More Like Her

by Liza Palmer

  What will I point to now to show people I was once loved?

  “I didn’t see you at orientation,” I lie. My shoulders creep up higher. Higher still. I don’t know how to be in my own apartment. Our apartment. My apartment. As I scan the barren living room, I regret not sprucing up the place since Ryan left. I wish I’d brought in color and light as proof of a Patti LaBelle–sized new attitude. Alas, the apartment looks just as half-lived-in as the day Ryan left.

  “I was up near the front.”

  “Oh.”

  “The new head of school seems cool.”

  “Headmistress Dunham? Yeah, I guess.” Salt, meet wound.

  We stand in silence. A silence that redefines the parameters of awkward.

  My toilet flushes.

  Terror. A brief moment of confusion, then the stomach-dropping realization—someone else is here. I look from the phantom-flushing toilet to Ryan, who looks away. My entire body tightens—jaw clenches, arms tightly cross, fists ball up—and I ready myself. She’s washing her hands. Yes, please. Take your time being hygienic; my fancy lemon verbena hand soap was definitely purchased with you in mind, petal. The bathroom door creaks open.

  Jessssssica.

  “I was wondering who you were talking to out here,” Jessica says, smiling.

  She’s not alarmed. She’s not embarrassed. She’s also not even that cute. I’ll focus on the latter rather than the other two.

  “It’s just Frannie,” Ryan says, shrugging.

  “Just Frannie? Is that what we’re calling her now?” Jessica says, tittering and folding into Ryan.

  Wow. Where to begin.

  “Jessica Trapper, this is Frannie Reid,” Ryan says, shifting the box around and gesturing from Jessica to me.

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” she says, extending her hand.

  “Aren’t you the woman Ryan was cheating on me with?” I ask, not taking her extended hand.

  “Frannie,” Ryan says.

  “Or was that someone else?” I ask, my voice now light as a feather. I look from Jessica to Ryan.

  “No, no . . . that was me,” Jessica says, her hand dropping to her side.

  “So, I imagine you would have heard a lot about me,” I say, a smile cracking its way across my face.

  “Not as much as you’d think,” Jessica says, almost under her breath.

  “Frannie, please,” Ryan says.

  “No, we’re fine now. It’s all good. Jessica, right? Hey, Frannie Reid. Just Frannie,” I say, smiling and extending my hand to her.

  “Hi,” she says hesitantly, her hand reaching out to me once more.

  “Go fuck yourself, Jessica,” I say, dropping my hand again.

  “All right, I think we should probably head out then,” Ryan says, taking Jessica’s extended hand in his.

  I hate that I’m blaming the other woman. Jessica certainly isn’t making things better with her “Just Frannie” bullshit and lemon-verbena-wafting newly washed hands, but it’s not her fault Ryan stopped loving me. It’s Ryan I should be telling off. But it’s far easier, and less excruciating, to blame Jessssica. I’m not ready to blame Ryan. Hell, I’m not even ready to believe that it’s over.

  Two years. Ryan and I were together two years. We were the couple that the students were embarrassed to look at. Other staffers never mentioned one of us without the other. The older ladies in the front office, whom we affectionately refer to as the Coven of Front-Office Hags, ribbed him about his muss of black hair needing a cut before the wedding. They rolled their eyes and mumbled something about “kids today” each time Ryan confessed he hadn’t yet proposed. We went on double dates with Jill and her husband, Martin. We played dominoes and brought bottles of wine.

  He was my plus-one.

  Now I recognize I was the girl he bided his time with. The girl before the girl. His light blue eyes travel over me. Does he want to apologize? For moving out. For cheating. For breaking it off. For not loving me. He flips his black muss of hair out of his eyes and gives Jessica an almost imperceptible signal to evacuate the premises as quickly as possible.

  “So, I’ll see you tonight then . . . Ryan?” I ask.

  Ryan adjusts his hold on the box again, letting Jessica’s hand fall away. “Jessica, can you give us a minute?” he says. She steps out of the apartment without another word, leaving Ryan and me alone. His lips are tight. Compressed. I won’t inhale him as he passes. I won’t close my eyes and remember what it was like to fall asleep to his quiet snoring. I raise my eyebrows and look out the open door. I think I’m smiling. I hope I’m smiling.

