By the Numbers

by Jen Lancaster

  Oh, boy, Thanksgiving is going to be fun this year.

  My head is killing me but not as much as my liver. I’m sure it’s broken. My spleen, too. Is it possible to sprain your kidneys? My throat feels like sandpaper. Was I singing? I vaguely remember singing. I want to take a bath in Gatorade and then brush my teeth with an entire tube of Crest. Possibly some bleach.

  Now my question is, what do I do next? I’m sure I can explain away not wanting to be a broker, and I’m certainly employable, given my grades and the various internships I’ve held, but doing what instead?

  In the bed next to me, Chris stirs. I look down. I see pajamas were not an option. I wrap the sheet around me like a toga. This was definitely not a garden-variety slumber party. With an ever-so-slight curl of his lip, he appears to be smiling in his sleep.

  Damn it, why does he have to be so masculine? So good-looking? He’s still tan, so he’s obviously been working on projects outside. His hair’s been lightened by the sun, and the contrast between the downy blond hair on the nape of his neck and the tawny skin is making me break into a sweat. His back is broader than the last time I saw him, and he has all these new muscles in his arms and shoulders and his obliques and lower . . .

  Oh God, oh God, oh God.

  I’m both sweating and freezing at the same time.

  Once I shower and have some coffee—a lot of coffee, so much coffee—I can likely figure out the next professional steps. I will run the numbers and determine the best course of action.

  I guess my larger issue is what am I supposed to do with this naked man in my bed?

  I need to get a grip here. Chris and I broke up for a reason. Sure, we had a nice run, but we were never a logical fit in the long term. When he went off to Southern Illinois, it didn’t make sense for him to have to worry about some girl still finishing her senior year of high school, so we parted as friends. I’d read an article in Seventeen about how only fifteen percent of relationships started in high school make it through college. Truth was, there was nothing unique about us/our love to defy those odds, so I figured why fight them?

  We did get back together the summer after his freshman year, but called it quits before I went to the University of Illinois three months later. We dated again after my freshman year, and it was like nothing had ever changed between us, only to end it again before the fall semester began.

  However, after my sophomore year, everything changed. I think Chris expected us to pick up on our whole summer thing, and maybe I did, too. But instead of the cushy lifeguarding job I’d previously held for so many years, that summer I had an internship at an insurance company in the city. He spent the summer bartending and doing odd jobs for a roofing crew.

  Our schedules no longer meshed, and our time together was all too brief. We found ourselves with less and less in common, and by the time the Fourth of July rolled around, we knew that was it for us. Or, I knew that was it for us. He still wanted to make us work.

  Here’s the thing: Chris is the fifth kid of five. His family is great, but he’s the baby. Because of that, no one has particularly high expectations of him and I think he’s taken this to heart. Ultimately, I can’t see myself with a man who isn’t always pushing himself to overachieve. So, regardless of how pleasant our time together was, how comfortable, how right it felt in the moment, why pursue that which would ultimately fail?

  I missed him once we were done, though. I dated other guys, and none of them possessed Chris’s natural affability. No one else has had his ability to put others at ease or to just make them laugh with one of his goofy impressions. My brother, Foster, who’s two years my senior, was devastated when we broke up. He insists that Chris is the only “cool” guy I’ve ever brought home. More than once, I’ve noticed him rolling his eyes when Wyatt speaks.

  I glance down at Chris’s sleeping figure.

  Shit, Wyatt, I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this.

  I met Wyatt a year ago at a Young Urban Professionals mixer held on the top floor of the Hancock Tower. Did he take my breath away with his rumpled suit and Heat Miser hairdo? Has he ever once resembled a sleeping Adonis covered in a crocheted afghan when he’s stayed here? Definitely not. He’s a whole lot more pale and hairless, kind of like a baby mole.

  Still, he charmed me in his own quiet way.

  “Shrimp toast?” he said, frowning as he gestured toward the trays of dubious-looking appetizers the waiters were circulating. “You realize the anagram for those is Mishap Trots.”

