.” Callie never heard from him. Then one day, with no warning, Callie received a text.
Hey, it’s Henry Harrington. Wondering if you’re free to grab dinner one night next week. Would be fun to see you.
A week later they were together sipping champagne and Callie, much to her surprise, was enjoying herself. Henry worked in a creative group for an advertising agency. He was handsome in an unshaven, “I don’t care what I look like even though I’ve spent a lot of time selecting these clothes” hipster sort of way, and wore glasses with dark frames. He was bright, which Callie appreciated. With an offbeat but charming sense of humor, he developed the creative concepts and copy for his agency’s clients. Because he was a creative person too, he appreciated Callie’s pursuit of a writing career.
“I do a lot of copywriting in my job, but it’s mainly for promoting an insurance company or a new dog food,” he said. “But what you do, writing books, that’s really cool.”
“My first novel was called The Bridge and Tunnel Crowd. I haven’t been able to get it published yet,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’ve tried to get an agent but so far all I’ve gotten is an inbox full of form rejection letters.”
Henry smiled sympathetically. “You could always self-publish. Lots of people do that,” he said. “You writing anything new?”
“I’ve got two other projects in the works, one is fiction, one non-fiction,” said Callie enthusiastically. “The fiction is a romantic comedy about two people who accidentally meet and then, through a series of unforeseen events, are separated before they find out each other’s names. They spend the rest of the novel trying to find each other.”
“And?”
“And what?” asked Callie.
“Do they?”
Callie paused and thought for a moment. “I don’t know yet.”
“It wouldn’t be much of a romantic comedy if they don’t find each other,” he said. “They have to find each other.”
“What if they keep trying, but it still doesn’t happen?” asked Callie.
“That would be sad.”
Callie nodded, her thoughts drifting.
“Tell me about your non-fiction project?” said Henry, observing her eyes glaze over.
“That one is almost finished,” Callie said, perking up. “It’s meant to be a humorous and helpful guide for young women in th
eir twenties and thirties. I call it The Fussy Virgin… a guide to happily ever after. It’s practical advice with a sense of self-deprecating humor. My goal is to help people navigate through the murky waters of love and romance today to ultimately find the right person.”
“That’s quite a provocative title.”
“When you grow up and have to become an adult, you make a lot of mistakes. The dating rulebook has changed since the last generation and I think a lot of us millennials feel isolated. I wanted to share what I’ve figured out with all my sisters out there,” said Callie. “They can learn from all of my mistakes and revelations and know they’re not alone. I’m right there with them, holding their hands as we all take the same journey to our grown-up life—together. I believe if you stay the course and never settle, you’ll find whatever you’re looking for.”
“Sounds like you have a serious game plan.”
“I’m twenty-nine years old. Do you know how many childbearing years I have left?”
“No,” said Henry, looking like a rat caught in a trap.
“Thirteen. A woman’s fertility drops off exponentially after the age of forty-two. I have exactly thirteen years or six hundred and seventy-six weeks to get pregnant and after that, it’s game over.”
“Thirteen years is a long time.”
“For a Labrador Retriever!”
Henry laughed and shook his head. “I prefer to let life unfold on its own,” he said. Artfully, he changed the subject, sharing funny stories about some of his co-workers. Within minutes, Callie’s mood brightened and they wound up having a very good time. She found Henry to be curious, fairly well read and by the middle of the evening decided he was a good guy. He thought she was intelligent and quirky and most importantly, she made him laugh. He also thought her dimples were adorable.
“Besides writing and torturing writing groups,” Henry said an hour into their conversation, “what else do you like to do in your free time?”
“I’m a bit of a political junkie and lately I’ve been doing a lot of volunteering at a children’s reading program,” said Callie. “I’m also interested in stopping climate change, saving the rainforests, not polluting the oceans thereby killing the sea animals and I’m a big advocate of getting rid of plastic straws.”
“You’re very busy.”
“How about you?” asked Callie. “What do you like to do in your free time?”
“I’m into sports. I’ll watch anything sports-related: football, soccer, baseball, basketball, cycling, tennis. You like sports?”
“I like to play them,” said Callie. “I’m not so good at watching things. I like to do things. How about the elections? Are you interested in the upcoming elections?”
“I’m not registered in any party. I hate the whole thing,” said Henry.
“But you vote, right?”
“Sometimes. If there’s something important on the ballot,” he said. “Then I’ll vote.”
Callie heaved a sigh of relief. Thank God, at least he has a few political opinions. “What about climate change or the toxic algae in Florida that’s killing all the fish?”
“I don’t know much about any of that stuff,” said Henry, looking a little bored. “A lot of it’s noise cooked up by the media to sell more ads. Every time you get your temper up over one political maneuver or outrage, ka-ching, another advertising dollar goes into the pockets of the news media. Remember, I’m in the advertising business. I know how it all works. It’s a giant population manipulation and, in the end, it’s the media who wins.”
Henry steered the conversation on to lighter topics and by the end of the night they were laughing like old friends. She decided he was charming and when he dropped her at her apartment, he asked the cab to wait while he walked her to the front door of her building.
