Men of the Year

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Men of the Year Page 5

by Colleen McMillan


  “Such as?” I think about my teenage years for a moment, and all I see are curfew violations, heated arguments with my mother, and running away to stay with Dad after they divorced.

  “I call my mom every day and have lunch with my dad once a month, whereas Joel lives in California and never talks to them. It’s a long, hard road back to ‘favorite child.’”

  “I wouldn’t know. Only child.” Great, so he’s used to getting his own way and will throw tantrums when enterprises fail. Only children never have to work for their parents’ attention. One of my cousins is an only child, and her parents couldn’t care less that she’s a selfish brat who lives in Indiana, asking for money every month. “But don’t think less of me. It’s just my dad and me, no suburban dreamscape for this guy.” He points a thumb at himself.

  Ah, sweet relief, but children coming from single-parent households have their own issues. I thought my life was rough. I’m feeling more normal and at ease knowing Tony is most likely just as damaged. Confidence rising. Becoming more attuned to conversation. Dating isn’t so hard after all! Intense dread lifting to be replaced by inner poise and newfound trust in girlfriends’ ability to find me an eligible guy. I might not have to date twelve men after all! What if Tony turns out to be perfect?

  After two hours discussing our favorite authors (mine are Shakespeare and Stephen King, his are William Faulkner and somebody called Robert B. Parker) and the best running haunts, we say goodnight and agree to meet again for round two. He did not hesitate to ask for the check either, so there was no awkward “are you going to pay, am I going to pay?” moment.

  When I get home, I slide through the front door and perform a sort of slinky freestyle dance where I gracefully avoid tripping on the cat, sweep into the kitchen, pour his food, and pirouette onto the couch. The apprehensive feeling slides from my body like old skin. Whoever knew dating could be fun after such a long hiatus?

  I like dating quite a lot.

  I call Alicia the day after date number one to apologize. When she answers I hear crying in the background, and she yells for her husband to take care of Oliver, their youngest.

  “Do I have to do everything? Cassie’s calling! Hi sweetie how’s it going? I thought you’d banished me to No-Friend Land for sure.”

  “It’s hard enough for me to admit defeat. Don’t get smug.”

  “It’s not being smug if I’m right, which I always am.”

  “Yeah yeah, you were right, and I should listen to your sage advice.” She giggles and covers the phone speaker to block the sound. Alicia hates her laugh.

  “So, it went well? Tell me everything!”

  “Oh no. You get to wait for the journal just like Keeley and Lindsey.”

  “And Kevin. I told him he could follow the drama too.”

  “You’re such a whore.”

  “And you’re a shameless hussy. Kevin’s a good critic. He’ll tell you if the writing’s crap.”

  We talk a little longer and decide to make plans for a girls-only supper summit at her place in mid-June. I want to see her kids and visit with Brian too, but that can wait until their annual Fourth of July party. I need to get as much Alicia-solo time as I can. Her family is and should be the most important thing in her life, but it feels lonely in the third-wheel corner. A girl needs her best friend.

  “Are you going to call Keel and Linds and kowtow to them too?”

  “Hell no,” I say. “They can sweat a bit longer.”

  “You should call Keeley at least. She’s afraid you disowned her. Who else is willing to listen to her boyfriend woe-is-me stories?”

  “Point taken. Have a good night.”

  “You too, Cass. Isotoldyouso!” she says quickly before hanging up.

  Email: [email protected] to [email protected]

  Date Two Information:

  Anthony Schwartz, now you’ve seen him and know we won’t set you up with someone gross. I don’t know why you didn’t trust us! Having so much fun! He enjoys reading mysteries and grilling out. Big Brewers fan. That’s a yikes but nobody’s perfect!

  Your destination: Early dinner at WA Frost on Selby at 5:30 and a movie at 7:30. He picked the movie, so it will be a surprise! Have fun and behave yourself, woman!

  Loves, Keeley Bear.

