When they got divorced, neither could afford the mortgage, so they had to sell it. When they caught a buyer, Mom went to her garden and tore up the flowers, saying the new owner might want to plant something different. The realtor told her the young couple was allergic to pollen, but she didn’t want to admit that to us.
“Maybe I’ll get you a new house,” I say. The silence between us is immense, and I feel like a swimmer attempting the English Channel. “I might get promoted soon.”
“That’s lovely, honey, but what you really should be doing is writing. I know it’s what you want. It’s what you always talked about in college.”
“It’s an impossible dream. I need to be more practical.”
“There’s time to be practical when you’re my age. You’re too young to give up on a dream.”
“And what was your great dream that you gave up?”
“I lived mine. All I ever wanted was to be a mother. I married your father because I was getting older and thought my time might pass me by.”
“You regret marrying him?”
“Not once. I know I rag on him to you and your brother, but he gave me you two, and he’s a nice man, just not for me.” So that’s it. My mother didn’t marry for love. She only said yes to my dad because her womb needed a resident. Is that what will happen to me? I want to find someone to love, someone to be with until we’re old. Did she think she would stay with Dad through anything?
“Why did you get divorced? If you were so determined to have a family? It seems a bit redundant to me.”
“We made each other miserable.” I look up and she’s gazing out the living room window. Steam wafts from her cup, tea not drunk. She’s been a mystery to me my entire life, and I realize that she didn’t want it that way. I chose Dad over her every time. He wanted to do fun things like go to sports games and travel an hour to see the world’s largest ball of twine. To a kid, those side trips meant everything. That a parent wanted to do something crazy was awesome. Mom preferred to stay home and cook or bake, and I wasn’t interested in domestic activities. I wish I had been, because I would make my dinners edible.
“I know,” I say. Joel and I knew that our parents weren’t happy together. I don’t know if I ever saw them happy together. They had moments with my brother and me, but never as a couple. “Was Dad not romantic enough?”
“He is the epitome of wasted effort. He bought me gifts I had no use for, never asked what I wanted.” She finally pulls back to me from her window gazing. “He’s kind and generous but he didn’t take the time to find out my interests. I love to have adventures and do things. I used to love going out. I was quite the drinker.”
“Yeah right.”
“No really. My roommate in college placed bets with the biggest men in a bar and challenged them to chugging contests, which I always won.”
“You had an agent?” I laugh. Picturing my mom drunk is never fun but imagining her defeating hulking college boys is hilarious.
“We had a lot of fun. I met your father through my roommate. He was her boyfriend’s high school classmate. They thought we’d hit it off. He adored me, but I didn’t feel much. Like I said, a nice guy, just not my type.” But she married him. “Life takes us in interesting directions. Not usually the ones you plan to take.” That’s for sure. “I want you to know that whatever you do with your life, I’m proud of you. And please don’t hate Gideon. He makes me very happy.”
“If it makes you feel better, I hate Dad’s girlfriend way more than Gideon.”
“That makes me ecstatic.”
Rejuvenated after my talk with Mom, I’m excited for my second date with Logan. He seemed down to earth and funny on our first outing, so my hopes are set back to “high.” I wish I could win beer-swigging contests like my mom then I might have an entertaining story to share with Logan. I get home, plop on the couch and pet Prospero’s ears. He is the only man that truly understands me. That’s a frightening thought. I grab a yellow legal pad from the coffee table and rip off the half-filled page of notes on Spade a Spade and write out a few anecdote ideas. I could tell Logan about my experiences in theater, but I doubt he’d be interested in my small acting talent. Maybe my run as editor of the school paper would intrigue him.
I visited Europe in junior year of college. There was an incident involving a giant spider, my girly scream, and a cute Australian guy. I almost forgot cardinal rule number one of dating: never mention the exes, no matter how insignificant. Those are intimate tales meant for serious settings. A drunken fling with a Parisian mud expert might not be as enthralling as you think.
Giving up for the moment, I grab the Pia Brown manuscript and give it another try.
