The Overdue Life of Amy Byler

by Kelly Harms

  “What about you? Are you still bonded to him?”

  I think, for a moment, about lying. Then I smile sadly at Daniel. “In some ways, yes. I guess I am.”

  “So you’re hoping he’ll stay?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “Well, yes. For the kids. If he keeps doing his part as a real father. If he goes back to being unreliable and selfish, then maybe the kids are better off without him. What do you think? Is a crummy dad better than no dad?”

  Daniel leans back in his chair. “Is a crummy husband better than no husband?” he asks me.

  “No,” I answer in a heartbeat—and the clarity of my answer surprises me. “The last three years have proven that. Life may have been harder without John, but I don’t miss living with someone who was growing unhappier and more anxious by the day. By the end he was one of those dads that makes you feel like you have one more child than you gave birth to.”

  Daniel tilts his head at this. “If it makes you feel any better, I think those kinds of dads are going the way of the dodo bird.”

  I laugh. “Well, they’re certainly not getting laid,” I announce, so loudly that the couples at the tables around us crane their heads to stare at me. I lower my voice and sink into my chair. “Oops. I think I had too much vin gris.”

  Daniel’s eyes twinkle. “Do you know, I don’t think Cori is the only one letting her hair down over the summer.”

  I consider this for a moment. “I am actually trying to keep my hair up, so to speak. Last time I got tipsy, we . . . you know.”

  “Slept together?” Daniel asks.

  I cut my eyes sideways. “Right, that.”

  “And had sex,” he adds.

  I squirm. “Are you trying to make me die of embarrassment?”

  Daniel’s face grows serious. “No! Not at all. I’m just . . . I’m trying to get it out in the open. Clear the air.”

  “I prefer the air a bit hazier,” I tell him. “Not as thick as a Bleak House fog, but more like a Great Expectations mist.”

  “That is a very Amy thing to say.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say but don’t wait for a yes. “Did you think this was a booty call?”

  Daniel’s mouth drops open for a moment. “I . . .”

  “You did!” I say. “What about us being friends?”

  Daniel catches himself quickly. “We are friends. I thought for a second that maybe . . . and then I realized I was being an idiot, so I just texted you back.” He laughs to himself.

  “What?”

  “Eight years of Latin, and I still never thought I’d decline sex.”

  I look at him blankly.

  “Because in Latin you decline nouns. Noun declension? Get it?”

  “If I laugh, I’m just going to encourage you,” I say.

  “You love it,” he says.

  “So if you’d thought it was a booty call, you wouldn’t have texted back?” I ask him.

  “Well, first of all, I don’t like this terminology. Booty call. It sounds like something from an Ashton Kutcher comedy circa 2002.”

  “The last time I was single, Ashton Kutcher was too. What is it called nowadays?”

  “I guess a hookup? My students call everything a hookup. As far as I can tell, if underwear comes off, but you’re not going to prom together, it’s a hookup.”

  I sigh. “This is where you tell me that you’re not taking me to prom.”

  Daniel nods slowly. “I would love to take you to prom, but you’d be long gone by then. So I’ll have to settle for sitting next to you at the next all-school assembly.”

  “Only nerds attend those things,” I tell him.

  “So I will see you there,” he quickly replies.

  I laugh. We sit there for a moment. I am starting to feel more even keeled. Daniel is not looking any less handsome. “You’re staying in Brooklyn Heights, right?” he asks me. “Because my beer is gone. And so is your . . . whatever that was. I could walk you home.”

  “Over the bridge?” I ask hopefully.

  “Over the bridge.”

  Something deep inside me thrills to this plan. I agree, and we make our way out of the bar, through the little streets, to the foot of the bridge. The sight is even more beautiful from here, the arches of the towers rising up huge before us. We step onto the pedestrian path and start to make our way over the water, and even at this hour we are joined by joggers, cyclists, lovers: the people of New York going about their lives.

  “You know, I have read Hunger Games twice,” Daniel says, completely out of the blue as we walk.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “And I have a philosophy about the problem Katniss has with Peeta.”

  I wait, unsure of exactly what we’re talking about.

