“You’re one of my best friends—”
“I don’t want to be your friend. Not anymore.” The elevator air turns chilly, and he stands before the door, ready to bolt when it opens. It’s amazing that no one else attempted to get on, otherwise our argument might have ended differently.
“Please, Justin.”
“Just…just leave me alone for a while.”
The doors open, and I realize I made a huge mistake. Justin is one of my lifelines, a good listener and so fun to hang out with. I can’t let him go like this, so angry.
“Can’t we talk more about this?”
I leap from the elevator as the door closes on me, ouch! He is heading for his car, keys in hand but no coat. Just like me this morning. He doesn’t want to go back to the office and get it. Afraid of Kevin’s knowing glances and comments. He looks at me with more scorn than I could have imagined. I feel like disappearing on the spot. I never knew I could elicit this much rage in someone. Is this what Pete did to me? Red blotches cover his freckly cheeks, and his lips are a thin white line.
“No. You broke my heart.”
“That’s melodramatic,” says Alicia, and she brings me a hot mug of chamomile tea.
“It’s not,” I say, tired and demolished. “It’s pretty accurate from what he told me.”
“He’s acting like a high school girl.” She’s trying to be supportive, do the good girlfriend thing and put down a bad boyfriend. I know she’s hiding her true opinion, because she wears her I-want-to-give-you-a-lecture expression.
“If there’s one person I need to hear the truth from, it’s you. Cut the bullshit and say what you want to say.” Her face scrunches and her nostrils flare. She’s fighting her word vomit. “Did you know Justin had snuggly feelings for me?”
“Of course, I did!” she yells then covers her mouth. I nod, telling her to go on. “We all knew. Lindsey picked up on it first, that time you introduced him to us at Fantastic Fern’s?”
“That was the first time you met him!”
“I know. Lindsey’s that good. That’s why she gets laid so often. She picks up the unconscious I-want-to-do-you vibes.” I slump back on the couch and kick my feet. Why didn’t they tell me?
“You could have let me in on it.”
“And ruin everything?” she laughs. “He seemed so perfect for you; we didn’t want to tip you off.”
“What does that mean?”
“You exclude every guy who shows attraction to you. You toss them out like last night’s dirty bath water.”
“That’s not fair.”
“But true. I’ve known you forever, and you’ve always been like that. Even Pete had to woo you for four years.”
“And look how that turned out,” I say, grumpy. It never feels good when your friends are right. I wish Alicia had her information wrong, but this is one of the reasons she and the girls concocted The Plan, to catch me off guard and force me to date strangers. I have the tendency to push men aside the moment they decide to ask me out. It’s a talent.
“Don’t be such a sour puss.”
“I’m not one of your kids, you can use grown-up words with me.”
“Don’t be such a bitch, then.”
“That’s a bit strong.”
“No, it’s accurate.”
“I meant the tea.” She looks down on me, hands on her hips, then she smiles. I push out my bottom lip and pout. “It’s too hot.”
“Drink it and shut up. Let Justin come around in his own time. It won’t do any good to chase after him. He doesn’t want your attention right now. Don’t go through Kevin either. Justin will see that as manipulation and never speak to you again. He’ll come back when he’s ready, and not a second before.”
“You sound like a self-help manual. ‘Don’t speak to one of your best friends, even though that’s the most logical thing to do. Communication is never effective.’”
“Don’t make fun of the relationship guru. In your case, Justin would push away any apology you threw at him and might quit his job or move away. Men can be such babies when they’re rejected.”
“I didn’t reject him.”
“Yeah, you did. He needs time to move on and get his feelings in order. Be courteous but don’t seek him out unless he tells you to. He might even tell Kevin when he’s ready, so keep that boy close.”
“I always do.”
“Not in a naughty way. That’s why you’re in trouble.”
“Does everyone want to crawl up my ass and lecture me?”
“Only your best friend.”
Kevin’s Top 10 Reasons Why You Should Date Justin
10. He has a really hot body.
9. He’s sensitive. The guy reads poetry for fuck’s sake.
8. He’s straight, so he’s got that going for him. And you. You like straight
guys, right?