  He says nothing. I can’t help myself. Even as I take a breath for the next sentence I know I’m on the cusp of a moment I’m going to be cringingly replaying and regretting in my mind for years. Nonetheless . . .

  “Why . . . why’d you bring her here? To our apartment?”

  Ryan turns around. “This is your apartment now and Jessica is my girlfriend, so—”

  “Ryan, it’s me. It’s Frannie. Why are you talking to me like I’m some dude in Starbucks asking you to watch his shit? Come on. Think this through—maybe bringing the new girl here wasn’t such a good idea,” I say, hating that my hand is reaching out for him.

  “This is how it always was with you. You overthink shit, Frannie. I didn’t think you’d be here. Jessica and I are together so she came with me to pick up the last of my stuff. Not everything is as complicated as you make it out to be.” My hand falls to my side. Ryan’s voice isn’t raised. It’s worse. It’s indifferent.

  “No, you’re right, it clearly takes two people to carry that tiny box that weighs nine ounces,” I say, motioning to the offending, flimsy container that somehow is substantial enough to carry any hope I had that Ryan would return to me—and the life we made together—out the door with him.

  Ryan clears his throat and switches the box to the other side.

  “Probably not a good idea to bring the girl you cheated with into your ex-girlfriend’s home though, right?” The ex chokes in my throat.

  “So intense. Always. So. Intense.” Ryan digs into his pocket and pulls out our apartment key. It’s already off his key ring. He was prepared. As he presses the key into my hand, I can’t stop replaying that line from When Harry Met Sally: You’re saying Mr. Zero knew you were getting a divorce a week before you did. I deflate. The key knew. The key knew it was over. We were over. I curl my fingers around it as Ryan shakes his head, mumbling something about me making things soooo difficult. He enunciates the word difficult with particular disdain as he turns for the door. I feel like screaming. But as he closes the door behind him what I feel most is . . . alone. Left behind. And now I just feel like crying.

  I sit on the arm of the sofa. I wish I could say I collapse. I don’t. I just sit. The blur of the last three months. Jill pairing me up with any man who’ll take my mind off Ryan has cemented my worst fears: not only did I have someone great, but I might have been lucky to have him at all.

  I remember sitting in a movie theater once. And Ryan was talking about something. Really animated. Using his hands. Passing me caramel corn in the midst of his impassioned speech. Shoving kernels in his mouth as he spoke. And I thought, holy shit. You’re the one. This is it. You’re perfect for me and this is it. I’ve found you and here you are in the flesh: my happily ever after.

  I was wrong.

  PLEASE DON’T TELL ME that you actually said, ‘It’s all good.’ Jill says. The door between our joint offices is open and we’re bustling around getting ready for the parental onslaught. My dark hair is still a little damp from the shower. I took far too long sulking and eating stale shredded wheat to properly dry it. Jill has on one of her usual ensembles: a Kelly green tailored sheath. Her mane of red hair, the very embodiment of her, is caught at the nape of her neck, loosely tied with a coordinating grosgrain ribbon.

  “Yep, right before I told her to go fuck herself. It was quite a lively conversation,” I say.

  “What did she look lik
e?”

  “She’s that girl. Not too cute, not too ugly. Not too fat, not too thin. She looks like everyone and no one at the same time.”

  “I’m going to need something a bit more specific if I’m going to feel better about this entire situation.”

  “She’s utterly forgettable.”

  “And yet . . .”

  “Yes. Exactly. And in time I will embrace the point you’re trying to make.”

  “And what point is that?”

  I answer in the same robotic voice that inhabits every jilted lover, “That Ryan doesn’t want a shiny penny. He wants a woman who is utterly forgettable and beige, ensuring that he can be ‘the beloved’ in the relationship. I listen to the same Alanis Morissette songs that you do, dearest.” Or maybe he doesn’t want someone who makes everything sooo difficult, who overthinks everything. You know, someone who is too intense. I’m just spitballing here.