  “She has a preexisting condition. With Gale. The guy she came of age with. The guy she’s always loved. It makes it impossible for her to see anyone else clearly.”

  “Also, Peeta is kind of a weenie at first.”

  Daniel nods. “Ok, yes. But also a good catch. He would have been much happier if he had found someone who was genuinely unattached from the start.”

  “Also, if he hadn’t been recruited to fight other teenagers to the death.”

  “That as well. My point is when we are young, it’s hard to choose who to love. When we are older, it becomes an imperative.”

  We walk some more in silence.

  “Do you think I have a preexisting condition?” I ask.

  “With your ex-husband?” he says. “Yes.”

  I look down at our feet as we walk. “I’m trying to cure it,” I tell him honestly. “For one thing, I am thinking it’s time to file for divorce.”

  “You’re still married?” he asks.

  “Technically,” I tell him.

  Daniel is quiet for a while with that news. I cannot blame him. Every time I say it aloud, it seems more suspect. Finally, he says, “It is best we are staying friends, then.”

  I wait awhile before I answer him. There is so much in the air, more than any mist now. The lights of the bridge, the glow of Brooklyn, the glimmer of the city coming up behind us like a moon reflecting off an ocean of glass and steel. The walk from the foot of the bridge to Talia’s apartment isn’t long, and we will make it in silence, and Daniel will hug me goodbye at the door, and I will be left confused and contemplative. But for now we are still on the bridge, and I am still making sense of what he’s said, and of what I’ve told him, and of standing this close to a man who makes me thrum with longing, who can kiss tingles into my toes, who I think I could in fact, one day, come to love, if I am not very, very careful.

  “You’re right,” I agree, after a long, long pause. “It’s good we are staying friends.”

  —

  A couple days after my bridge walk with Daniel, Matt comes to me with another prospect. “You’ve got to check this guy out, Ames,” he tells me, and I smile to hear how quickly he’s adopted the nickname Talia and Lena picked out for me. “He is witty, good looking, gainfully employed, and definitely interested in you.”

  “What’s the catch?” I ask Matt. “Is he missing all his teeth?”

  “Enough of that,” Matt says. “Have you checked yourself out lately? All we did was buy you a few bras and wax your eyebrows. Two weeks in, you’re standing taller, you’re smiling more, and your yoga-lates classes are doing something crazy to your butt.”

  I immediately attempt to get a look at my butt.

  “It looks the same from here,” I tell him.

  “Stop fishing for butt compliments,” Matt says with a smile. “Just trust me on this. The momspringa is working.”

  This gives me pause, because though I haven’t taken the time to acknowledge it, he’s right. It is working. I haven’t felt so much like my own person since the kids were born. Fifteen years since I last knew my own mind so well, or had so many complete thoughts, or spent ten minutes in the bathroom putting on makeup without anyone knocking on the door. Fifteen years since I
had a civilized meal with table linens in a restaurant, or woke up and asked myself and only myself what I wanted to do with my day, or gave any thought to my hopes and dreams. Fifteen years, if I’m to be frank, since I took showers on a daily basis.

  I have a horrifying thought. Do I even miss my kids at all?

  Yes. That’s stupid. Of course I miss my kids. I just got done pestering them on the phone to come visit me—and they promised they will, after their summer camps. I miss my real life. I cannot wait to go back to it. My kids are my world and my job is my passion and I have everything I can possibly ask for back in PA. I will be desperate to get back there when the time comes.

  And go back to teenage fights and wardrobe policing and chauffeuring to chess tournaments and wearing long-sleeved polo shirts ten months a year and being so tired at the end of the day that I can hardly stand up and wondering if I will be able to pay all my bills and feeling terribly, miserably lonely.

  Even I know when I’m lying to myself. I miss my kids like crazy. I just don’t miss the exhausting work of parenting them.

  So I tell Matt to set me up with this guy ASAP. “What does he do?” I ask Matt.

  “Oh, I’ll let him tell you all about it,” he tells me mysteriously. “Trust me. You will not be disappointed.”

  Immediately my heart leaps, and I think: Maybe he’s another librarian. Or a book critic? Or an editor? “Does he work in books?” I ask Matt.

