“I’m sorry.”
“No, it was years ago, and besides, she was right. I would have stuck around, I would have moved for her, but it was more because of inertia.” He stopped to take a sip of his wine. “I was touch and go for a while, but when I got to New York, everything was much clearer. And that’s when I realized that she wasn’t the one. I managed to recover, and I don’t think about her much. And those two things reassure me that there’s someone else who is.” I thought about Jake, how I thought I’d never get over him. How, even when I was with Ned, I still dreamt of him, I still tasted his presence like he never left.
“Did you fight? I mean, why did she end it?”
“Well, yeah, we fought like anyone fights. But it wasn’t anything big. I mean, it wasn’t like we had different views of the world or that she wanted kids and I didn’t or anything like that. But our last year together, we just sort of drifted. And when we did, I think we both saw that we could build lives, happy lives, outside of each other. And that was all Natasha needed to know. She figured if she didn’t miss me when I’d be pulling a double shift at the hospital, then maybe she wouldn’t miss me if I weren’t around at all.”
I flashed back to Jake, to his seemingly unending road trips, to his nights out with the band. And how, though I ached for him during his time away, he reveled in his freedom. I could see it in his eyes right before he took off for a tour: the lust for independence that he lost whenever he was attached to me.
“God.” I sighed. “You have, like, the most insightful perspective on relationships, like, ever.”
He laughed. “You, my dear, should sit down before you fall over. What can I say? Both of my parents are psychiatrists.”
“Maybe I can get their number if I survive all of this.”
He froze and looked over at me. “Don’t talk like that. Telling yourself all of the things that you can’t do. Don’t you think of giving up. You don’t know what you’re capable of surviving until you’re forced to survive it.”
I felt tears rise out of nowhere; I waved them off and blamed the pot. So Zach tugged off his oven mitts and set down the wooden spoon and came over and pulled me tight. And true, I was stoned, and more true, I wanted comfort, but I wasn’t too intoxicated to hear him say, “Lean on me.” And when I did, the most beautiful part of it all was that he held me up.
AFTER DINNER AND when we had burned through another joint, I wobbled up, stood on top of the couch, and made my announcement.
“I would like to officially…” I stopped and stuck my hands out like a surfer might to keep my balance. “Whoa. Okay. Let me start over. I would like to officially, here in the safety of my friends, and perhaps with the help of a slight touch of pot, declare that Bob Barker has been added to my list.” I nodded authoritatively and jumped off the couch.
“Your list?” Zach asked with a puzzled look on his face.
“Yeah, my list.” I looked over at Sally to explain, but she was curled up in a fetal position, shoulders shaking with laughter, tears streaming down her face. “You know: the five people you could sleep with, even if you’re married, and face no consequences.” I paused and cocked my head. “Although I guess now, since I’m single, I could sleep with Bob and no one would give a shit. Huh. All right. I guess the list is moot.”
Sally sat up and fought back her giggles. “Bob Barker? Nat. I mean, isn’t he, like, 947 years old?”
“Mmmm, yes,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. “But there’s a reason that they call them ‘Barker’s Beauties.’ I think he’s done them all. And a man of his age? Well, let’s just say that he probably knows his way around a woman’s anatomy.” I nodded. “Yes indeed.”
“A man his age,” said Zach. “You’d be lucky if he could find your anatomy without the help of bifocals.” Sally fell over again in a heap of laughter. “Okay, so geezers aside, who else is on your list.”
“Well,” I said quite seriously. “I’ve given this some thought. Because Bob had to bump someone off, and whenever someone gets bumped off, you have to do a bit of mental math. And prioritizing, of course.”
“Of course,” Zach said solemnly.
“So obviously, there’s Scott Speedman,” I said, holding my thumb up to count as number one.
“Obviously?” Zach asked.
“Because he reminds her of her old boyfriend, Jake,” Sally said from the floor.
“Right, there’s that. And he’s just fucking hot,” I added and took a deep breath. “Okay, so the next, in no particular order, are: well, Bob. And I’d have to go with Hugh Grant.”
“Ooh, Hugh Grant. He’s on my list, too,” Sally agreed, still from the floor. “I almost interviewed him once, and Drew got very nervous. Knowing that he was on my list.”