From Spade a Spade by Pia Brown
She knew Barry was not right for her, and still she walked slowly down the white silk runner, lily bouquet in hand, lace veil covering her eyes. At the beginning of “Here Comes the Bride” she hesitated, but her father did not notice. He pulled her along like a seeing-eye dog intent on crossing the street. Maya could use a cane. Her high heels threatened to topple her, but her father’s grip kept her in place. The music flooded in one ear and stuck in her brain, thrumming. Did anyone else notice how annoying the song was? She might as well have picked “Why Do Birds Suddenly Appear.”
Her flowers smelled rancid.
When her father dropped her arm, Maya turned to him, a look of pity on her face, which he could not see. She whispered, “I’m sorry,” but her father merely smiled and patted her hand. She faced the church alter and focused on Barry. He looked great, but he always did. His blond hair slicked back reminded Maya of their first date. Beach sounds and scents wafted through the chapel, and Maya imagined seagulls in the parking lot and tide pools forming around the limo waiting for her and her new husband.
Her one and only true love.
But there was that little problem of him not being her true love. Maya heard stories about brides who backed out on their wedding days, and nothing too terrible happened to them, except karma coming back and whacking them in the face or pushing them in front of a moving van. She wanted the pianist to stop playing. Jesus Christ, did she know any other songs?
She marched toward Barry as if hugging a cactus, and he frowned slightly. Her posture failed, and she slunk up the steps to stand beside him. Once there, he clasped her hand and nodded encouragement. Don’t worry, his smile said, we’re almost done.
In more ways than one, thought Maya
The priest, whom her mother had insisted on presiding over the service, emerged from the background and stood before them, open book in hand. Maya stared at him; eyes wide. Now was her chance. It was time to go. Just go, she thought, but she did not move. What would people say? Barry would be devastated. And his proposal had been perfect: rose petals, champagne, the beach where they met, sunset, a giant diamond ring. What was wrong? They had been together for two years. She never felt like running before today.
Barry was perfect, a canny businessman who wanted children and a Standard Poodle. What other man would get a huge fluffy dog for her?
Maya’s chest lifted and stuck, and she forgot to breathe. Her breath escaped in a rasp, and she coughed loudly at the altar. Barry looked at her, concerned. She waved him off and laughed, patting her chest. The priest raised a disapproving eyebrow, and she nodded for him to continue. She flashed a thumbs-up for the guests and titters flew around the chapel. At least the crowd believed her ruse. But Barry would know something was wrong when he raised her veil to say the vows. She could not look at him and say the lies she thought were truths three months ago.
Maya hated those girls in movies who married the wrong man because they believed they couldn’t do better, but she felt a kinship with them now. Shit. Her life had become a romantic comedy. Soon Ryan Reynolds would appear and caper down the aisle toward her, flourishing a ring of his own.
I laugh and set down the manuscript. This writer might have something going for her. An anti-romantic comedy person writing
a romantic comedy? Maybe Kelly had given her a gem after all.
I pick the venue for the second date, an indoor miniature golf course. I’m not adept at sports, but mini golf is a world all its own. Let’s get down to it: I’m awesome. No one wields a mini golf club like me. I wear khakis and a polo shirt, to make fun of traditional golf, and am impressed that Logan chose the same ensemble.
“We’re matchy-matchy golfers!” I say, and he laughs. “You aren’t a serious golfer, are you?”
“No way. I suck at real golf,” he says, and twirls his putter. “But this game is super easy.”
We walk to the first hole, the easiest of the course and I ask how his week has been. He putts it in for a hole in one and shrugs. “Regular week. Work and the usual stuff. Watched Top Chef on DVR when I got home.”
“Now I’ll expect a home-cooked meal.”
“I’m a watcher, not a doer. If I tried to make fois gras, I would completely fail.”
“Who wants goose liver anyway?”