  Getting ready for the second date is no easier than the first. Though less nervous, I now have to top the outfit I wore when we met. Is it possible that I gained five pounds last night? These capris are tight. I must be bloated from that Indian food and herbal tea I had for dinner. The first sandals I choose are too juvenile. My jewelry is a mess on the dresser. Do I smell something burning? It’s just the curling iron heating up.

  I’m excited for the second date and know that it will go well, and Tony and I will live happily ever after and when we’re forty we’ll joke about meeting online. Love at first instant message. Except I didn’t meet him online. What kind of loser needs her friends to score dates for her? Plan suddenly seeming more ludicrous by the second. Go back to closet to change outfit one more time.

  WA Frost is kind of fancy, and I’m not sure if the girls suggested it to Tony or if he chose it. Argh! Must tell girls that I need more info on these matters. What if he makes a reference to something they said online? It would be a scandal. Likely to make me a national laughingstock.

  I don’t need sanitary napkins under my armpits tonight, and I leave the apartment early. I should also let the girls know that an email in the morning does not leave enough time to mentally prepare for a date that evening.

  This time I beat Tony to the restaurant and get us a table. The server is polite and inquires whether I’m waiting for another person. I order two waters with lemon and decide to wait to order a drink, since he was kind enough to wait for me at Bonfire. At my seat near the window I spy Tony marching toward the restaurant, cell phone glued to his ear and a disturbing expression on his face. His lips form an ugly snarl and he must be berating the person on the other line. His body language suggests anger and frustration, so it’s most likely a work issue. I know how he feels. The book Kelly assigned me is less than ideal, but I’ll tell you about that later.

  Before he enters the restaurant, Tony slams his phone shut and jams it in his pocket. I hope it wasn’t too serious. Perhaps something dreadful happened, and he’ll cancel the date. At least he’s doing it in person, not letting me sit here alone waiting. He shakes his arms out and walks in, ready to separate his phone business from date business.

  “Hi again!” he says as I rise to greet him. We hug awkwardly but firmly and sit. “It’s nice to see you so soon. I’ve been thinking about you for a week!”

  “I was surprised too, when I had a good time,” I say then realize this might be construed as insulting. “Not that I thought I wouldn’t! It’s just that I don’t date much.” I blush at my lame response and imagine him running for the door.

  “I get where you’re coming from. How can you really get to know a person online?”

  “Right! I was just saying that to my friend the other night.”

  “Because you can’t see or hear each other talking—”

  “No body language or vocal anomalies to decode.”

  “Now that you mention it, online dating might actually be easier than trying to talk to someone in person.” God he’s so easy to talk to! We fall into gleeful comradery over the elusiveness of finding a date, but a stern buzz comes from his pocket. Annoyed, he rolls his eyes and says, “Do you mind if I take this? It’s my work phone. We’re wooing a new client, and my team lead needs hand-holding every ten minutes.”

  “Sure. I know how work goes.” He puts his napkin on the table and leaves, trotting outside before flipping the phone open. He must not be aware that I can watch him out the window, because he paces back and forth and gestures wildly with his free arm. I feel a rush of pride, because he’s yelling at someone for interrupting our date. It means that much. Curse that colleague into the ground, Tony!

  “Sorr
y, sorry,” he says when he comes back and sits down. “They can’t get along without me sometimes. It’s like working at a daycare.”

  “Sounds like my job. When I have to get the interns moving, I feel like the only cowboy in the corral wrangling stubborn cattle.”

  The pocket whirs again, and he takes out the phone. But it’s not ringing. He reaches for the other pocket and pulls out a second cell phone. I kid you not girls, this guy has TWO cell phones, and he carries them both around in his suit pockets. Who needs TWO cell phones? Even the President doesn’t have TWO cell phones. Well, he might, but does Tony really need them? Feeling put out, I ask, “Do you need to take this call too?” Not seeing his obvious faux pas, Tony lays the phones side by side and says, “No I’m turning it off.” Since he says “it” and not “them” I assume he’ll leave one on. News to single men: Turn off the damn cell phone before going on a date! Enough with the passive aggressive bullshit!