7. He hates the people you hate. (Carly, Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Nora Roberts)
6. He hates the things that you hate. (Pecan pie, mustard, real mayonnaise, romance novels)
5. He brings you coffee for no reason and remembers stuff you like.
4. Look at that face! It’s like when I first read The Iliad! He’s basically Achilles.
3. He can’t use tanning booths, because he’s pale like you.
2. He doesn’t play video games, unlike me, but that might be a reason not to date him.
1. HE LIKES YOU! NOT MANY PEOPLE DO! Just kidding about the second part.
Oh, and here’s the info for your next date. Keeley and Lindsey are still afraid to talk to you, and Alicia asked nicely.
It’s the middle of January, so I’m concerned for my date. He’s wearing shorts. It’s a few degrees below zero. You might have heard of a little thing called frostbite. Down south it may be a scary myth, but in the Frozen North, it’s a reality. I’ve seen people missing toes and fingers from unfortunate ice fishing and hunting accidents. Okay, I’ve never seen them personally, but I saw the pictures. Who wants their limbs to turn black and fall off? This guy apparently.
We arrive at the bowling alley at the same time, which is odd, because the road conditions are hellish. I thought one of us would be late. His legs are the first things I notice: not just because he’s wearing shorts, because they’re shaved. He has dark hair all over his head and arms, so it’s not blond or hard to see. It’s gone. Is he a swimmer or something? My mother always told me it was rude to stare and also rude to bring up people’s shortcomings. Would you want someone to tell you your nose was huge, or your ass was nonexistent?
“Hi, Cassie! I’m Steve!” He holds out a hand and encompasses my fingers in a firm handshake. “I hope you like bowling!” He’s tall and muscular; the calf muscles ripple nicely when not blocked by hair. Does he not like wind resistance on his legs?
“Hi. I’m not the best bowler, but I hold my own. My dad was in a league.”
“Awesome! Me too. But I quit last year. Team politics.” I wonder what kind of falling out could be catastrophic to a bowling team. Did some chick Yoko Ono their best player? Did the anchor lose his edge? “I guess we should get our shoes!” He is excited about this date. Nearly every sentence ends in an exclamation point. And he smiles way too much. Oh God. I’m one of those people who hate others for being too happy.
“I hate bowling shoes. I should have brought my old ones.” Yes. I own bowling shoes. Leave me alone.
“I thought about bringing mine, and my ball too, but I walked here. Too much to carry in the snow.” He walked here? Did shaving his legs kill his brain cells? “And since I lost a bet to this guy at work, I have to wear shorts through January. It’s fricken cold out!” No shit, Sherlock. A lost bet explains the shorts, but he failed to mention the conspicuous absence of hair. I nod and move to the shoe rental counter.
We get oddly scented shoes and make our way to our lane. A rowdy group of teenage boys is to our right, and a tall, angular gentleman is to the left, no one else on his team. He moves like a spastic spider down the l
ane to throw his ball, but his follow through is perfect, and he gets a strike. Steve admires him, and the guys to the right hoot as one of them gets a gutter ball. They remind me of high school trips to the bowling alley. It was fun to get a bunch of people together and goof off at the local place, especially for moonlight bowling on the weekends. I can almost see the details of the backdrop in black light, neon colors shining.
“Ready?” Instead of silly nicknames, Steve wrote our actual names for the scorecard, which you have to figure out manually. Great. My math skills are not exemplary. I’m about as good at this kind of thing as I am taking advice about relationships. If I get a strike or a spare I’m screwed.
“I hope you can do the scorecard. I’m not the best at it.”
“Oh sure. The first league I was in used old scorecards. I like the automatic ones better, mainly so you can have a few beers and not worry that someone’s messing up the totals.”
“No, you wouldn’t want that to happen.”
“It’s a very serious sport.” About as serious as backgammon or checkers. I smile, trying not to laugh. I have to remember not to be judgmental on the first date. Dan turned out awesome, even though he was more orange than a traffic cone. It’s too bad Pete had to ruin things on New Year’s. I might not be going on stupid first dates anymore.
