On Second Thought

by C. Spencer

  “I was only trying to help,” she says before taking her first bite.

  “Only trying to help,” I say, “by playing matchmaker? My friend’s newly out of a relationship as she lifts her bra is not the locker room talk I was expecting.”

  “She seemed your type.”

  I shrug. My type.

  “And she was so into you,” she says.

  But there’s something about this vibe. That truck backing up, its persistent beep. Brake lights. And cold, like that blast we had last spring, almost coat weather, when rosebushes are fighting to hold their bloom. The ground dry, yet covered in leaves that are wet and stuck to this, that. As I picture Madisen peeling out of her day with that fall to your knees sort of effect she had on me. I should’ve known she’d avoid this place.

  “So elusive,” Avery says.

  “Who, me?” I say, leaning across the table.

  “Why do I feel as if you’re keeping something from me,” she says.

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “What’s making you smile like that?” she says.

  Was I smiling?

  “What were you thinking about?” she says.

  “Nothing.”

  “Right. You never share the good stuff.”

  “If you must know, I was thinking,” I say, “how so few people know what they want.”

  “Yourself included?”

  “Oh, I know what I want.”

  “Then go after it,” she says.

  “And I was considering all the bad advice you’ve given.”

  “You’re too prideful,” she says.

  “Maybe you could not lecture me,” I say. “There’s more to it.”

  “Such as?” she says.

  “Why would I want anyone I had to chase?”

  “You could never win me over,” she says. “Because that’s always what gets me.”

  “Right, we all know how you operate. This was, plain and simple, bad timing,” I say. “So let’s drop it, all right?” And why is it every time I’m beginning to feel like a semifunctional human being, like after that workout, something reels me back in to feeling like this?

  “Let’s stop in there,” she says, preoccupied.

  “Stop in where?” I say.

  “That new shop across the way.”

  Admittedly, her on and on does have a Get Madisen off my mind quality to it.

  So, later, she’s tucking under an arm and we’re bracing the breeze of passing traffic, making our way in stride through a crosswalk, zigzagging behind parked cars. “I cannot believe you’re considering a lifelong mortgage with some girl you randomly met at Panera.”

  “I know, a sleazy sandwich shop,” Avery says. “And why can’t you use her name?”

  “Erin. But what else do you really know?”

  “More than you,” she says giggling.

  “Like?” I say.

  “Like her favorite color is khaki.”

  “That’s not a color,” I say.

  “And I make her nervous. She tells me that all the time.”

  “Such an old line,” I say.

  “So the other night, there was some woman by herself in the back of a car waiting. And Erin made up this long story about her. Was she lonely? Exhausted after a long day of who knows what? Who was she waiting for, and why the back seat? It wasn’t Uber.”

  “How deep,” I say.

  “She’s creative like that,” Avery says, gazing into the storefront at a mannequin, its black wig. Avery’s reflection layered in glass over faded pink and black and cursive script.

  “So where does this girl stand on, say, politics?”

  “Why does it matter?” she says.

  “Because it does,” I say. “And religion?”

  “Never brought it up.”

  “What if she’s using you?” I say.

  “You’re so jealous.”

  “Yeah, I’m not,” I add, evading some guy before he walks into me. “I just know your type.”

  “No. You’re freaking out because this is the first girl to put up with me for…how long has it been?” she says. “By the way, what’s my type?”

  “Let’s just say they don’t like me.”

  And she somehow finds a way to get closer. “Sure they do,” I hear, before, “I think I want that. Let’s go inside.”

  “Must we?” I say. And while this is far from the type of place I’d ever shop, she drags me in, enthused, browsing amid its natural light. “Why do you like this stuff?” I say, perusing.

  “I don’t know.”

  Not to mention, it feels unnaturally quiet in here. Maybe it’s all the commotion out there. And once the door smacks shut with its string of bells, we’re left with little more than that scent of lime and coriander.

  “What do you think about this?” she says, lifting a padded hanger.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call this Spanx territory.”

  “But is it me?”

  “It’s something,” I say. “It’s really nice.”

  “Nice as in something you’d like?”

  “Why would you care what I like?”

  “So you don’t like it?” she says.

  “That’s not at all what I said. I just don’t usually do this thing. I mean, why wear anything if this is what you had in mind?”

  “Because,” she says, gesturing up a thigh. “It lifts just so.”

  “I see. So you plan on leaving this little number on the entire time?”

  “That’s what I had in mind,” she says. But not hearing the support she’d wanted, she puts it back on the rack. “We had an argument.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She thought I was mocking her. I was teasing. I was only messing around.”

  “Domestic quarrels,” I say.

  “You couldn’t relate.”

  “Not at the moment,” I say, “no.”

  “What about this? Black,” I hear, “or teacup blue?”

  “Why not try both?” I say. “Let’s get a room.”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she says.

