by Phoebe Fox
I swallowed a rising guilt. I had to find out where things stood with Ben and Pamela. No matter how much I still loved Ben, there were lines I wasn’t willing to cross—and one of those was encroaching on another woman’s turf.
I took a deep breath, tossing the frog back. “So you never really told me about New York,” I said.
“Yeah, I did. We talked about it the night you brought Jake back.”
Plop. The frog landed in my palms, Jake trotting happily after it and sitting in front of me with a toothy doggie grin. “Yeah, I…You know, I mean, like…you guys had fun?”
He shrugged. “Sure. New York is always fun.”
Indirect tactics evidently weren’t going to work.
“So, Pamela seems…really great.”
Somehow Jake missed my throw and was still staring eagerly up at me when Ben caught the frog, so he gave a whistle and shook the toy out in front of him. The dog barreled over, and Ben tossed it to me just as he did. Jake nearly skidded out, throwing up a wave of sand as he wheeled around and came back at me.
“You think so?” he asked finally.
I wanted to drill the Beanie Baby at his chest again. Was he deliberately being obtuse?
“Do you?”
Ben shot his hands up to catch the frog—maybe I hurled it a little faster than our game of keep-away warranted—and held on to it. “Do you really want to talk about this, Brook?” he asked. He wasn’t making any move to throw the toy back, just looking directly at me.
My mouth felt dry despite the moist, sea-scented air, and I swallowed. “Yes. I do.”
After a moment he nodded shortly. “Okay. Yes. Pamela is really great,” he said.
My stomach tumbled to the sand. And because I was apparently much more of a masochist than I realized, my mouth said, “Do you love her?”
He kept staring at me, so long my heart rate sped up. I felt foolish standing there, my hands idle at my sides, the pretext of the game over. Jake settled on the sand, head between his paws, and closed his eyes as if exhausted. Ben seemed to be searching my face for something, but he was too far away for me to tell.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t.”
A smile I couldn’t control began to creep across my lips, and only the dim recognition that it was utterly inappropriate let me bite it back. “Oh,” I said foolishly. “But she seems…perfect,” I said, her usual adjective flying to my lips. “Totally perfect,” I added, unable this time to curb the rueful smile that tugged my mouth.
I took one hesitant step toward him, then another, Jake not even reacting as my bare foot settled an inch from his nose. “Why don’t you think you can love her?” I said, breathless.
It seemed as if even the wheeling seabirds quieted and stilled as I waited for his answer, the sounds of the other dogs and their owners receding into the distance, even the gentle shushing of the gulf’s soft waves growing hushed.
Ben frowned and shook his head, and the breath stuck in my throat.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t.”
Dinner that night at my parents’ house carried an extra delight of undercurrents.
I was still lost in my head about my conversation at Dog Beach with Ben. We’d been so close—everything I wanted dangling right in front of me until, like Tantalus grasping for the fat fruit at his fingertips, it was yanked away as soon as I reached for it.
His answer to my leading question had been so opposite what I’d expected—what I’d been so hungry for that I almost thought I’d already heard it—that for a moment I’d just stood gaping at him, as if I’d lost the ability to understand English. Confused, embarrassed, wanting to regain my bearings, I’d leaned over to pet Jake, as if that were what I’d intended all along. I couldn’t even manufacture enough voice to reply—and wouldn’t have known what to say if I could.
I’d kept my eyes on the dog as I stroked his fur, damp and crusty with sand, and finally, when I could trust myself to speak, I risked a glance up at Ben, who was still standing where he’d been, the frog dangling forgotten from one hand.
“Guess I need to get going,” I’d said in a voice that sounded strange in my own ears, and snatched up my things, walking so quickly back out to the parking area to keep Ben from seeing my plastic smile start to wobble that he and Jake were only just emerging from the mangroves as I started my car. I waved as I drove by them, my eyes determinedly straight ahead.
As we fell into our usual chores before dinner at my parents’, I could barely make eye contact with Sasha, because between my mental state and hers I was afraid I’d fall apart if I did. I avoided being alone with my dad, because I had a habit of blurting out everything to him—he was too easy to talk to. I couldn’t even look at Stu, because I couldn’t bear to see his fears and worries about Sasha written on his face.
At the dinner table, when my mom did her usual grilling of everyone’s week, as soon as she got to Sasha my best friend opened her mouth and then seemed to freeze that way, like the Munch painting brought to life—and finally I snapped into the present.
Sasha couldn’t lie. Not to my mother. But it was too soon—I knew she wasn’t ready. If she blurted out the truth of her pregnancy—and worse, her mixed feelings about it—it would send a shock wave around the table, and only make things worse on Sasha.
So I did the only thing I could think of to avoid disaster: I leaped in and took one for the team.
“You’ll never believe it, but I’ve been talking to Michael again.”
Unsurprisingly, that turned every eye to me. “Oh, hon, are you okay?” came from my dad, and, “Are you shitting me?!” from Stu, and an exasperated, “Oh, Brook Lyn, haven’t you learned?” from—who else?—my mother. There ensued a joyful interrogation that lasted the remainder of the evening and ended with this gem from Mom:
“Just don’t run crying to me when he cuts your legs out from under you again.”