He lets me lead the way to the second hole, which consists of a silly plaster parrot that talks in your back swing. Jerk. Logan moves to cover the bird’s mouth, but I shoo him away. The manager might get mad if we disfigure his course. I make my first shot through the Astroturf maze and miss the hole by inches.
“Looked good to me,” he says and lines up his shot. His goes the same direction, and the ball rests near mine. “I think we’re pretty even. So, what did you do this week?”
“Not much. I felt like getting tipsy on the Dreaded Day but decided against it.”
“The Dreaded Day? Valentine’s Day?” he asks.
“But of course. What else do single people call it?”
“Satan’s Dance, Yearly Hell Day…how about Trail of Tears Day?”
“That’s already a recognized holiday.” His demeanor changes after this exchange; I think I touched a nerve. His shoulders slump, and his hair appears less magnificent. Maybe he had a bad V-Day too. I hope I didn’t make him feel uncomfortable. Crap. Great job, Cassie. No wonder my friends had to set me up with men. I certifiably suck at dating. It makes me wonder if there’s a vaccine for bad dating skills.
“Everything okay?” I ask, hoping to get the standard response.
“Not really.” Damn. When someone who’s not a close friend asks if everything’s okay, you’re supposed to say, “Oh yeah, everything’s kosher!” Otherwise things get awkward. Do you really want to know that your dentist has an STD or that your neighbor who has never spoken to you from apartment 2B is having boyfriend issues?
“I’m sorry,” I say lamely. What am I supposed to say? I’m not Oprah.
“It’s fine,” he says, swinging his putter around in a circle in one hand, “I had a shitty Valentine’s Day.”
“Didn’t most of us?” I ask, trying to bring the mood back around to fun.
“My ex called and wanted to move back in.” Oh no. He did not just bring up the ex. “My ex-roommate that is. He was hell to live with, never cleaned, had the most obnoxious friends, smoked pot all day long. Not an overachiever.” Whew! Not ex-girlfriend.
“Ah, that would be a difficult decision to make.”
“That’s not the half of it. After I hung up with him, my ex-girlfriend called.” Dammit. All hope is lost. The “do not enter” door of exes has been breached. Mayday! Mayday! He’s going down! “We haven’t spoken in half a year and she calls on Valentine’s Day. Who does that?” he asks, looking at the Eiffel Tower shaped obstacle looming ahead.
“My ex did the same—”
“It’s not like the bitch tore my heart out and ran it down the garbage disposal then poked it with a stick just to make sure it was dead. Oh wait, yes she did!” His voice rises and the five teenagers behind us snicker and point their clubs our way. I’m the poor sap stuck with the loud crazy person at the indoor mini-golf course. “It’s not like she took out a twelve gauge and shot me down like a baby harp seal! That’s exactly what she fucking did!” With his last exclamation he hurls his putter like an Olympic javelin, and it sails through the air and impales the Eiffel Tower. French enthusiasts will not be happy. I thought we’d at least get to the twelfth hole before the manager asked us to leave. A pudgy man who resembles Winston Churchill races toward us, and the cackling teenagers roll around on the Astroturf behind him.
“What in the hell is going on?” he yells and skids to a stop next to me while Logan rages through the course like a man-shaped Godzilla, knocking down fake pine trees and terrorizing the mother and toddler who are in front of us. The poor kid clings to his mother’s leg and wails, while she tries to pry him off and flails her club at the approaching Logan.
“I think my date is over,” I mumble.
“You’re goddamn right it is! Get him out of here!” Watching the overweight manager huff and puff drives me to action. I can’t be held responsible for Logan’s tirade. Christ we’re only on a second date!
“He’s all yours,” I say before spinning and marching into the clubhouse to get my coat and running outside as fast as I can.
“He opened the ex-box?” asks Lindsey. “There’s nothing but trouble in there.”
“Cardinal sin,” adds Keeley, and Alicia and Lindsey nod. “Can’t that stuff be saved for deathbed confessions?”