He wins the first game decisively, getting over two hundred. I barely make one hundred and vow to do better in the second match. I’m having fun, to be honest. I recall bowling being entertaining, but it’s even better playing with someone who’s really good. He doesn’t get angry if he misses a spare and is jubilant over my successes. The only problem is that he keeps ordering more beer. After our first pitcher, I switch to soda water. One of the first rules of the blind date is not to drink too much, because once those inhibitions are gone, so is your first impression. He’s not a mean drunk, but he becomes sloppier the second game. His score suffers as he gets halfway through the second pitcher, and I almost beat him. I wonder if his team fractured because of this problem. Who wants a guy that can bowl over two hundred until he gets some alcohol?
He grins brightly at the finished tenth frame and scrawls our final scores in the last spot on the sheet. He stares at his score and shrugs. “Oh well. I’ll do better next game.”
I pause. It’s near midnight, and I should really get home to feed Prospero. Listen up ladies: if you’re thinking more about your cat’s welfare then about your date, it’s time to leave. The sparks are not flying.
“I’m sorry, Steve, but I have to go. It’s getting late, and I have a big project to work on tomorrow for the office.”
“That’s too bad!” He frowns, trying to find a way to make me stay. “Do you really need to work on it tomorrow? Can’t it wait for Sunday?”
“Afraid not. I have plans on Sunday.” No, I don’t. I just need to leave. I’m not proud of lying, but I barely know Steve, and I don’t think I want to know him better. I check my watch to show my concern for the time. Steve nods sadly.
“All right. I hope you had fun! I sure did!”
“It was really fun. I just have to go.”
“See you again sometime?” Is he not leaving with me?
“You’re not leaving?”
“Nah. I think I’ll finish the set. Never leave a set unfinished!” I think he’s doing the same figuring in his head: if the game is more important than your date, cut your losses and finish the game. Guys and girls aren’t that different after all.
February
Lovelorn Logan and Rule Number Nine: Just because you do not have a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day does not make you a leper.
Mom calls a summit meeting three days before the most dreaded day of the year. Single people, you know what day that is, and all assholes in relationships, suck it. She wants me to meet Gideon, her boy-toy. I haven’t spoken much with her since Thanksgiving, and whenever I talk to Joel, he has no idea what Mom’s opinions are. Brothers are useless. Why couldn’t I have a sister?
I’m sure she has something up her sleeve. Maybe Gideon has a good-looking son or a nephew desperate for a Doomsday date. Or maybe she just wants me to meet her beau. That’s a weird word: beau. I have a difficult time calling someone a boyfriend or girlfriend when either party is in their fifties. It sounds wrong.
I agree to meet with her for Sunday brunch in St. Paul, the Chatterbox Café. They have enormous mimosas and cinnamon French toast you would kill for.
It’s not too cold today; the wind subsided around eight this morning, right after my run. My run felt like trudging up a mountain, and I was on flat ground. I’m wrapped in a scarf, mittens, a winter cap, and my puffy Columbia jacket. They aren’t very figure flattering but staying alive and warm is my chief concern.
I arrive at the restaurant first and get us a booth by the window. The server is interesting: a longish brown beard, very thick, covers his round face, and his vitality glows from within. There are those few people that can light up any room with the force of their personality, and this guy is one of them. His voice is loud and sonorous, and his bearing is laid back but confident. He inquires about the people I’m waiting for, and from my answer (“my mother and her new boyfriend”) he understands that I need a giant cocktail.
“One mimosa coming up!”
Unusually, my mom is running behind. She hates lateness, something she drummed into Joel and me long ago. I feel better arriving at a destination at least fifteen minutes early. Tardiness gives me a rash.
Where the hell are they?
Twenty minutes late, my mom struts past the window, a tall man on her arm. She laughs merrily at something he says and tilts her head back, teeth showing. My mother obscures the man, so I don’t get a good look at him. He must be why they’re running behind schedule.