“I’d say tonight was worth my six-month wait. I had a very nice time, Caledonia,” said Henry. “That’s a very fancy name.”
“I had a good time, too,” Callie said, smiling up at him.
“Would you want to be reckless, tempt fate and try it again next week?” he said with a wink.
Callie nodded as Henry leaned over and kissed her. After a moment, she stepped back and smiled at him, her dimples fully engaged.
“I’ll text you tomorrow,” said Henry as he walked down the steps towards his waiting cab. She watched his taxi pull away and thought that Henry Harrington had potential.
Caledonia Swan-Harrington. That sounds quite elegant, especially if I put the hyphen in. Is that too pretentious? Nah.
32
September 2017
During the weeks after their first date, Callie and Henry had spent a lot of time together. They saw each other almost every other day and in a short amount of time settled into a comfortable relationship routine. With her Fussy Virgin Guide manuscript now complete, she enlisted Henry’s help in putting together her book proposal to send to literary agents and publishers.
“I’m lucky to have a creative marketing expert like you to help me with my book pitch,” said Callie, sitting on the blue, green and white couch in her living room while making notes of Henry’s suggestions. She tucked a blue lumbar pillow behind the small of her aching back and moved her laptop into a more comfortable position and continued typing.
“I’m not just a pretty face, Caledonia,” Henry joked as he got up from the blue leather upholstered chair that Callie’s parents had given her as a house-warming gift when she moved to the city. He walked over to where she was working, leaned down and kissed the top of her head. She smiled but quickly turned her attention back to her screen as Henry flipped on the TV to watch a baseball game.
Things between them were comfortable and easy and somehow the fact that they had little in common didn’t seem to matter. Henry introduced her to his first love—sports and she accompanied him to a baseball game and pretended to like it. She wanted to enjoy it because it was so important to him. The truth was, sports bored her to death. With the exception of the Olympics, which she enjoyed mainly because of the geo-political implications and her Team America solidarity, the rest of the sports scene left her cold.
One weeknight, Henry bounded into Callie’s apartment bursting with some news. “You are not going to believe what I scored today,” he said proudly. “You’re going to die.”
“What?” said Callie, excited by his unbridled enthusiasm.
“I got tickets to…”
“Hamilton!” Callie screamed with a big smile. She had mentioned to him how much she had wanted to go but the tickets were so hard to get and super expensive.
“Better. We are going to the U.S. Open,” said Henry proudly, barely able to contain himself.
“A golf tournament?”
“Tennis, Callie. The U.S. Open tennis tournament.”
“Great.”
“You like tennis, right?”
“Yes. Maybe? I played tennis in high school.”
“It’ll be great. You’re going to love it, you’ll see. The U.S. Open is a total scene chock full of celebrities and politicos,” said Henry. “We’ll make a whole night of it. A bunch of people from my agency are going. Everyone on the creative team got tickets from one of our clients as a thank you. Our ad campaign killed. Anyway, you’ll get to meet all my colleagues.”
Wait, whaaaa? We’ve only been together for a few weeks. Meet all your colleagues. I don’t remember signing up for that class. “Who do the people in your office think I am?” asked Callie.
“My girlfriend,” said Henry, surprised by her question. “Aren’t you my girlfriend?”
“We never talked about that specifically,” Callie said, squirming, not sure where the conversation was headed.
“I assumed since we’ve been together almost every day for a month that you were my girlfriend,” said Henry in an alarmed tone. “Did I misread something?”
“We never discussed it,” said Callie. “We never talked about being exclusive.”
“I kind of thought we were. Do yo
u not want to be exclusive?”
“No, I do,” said Callie weakly.
“Then, what’s the problem?”
“I’m a little nervous about meeting all your work friends,” said Callie. “People can be so judgmental.”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
“You think I’m judgie?” asked Callie.
Henry pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows and gave her a look.
“Maybe I’m a little judgie,” she said, “but it’s only because I’m usually right. Forget what I said, I’d love to go to the tournament with you. Are we good?”
“I am, if you are.”
“Forget about me. I was being neurotic,” said Callie as she put her arms around him and gave him a hug. “Can you get an extra ticket so I could bring Jess along for moral support?”
Two days later, on a warm yet comfortable September evening, Callie, Jess, Henry and a small crowd of Henry’s colleagues from the agency boarded the #7 subway in midtown Manhattan bound for the U.S. Open in Flushing Meadows, Queens. The large group chatted, laughed and told jokes during the crowded ride out to the stadium. Callie’s relationship angst subsided when Henry’s business associates turned out to be friendly and warmly welcomed her.
When they arrived at their stop, the group walked the short distance from the elevated train station, down the stairs and into the crowded Billie Jean King National Tennis Center. The sports arena buzzed with anticipation. They climbed up and found their seats in the highest tier as Callie took in the full breadth of the famous outdoor stadium. The giant blue rectangular tennis court surrounded by a large green border was the main attraction. Not a single seat was empty, many filled by the New York elite. Henry had been right, with every turn of her head, Callie spotted another celebrity.
“Look,” said Callie, “there’s the editor from Vogue. I heard she’s a huge tennis fan. I’ll bet her outfit cost twenty thousand dollars, minimum.”
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