  Matt groans. “Ok, let me walk it back, Amy. A normal human woman would not be disappointed, but no, he does not work in books. Even so, I think you’ll like him. He seems fun.”

  “Ok,” I tell Matt. “Sure. Fun is good. Fun is kind of the whole point, right?”

  “Correct,” he says back. “I’m setting something up for tomorrow night, downtown, at eight. Dress adorable—this is definitely one I’m sending a photographer in for.”

  “Aye, aye,” I say. “I’ll wear my snazziest outfit.”

  Matt sighs into the phone at the merest use of the word snazziest. “I think if it’s all the same to you, I’ll come over first and dress you.”

  “But I was going to be snazzy!”

  “That’s what concerns me,” says Matt.

  —

  Matt, as usual, is right. By the time I’m dressed, photographed, and staggering into my Lyft ride on two-inch platform sandals, I’ve had pretty much the perfect momspringa day. Lesson planning in the morning, reading in a café all afternoon, spin class with my best new guy pal, funny texts from Daniel throughout. Now I’m in trim cigarette pants; a cute, flouncy blouse; and clumsy but chic espadrilles, feeling the most feminine I’ve felt in . . . probably ever. When I hop out of the car and see a great-looking guy with trendy glasses; thick, wavy dark hair; and bright eyes grinning at me, I get one of the best feelings in the world—the feeling of a stranger looking at you and thinking, Wow.

  “Travis!” I call out happily. He looks exactly like his picture, only maybe taller. Compared to the Wall Street guy, he looks relaxed, assured, and grown up. I like it.

  “If you are Amy, then I just won the blind date lottery,” he tells me. “Which, like, seems fair considering how long I’ve been playing.”

  “Ha!” I laugh and drink in the compliment. “I guess I’m not your first time around this dance floor?”

  “Oh, hell no. I’ve been single for almost three years, and I plan to absolutely regale you with stories of bad-date hilarity.”

  I nod vigorously. “That would be wonderful! That way, you won’t know how bad a date I am until you run out of other women to talk about.”

  “Perfect. If we do this right, I could be paying the check before you even tell me your star sign.”

  I give Travis an approving smile, and inside I’m long-distance high-fiving Matt for finding this guy for me. A funny one. I love the funny ones. Travis opens the door to the restaurant for me, and I blurt, “It’s April.”

  “April is not a star sign,” he tells me. “It’s a birth month. Your star sign is Aries.”

  My jaw drops. “Are you . . . like, into astrology?”

  “I am not. However, my dog was born in April, and no responsible dog owner would skip the vital step of doing one’s pet’s star chart.”

  “Oh,” I say, nodding. “Of course. I don’t know why I didn’t think about that.”

  “How else would I know if she and I were compatible?”

  I smirk. “Is she a dog? And do you feed her and give her cuddles? From what I understand, that means you’re compatible.”

  He smiles back. “Matt told me you were rich with wisdom. He wasn’t lying.”

  “How do you know Matt?”

  “We went to the same college.”

  I blanch.

  “Don’t worry—it wasn’t at the same time. We are in an alumni group together. Matt is a virtual infant compared to me. I’m old enough to be his . . . much older brother.”

  “Oh, thank god.” I exhale. “I know I’m supposed to be living the wild life right now, but dating a twentysomething would just be gross. Like some kind of internship gone wrong.”

  “Agreed, though to be honest I had to find that out the hard way. Right after my divorce I had an absolutely textbook midlife crisis. New car, rebound with a twenty-nine-year-old woman, and I was this close”—he holds his fingers next to each other—“to buying a status watch.”

  “Oh no,” I say, thinking of John, of his girlfriend, of her waxing bills. “That is textbook.”

  “The thing is I was miserable that whole time. Turns out you can’t buy—or date—happiness.”

  “Who would’ve thunk it?” I ask with a smile. “So you’re saying money can’t buy you love?”

  “Yep. I’m wise enough to take Beatles lyrics as gospel now. God help us if I ever find myself on a submarine.”

  “At least all your friends will be aboard,” I say.