  The phone he leaves on rings twice before the appetizer is served, once during the main course, and once more when the server brings out Tony’s strawberry cheesecake. By now I’m fuming. Listening to the phone buzz and watching it dance across the table and hit Tony’s plate as he ignores it is infuriating. I want to reach over, grab the phone, and chuck it out the window. What could possibly be this important? And why won’t he just answer it? If he needs to keep it on so badly, why doesn’t he fucking answer it? I’m tempted to pick it up and greet the caller with my most acidic voice but restrain my urges.

  By the dessert course, even the server is affronted by Tony’s behavior. I glance up at him, my eyes pleading for the check, and he nods. Servers can pick out a bad date from miles away. They always know when to drop the tab and get the two people far away before an argument erupts.

  I let Tony pay again. I was going to offer to pay, at least to chip in, but his behavior cements my indignation. He has no problem whipping out a credit card. When we leave, he says, “The movie should be good! It just came out last weekend and the reviews are positive.” I don’t think I can bear a two-hour movie plus commercials and previews if he’s going to leave the phone on, but I agreed to give this a try, so I knuckle under.

  “Sounds good.”

  His damn pocket jingles four times during the movie, a dismal gross-out comedy starring people I’ve never heard of. Whoever thought fart jokes were tantamount to comedic genius was huffing glue. Before the credits role I stalk from the theater, purse swinging on my arm like a pendulum. He runs after me and asks what’s wrong.

  “You left your phone on through the whole movie.” He’s affronted by my answer.

  “So? It might have been important.”

  “But you didn’t even look at it after it rang. How could you have any idea if it was important or not?”

  “I can’t turn my work phone off. The one for normal calls yes, but work comes first.”

  Is he serious? Even I know that work waits in the shadows during a social event, especially on a date. I let him answer it once, didn’t I? Shame on me to believe he told them not to call again. I knew this online thing would never work! Why on earth did I agree to it?

  “This isn’t going to work. Thank you for dinner and the movie, but I need to go. Goodbye.” I’m firm, which some singles aren’t prepared to be. You have to be exact with your wording or the other person might get the wrong idea. I don’t care if it makes me a bitch. I walk away, back to the parking lot, heels clicking on the pavement, and hoping that my posture says: “stay the hell away from me, muggers and bad dates alike.”

  I think of calling Alicia and lecturing her about poor choices in men, but it’s after ten, and her kids are asleep. I’ll have to wait until the summit at her house to criticize.

  We lounge around Alicia’s pool in summer shifts and jeweled sandals, sipping margaritas and listening to Kenny Chesney sing about warm, sandy beaches. We should be in Mexico on those warm, sandy beaches instead of languishing under umbrellas in the summer humidity. Sweat runs down my cleavage, and I consider pouring a margarita down my top.

  Keeley looks fantastic as always: blond hair cascading down her shoulders and a hot-pink bikini that edges on scandalous. Her matching sarong lays unused on the ground next to her. She’s the only one brave enough to sit in the sun. Alicia chose a more tasteful ensemble. The typical suburban mom, she has on a safari-printed one piece and long-sleeved gauzy tunic. Her oversized sunglasses bring old-fashioned screen goddesses to mind. Lindsey wears her sporty two-piece with an oversized men’s denim shirt but makes it more feminine with a rope belt nipping in the waist. I’m not telling what I’m wearing.

  I haven’t told any of them how the second date went, but they know I’m pissed. I haven’t said one word since we got to Alicia’s. I printed out three copies of my journal for them to peruse and wait for their opinions. Keeley finishes last and sets down the pages, face gaunt and embarrassed. “He did what?”

  “You read it,” my first words of the afternoon. I sip my margarita and savor the tequila. Lindsey makes them strong, like a kick in the stomach.

  “He seriously has two phones? Why do you need two phones?” she asks.

  “That’s what I said. In fact, I think I wrote it somewhere on page six.”

  “What an asshole,” says Lindsey.

  “He seemed so nice on the website. His profile didn’t mention anything about being a workaholic,” says Keeley, outraged that anyone would be less than transparent when writing down his or her personal pros and cons. I hope they didn’t put “emotional cripple with horrible dating past” in my profile.

