by Carmen, Roya
“Okay, see you then,” he says and disappears into the men’s change room.
19
I’m sitting patiently in the waiting area when Joel joins me; freshly showered and looking fabulous in dark jeans and a plain white tee. My gaze is drawn to his feet — he’s wearing fabulous shoes; casual yet dressy, shiny patent loafers. I’m struggling to make out the words printed on them. When I finally look up at him, he’s smiling.
“Fabulous shoes,” I say.
He grins widely. “Thanks… I have a big collection.”
A man with a shoe collection — that’s something you don’t see often.
He cocks his head to the door. “Ready?”
I nod and when he gallantly opens the door for me, I smile. He waves goodbye to Kendra and we both set out.
The sidewalk is very quiet. “How many pairs of shoes do you have?” I ask.
He laughs. “Too many… no clue.”
I find myself widening my step to match his. “I have forty-six pairs of heels,” I tell him, “most of them pointy toed. They are all sitting neatly in my walk-in closet, organized by hue, every color of the rainbow.”
He smiles playfully, amused. “Wow. And you know the exact number too.”
“Weirdo, right?” I joke. “I have a thing for numbers and order. I’m an accountant.”
“That’s cool. We all have our quirks. I like old fifties rockabilly music, Elvis Presley and the like… I don’t normally go around telling people that.”
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me,” I tease.
“I love that whole era… the clothes, the music.”
I glance down at his loafers. “Actually, your shoes are a little rockabilly.”
“That’s probably why I bought them.”
“My friend, Gretchen is into that. She’s always wearing the cutest skirts and tops, and she often wears her hair up retro-style.”
“Cool.”
Before I know it, we’ve reached our destination, a quaint little smoothie shop. It’s filled with a group of teens, just out of school, I assume.
We both study the colorful menu on the wall. “So, what’ll be?” he asks.
“What do you recommend?”
“I highly recommend the banana-strawberry.”
“Then that’s what I’ll have. I trust your judgement.”
He smiles. “My treat.”
“Oh, no. You don’t need to… I have money.” Seriously, could I be more awkward?
He laughs. “Consider it my thank-you for letting me recruit you. My sister’s always looking for new members.”
“No worries. I really enjoyed it.”
His face lights up. “I’m happy to hear it. So you’ll be coming again?” he asks, his eyes curious.
“I might even buy a package,” I tell him.
We’re up next and he orders two smoothies; banana-strawberry for me and mango for him. He chats with the young girl at the counter while she whips up our smoothies — they seem to know each other well.
Finally, we settle down at a small table in the corner, and my heart beats a little briskly. Sitting right across from him, in this intimate little corner of the shop, feels oddly like a first date. And the fact that he may have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen is not helping the situation either.
I know I’m obsessing again. I know I’m being silly. I’m a thirty-six year old married mother with a ridiculous school girl crush. At least I realize the absurdity of the situation, and that’s the first step.
“So, Mischa, tell me about yourself,” he says just before he takes his first sip.
Casual conversation seems so easy for him. I can tell that he’s very extroverted. But for me, it’s painful. Where to start? He’s put me on the spot.
“Well, I’m an accountant, like I told you. I work from home.” I enjoy a small sip of my smoothie — it’s delicious. “I have two sons, Trevor and Tristan, fifteen and thirteen. My husband, Brian, is a high school teacher. He teaches English and Philosophy…. I have a cat.”
He smiles. “Me too… I have a cat too.”
I know.
“I have two kids… two daughters. Ava is eighteen, and Madison is nine.”
I know.
“My wife, Renee, owns a consignment fashion shop,” he goes on. “She has amazing style.”
I know.
My anxiety heightens with each word he utters. I know all this, and I shouldn’t. Now that we’re friends, I’m afraid he’ll find me out, realize just how messed up I am.
I stare down at my smoothie. “Uh… what’s your wife’s shop called?”
“Restyle for You… you know it?”
I’m not much of an actress, but I attempt my best surprised reaction. “Really? I’ve been there, just recently. Bought a few items. My friend, Claudia, recommended it.”
Fantastic acting job, Mischa. Tap tap on the shoulder.
He’s as excited as I am when he says, “Really? Small world. It’s a great store, isn’t it?”
The words just spill out of me. “Yes, and your wife was super nice… she’s quite beautiful.”
He studies me for a bit, a hint of concern tracing his brow. Silence hangs between us for a beat and I can’t stand it — I feel like he can see right through me.
“Uh…” I start, desperately wanting to keep the conversation going. “Have you always been into fashion?”
He smiles. “Yes… Unfortunately, since I was a kid. I have three older sisters, and let’s just say I’ve played with my share of Barbies.”
I laugh out loud. “Oh, me too. I used to love them. Actually, I was kind of disappointed I never had girls… I would have so gotten my Barbie on.”
He grins widely. “Oh, I got to do that with Ava and Madison. I pretended it was all typical Daddy stuff, but that shit was fun.”
I’m smiling so hard, my mouth hurts — I’m having a really good time.
“I’m sure I was the only baller who secretly loved to flip through fashion magazines. Luckily, they were all over our house.”