  There’s a clerk behind the counter busying herself with everything unimportant. But there’s nobody else here. Still, when I draw the curtain, as it makes a quiet clamor, I cringe, ducking in, fumbling, tying ribbons stitched at either side, which is apparently all they have as far as a door. As far as privacy, that is. A curtain. And then I turn, and she’s tugging jeans down and along an ankle.

  Me, scrolling my phone—wavering. Wondering if Madisen would even care if I sent some random text like this from out of the blue.

  “And I don’t even know what to make of it,” Avery’s saying, unclasping her bra. I shake my head, then go back to my phone, scrolling.

  The next time I glance up, she’s considering the fit and fall of fabric now reflected in three angles of the same mirror. “Does this make my chest look big?”

  “Isn’t that the point?” I say.

  “But is that bad?”

  “That’s never bad,” I say.

  “Then adjust this for me?” she says, lifting hair. “I need your advice.”

  “What kind of advice,” I say. Then I get up, set my phone down.

  “Do you think I’m making a mistake?”

  “I don’t think you’re making a mistake,” I say, fitting arms around hips as she rests against me.

  “But I go too fast,” she says. “You always tell me that.”

  “It’s part of your charm,” I say.

  “For a time,” she says adjusting this and tugging that. “For a time it is and then…I don’t know. I’m frightened all of a sudden,” she says, leaning back against my chest, my palm slipping up the front of her. Because I won’t lie, I feel as if I’m being skipped over, left behind.

  “Fear means you’re doing something right,” I say. Though I sometimes wonder if I might be advising myself as opposed to her. “What if she’s it?”

  “That frightens me even more,” she says.


  “Hey,” I say, “can we not do this?”

  “What are we doing?” she says.

  “We’re not doing anything. And you need to get out of this,” I say, lifting her hem thinking I can’t lose you. I can’t lose this. As I hold and hang and she braces for balance.

  “I love you,” she says. “And I just don’t want anything to come between us. That’s all.”

  “There wasn’t a stitch between us a second ago,” I say.

  “You’ve lost that chance,” she says. “Perhaps.”

  “Well, I think you should get Spanx.”

  And this gaze. “Why is that?”

  “This is far, far too easy to lift,” I say. “And I’m thinking she needs to work for it.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Replica Jazz Club, 3.4 oz.

  Madisen

  How many weeks has it been? And still I hadn’t touched it. I couldn’t. I was content to leave it right where it was on my bureau because Rae might realize one day that she left it—and call or ask for it back or stop by. Where I might say the right thing and she might too and maybe…? Who knows?

  What was I thinking?

  I wasn’t thinking, that’s what. I was spraying it on. I was over her, more like hoping to remember her, and that scent only carried me back to everything I couldn’t resist about her.

  And let me just say one thing which is both on and off topic. And that is, if you happen upon a chance to purchase one of those exorbitant kitchen appliances after your plain version from Bed Bath & Beyond bids adieu, offer yourself that one simple upgrade. Because I’ve now learned that having the right tool for the job, like bartending, is nothing short of essential.

  Which leads me to that perfect pair of jeans, those tempting you from the rack well after you’ve wandered off—despite their made-for-you fit—because they’re still out of your price range regardless of the fact that they’ve been marked down from, say, $169 to a penny under $70. I mean, how many times in life do you find such perfect suitability? Really. I believe something akin to nirvana occurs when a girl buttons up a well-fitted pair of jeans. It sort of helps her forget, don’t you think?

  And tonight those jeans and this finely blended margarita are my passport to getting through life, my getting over her, and her, and getting over myself at the same time.

  “I’m still marveling at the fact that anyone thought to put you in charge of marketing,” Andi’s saying as she flattens the rim of her glass against a plate of kosher salt. “And by the way, how’d you accomplish the rest?”

  “Let’s just say, I finagled it,” I say.

  “You finagled it,” she says. “Why don’t you just pass the kid off to me at five? I can make dinner.”

  “Which would defeat the whole purpose, don’t you think? You have no idea how hard Aline was to convince on this.”

  “And please don’t tell me you fell for her noble intentions line in stopping by,” Andi says.

  “I thought we might be friends,” I say.

  “Why would you even want to be?” she says.

  “I’m not sure. It just feels as if everything’s so final, and why? Why does it need to be? And why can’t we,” I say, “when everyone else does?”

  “I don’t. Unless of course it literally meant nothing to me, in which case it’s just a nicer way to say good-bye, you know, less abrupt. Come to think of it, you might be the only real friend I have.”

  “As it should be,” I say.

  “Yeah, and you never even pay attention,” she says. “But whatever. How’s the kid?”

  “She’s fast becoming a geek like me,” I say, “straight As.”

  “You’re not a geek.”

  “I am,” I say. “Could you hand me that?”

  Next, she’s reaching across the counter, and as she does, I notice her grip, her hands—they’re not as small as mine. Then her hair, that tuck, and not just the color but every shade and how it’s lighter here and not there. Those things. So maybe I haven’t been paying attention to her. Maybe, too, it’s not just her but with everything else, as well.