It was everything I always hated about telling my family my personal business.
But one glance at Sasha’s relieved, grateful expression made the whole inquisition worthwhile.
twelve
“I’m not lying on that sofa.”
Sasha eyeballed the chaise lounge where my clients usually sat as we stood in the doorway of my home office.
“No way,” she stated vehemently. “I’m not a patient.”
She’d come by after work late the next afternoon, desperate to get started on whatever plan I’d culled together to help her.
I hadn’t yet culled together any sort of plan, although I did know where we needed to start: with her fears that were crowding out everything else.
But I had to admit it felt awkward. We always talked about our issues together, but this time it felt less bosom buddies and more patient-therapist, and neither of us seemed at ease with the new vibe.
“Fair enough.” I one-eightied us out of the office and back into my living area. “Couch? Chair? Breakfast bar in the kitchen?” I asked, indicating various corners of my house. “We can go sit on my bed if you’re more comfortable—seriously, Sash, I want you to feel relaxed.”
“Well, since a glass of wine is off the table, how about we go sit on your lanai and you can give me a foot rub while we talk.”
“Ha, ha.”
She just looked at me, and I realized she wasn’t kidding. “Of course, sure, sounds good,” I blathered. “Go on out and get comfy and I’ll bring us some refreshments.”
When I came through my sliding doors carrying a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cheese and crackers and carrot sticks (the latter in deference to Sasha), she was sitting on my wicker sofa, feet up. “Why is he still here?” she asked when she saw me, looking to where Jake sat whining outside the screen door.
“Oh, Ben needed to get him to the vet, but he can’t take any time off work at the
moment. I offered to take him today. I’m taking him back home in a little while.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow as I set the tray on the glass-topped table in the center of my little sitting area and poured for us. I handed her a glass and then walked over to push the screen door open for the still-whining Jake. He bolted inside and straight over to Sasha.
“I was going to let him in,” she said, petting his head, “but I wasn’t sure of the in-house dog policy.”
“There doesn’t seem to be one.”
Sasha sighed. “Brook, you have to have some rules. You can’t just let the dog make his own decisions. Dogs need structure, and a strong leader.”
“See what good mothering instincts you have?”
Sasha rolled her eyes. “Come on, headshrink—you can do better than that.” She’d stopped petting momentarily to reach for her lemonade, and Jake pawed at her arm, nearly upsetting her glass.
“Hey! Sit,” she said firmly, and damned if he didn’t. I bit my lips to keep from pointing out her skill at instilling discipline and boundaries.
“You really have to teach me that,” I said instead.
Sasha lifted her legs so I could scootch under them on the sofa, then lowered them back to my lap. “It’s all in your mind-set. Dogs will push things as far as you’ll let them. They don’t mean to be bad—it’s just their nature to get away with whatever they think they can.”
“Like furry, four-legged men,” I said, and we snickered.
“So,” Sasha said, leaning forward for a carrot. “Was taking Jake to the vet your idea, or Ben’s?”
“A little bit of both, actually. Why, you think it means something?” I asked hopefully.
Her eyebrows bunched together in thought. “Depends. Why didn’t he ask his girlfriend to do it?”
“She’s not his girlfriend—they’ve only been dating a couple of months,” I protested, then frowned. “Well…I don’t think she is, anyway. What do you make of this?” I summarized our exchange at the Dog Beach.
She fixed an intent stare on me, tapping her lips with a finger as she thought. “That’s ambiguous. Tell it to me again, step by step.” I obliged—Sasha was the best listener, and never leaped to conclusions without at least a few retellings of the story, like an interrogating cop trying to tease out more information from a witness.
But, “Hmmm,” was all she said when I finished the second recitation.
“What’s ‘hmm’? What do you think?”
“Well…there’s a reason he told you he didn’t love her—that wasn’t an accident.”
“That’s what I thought!”
“But then to say he didn’t mean he couldn’t…I don’t know, Brookie. It’s almost like he’s…baiting you or something.”
I shook my head. “No. He wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t play games.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Everyone plays games sometimes—even if we don’t mean to. Especially when deep feelings are involved.”
I couldn’t really argue with that. I’d have sworn I would never have resorted to that kind of artifice, but I knew I’d played a few little games of my own with Kendall—and wasn’t I playing one with Michael by keeping him on the hook while I tried to figure out whether there was any possibility with Ben?
“So do you mean he has deep feelings for me…or for her?” I didn’t want to invoke Pamela’s name, as though, like Beetlejuice, it would summon her.
Apparently Sasha had no such compunctions. “That depends on how serious things are with Perfect Pamela.”
Warmth flared in me at my best friend’s loyalty in using the nickname I’d coined. “That’s what I was trying to find out,” I said, flopping back against the sofa in frustration.
“Well, does she keep stuff at his house?”
I thought back to Thursday night, when I’d dropped Jake off after Ben’s trip. “I can’t remember. Nothing jumped out at me…and you’d think I’d have noticed.”