  “I was unaware,” I said.

  “Terrible habit, the anagrams, my apologies. Wyatt Chapin, hello. I’m an attorney with Drake Headley—which is Redhead Leaky. Try not to read anything into that,” he said, pointing at his ginger hair. “I almost didn’t take the job there because of it. Anyway, pleased to meet you.”

  I grinned and held out my hand. His shake was firmer than I expected, which was a pleasant surprise. “Hi, I’m Penny Bancroft. I’m in the training program with Smith Barney.”

  “Ah, Math by Siren,” he said.

  I laughed. “Some days it feels like that.”

  “Are you enjoying the view?” he asked.

  This time, I actually snorted. The whole tower was socked in with fog. Each window of the ninety-fifth floor, which normally affords an unfettered vista of the lakefront and the Loop, looked to be covered in pale gray cotton batting.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I replied.

  We ended up chatting most of the evening. Did I fall instantly, irreparably in love like when Chris defended me to our heinous speech teacher? No, but I wasn’t sixteen years old, either. Instead, our relationship slowly progressed from quick lunches to casual drinks after work to lingering over dinner. Eventually, we found ourselves in a committed relationship, spending weekends together with the Times crossword puzzle, which he always completed in pen.

  Wyatt checked every one of my boxes with his position in contract law. He has a retirement account to which he makes the full contribution each month and an ironclad ten-year plan that includes purchasing a home in the best school district and budgeting for vacations on foreign soil. He also wants a family, and we’ve discussed every parameter we’d need to satisfy before even considering taking any sort of step toward that goal.

  He’s arranged every aspect of his life by the numbers, and there’s absolutely no margin for error. He’s ideal and outstanding in every way.

  What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be satisfied with the best man for me? On paper, the two of us are an outstanding match. We have so much in common—even esoteric things, like believing that ham salad should always include relish and eggs. (These ingredients are both low in cost and high in protein. As an added bonus, the preservatives in the relish extend the shelf life and the eggs double the volume without negatively impacting the flavor. Everything about this combination is a win, and yet the few times Chris found relish mingling with his ham salad, you’d have thought he’d found a finger in his lunch.)

  The kicker here? Chris doesn’t even have his own apartment! He’s still living at home in Glencoe! Who does that? Granted, we, um . . . didn’t do a ton of talking last night, so I don’t know his rationale, but it’s weird. People our age are not meant to live with our families; we’re meant to be on our own. What am I supposed to do? Ring the doorbell at his house and say, “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair; I’m going upstairs to Chris’s room to get freaky with him on his Chicago Bears bedding’?”

  I can’t.

  This is so messed up.

  Somehow this is Patrick’s fault. He goaded me into this. Like a double-dog dare. That man is a terrible influence. The bad angel on my shoulder. I will have words with him later, that’s for damn sure. (I’m surprised he’s not already calling me to dish. Is he in a meeting?) Regardless, I have to extricate myself from this bed, I have to wash every single one of last night’s missteps off
of me, and I have to figure out what I’m supposed to do with the rest of my life.

  First up, I have to get Chris out of my apartment.

  With the sheet wrapped around me so tightly I’m cutting off most of my circulation, I poke him in the shoulder. “Hey.” He shifts but doesn’t wake. I poke him again. “Hey. You have to go. This was a mistake.”

  He opens one of his denim-blue eyes, fringed in black lashes. “This was not a mistake. You. Come here. Right now.” Then he pulls me to him.

  Well.

  I can probably give him five minutes to state his case.

  Not like I have to go to work today.

  • • • •

  “You’re dumping Wyatt? No! He’s supposed to fix me up with his friend next week!” Judith wails. “Can’t you break up with him after I meet his buddy? Maybe in a few weeks? A month, at the most. Give us some time to get to know each other. Come on! I never went out with a lawyer!”

  Karin comes up behind me and grips my head in her hands. “Do you see this shit-eating grin, Jude?”