I held three fingers in the air. “So two left. And here’s where it gets tricky. I’d like to throw Michael Vartan into the mix because that boy looks like he can do it up. But Kyle’s friend, Jackie, knows someone who slept with him, and I don’t know, that somehow muddles it, you know?” Zach looked at me like he didn’t know, didn’t know at all, but I just ignored him. “Eh, but we’ll say Michael Vartan because he makes me drool. And lastly?” I sighed. “Oh, I’m not sure. Patrick Dempsey?” I felt myself blush, knowing that Zach looked like his doppelgänger.
“Ronnie Miller?” Sally said, finally sitting up. “Come on, you can land one better than that.” Zach looked even more confused. “Can’t Buy Me Love,” Sally said in his direction. “All aboard the Ronnie Miller express!”
“Okay, if big fish is what you want, big fish it is: I’ll go with…” I stared up at the tract lighting and curled my lips into an O. “I’ll go with…”
“Pat Sajak?” Zach offered helpfully, and I threw a pillow at him.
“No. I’ll go with Dennis Quaid.” I nodded my head conclusively. “And now it’s your turn.” I pointed at Zach in the way that a hunter might target a deer.
“Okay.” He laughed. “I’m game. But keep in mind that I’ve never done this before.”
“Pul-ease,” Sally said, placing a pillow underneath her ass. “Like every guy doesn’t have a fantasy list at his mental fingertips. Christ, if I find one more porno site on Drew’s computer, I’m going to throw it out the window.”
“Hmmm, okay.” Zach rubbed his hands together. “Well, to start, and in homage of Bob Barker, I’ll go with Diane Keaton. Sexy, sure of herself. And older women are great in bed.” I felt myself go slack-jawed. And you would know that how? I physically bit my tongue. “Angelina Jolie. Yeah, definitely. God, that body alone. And you just get the sense that she’s an animal. Oh, and Carmen Electra for the same reasons. I imagine there’s nothing that girl won’t do.” Suddenly, this was decidedly less fun than I’d pictured it. I got up to light another joint, leaving Zach weighing his options underneath his breath. I plopped back down on the couch in an effort to let him know that I was completely and entirely disinterested in whomever else he added to his list.
“You’re right,” he said, reaching for the joint. “This is much harder than you’d think.” I clamped my mouth shut. “Okay, for the last two, I’ll go with Halle Berry—again, that body, and Pamela Anderson. Just because you have to go with Pamela Anderson or else no guy will ever speak to you again.”
Sally flopped back down on the floor and groaned. “Oh God, could you be any more obvious? I mean, clearly, it’s all about the bodies on all of them.”
“No, clearly,” I interjected, “it’s all about the breasts. Zach, it seems, is a breast man.” There was more than a trace of bitterness in my voice.
“Not fair,” he protested, handing the joint to Sally, who waved him off. “I couldn’t even tell you the size of Diane Keaton’s breasts. Besides, isn’t that the whole point of this list: to fantasize about your ideal?”
“Aha!” I clapped triumphantly. “So they are your ideal.”
“I’m not dignifying this discussion any longer.” Zach laughed. “Who wants dessert?” He stood up and he
aded to the kitchen.
“Men,” Sally grunted, before she pulled a pillow over her face. “Tits, tits, tits, tits, tits, tits, tits. God, you’d think they were the eighth wonder of the world.”
I didn’t answer her. Instead, I looked down at my stricken chest and wondered who would want me at all when this fucking cancer had taken them from me.
TEN
Dear Diary,
I know, I know, I’ve been slacking. Dylan is next on my list to call, but I haven’t had the time yet to hunt him down. And Janice has been urging me to keep up the writing, so I’m logging in an entry that has nothing to do with Dylan, but it sort of does have to do with men, so I figured that you wouldn’t mind.
I’m happy to report, well, happy might not be the right word but I’m using it regardless, that I have officially smoked my first joint. I know, like, fifteen years too late, right? Well, better late than never because I was finally able to eat a full meal afterward. But I’ve already gotten ahead of myself.
