Mrs. Fletcher

by Tom Perrotta

  She didn’t think Brendan would be home anytime soon, but she went upstairs and latched the bedroom door behind her, just in case. Then she took off her jeans, got into bed, and started searching, clicking on any thumbnail that caught her eye.

  In the Milfateria, at least, no one knew it was Valentine’s Day. The people in the porn videos just did what they did, all day, every day, with boundless energy and unflagging enthusiasm, regardless of the calendar. They fucked on Christmas; they fucked on Earth Day and the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving; their fucking was not affected in the least by wars or terrorist attacks or natural disasters. They never got sick, never got tired, never got old. Some of them were probably dead, Eve realized, not that she’d have any way of knowing which ones. But here they were on her screen, going at it with abandon, having the time of their lives.

  Good for you, she thought. Keep on doing what you’re doing.

  She was happy for them, but she wasn’t especially aroused, which was not an uncommon occurrence in recent weeks. She just didn’t know what she wanted anymore. The lesbian MILF stuff made her nervous, and she hadn’t been able to find a new category to take its place. Some items on the menu seemed a little too familiar, while others were waaaay too specific. Usually she ended up sampling the Homemade MILFs, ordinary women having fairly straightforward sex, mostly with their husbands, if you could believe the brief descriptions that accompanied the videos.

  The problem was, Eve had become a lot more interested in the women than she was in the sex. She kept trying to figure out who they were, and how they’d ended up on her laptop. Had they volunteered, or had their partners pressured them? Did it occur to them that their kids might someday watch the video? Their parents? Their neighbors and co-workers? Were they in denial, or did they simply not care? Or maybe they were proud, like they were finally getting a chance to show the world their best selves.

  She must have clicked on twenty different videos, looking for something that would get her out of her head and into her body, but nothing worked. It was sad to fail at masturbation—again, no one to blame but herself—but at least it was better than failing with a partner. You didn’t have to fake anything, or apologize, or offer comfort, or pretend it was no big deal. You could just close your computer, shake your head, and call it a night.

  * * *

  I tried to find Chris before I left the party, but someone told me he’d gone upstairs with Devlin. I figured he was all set, so I headed to the mudroom to grab my coat. That was where Becca caught up with me.

  “I’m sorry, Brendan.” She was standing in the doorway, looking like her usual put-together self—all her buttons buttoned, every hair in place—which was not how she’d looked in the den. “I should have told you.”

  The coats were in a big pile, and half of them were black ski jackets, just like mine.

  “Whatever,” I said, tossing aside a girl’s red parka. “I guess you weren’t as busy as you expected.”

  I had tried to start things back up with her in early December, a few weeks after I came home from BSU, but she claimed she was swamped with schoolwork and college applications, and didn’t have time for a relationship.

  “I’ve been meaning to text you,” she said.

  It was hard to look at her just then, not only because I’d kinda forgotten how hot she was, but also because she was wearing a paper heart that said the exact same thing as Jason’s: Somebody Loves Me!

  “How do you guys even know each other?” I asked.

  “Instagram,” she said. “He’s a really nice guy.”

  I found my coat. I knew it was mine because my mom had written my initials on the inside label before I left for college.

  “I know,” I said. “I talked to him before.”

  I tried to slip past her on my way out, but she grabbed my arm.

  “Brendan?” she asked. “Are you really joining the Marines?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  She stared at me for a few seconds, like she was trying to picture me in my dress blues.

  “You know what?” she said. “I think that would be really good for you.”

  *

  I didn’t feel like going home, so I drove around for a while. When that got boring, I went to the high school and sat on the top row of the bleachers, looking down on the football field. Wade and Troy and I had done that a few times over the summer. It was kind of a nostalgia thing, a way to remember our glory days.

  It wasn’t very cold for February, I guess because of climate change, though maybe it was just a weather pattern, the Gulf Stream or whatever. I didn’t know as much about that stuff as I should have. I’d read a chapter for my Comp class that made it sound like the end of the world, but it didn’t feel like that in real life. It just felt like a pretty nice night.

  Now that the shock had worn off, I realized that I wasn’t that upset about Becca. I wanted to be mad at her for lying to me back in December, but I knew she was just trying to be nice, letting me down easy with that bullshit about being too busy for a relationship. And I couldn’t blame her for hooking up with Jason, though I did wish she’d found someone a little more ordinary, who didn’t make me feel like such a loser by comparison.

  The only girl I was really upset about was Amber. I’d sent her a bunch of texts in December and January, just checking in, trying to start a dialogue, but she threatened to block me if I kept bothering her. I hadn’t tried to contact her since then, so I figured maybe she’d calmed down a little. I thought about telling her I was joining the Marines—that would at least get her attention—but there was no way I was actually going to enlist. I had zero interest in shaving my head, and even less in going to Afghanistan.

  I had a hard time thinking of what to say. I’d already apologized to her a bunch of times, and it hadn’t gotten me anywhere. I couldn’t think of anything funny or charming or even interesting, so I just wished her a Happy Valentine’s Day and left it at that. She didn’t reply, but my phone said she’d looked at the message, which I figured was better than nothing.