  With some petulance, Judith says, “Yes.”

  We’re hanging out in the Lincoln Park apartment I share with Karin. Judith is here, ostensibly to help me figure out what I should be doing with my life. She and I met at U of I in a stats class freshman year and we bonded in our study group. Eventually we lived together on campus and I convinced her to leave her hometown of Cleveland and settle in Chicago permanently after graduation.

  However, no one’s into résumé chat today. All anyone, including me—especially me—wants to discuss is what’s happening with Chris. Karin says, “This is the grin of someone who is done with Wyatt and his anagrams. Sorry, Jude. I’m sure she’ll find a way to make it up to you.” Karin does not let go of my head. Instead she turns my face toward her and looks at me. “This isn’t even the face of someone who wants to hang out with us right now. In fact, she’s just watching the clock, waiting for him to get here so she can go in her room and shut the door and turn on her Al Green cassette really loud. FYI? Not loud enough.”

  “No!” I protest, albeit weakly. “Chris and I will totally want to hang out with you guys.”

  “Peddle your lies elsewhere, Pinocchio. Your nose is already so long you can’t turn your head without scraping it on the wall,” Karin replies, finally releasing me. I shake out my hair, trying to smooth it back into place.

  “Plus, I didn’t ask Jude over here to discuss some guy,” I start to say.

  “Some stud,” Karin interjects.

  Do not squeal. Do not squeal. Do not squeal. Compose yourself.

  Ahem.

  I take a deep breath and try to keep the shit-eating grin from returning. I do legitimately need Judith’s advice. “You know where I’ve interned and what classes I’ve taken—what seems like my logical next step?” I ask.

  Judith taps her index finger over her lip as she thinks. “What about teaching?”

  I reply, “If I shift from stockbroking to teaching, I really will be disowned.”

  “Do you want to go the CPA route?” Judith asks, as that’s what she’s pursuing.

  “The idea of combing through box after box of strangers’ receipts for the rest of my life makes me want to die,” I say. “At tax time, my parents bring every piece of paper in the house to the CPA because someone once told them to save everything. The poor guy ends up having to sort through postcards and their old shopping lists to try to make sense of their finances. No, thanks.”

  “I don’t think every client is like that,” Judith says.

  “No offense, but your parents are kind of jerks,” Karin adds.

  “None taken,” I reply. She’s not wrong. Every time Karin sees my mother, Marjorie asks her if her mother is still divorced.

  “If you want to stay in the world of finance, you could always be an analyst. Although, if you want to have a family eventually? Consider being an actuary. That’s one of those jobs you always hear about having a decent work-life balance, as long as you don’t go the consulting route. You liked our actuarial classes, right? And you interned at that insurance company after sophomore year. So you’re aware there’s a fairly steep barrier to entry with a hell of a lot of qualifying exams and—”

  Before Judith can finish her explanation, there’s a knock on the door. Chris is here early!

  “Actuary, yeah. That sounds good,” I say, rocketing up from where I’ve been sitting to answer the door. “I’ll be one of those.”

  • • • •

  “Thank you for inviting me, Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft,” Chris says. He pulls out my chair and waits for me to be settled before he sits down himself. Once he’s in his seat, he unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap.

  “Did we invite you, Christopher? When Penelope said she was bringing her boyfriend, we assumed she meant Wyatt, that nice attorney she’s so serious with,” Marjorie says. She acts as though I haven’t been telling her about Chris for months and months now. Argh.

  “This”—she points back and forth between the two of us—“is new.”

  No, it isn’t, and she damn well knows it.

  “Tell me, darling, are we just repeating everything from high school now? Are you going to start layering your alligator shirts again and listening to Bruce Springfield?”

  I say, “Do you mean Rick Springfield?” I’m trying to keep my equanimity, but she’s definitely making it a challenge.

  “Or Bruce Springsteen?” Chris adds.

  Marjorie takes a measured sip of her Gibson. “Does it really matter?”