“Oh, honey, no offense, but you’re an amateur at snooping.”
“No offense taken,” I said sincerely. That was one of Sasha’s talents I didn’t envy.
“It’s not just obvious stuff, like an extra toothbrush in the bathroom,” she went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “That could be casual—they hook up now and then. You have to look for the definitive signs of something more serious. First off, does the house smell female.”
“Ew.”
“Not like that, fool,” she said at my crinkled nose. “Floral, Vanilla, Lavender, et cetera—any of the most commonly used feminine topnote scents in perfumerie.”
I just stared at her. The range of Sasha’s knowledge—and the extent to which she used it for nefarious purposes—often staggered me.
She continued. “Then check for things like girly food in the fridge—fruit yogurt, diet drinks, like that. Tampons under the bathroom cabinet. Conditioner in the shower, or a moisturizing soap—most guys never bother with that stuff.”
“Sash, I dropped his dog off and he invited me in for a beer. It’s not like I was casing the joint.”
She shrugged. “You can’t succeed if you don’t try, Brook. You need to figure out how to catch a glimpse of those areas. Grab your own beer from the fridge next time. Ask to use his bathroom.”
“He has a guest bath.”
Sasha shot me the hairy eyeball.
“You don’t have a killer instinct.”
“And you’re avoiding the reason we’re here.”
She gave a long, whooshing sigh, and then wiggled her legs in my lap. “Fine. Rub, and then I’ll talk.”
“Okay.” I set down my lemonade and wrapped my hands around her perfectly manicured feet, digging my fingers into her soles.
She moaned. “Oh, yeah. Sometimes I’d rather have your brother do that than go down on me.”
“Ewww!” I dropped her feet like they’d burned me. “Ground rules! I won’t try to convince you what a great mom you’ll be, but you have to never, ever tell me anything like that ever again.”
She was grinning at me around a mouthful of carrot. “Had to break the ice.”
I shuddered and reached for her feet again. “Now this just feels dirty,” I muttered. But she was right—things were back to normal between us. “Okay, so, top of your head—what’s the scariest thing right now about having a child?”
“Babies,” she answered unhesitatingly.
I nodded. “Fair point. Terrifying little creatures. What else?”
She glanced down, then hesitantly met my eye. “You won’t judge me?”
“Never.”
She nodded, pursing her lips, and then muttered something I couldn’t make out.
“What’s that?”
“My figure, okay? Like every cliché on earth, I’m worried that from here on out I’ll go from this”—she ran a hand in the air over her perfect, taut body—“to stretch marks, a permanent pooch, and saggy boobs. I’m sorry,” she said defensively. “Call me shallow. And God knows what’s going to happen to my vagina.”
“Mila Kunis. Julia Roberts. Fergie,” I retorted, ignoring her last comment. “You’re worried about getting out of shape—there’s proof you don’t have to.”
“They have trainers. Personal chefs. And we have no idea of the state of their va-jay-jays. Plus, look at their careers. Downhill after kids. There’s another one of my big fears—career death.”
“Okay, then how about Reese Witherspoon? Kelly Ripa? And of course Angelina Jolie—she has, like, a litter of children, and she’s still working, and even growing her career now as a producer/director.”
“Nannies,” Sasha said, sounding bored.
“At least I didn’t say Gwyneth Paltrow.”
“I would have gotten up and left.”
I stopped rubbing lon
g enough to reach for my glass and take a long sip of lemonade, regrouping.
“Okay, you’re right,” I admitted. “Hollywood celebs maybe aren’t the best examples. But what about my folks? You’ve always thought my parents had a great marriage,” I said. Sasha didn’t know about the affair my dad had when Stu and I were little because Mom was so absorbed by us he felt left out—no one did except him, my mother, and me. And it certainly wasn’t a story that would help my case, even if I were willing to betray my dad’s confidence—which I wasn’t. “And Mom’s pursuing her dreams, even though she’s married and has kids.”
Sasha raised one eyebrow. “Are you forgetting your mom left your dad to do that?”
“Temporarily.”
“And that she had to put those dreams on hold ’til you guys were grown and on your own? Rub,” she commanded, flippering her feet at me.
“Let’s go back to babies,” I said as I obeyed. “What scares you about them, specifically?”
Sasha didn’t even hesitate: “Poop. I’m not going to lie.”
“Yeah. That’s pretty nasty. But I heard it’s not so bad when it’s your own kid.”
Sasha tipped her head down so she could laser-stare me. “Uh, really? Smelly liquid green poo sliming you and your carpet and—dear God—your clothes is okay when it’s your kid’s fecal matter? I don’t think so.”
“Okay, so let’s agree that that’s probably one of those manipulative lies parents tell other people.”
“Yes,” Sasha said fervently. “Along with ‘You won’t even remember the pain of childbirth.’”
“Hoo, boy. That’s on the list, huh?”
She nodded. “And birth defects. And crib death. And never sleeping again. And puberty. And paying for college. And also not paying for college because my kid is a deadbeat who won’t get a job and lives at home for the rest of its life. Honestly, Brook, it would be easier to list the things that aren’t freaking me out.”