“Did any of your friends know about your secret… inclinations, proclivities?” I ask, my words grave and hushed.
He grins. “No way. They would have thought I was gay,” he jokes. “And definitely not gay…”
Oh, I know.
“I love everything about women… their hair mostly, the curve of their legs, the shape of their hips… their eyes, their lips…” His words trail off and his gaze clings to my mouth for a beat too long. My pulse gets away from me and I look away.
When I finally get the courage to look at him again, he’s staring down at his smoothie, sipping it casually. It didn’t feel like a come-on at all. I think he was just being real, and his words got away from him.
“I used to work at the Gap when I was in high school. Loved it,” he tells me. “It gave me an excuse to dress well.”
My eyes grow wide. “So did I,” I tell him. “I worked there too. I loved it. Doing up the displays and dressing the dummies was my favorite part.” The memory tugs at my heart — one of life’s many heartbreaks. “I got fired though.”
“No way,” he says, curious. “What happened?”
“I kind of lost it on a kid who was messing up my displays,” I confess.
He laughs, not realizing how serious the incident was for me. “Oh, I get you. I used to hate the kids… I mean I love kids, but not when I was a teenager working at the Gap.”
Another beat of silence.
He glances up from his smoothie. “You and I… we should have met a long time ago,” he says. “We have so much in common.”
My heart is beating so widely, I fear it might explode. “We do.”
“I’m good with people… I mean, I love people,” he tells me, “ but I just met you, and we already seem to click.”
I smile. “We do… we click.”
We click a little too much.
I stare down at his cool shoes as I polish off my tasty smoothie. Joel tel
ls me this funny story about an elderly woman who came in to his salon, and brought a photo of Julia Roberts and asked him to make her look like the famous actress. I nod and smile, and take the opportunity to unapologetically stare at him and indulge in the beautiful perfect angles of his face. My intense attraction to him surprises me. Like Brian, the man could have been a model.
We’re still chatting about his salon as we step out of the smoothie shop. We say goodbye on a corner not far down the road. He gives me a quick friendly hug, and I smile as we say our goodbyes. I’m giddy all the way home, energized, my head crazy full of dopamine, and all those good chemicals which hit your brain when attraction enters the picture.
I know I’m behaving badly. I realize I’m acting crazy. Yet, how can I stop when it feels so damn good?
20
“Remember, Mom?” Tristan is saying.
I shake my head. “Sorry, remember what?”
He pouts and stares down at his plate of pasta. He looks so much like his father when he’s cross, same pouty lips and straight brow. “You weren’t even listening.”
“I’m sorry, Tristan. Mom’s tired. I just have a lot on my mind. Tell me what you were saying.”
“Never mind,” he says. “You should have been listening.” He digs his fork in his pasta.
He’s right. I should have been listening. Instead, I was obsessing over another man. But I’ve not only been thinking about him, I’ve been fixating on Renee and Brian too. They made a child together. And he’s hidden it from me for nineteen years. Every day, every meal shared together, every goodnight kiss, Brian had a secret. All those times he’s been as distracted as I am now, was he thinking about Ava?
I know exactly what I’ve been doing, why I’ve fallen so hard for Joel. I’ve been redirecting my emotions, avoiding the truth. I don’t want to see it. I have no desire to address it, to accept it. I don’t want to mess with the status quo. So I justify this ill-advised behavior. Brian cheated, Brian hid something from me. I can cheat too. I can have a secret life too.
What about Renee? Well, she knowingly slept with another woman’s boyfriend. She knew we were together — everyone at that party knew. If I want to have a taste of her husband, it’s only fair. Even the score.
I know exactly what Dr. Russell would say. She would say this is all a reaction to the anger I’m experiencing over all this, frustration I’m refusing to acknowledge.
True, I’ve been walking around like a zombie, pretending nothing bad has happened, pretending my whole life hasn’t just been turned on its head. Someone like me, who likes things just so, who compulsively desires order, just can’t deal with this in a healthy way.
I know all this, yet it won’t stop me.
But first and foremost, I am a mother. No matter what happens between Brian and I, the boys will always be my priority. “Hey, I was thinking we could play a game of Scattergories after dinner. What do you think?” I secretly hate that game, but I play it because I know the boys love it.
Tristan’s face lights up, and it makes me so happy. “Yeah, let’s do that.”
“You’re in, Trevor?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“I think I’m gonna pass,” Brian says. “Lots of work to do tonight.”
I wonder if he really does have a lot of work to do, or if he’s just going to creep Ava’s Facebook page again?
My head is a mess. Following a very long game with the boys, I fall off the wagon. I have so much work to catch up on, and it all seems overwhelming. When I fire up my laptop, I’m instantly pulled into social media by a compulsion stronger than logic, stronger than reasonable thought. The itch is back with a vengeance — it always is when I’m stressed. That’s when I’m most vulnerable, Dr. Russell tells me. Despite the fact that I know this, I still can’t help but surrender to it.