  “To a fourteen-year-old girl, I imagine it matters substantially,” Chris replies with great cheer.

  Ha, I forgot about this. I forgot how Chris always maintained an even keel and a sunny attitude, no matter how hard my parents tried to intimidate him.

  “How is Wyatt these days?” Marjorie asks. “He’s an attorney, you know. Lovely young man. So focused. So polite. Such purpose.”

  Dude. Harsh.

  “I can’t say,” I reply. “As I’ve mentioned multiple times, we no longer see each other. I haven’t spoken with him since last fall, and now it’s March.”

  Our breakup was easier than I feared, largely because Wyatt is such a decent person . . . or possibly because he’s a bit of a wuss. But I felt I owed it to him to be honest, so I was, to an extent. I spared him graphic details (I saved those for Jude, Karin, and Patrick over a bottle of white zinfandel—so much squealing), but I was frank. I explained that even though he and I were perfect on paper, there was something about Chris that made me abandon all logic. He seemed to understand and alluded to someone in his past who’d had a similar impact on him. I encouraged him to find her again. Who knows; maybe he made a new love connection, too?

  Chris and I have been back together for four months now. In that time, I’ve secured an entry-level actuarial job with an insurance company, and I’m studying for the first in a series of accreditations. Actuarial science is an ideal fit, as it plays to all my strengths—the only downside is how long it will take to be fully accredited. But at least I’m not wasting time pursuing an option that’s wrong for me.

  Yes, I decided on said career on an impulse, but thus far, my impulsive actions are the ones that are paying off. Quitting Smith Barney? Brilliant. Jumping into Chris’s arms? Best idea ever. To think that I could be here with Wyatt and his anagrams right now? Unimaginable. (Mania Lube Gin.)

  Chris and I are different together this time around and I can’t put my finger on exactly why. Is it that I’m less rigid? Or is it that Chris has finally stepped up? His dad had a health scare last year (he’s okay now), and Chris said that made him much more cognizant about the future. That’s when he began to make plans. While he’s still working for his family, on his off time, he bought and renovated a tiny house and sold it for a small profit. His goal is to do more of these renova
tions, on a larger scale, with the intention to spin off his own company.

  Chris has an actual business plan written up and secured in a three-ring binder. Not to be indelicate, but a three-ring binder for me? Total panty-dropper.

  His act is together in all the ways I’d wished for back when we were in college, and he did it all without me standing over his shoulder, telling him what to do. Again, a man with self-direction? Pretty much the Kama Sutra for me. So, given our history together and seeing how there’re no longer any barriers to entry, we’re rapidly progressing to the next level.

  Miguel appears at our table, and his whole face lights up when he sees Chris. “Mr. Chris! Hello, hello! Welcome! So good to see you here again!” He goes to shake Chris’s hand, but Chris pulls him down into a one-armed hug, and Marjorie practically chokes on her cocktail onion.

  “I will get water for you right away,” Miguel says, rushing off.

  “You and your family, you’re not members here,” Marjorie says, more as a statement instead of a question. Marjorie flaunts her Centennial Hills belonging like the newly affianced flashes a diamond.

  “We are not,” Chris confirms.

  “Hmmm. Do you need me to put in a word?” Marjorie offers with an insincere crinkle of her eyes.

  “No, but thanks anyway.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Marjorie says. “We know everyone; we have sway.”

  “I appreciate the offer. But when we moved down from Lake Forest in the late seventies, my parents just held on to their membership at Onwentsia,” he replies, mentioning the name of the most exclusive club on the North Shore. “It’s only fifteen minutes away, and it’s a Charles Blair Macdonald–designed golf course, so they weren’t about to give that up.”

  Max, who’d been completely taciturn to this point, suddenly comes to life. “Chris, my boy, what have you been up to? So good to see you!” He claps Chris on the back for good measure. Miguel arrives to drop off Marjorie’s glass of water. “Miguel! Bring my man a Dewar’s rocks!”