  * * *

  Eve was fast asleep when her phone dinged, shocking her back into consciousness. She sat up and threw off the covers, her groggy brain sorting through disaster scenarios as she tapped in her security code.

  The text came from a number she didn’t recognize. It was three words long, a sad little joke from the universe.

  Happy Valentine’s Day!

  She took a moment to breathe, and get her heart rate under control.

  Who is this?

  There was a brief pause, and then a pleasant bloop!

  Its me Julian

  The glow from the screen was painfully bright. Eve’s fingers felt fat and clumsy as she typed.

  How did you get this number?

  Class list . . . last semester

  Was that possible? Eve couldn’t remember putting her cell number on a class list. But maybe she had. In any case, another text had already arrived.

  Am I bothering you?

  She wasn’t sure how to answer that. It was sweet of him to remember her on Valentine’s Day. But not in the middle of the night. That wasn’t okay. Except it wasn’t the middle of the night, according to her bedside clock, just a few minutes after eleven. In any case, Julian had already moved on to the next question:

  R u in bed?

  And the next:

  R u naked?

  Eve tugged on the blankets, covering her bare legs. She wasn’t naked, but she was pretty close. Just underwear and a T-shirt, not that it was any of his business.

  Julian . . . please don’t do this.

  There was a longish pause.

  Dont you miss me?

  This was an easier question. Of course, she missed him, just like she missed all her new friends from the fall—Amanda, Margo, Dumell, the whole short-lived gang. And she owed him an apology, too, for everything that happened on that night in November, and for ignoring the emails he’d sent her in the days that followed. But this wa
sn’t the time or place for either of those conversations.

  Have you been drinking? she asked.

  Im kinda wasted

  Where are you?

  His reply arrived in multiple parts, a rapidly accumulating stack of bubbles.

  Vermont

  Visiting my friend at UVM

  This girl was hitting on me at a party

  and I kept thinking

  Id rather be with u

  Eve laughed, because it was so crazy for him to be thinking of her under those circumstances. Except it wasn’t completely crazy.

  Not crazy at all, come to think of it.

  This girl, Eve wrote, because she suddenly needed to know. Was she pretty?

  I guess

  What did she look like?

  Julian took another moment to gather his thoughts.

  u r hotter . . .

  Waaay fucking hotter

  That’s sweet, she told him, adding a smile emoji. I’m flattered.

  Two more messages arrived just as she’d sent hers off.

  I jack off all the time

  thinking of u

  Eve grimaced. A murky sound escaped from her throat.

  Julian . . . This isn’t a good idea.

  Im so fucking hard right now

  She closed her eyes and tried not to think about that.

  I could send u a pic, he added.

  Good night, Julian. I’m turning off my phone now.

  He didn’t protest, didn’t even try to change her mind.

  night eve

  She didn’t really turn off her phone, but he didn’t text her again, which was too bad in a way, because she really did miss him, and thought he would’ve liked to know—not that she ever would have told him—that she was touching herself and thinking about his body. The orgasm that had eluded her before was suddenly within easy reach—right there at her fingertips—and a lot more intense than any she’d had in recent memory.

  Thank you, she would have liked to tell him. Thank you for that.

  Dirty Martini

  Eve knew it was time to start dating again—it was one of her top three New Year’s resolutions—but it was hard to get motivated, to convince herself that she’d have any more success this time around than she’d had in the past.

  Feeling the need for moral support, she invited her closest friends—Peggy, Jane, and Liza—for a pep talk/brainstorming session at the Haddington Brasserie and Lounge. It had been months since they’d had a girls’ night out—everyone had been so busy in the fall—and they all jumped at the opportunity to escape their houses on a weeknight in late winter, to drink a few glasses of wine, and put their collective romantic wisdom to work on behalf of such a good cause.

  As excited as they were to strategize about the revival of Eve’s love life, they began where they always did, with a quick update on their kids, which was how they’d all become friends in the first place: young mothers in the schoolyard, on the sidelines at soccer games, at school plays and award ceremonies and graduations, a whole era of their lives—it had felt so permanent while it was happening—suddenly behind them. Just a chapter, and not the story itself.

  Jane was missing her daughters, the smart, sweet-natured twins, both of whom were thriving in college. Liza’s son, Grant, had just embarked on a semester at sea, and the pictures looked amazing. Peggy was thrilled to report that Wade had survived the fall term, buckling down after a couple of disastrous midterms, and earning Bs and Cs on all his finals, which was better than anyone had expected.

  “That’s great,” said Eve. “You must be so proud of him.”

  Peggy nodded reluctantly, apologizing for her pride. Jane and Liza regarded Eve with identical sympathetic expressions.

  “Brendan’s fine,” she said, deflecting their pity. “He just had a hard time. He was partying too much and . . . I don’t know. Something didn’t click. He still has some growing up to do.”

  “He’ll get it together,” Liza said.

  “On the bright side,” Jane added, “at least he’s back home. That must be nice.”

  “I guess. But I was just getting used to having my own life again. I don’t want to lose that. I just want to get out and have some fun, you know?”