I spend over an hour on their pages; first Joel’s, then Renee’s and finally, I need to know what Ava is up to too — I worry about her. To my dismay, Joel hasn’t been posting much, just the occasional meme. Renee’s been posting many fashion posts as usual. She has a keen eye for putting pieces together and making it work. Apparently, fabulous glittery Louboutins just came in, in my size. I’m half tempted to go check them out, in mint condition apparently, only $350. It would certainly give me an excuse to see her again. I honestly don’t hate her as much as I should. Although, when I fall upon a selfie of her and a silver-haired guy, all smiles, heads pressed a little too closely, an unexpected wave of irritation hits me. What is going on with these two?
Ava’s been posting a lot of inspirational quotes — the poor girl is still hurting from her break-up. Doesn’t she know how beautiful she is? Doesn’t she know there are other fish in the sea? She’s so young and her life is just beginning. Her sorrowful expression tugs at my heart. I want to reach out to her and tell her all this. If she were my daughter, I’d want someone to help her.
* * *
The next day, I’m desperately playing catch up. I’ve gotten my fix, snooping-wise, so I stay off social media. I’m productive and get so much done. Work is something else I can throw myself into when my personal life hits a snag. I’m being so good, until…
My breath hitches when I see his name on my phone’s display. My heart pounds when I say “Hello.” I can almost hear the smile on his face when he asks me how I am.
“So, my sister’s studio anniversary party is this Saturday. Classes are half off. There’ll be cupcakes and refreshments—”
I laugh. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of working out… cupcakes?”
“Well, it’s a party,” he says.
“True.”
“Will I see you there?” he asks.
I wonder if he’s calling a bunch of women, doing some recruiting for his sister. Or if it’s just me. I’ll never know for sure, but something tells me I’m the only one he’s reaching out to. Or perhaps that’s just wishful thinking.
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
I usually like to spend my Saturdays with the boys, my reward for a hard week’s work. This thing will be two hours tops, I’m sure. I can do both. And ten dollars for a class — that’s a great deal.
I spend way too much time selecting the perfect yoga outfit. I even put on a toe ring and an anklet, and apply a dash of patchouli scented balm. As I’m doing all this, I tell myself that I’m pathetic, that I’m messed up.
Dr. Russell says such negative self-talk is harmful. But I deserve harm. I deserve a slap on the face.
The place is chockfull of people when I get there. Joel is already there, surrounded by women. He’s chatting up a small middle-aged brunette. Yes, the ladies love him — that’s obvious. He has charisma and a genuine kindness. When he spots me through the crowd, he doesn’t wave, he just stares at me for a beat. A whisper of a smile traces his lips, and his eyes say it all — he’s thrilled to see me.
We don’t get a chance to chat before the class, but we exchange quite a few glances throughout. I enjoy the class, despite the fact that the studio is quite crowded today. I give it my all, stretching my limbs to their limits, breathing consciously, and following Juliette’s instructions to a T. I find I get the most from my workouts when I really put the effort in. Since I only have the time to exercise three times a week, I need to make the most of it.
The studio is crazy once class lets out. I linger and indulge in a cupcake, chocolate with delicious buttercream frosting. There’s even a raspberry jam filling in the middle. I’m in heaven when Joel finally finds his way to me. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m very popular around here.”
I smile up at him. “I can see that.”
“Hey, I was wondering if you’d like to go out again for a smoothie?”
I smile. He’s making this so hard. Or too easy. I don’t know which but there’s no way I can refuse him. “Sounds great.”
His beautiful grin reaches his ears. “Okay, let’s meet back here in about ten.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, and
indulge in another bite of my delicious cupcake.
“I have two sisters,” I’m telling him. “They’re perfect, beautiful and so damn normal.”
He laughs. “And you’re not… normal?”
You don’t know the half of it.
“Well, not quite. I have issues with anxiety and order. I need things to be a certain way or I get very stressed,” I explain, making myself sound much more sane than I really am.
“Oh, I get like that too. I can be kind of anal… my employees hate that about me.”
I smile, thinking that it might be impossible to hate anything about him. “Are you a tough boss?” I tease. “A disciplinarian?”
He smiles playfully. “Oh, I can be in charge when I need to be.” The sexual innuendo in his statement thrills me. A sudden vision fills my mind, and I stamp it away immediately, indulging for only half a second.
The place is buzzing with people, but there’s just the two of us in our little corner. “So you have three sisters,” I say. “That’s crazy. What was it like, being the only boy in a family full of girls?”
His smile fades instantly, and his face falls as his gaze dips down to his empty smoothie. I instantly regret my words — I know I’ve said something wrong, but I’m not sure what it was.
“Uh… I’m sorry,” I offer. “I didn’t mean to pry. I can be so nosy sometimes.”
His gaze meets mine again, and it’s full of sorrow. I need to know what I’ve said, why his mood has so suddenly turned.
“It’s okay,” he says softly. “It’s just not something I talk about often. But with you…”
But with me… what?
21
“I had an older brother,” Joel tells me. “Richard… everyone called him Ricky.”
My eyes are glued to his, my ears on alert.
“He was six years older than me, and I looked up to him so much. He was the second oldest after my sister, Jeannine, after him were Jocelyne and Juliette, and finally little old me.”
I nod sympathetically, urging him to go on.