  “Or an asshole,” says Lindsey who drains her glass. “You’ll need another.” She goes into the house to fetch the blender.

  “Damn, and he was our first pick,” says Alicia, shaking her head. She reaches down into her straw beach-tote and pulls out the purple notebook and a matching pen. Opening it to page one, she slashes a line through Tony’s name then tucks the notebook under her thigh. “Oh well, July looks pretty good too.” Like she’s commenting on the weather forecast instead of my love life.

  “You need to consider dropping the whole idea,” I say and gaze off over the pool, inspecting her flowerbeds. “If this is any indication of what I’ll be going through, I want out.”

  “Oh no you can’t!” says Keeley. “It’s only the first month. And your journal’s really good. You should keep going.” Her enthusiasm makes me tired. Thank God Lindsey’s back with more alcohol. She pours blended heaven to the glass’s rim and grins down at me.

  “I picked the next guy, so you have to do it,” says Lindsey. “Besides, that raise won’t earn itself.”

  “That’s another thing, this job-based blackmail. I could write a strong-worded letter about that and get Kelly fired.” I’m pouting and being a big baby in general, but after Tony Two-Phone I’m entitled to a little venom-spewing. “How’d you even get her to agree?”

  Alicia smiles and sets her drink down on the little, green metal table beside her. “I went to your office and met with her. What a fabulous woman. She really likes you, can’t get enough of your drive and work ethic. I believe her exact words were ‘she reminds me of a young me.’”

  “She did not say that.”

  “Something like it.” She’s being vague, a poor attempt at civility. Kelly told her all about my romance novel issues.

  “She called me heartless.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t. You’re just being stubborn.”

  “We know you too well, Cass,” says Keeley. “Please don’t quit.”

  “You’ve made a career of quitting,” pipes in Lindsey who dips her big toe in the pool and swirls the water around. “You stopped writing the second you got one rejection letter.”

  “That’s not fair. It was a prestigious magazine.”

  “So, you sent your work to a place you knew would turn it down then gave up?” asks Alicia, eyes indiscernible through dark lenses.

  “It’s time to try on success, see if it goes wi
th any of your shoes,” says Lindsey.

  “Since you mixed sage advice with fashion I’ll have to oblige,” I snarl.

  “It’s rule twelve anyway,” says Keeley. “Twelve months, twelve men, twelve rules.”

  Confused, I stare at her, shielding my eyes from the sun’s glare. Rules? They never mentioned any rules besides agreeing to the plan and writing the journal.

  “There are rules now?”

  “There always have been, you never asked,” says Alicia and she reaches for the notebook again. She turns to the first page and recites, “’Rule One: You have to go on at least two dates per month with said month’s guy.’”

  “Unless the first one sucks, right?”

  “Maybe,” teases Alicia.

  “And what’s ‘rule twelve’?”

  “’Once Cassandra McTiernan agrees to the venture, it is a binding contract that cannot be broken on grounds that she will then be tormented mercilessly by her family, friends, and co-workers.’”

  “Wonderful. Why isn’t that rule one?”

  “We saved it for last because it’s the most important,” says Keeley. “If you want to avoid horrible shame and relentless mocking, you’ll trust us and stick with this.”

  I sigh and say, “What choice do I have? Who’s the Man of July?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” says Alicia, and Lindsey rubs her hands together, her eyes twinkling in the sunlight.

  I hope her pale ass burns.

  July

  Tristan “Former Norman” and Rule Number Two: Don’t laugh at your date’s profession, it’s rude.

  July in Minnesota means three things: barbeques, humidity, and tornado warnings. Barbeques are fun, but if the humidity kicks in it becomes a game of who can stay outside next to the hot grill the longest before running inside for air conditioning. I’ve never actually seen a tornado, but I’ve seen a sky go from blue to green in minutes. Disquieting. The city tests the tornado warning sirens on the first Wednesday of each month, and it went off like clockwork the day I found out my new guy’s identity.

 

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