We gather at the Caribou Coffee near Alicia’s house. She called an emergency summit, mainly because she wants to tell the other girls about her pregnancy, but she also plans to discuss strategy for my next date. It seems I’m not doing such a great job enticing men to a third date. Maybe they need to screen for insanity before sending me on these outings.
“At first, I was relieved, because he talked about an ex-roommate before the other ex. I thought, Halleluiah! Here’s a guy who knows his dating etiquette. Even a novice like me knows the simple rules.”
“Don’ get drunk,” says Keeley sweetly.
“Don’t show your true self,” laughs Lindsey.
“And never talk about your exes,” finishes Alicia as she downs her latte.
“Thirsty?” asks Lindsey, eyebrow raised.
“Why can’t you show your true self?” asks Keeley. “I’m always honest with people.”
“You can be,” answers Lindsey. “You’re gorgeous. Men don’t care if you’re a bit nuts so long as they can imagine your legs wrapped around their heads.”
“Lindsey!” scolds Alicia. “Little ears can hear you.” She rubs her stomach and the girls stare at her, uncomprehending. “I’m pregnant.”
The table erupts with comment lava: Lindsey wants to know how long she’s known about her newest bundle of medical bills, Keeley asks what Brian thinks, and I try to quiet them down. “Shut up! I don’t want to get kicked out of two places in one week!”
“Brian and I are happy,” says Alicia. “We know it will take a lot of patience to deal with another baby, but we have the other kids to help out—”
“You’re making your kids get jobs? Isn’t the youngest three?” asks Lindsey.
“They can help baby-sit and watch each other. Brian agreed to take fewer jobs so I don’t go crazy by myself. The realtors offered me a part-time position if I want back in, but I might pass.”
“You can come work with me!” says Keeley.
“No thanks, sweetie. I don’t think I’d be a very good pharmaceutical girl.”
“Why haven’t you married a doctor yet?” asks Lindsey, staring at Keeley, who blushes.
“Aren’t we still on Alicia?” I ask.
“Nope,” she says. “I’ve dropped my bomb, now it’s time to address more important concerns. Your dates have been atrocious for the most part, and the nice ones are chased away or made into friends.”
“Friendification is easier than boyfriendication,” snaps Lindsey. “Look at the idiots I’ve been seeing.”
“You never talk about them,” says Keeley, suspicious, and Lindsey peruses her nail beds.
“Ladies,” says Alicia and pounds her coffee cup on the table. “This is importan
t! We only have a few months left! We’re running out of men!”
“Famous last words of the Amazonians,” I mutter, and Alicia doesn’t look amused. Thunderclouds form on her brow and lightening emanates from her eyes.
“Never fear, Lindsey is here!” she shouts and throws down two sheets of paper. I pick them up and see a profile from some website. I don’t recognize it. Lindsey probably copied and pasted it, so I couldn’t sniff out the source. Crafty like a cobbler, she is.
“Mateo,” I say and keep reading, “enjoys hockey, Indian food, and rock climbing. He has a dog and a cat named Ink and Claw and lives in Minneapolis, the nice part.”
“Did he really write that?” asks Keeley.
I go on, “He has traveled to Africa and Asia but prefers Minnesota because of the seasonal changes.”
“Sounds perfect,” admits Alicia.
“I know,” says Lindsey who crosses her arms across her chest. “I saved him for last.”
“How come you never showed us this guy?” asks Keeley, peering over my shoulder. “What does he look like?”
“None of your nevermind. He’s for me to see and Cassie to discover.”
“I’ll bet he’s ugly,” laughs Alicia.
“I promise he’s not. Look at his name!”
“It’s just Spanish for Matthew,” says Alicia, and Keeley giggles. “Just because you say it in a sexy way doesn’t make him more attractive.”
“Sure, it does,” I say. “I would never go to an Anthony Banderas movie. He sounds nice, Lindsey.”
“You’re way too okay about this,” she says and narrows her eyes, trying to find the crack in my armor and worm out how I really feel. “Last year you practically skinned us alive and sold the skins.”
Men of the Year Page 23