  “Did I tell you Aline had her cleaning the entire house?” I say. “After school. It’s like I’ve landed a new maid service.”

  “You really can be so naive about certain things,” she says, glaring while slicing lime.

  “She’s not a bad person,” I say.

  “She’s bad for you.”

  “She blames me,” I say.

  “Let her,” she says. “And for the record, when I said you needed to communicate, I meant more along the lines of a business arrangement.” I pour, and I nearly overflow her glass to the point that she needs to lean in to take a sip before lifting it from the counter—licking that taste of salt off her lips. “So this is like, what, six hundred calories, something like that.”

  “Since when do you care?” I say. “You burn at least a trillion out on the field.”

  “Well, I finally have abs,” she says. And, right, who hasn’t noticed, even as she drowns in that threadbare T-shirt.

  “Well, I made this healthy for you,” I say.

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “It’s all fruit. Come on, why am I even engaging you? Let’s not care about anything at all for this one incredibly well-deserved evening of debauchery. It’s just me and you and Jose.”

  “To your shot of Cuervo.”

  “Double,” I say. “And to my new jeans.”

  “Yeah,” she says, “to those jeans.”

  “And your beautiful obsession,” I say.

  “She’s not my obsession,” Andi says.

  “I think she is.”

  “I’m not that interested.”

  “Lies,” I say. “Would you look at that smile? Not interested means you haven’t climbed a balcony to serenade her yet.”

  “You act as if I do this all the time.”

  “You don’t,” I say. “So tell me about this girl.”

  “I don’t have enough energy to analyze what this is or isn’t,” she says. “It’s not that sort of thing. We have a good time.”

  “A good time could be defined in so many ways,” I say. “And for the record, I’m not analyzing you.”

  “Remember when we did this every weekend?”

  “God, through Jordan’s terrible twos,” I say.

  “And through your many arguments,” she says.

  “That was Aline,” I say.

  “I seem to recall you started a few.”

  “And it was that silent type of arguing she did.”

  “The worst kind,” she says.

  “But then we made up,” I say as she makes her way across the room, catches my gaze, lifts a brow. “What are you afraid of?”

  “With this girl?” she says. “Everything. She’s out of my league.”

  “Is she straight?” I say.

  “I don’t think so. You can tell, you know? She’s just young.”

  “How young?” I say.

  “Too young,” Andi says.

  “You’re worrying me.”

  “No, just twelve years,” she says.

  “All right, thus explaining your preoccupation with abs all of a sudden.”

  “Here you go again, analyzing me,” she says.

  “I’m just observant, that’s all. And go ahead and text her already.”

  “That can wait.”

  “Why?” I say.

  “Because,” she says, “I’m with you.”

  “When has that ever stopped you?” I say.

  “Who wants to seem eager?”

  “Eager?” I say. “It’s just courteous.”

  “You’ve spent too many years in the comforts of marriage to think you can dish out dating advice. And at the same time, you don’t take my advice when I try to drag you out for a few drinks as opposed to traipsing along with Aline down memory lane,” she says.

  “Why?” I say. “So I could bump into Rae? How not eager of me.”

  “And by the way, I happ
en to know exactly what I’m doing,” she says.

  “So what movie did you see?”

  “It’s an A24 film. You wouldn’t like it.”

  “I don’t mind those,” I say. But then her phone’s vibrating again. “I just need to be in the mood, that’s all.”

  Andi, reading her screen, lifting her glass as she does. “You’re not bad for an amateur,” she says.

  “Bartender, you mean?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “It’s a rather expensive blender.”

  “No, it’s you,” she says lifting her gaze, slipping her phone across the counter. “So how long do you plan on keeping this up?”

  “Keeping what up?”

  “Keeping up this charade,” she says.

  “What charade would that be?”

  “Listen, I can tell when you’re happy and when it’s all just a farce. And this you is far from sincere.”

  “I don’t know, Andi. Maybe you just shouldn’t bring it up,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “What’d I do now?”

  “Rae and pool.”

  “So, what, would you rather I never mentioned her again?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” Sigh. “Long story.”

  “It sounds like a convoluted mess, if you ask me. Maybe you need to call her out on this,” she says while pulling at her sleeves. And only now do I notice that pinkie ring. But I won’t ask.

  “So she asked about me?” I say.

  “Would you like me to give her a message the next time I’m out?”

  “With your new girl?” I say.

  “If you two would like to go back and forth through me, I’m perfectly fine to play messenger,” she says. “And why are we standing here when you have a table?”

  “No clue,” I say.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. I just thought about something, that’s all.”

  “What about?”

  “The table. It’s nothing.”

  “So here’s our rule for tonight: you have to tell me exactly what you’re thinking,” she says, “the moment I ask. And I’m asking.”

  “You are kidding me,” I say.

  “I’m ruining abs for you tonight,” she says.