Sally and I went to Zach’s for dinner, as well as for some pot-smoking lessons. Weird, right? But it gets weirder: I woke up there the next morning. Now Diary, don’t go jumping to conclusions! Though trust me, it’s easy to because I did the same thing—I practically broke out in a sweat from my panic when I jumped to conclusions.
So what happened was this. Zach, Sally, and I got very, very stoned. At some point late in the evening, right when we were winding up a heated game of Trivial Pursuit, Sally looked at the time and realized that Drew would be livid if she didn’t bolt pronto, so she grabbed her coat, gave us both kisses, and left us with our pies half full of tiny wedges. Despite my impaired judgment, I do recall whipping Zach’s ass in the end. And as we know, I like to win, so I got up and did some little hoochie dance or something, but then I suddenly felt very, very dizzy. Like I do when the chemo is still running rampant through my system.
So Zach walked me over to his couch, and I put my head on a cashmere pillow, and Diary, that’s all I remember until I woke up at 7:17 alone in his bed. I wasn’t even sure where I was at first. I looked out of the twenty-second-floor window and ran my hands over the maroon sheets and tried to jumble together the preceding twelve hours. I was fully dressed, so at least that was a relief.
In the living room, Zach had left me a note next to the bag of remaining joints. “Got paged and had to run. Take the rest of this. Will call you soon.”
See, Diary? This? Is why I didn’t smoke pot in college. Bad things happen when I let myself slip just a tiny bit out of control. Sigh. Note to self: From now on, get high alone. (Don’t worry, Diary, since it’s for medicinal purposes, I’m pretty sure that Narcotics Anonymous wouldn’t consider this a warning sign.)
So, Diary, this is the pickle I now find myself in. Did I or did I not engage in some sort of entirely inappropriate behavior with my gynecologist who seems to have a strong D-cup fetish, and for whom one of my best friends still may harbor a bit of love and, oh, this part matters, who I would most definitely have jumped like a monkey by now if it weren’t for this fucking disease.
You can’t hear me, Diary, but I’m sighing right now. There’s really nothing much else to do.
From: Foley, Blair
To: Miller, Natalie
Re: The holiday party
Hi Natalie!!
I hope that you’re doing great! We all just got back from our little vacations after the election madness! I went to Florida with my boyfriend. It felt sooooooooo good to take a few days off and recover. I can’t believe that the time has gone so quickly, and we’re already gearing up for next year’s congressional session. Weird! Right?
Anyway, I’m writing because the senator is so glad that you can make it to the Christmas party!! We all are: It feels like forever ago since we’ve seen you!
But she did want me to alert you to the fact that Councilman Taylor and his wife are attending. The senator felt like inviting them was the nice thing to do—I’m sure you understand!! But the bad news of this is that she told me, well, there’s really no easy way to say this, but the senator told me to tell you that when you show up, she’d like you to issue a formal apology to Mrs. Taylor. You know, for the hooker thing and all.
Sorry. But I’m sure that it will go great!
Best,
Blair
From: Miller, Natalie
To: Foley, Blair
Re: Apology
Dear Blair,
Please inform the senator that if I apologize to Susanna Taylor, it will be a direct admission of our role in the dirty press game that we played. I can’t see how this benefits anyone.
Please further inform her that with all due respect, I really don’t feel like looking like an a-hole.
Thanks for the well wishes. I’m glad to hear that Florida was fun.
—Natalie
From: Foley, Blair
To: Miller, Natalie
Re: Spoke with the Senator
Natalie,
I mentioned your feelings to Dupris, and well, unfortunately, she feels VERY strongly about this. I don’t want to get into the ultimatums that she might have mentioned, but if it were me, I’d apologize. My mom used to tell me that saying you’re sorry couldn’t undo your actions, but it could make you look like a decent person in spite of them.
Sorry again. But see you at the party!!!! Should be fun!!!!
Best,
Blair
I rolled my eyes at the computer screen. So now I was taking moral advice from a girl whose favorite thing in life appeared to be the use of the SHIFT + 1 button. I sank my face into my hands and considered calling Dupris directly, telling her all the things that were running through my head, things like, I am not your scapegoat, you slippery little politician. Or I distinctly recall you giving me tacit permission to sink Taylor with whatever means necessary. Instead, I pushed my chair away from my desk until I rolled back and hit the couch. Shit, I thought next. How long have I been someone else’s lackey?