  “So, we’re on the same page.”

  “Alas, yelling along to Jagged Little Pill in its entirety is not quite the same thing as really digesting its message, now, is it?”

  “It’s a start.” Jill runs her hand down the sleeve of my vintage sweater. She presses out a concerned smile and squeezes my hand.

  “He didn’t deserve you, sweetie.” Jill’s voice is achingly soft and affectionate.

  I nod and take a deep breath. Jill gives me a reassuring grin and a quick pat on the ass and flits back over to her desk.

  It’s jarring how quickly this sensation returns. The fantasy of liv-ing happily ever after was always tempered by my constant second-guessing that I would ever be, in any way, involved. Sure, happy couples exist. People walk down aisles and babies are born. Now, where do I come in again?

  “Why did he even still have his key?” Jill asks as she arranges a tray of cookies, fanning them out decoratively.

  “I refuse to answer that on the grounds that it makes me look desperate.”

  We are quiet.

  Jill finally speaks. “You know my theory.” I look up from the stack of colorful mission statements and curricula vitae we’ve prepared.

  She quickly adds, “Don’t kill me, but you know my theory.”

  “Yes, I am aware of your theory. All of your theories, really,” I say, looking out into the quickly filling hallways of the Markham School. Families milling around, zigzagging into classroom after classroom. Polo shirts with collars turned up. Strands of real pearls. Sweaters folded just so and tied loosely over shoulders. The Markham School caters to Pasadena’s elite. Our offices are located in the wing where the school psychologists, speech therapists, and counselors are housed: your one-stop mental health emporium. Parents are reluctant to look our way—like we’re the red-light district of the Markham School. They peek and glance furtively at our open office doors. They’re curious, but none of them can let on that they’re interested in what we’re selling. They think we’re offering something only parents of a failed child need. And they certainly wouldn’t be interested in anything like that. (Of course, that’s not what it is.) That’s what the handouts and cookies are for: to lure them in.

  “Two years—”

  “Jill, seriously. Not now.”

  “Two years is too long to date someone. After one year, you have the marriage conversation and if he balks, dumped.”

  “Which is exactly what happened,” I say.

  “No, I mean—”

  I cut in. “I got dumped—wait, I got cheated on then dumped. And it’s not because we dated for two years or didn’t have the marriage conversation after the proper amount of time. I got dumped because he didn’t love me. Simple, really,” I say, sitting down behind my desk. I can feel my face reddening. I can feel my anger growing. I won’t start crying. I won’t scream “Why didn’t he love me?!” at the top of my lungs. I won’t. I can’t. Because even though Jill knows me better than anyone, I still can’t show her the ugly truth of how not fine I am with this whole situation. I’m not bravely moving on. I’m not indifferent to Jeremy Hannon, the Labor Day Cousin-Loving Suitor, and/or the battalions of uninterested douchebags who preceded him. I’m miserable and secretly naming the legion of cats I’ll most certainly own by the end of the year.

  “Did you copy that mix Jeremy was asking about?”

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “I think I’ve made enough mixes for three lifetimes,” I say, standing up and pacing around the office. I can’t sit still. I want to look professional. I want not to think about Ryan, Jessica and the apartment key that now sits on my kitchen counter like a time bomb. I look out into the hallway just in time to see Emma Dunham coming our way. Wow, that’s exactly what I didn’t want. I plaster a smile across my face as she approaches with a guy I peg as some moneyed donor I’ll soon have to prostrate myself in front of for the good of the Markham School.

  “Ms. Reid, this is my husband, Jamie. Jamie, this is Frances Reid, one of Markham’s two speech therapists,” Emma says. Husband? I shake hands with Jamie. His long, achingly thin fingers curl around my extended hand with an icy detachment. Jamie’s beakish nose and delicate features might be considered beautiful in a sickly, Victorian poet way, but since he’s not spouting esoteric verses right now it just doesn’t pack the same punch.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “And you,” he says.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. Again.