As they approach the table, I glare at Mom and tap my watch.
“Sorry we’re late,” she gushes and pulls me from the booth by my arm with enough force to launch me into the kitchen. She stands me before Gideon and beams. “This is Gideon Foster. Gideon, my daughter Cassandra.”
He is incredibly handsome. My mother always said she would never get involved with someone as ugly as Dad ever again. Dad’s not ugly! He’s just plain! Gideon’s clothing suggests wealth: a silk red scarf, full-length Burberry trench, sleek black shoes, and strong, masculine cologne. It might be Armani. He reminds me of an old school movie star, Errol Flynn or Kirk Douglas, but far more good-looking. Where did Mom find this guy?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, voice crisp and honeyed. “Your mother speaks of you constantly.” I’ll bet she does. Gideon makes me want to break out my best Katherine Hepburn impression, but I better not. Mom wouldn’t appreciate my humor.
“I’ve heard a lot about you too, but never how much you look like George Clooney.” Mom glowers at me but Gideon laughs heartily.
“You’re too kind. Your mother is too modest.” He looks at her and his eyes twinkle, and Mom looks equally happy. Damn them. I was planning on avoiding all happy couples this month. “It’s my fault we’re late. I wanted to stop by this fascinating antique shop and your mother acquiesced.” Wow. He just said “acquiesced.” I cannot help but be impressed, then I feel suspicious. Who is this guy and what is he trying to steal from my mother?
“Find anything interesting?”
“Not this time, but I enjoy random shops of that nature. You never know what you’ll find.” He nuzzles Mom, and I fight the vomit reflex. I sit down and sip my mimosa. The server appears from nowhere and ushers Mom and Gideon into the booth and gets their drink order.
“Are we all doing the brunch buffet?” he asks.
“I believe so,” I say and look at Mom and her man, who are not paying the least attention. I turn back to the server and nod, trying not to scream. How is it that my mom and dad have found love for a second time and I’ve yet to find an actual good relationship. It doesn’t seem fair. Maybe I should ask out our server and have done with the whole thing.
A
fter a few trips to the awesome buffet, I’m stuffed with enough French toast to lessen my annoyance at their canoodling. I watch them more intently. He is attentive to Mom’s every need. He carries her plate and lets her sit first in the booth. He reminds her about her napkin before it falls on the ground and wipes the corner of her mouth when whipped cream rests there. Ugh. They’re romantic and mushy and into every kind of icky public affection. I never felt comfortable with these displays. Maybe that’s why Pete called me cold and unfeeling. I remember one time when we went to brunch with Pete’s parents. I had gained weight since our engagement, a lot of weight. Pete knew how stressed I was at work and with planning the wedding. I told him every night how things were falling apart, and that I needed him to help me out a little. His idea of helping me out was to ask me if I really wanted to eat pancakes at brunch, since I was so nervous about fitting into my wedding dress. He said it loud enough for his parents to hear, and they had both blushed at my expense and tried not to laugh. Mortified, I ordered the fruit plate instead and miserably picked at overripe cantaloupe while they enjoyed their breakfast. I can still remember the café smells: burning oil, overdone eggs, and too-sweet maple syrup.
“How is work, Cassie?” asks my mom, pulling me back from the memory.
“Fine. I’ve got a new project.”
“Your mother mentioned that you work in publishing,” says Gideon, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “What do you do exactly?”
“I’m an editor, so I get manuscripts and go through them thoroughly. I look for grammatical and language issues and decide whether the book is in the right order or if the story needs more work.”
“But aren’t you a writer? I thought maybe you wrote for the company or something?” He looks confused, and Mom picks at her food, unsure what to say.
“I was never a writer,” I admit. “But you can’t make rent on that, so I joined Weston’s.” When I was younger, I thought that an editing job would let me work on my own stuff. Numerous unfinished short stories litter my desktop. I squirreled away one hundred pages of a novel before succumbing to the overwhelming workload Kelly put on me as an intern. The only writing I’m working on now is this stupid journal and whatever I’m assigned to edit.
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