  “And many more of them will live next door,” he bounces right back. We make eye contact. I am thinking: Boy, this guy can banter. And my, but his eyes are nice. I’m just starting to consider skipping dinner and going straight to kissing when the server appears.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says with a warm smile in her voice. “But I was starting to suspect that if I waited for a quiet moment, I’d be waiting all night.”

  “Yikes,” I say. How long have we been seated without even touching our menus? “I’m sorry; I haven’t even looked at the menu yet.”

  Travis nods in agreement. “You know that thing where your blind date turns out to be so delightful that you totally forget what you’re supposed to be doing at the restaurant?” he asks the woman.

  She tilts her head at me and says, “Oooh, watch out for this one,” and then adds, almost like an afterthought, “Today’s market seafood features littleneck clams sautéed in a rich brown-butter garlic and tossed with window-grown herbs and house-made angel-hair pasta. On top you’ll find a tumble of microgreens harvested at service from the vertical garden”—with this she gestures toward a wall of tiny lettuces growing sideways—“and fresh foraged hen-of-the-woods chiffoned with shallot compound butter.”

  We smile at her politely. The moment she walks away I ask Travis quietly, “How do you chiffon food? Do you think the chef means chiffonade? Or will there actually be a little cloth covering on the plate? Can we order it to find out?”

  Travis smirks at me. “You can, word nerd. I’m ordering something that doesn’t require running a tiny lawn mower up the wall.”

  I choke on my sip of water. “You’re very funny,” I tell him when I’ve caught my breath.

  “I think you bring out my funny,” he says. “We have very good rat-a-tat.”

  “Rat-a-tat?”

  “I heard it on a podcast. It’s when a couple bounces conversation and banter back and forth. It makes me think of those old-timey tap dance showdowns.” Travis flashes me jazz hands and a corny smile. “Rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat!” And then, forming his fingers into pretend guns, he shoots me the un
iversal “take it away” sign.

  “What would you do if I got up and started dancing just now?” I ask him.

  “Propose,” he answers back without a beat.

  I laugh. “Oh my god. That poor server. We’re never going to order,” I say through my giggles.

  “Hang on,” he says and beckons to the server as she stands nearby discreetly waiting on us. To me he asks, “Do you eat meat?” and when I nod, he tells her, “Let’s just make this super simple. Beet salad to start, and then the duck confit and the pappardelle with lamb, and then to drink . . .” He turns to me again. “Pinot noir?”

  I nod vigorously.

  “Pinot noir. This one,” he says, using his finger to underline some mysterious bottle on the wine list for the server.

  She nods. “Very good,” she tells him, and there’s an almost imperceptible wink shared between the two of them. I narrow my eyes for a millisecond but then pretend to have missed it, filing it away under the header: Travis (see also: too smooth?).

  “That sounds wonderful,” I tell him honestly, when she’s away and he does look back at me. And it is so wonderful. Every bite is perfect, the wine is definitely not in the price category I’m used to drinking, and the alchemy of rat-a-tat, alcohol, and rich dinner begins to do its work on me. Before I know it, our entrées are being cleared away, and we are talking as though we’ve known each other for years. I’ve found out he’s a comedy writer on a very popular show but started his career in stand-up. So he has all kinds of great self-deprecating stories about bombing in front of famous people. I could listen all night.

  When we finally leave the restaurant, we both make as though we’re going to hail cabs to go home, but then we just keep walking, working our way slowly downtown. We have another drink at a bar filled with fish tanks that just is too inviting to pass up. He tells me about his very amicable-sounding divorce. I tell him about my kids. He’s easy to talk to, and we sit in front of our empty highball glasses for another half hour, knowing another drink would be one too many but also not wanting to leave. Finally he leans in toward me and softly says, “Come home with me.”

  I blush and flounder and let myself, just for a moment, seriously consider it. But somehow, despite all the fun we’ve had, I am 100 percent sure I don’t want to sleep with him tonight. “I’m sorry. I can’t. One-night stands don’t agree with me,” I say. But is that a lie? I mean, what Daniel and I did, that was pretty darn great. So why don’t I want to do it again?