  Eve’s friends were full of encouragement, confident that she would find love on the internet, or at least meet some appealing prospects. You just had to go into it with a positive attitude.

  “My sister’s friend, Denise, met a great guy on Match.com,” Jane said. “They just got married. The husband’s a little older, a retired dermatologist. They travel all the time. Couldn’t be happier.”

  “When you say a little older,” Eve inquired, “are we talking late fifties, early sixties?”

  “More like mid-seventies,” Jane replied. “But he’s in good shape.”

  “Stop right there,” Eve said. “I don’t want to date a guy in his mid-seventies. I don’t care how active he is.”

  “The point is, Denise hired a dating coach, and that was why things worked out so well. The coach helped her write her profile, recommended a professional photographer to take her pictures, and advised her on how to respond to the men who reached out. She held Denise’s hand every step of the way.” Jane looked at Eve. “Just something to consider.”

  “Out of curiosity,” Eve said. “Do you know what that would cost?”

  “A lot,” Jane admitted. “But Denise said it was the best investment she ever made.”

  Peggy patted Eve’s wrist. “You don’t need a coach. You’ve got us.”

  “I could definitely use some help with my profile,” Eve said. “I always sound so boring. I mean, what am I supposed to say?”

  “Just be honest.” Jane counted on her fingers. “You’re a good mom, a great friend, really good at your job . . .”

  “See?” Eve slumped in her chair. “You’re making my point. I’m falling asleep just thinking about me.”

  “Don’t stress about the profile,” said Liza, who’d been divorced longer than Eve, and had tried every internet dating site in the known universe, to no avail. “Trust me. The only thing that matters is your picture. You need to find a good photographer, and wear something tight and low-cut. That’s what I would do, if I had a figure like yours.”

  “She’s right,” agreed Peggy. “Go to a salon and get a blow-out. Maybe hire a stylist to do your makeup. You only get one chance to make that first impression.”

  *

  Broadly speaking, Eve was happy with her hair. It was thick but manageable, and unlike some other parts of her body, it had weathered the transition into middle age without losing too much of its youthful bounce and luster. She had to color it, of course, but that was her only serious intervention. In her mid-thirties, she’d briefly experimented with a sassy, athletic bob, but it didn’t work, probably because she wasn’t a sassy, athletic person. She’d quickly returned to her tried-and-true collegiate hairstyle—long and straight, parted in the middle, a folk singer at the coffeehouse—unless she was at work, in which case she opted for the professional discipline of a bun or a scraped-back ponytail or a tortoise-claw clip.

  It was a safe and familiar look, and she’d begun to wonder if that might be a problem. Because she understood on some level that Liza was right, that you needed to make a bold impression if you were going to succeed in the cutthroat world of online dating, especially once you’d crossed the Rubicon of forty. And Eve had a growing suspicion that the Joan Baez/social worker hairdo she’d been sporting for most of her adult life wasn’t going to do the trick.

  “All right,” she announced, settling into the salon chair. “Let’s try something new for a change.”

  Her haircutter—he went by Christophe, though his given name was Gary—was pleased. “What would you like?”

  “You’re the expert. You tell me.”

  He studied her in the mirror, nodding with quiet confidence, like he already had a plan.

  “Nothing crazy,” she warned him.

  He b
egan by changing her hair color—it was naturally dark, mahogany bordering on black—to a luminous shade of golden brown that really brought out the hazel in her eyes. Then he shifted her part from the middle to the side and began to snip away, first crudely, to adjust the length, and then with more deliberation, framing her face in a series of artful layers that looked deceptively simple and natural, highlighting the graceful oval of her face and the elegant curve of her jawline—she’d had no idea that her jawline was elegant—while also concealing some of the less fetching regions of her neck. When he’d completed the blow-dry, Eve stared at herself in amazement.

  “Oh my God,” she said, as Christophe undid the velcro fastener on her smock. “You’re a genius.”

  He waved off the compliment.

  “This was you all along,” he told her. “You just needed to come out of your shell.”

  *

  All that afternoon, Eve kept returning to the mirror, waiting for the usual post-haircut remorse to set in, but instead of the sinking feeling she knew so well—What was I thinking? Why do I even bother?—all she experienced was a renewed sense of pleasant surprise.

  Just to make sure she wasn’t crazy, she took a selfie and posted it on Facebook, along with the matter-of-fact caption New Do. The response was instantaneous and overwhelmingly positive, twenty plus likes in the first ten minutes, and lots of supportive comments from her female friends.

  It was gratifying, but only for a little while. Her mood darkened as evening set in, another Saturday night with nothing going on. What was the point of getting a fabulous new haircut if no one was going to see it except Brendan, who didn’t even notice until she hung a sign around her neck?

  “I got my hair done this morning,” she said. “What do you think?”

  He assessed her for a second or two, then gave a curt nod of approval.

  “Nice,” he said. “Did what’s-his-name do it? The French dude?”

  “Christophe.”

  “He’s gay, right?”

  “I think so. Does it matter?”

  “Not in a bad way,” he said. “It’s just, the guy has a gay name and a gay job. It would be kind of confusing if he was straight. This way’s better for everyone.”