ZACH CALLED LATE on Monday while I was in a mid cleaning binge. Now that Manny was in the mix, it seemed virtually impossible to keep my apartment clean: The minute I got done vacuuming, he seemed to shed an entire coat all over again. I was just about to start scrubbing the toilet when the phone rang.
“Uh, hey, hold on, I’m on top of my toilet,” I blurted out, then realized exactly how that sounded when he didn’t respond. “Um, no, I mean, I’m cleaning my toilet and was leaning on it to reach in the back and get the nasty grime.” Holy Christ. Shut up! My bumbling mind was too busy frantically trying to recapture what, if anything, had transpired over the weekend to pull out a coherent sentence. So after he asked how I was feeling, and after I thanked him for the home-cooked meal, I just put it out there and asked.
“Did anything happen between us on Saturday night?” I paused, trying to possibly maintain even a shred of dignity while admitting to a blackout. Then I realized this was an oxymoron, and I felt my pulse quicken and continued. “Um, because I woke up in your bed, and I really don’t remember much.” I stuck the phone between my ear and my neck and peeled off my rubber gloves.
“High-class marijuana can do that to you.” He laughed. “Relax, Natalie, no. Nothing happened. I figured that you could use a good night’s sleep, so when you passed out on the couch, I took you into my room and left you there. No peeking, no nothing. I slept in the living room.”
“Oh. Okay. I wasn’t sure,” I said, as I washed my hands in my bathroom sink.
“Would it have been so awful if something had?”
I saw my cheeks flame in the mirror and worried that he could see them through the telephone line.
“I have cancer.”
“I know.”
“I’m not available. I have cancer.”
“I don’t see what one has to do with the other.”
“Cancer makes me unavailable, Zach. I’m not sure what you don’t get.” I plunked the lid closed on the toilet and sat down.
“Okay,” he s
aid slowly. “Well, if that’s your reasoning.”
“And I think Lila wants you back.”
My stomach plunged with both relief and regret: relief because it changed the subject, regret because it wasn’t a subject that I wanted to illuminate. Zach went silent, and I heard Manny whimpering from a bad dream in my bedroom.
“What makes you say that?” he finally said.
“She called earlier. Wanted to know about Saturday night. She pressed me for details—how you looked, what you made, how you acted.” I started scraping my thumbnail over a hard water stain on my shower door.
“I hope you told her that the company was second only to the fine food,” he said.
I ignored him. “But I’d say the real tip-off was when she said, ‘I think I want him back.’” I heard him sigh, and an awkward silence filled the line again. I slipped off the toilet onto the cold white tiles on the floor. “So you wouldn’t take her back?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“I don’t think that will stop her from trying.” And it was true.
His cell phone rang in the background, and he asked me to hold on. I heard him muttering into his phone but couldn’t make out the details.
“Natalie. I’m sorry. I have to take this; it’s work. Listen, have a great time at your holiday party, and a good holiday if I don’t speak with you. Go easy on yourself. Remember that next year can’t be worse than this one. And I’ll talk to you soon.”
We clicked good-bye, and I leaned back onto the porcelain tub. This is going to be complicated, I thought. And maybe complicated isn’t what I need. Then I thought, Maybe I won’t know what I need until I can’t live without it.
ROUND FOUR
December
ELEVEN
Nobody particularly enjoyed the annual office holiday Christmas party, but Dupris threw it each year regardless. Initially, I figured that I finally had a slam-dunk excuse not to go: my bald head and ailing condition and all of that. But after Blair’s e-mails, Dupris had called me personally and told me how much she’d like to see me there. Since my job made me a professional ass-kisser who wasn’t used to telling her boss no, I found myself agreeing to her invitation over the phone, all the while willing myself to make up a reason that I couldn’t. That the senator’s true intentions shined through—namely, for me to hang my tail between my legs with Susanna Taylor, not bestow my fabulous personality on the crowd—was not lost on me.
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