  Jamie looks pointedly at Emma, as one does when someone—a jilted speech therapist perchance—has just farted in public and a quick getaway is now past due.

  “So, what is it that you do, Jamie?” I ask.

  “I’m a professor at UCLA,” Jamie says.

  “Go Bruins!” I say, my hand raised in a victorious fist.

  Silence.

  I continue. “What is it that you teach?”

  “Creative writing. The Art of the Short Story,” Jamie says.

  “That sounds great,” I say, my voice overly perky.

  “He’s also working on a novel,” Emma adds, lacing her arm through his.

  “That sounds like quite a schedule,” I say.

  “I teach in UCLA’s extension program,” Jamie says.

  “Oh, okay,” I say.

  “Online,” Jamie adds.

  “Cool,” I say. What . . . what exactly is happening here?

  Silence.

  “It’s so difficult to break into teaching at UCLA. Everyone’s amazed Jamie was able to secure a position in the extension program. But it’s a foot in a very prestigious door,” Emma says. His entire being has shifted from languid to tight throughout Emma’s pitch.

  Silence.

  “UCLA has a great campus,” I say.

  Jamie sighs.

  “Oh, right. You’re online. Great website then. User-friendly,” I say, my eyes darting, my fingers making some weird mouse-clicking motion.

  I clear my throat. Has time stopped? Is it . . . is it cold in here?

  Quiet. For a while. A looooong while. People mill in the hallways. Parents who haven’t seen each other all summer greet each other loudly. Teachers welcome students into their classrooms. All while our little trio drowns in discomfort.

  “Jamie is as brilliant as they come. He’s going to be the next Norman Mailer!” Emma says. If there were a conversational penalty-flag system similar to that of the National Football League, Emma would certainly have earned one for that. Emma Dunhamdunhamdunham, the ref’s voice echoes. Personal foul for a late hit proclaiming Jamie Dunham the next Norman Mailermailermailer. Automatic first down!

  Silence.

  “Have you given the head of department position any thought, Ms. Reid?” Emma asks.

  I start to say, “Absolutely, it would be such a—” Jamie elaborately clears his throat.

  “Oh, right. Right,” Emma says, nervously looking from Jamie to me. He sighs. She continues. “We’ll talk about it later, Ms. Reid.”

  “There’s a water fountain,” I say, pointing just behind Jamie. “You know . . . for your th
roat?”

  “What was your name again?” Jamie asks.

  “Frances Reid.”

  “Well, Frances Reid—”

  Emma interrupts. “We’re having a mixer . . .” Jamie’s eyes are fixed on me. Emma is caressing Jamie’s back. “It’s for department heads and in your case prospective department heads. We’d love it if you and Mrs. Fleming would attend. Since both of you are up for the position, it might be nice for the board of directors to meet their candidates in a more relaxed setting. All of the details are in your box.” The word relaxed echoes through the hallways. Jamie tightens his jaw as his gaze slinks over to Emma. Narrowed. Targeted.

  “Sure . . . sure,” I say, noting that Jamie looked away first. I have won our unofficial staring contest.

  Jill ambles out of our office. She’s already in midsentence as she approaches. “What you need to do is just hate-fuck that Jeremy Hannon guy and th—”

  Aaaaand I believe introductions are in order: Online Extension Professor Jamie—or as Emma likes to call him, the next Norman Mailer—Emma, children and parents of the Markham School, meet the word hate-fuck. Hate-fuck? This is everybody.

  “Jill Fleming, this is Jamie Dunham. Headmistress Dunham’s husband,” I say.

  They shake hands.

  “Pleasure,” Jill says. Jamie nods. Emma’s face is compressed tight. She looks around at the milling parents.

  “Great turnout,” I add, following her sight line.

  “Yes, it is,” Emma says.

  Jill says, “Mrs. Dunham, I’m—”

  “I’m sure we can talk about policies and appropriate behavior at a more fitting time, Mrs. Fleming,” Emma says, her smile tight.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Jill says.

  “Ms. Reid will give you specifics regarding the head of department mixer, where my hope is that you will behave in a far more professional manner,” Emma says, looking from Jill to me.