The Perfect Find

by Tia Williams

  “Of course,” said Jenna, humiliated.

  May grimaced. “Oh noo, I forgot to keep the secrret. I’m sorry Eric, that was an axnadent!” And then, understanding that she’d ruined the vibe somewhow, Black Swan slipped between her mom’s legs and ran to join her friends.

  Jenna’s body had gone rigid. Somehow, she found the strength to look unbothered, and paste on a tight smile. “Sorry guys. No, we’re not…I’m not engaged. But oh Billie, I’m so excited you’re pregnant.”

  Everyone went silent, too stuck in the mire of that terrible moment to say anything. Jenna and Eric were cloaked in a miserable awkwardness; nothing anyone said would’ve saved them.

  Billie let her arms slip from the two of their shoulders. “Excuse me while I drown myself in the East River.”

  “Billie’s had a long day,” said Jay, glaring at her. “So, what was your announcement, Jenna?”

  She cleared her throat, but her voice sounded weak. “Eric was invited to South by Southwest. The festival.”

  The congratulations were long and loud—almost too effusive. “The board called him yesterday, and said that they’d already fallen in love with Tyler on Perry Street,” said Jenna, trying to overcome her dampened enthusiasm. “But after reading the New York piece, they knew they had to move before his stock rose and Sundance scooped him up. They actually admitted that.”

  “Yeah, the dude called me ‘talent soup.’ Whatever that means.” He said this with an empty smile. It had been the greatest call he’d ever received. The call he’d been waiting for since third grade. But in this anticlimactic moment, it was the last thing he wanted to talk about.

  “No one deserves it more than you, man,” said Jay, shaking his hand. “I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, professor,” said Eric.

  “Don’t forget the little people, heartbreaker,” said Elodie, kissing him on the cheek.

  Then, in a hurried attempt to fast-forward through the tarnished moment, Billie herded everyone over to the picnic table, to blow out May’s candles. Eric and Jenna stood on opposite sides of the table, the space between them seeming to loom oceans-wide.

  After the party, Jenna asked Eric to walk with her along Pier 6, which stretched out far beyond May’s party area. Neither one felt like talking, but Jenna couldn’t go home while things were so abysmal.

  They reached the end without speaking, and then leaned back against the railing.

  “Want to go first?” asked Jenna.

  “Yep,” he said. “Why were you selling me so hard to your friends?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He lives at home, but he’s moving the second he saves money. I know he’s just a kid, but it’s okay ‘cause he has his own Wiki page. He’s good enough for y’all. Swear.’”

  “Honey, you took that the wrong way.”

  “Are you embarrassed to be with me?”

  “Seriously? You know I’m in awe of you. I’m a you-groupie.” She looked at him. “But while we’re talking about saving money—are you really betting on video games? A person who’s trying to save money doesn’t spend it on such silly things.”

  “Said the woman living in the hood with a fifteen hundred dollar armchair.”

  “Hilarious.” Jenna furrowed her brow. “You didn’t seem like you today.”

  “Neither did you. You were trying to control everything I said, watching to see if I made mistakes. I felt like I was breathing wrong.”

  “You barely said anything, and then you turned into a jackass.

  The fruit allergy thing was particularly memorable.” Eric shrugged. “I was over it.”

  “We weren’t ourselves,” she said in a small voice.

  “No.” Eric was silent for a beat. “You’re right about me wasting money on video games, though. Maybe I should start reading Forbes. You know, to learn how to manage my finances like an adult.”

  Jenna blinked.

  “Maybe Brian Stein needs an intern. He could teach me how to invest, how to use proper cell phone etiquette. How to be a social success around fifty-year-old women. He could send me to Duane Reade to get his mousse. It’d be dope.”

  “Oh no,” groaned Jenna. “My phone. Let me explain…”

  “I know technology confuses you. But you should erase your history after Google-fucking your ex.” Furious, he shot out of the railing and started pacing. “‘Everything I ever loved is in her details.’ That’s him, Jenna? This clown had you for twenty years and most vividly misses your decorating?”

  “Elodie just sent me the link! How could I not read it? But it doesn’t mean anything!”

  “She just sent you the link? You’re so bad at this. That shit’s been out a month.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He kept pacing. “I bet it feels good, knowing that he’s still obsessed with you. How many times did you read it? Did you call him? Have you seen him?”

  “No!” Trying not to look as flustered as she felt, she said, “I can’t control what he says about me. I heard he’d mentioned me in an article and, of course, I was curious. That’s all! I don’t want him. I want you.”

  “But why? He’s the antithesis of me. If he’s your type, I don’t even know why I’m here.”

  “You’re here because I love you!” She paused to catch her breath. “You’re here because I want the people I love most to know you. Because I wanted us to tell them about your huge achievement. Because I want you in my life, my actual life.”

  “Do I look like a fucking idiot to you? This was an audition for the role of your in-real-life boyfriend.”

  “That’s not true! Please don’t be upset.”

  “I’m not upset! Do I look upset?”

  “Yes! You look like you wanna huff and puff and blow my house down!”

  Eric looked up at the sky, trying to calm himself. “I need you to tell me the truth. You want what Billie and Jay have. Like, now.”

  “Sure, but not…now. Just, you know, in the abstract.”

  “Don’t downplay it. You want it so bad that Billie had a seizure celebrating our fake engagement. You were deflating when the Witches of Eastwick were talking about babies.”

  Eric wanted to tell her that Darcy had already told him the truth. He’d been obsessing over it since that moment in her office. His own mother had more insight into his relationship than he did. “You talked circles around it the other night, but never said anything real,” he continued. “‘What does our future look like, Eric? Are we gonna make it, Eric?’ It was so hypothetical. Do you know how I felt when I saw how excited you looked over that Disney wedding thing? Like a complete disappointment. Jenna, I just turned twenty-three…I can’t give you that life! When were you gonna tell me how unqualified I am to be your man?”

  “You’re perfect for me,” Jenna said quietly.

  “Do us both a favor and just say what you want. I wanna hear you say it.”

  She couldn’t. She didn’t want to scare him away with her unrealistic daydreams about their future.

  Eric waited five seconds, and then twenty, and then gave up.

  “You’re a coward,” he said.

  “And you’re too young to understand.”

  “Right,” said Eric. “I’m eighteen years younger than you, and I live with the antichrist, and I bet on dumbass video games. I met you way too soon and I don’t know what we do about that. But I love you. I love you like it’s my calling. You don’t know, ‘cause I don’t say it, but there are these times when it hits me so hard, Jenna. Like in the morning when you do that melodramatic, fifteen-minute stretch and try to get up, but then collapse back on the bed like someone shot you. When you pick stuff up off the floor with your toes. When we’re in a meeting and your mouth gets tight because you’re trying not to laugh at something I said. Your you-ness ruins me.” His eyes bore into her. “Whatever happened here today, though? I’m not with it. And I gotta go before it gets worse.”

  He tried to
walk away, but Jenna grabbed his hand. “Eric, are we going to be okay?”

  What could he say? They had to be okay. That wasn’t in question. He just didn’t know how.

  He nodded vaguely. And then Jenna released his hand, and let him go.

  www.stylezine.com

  Just Jenna: Style Secrets from our Intrepid Glambassador!

  Q: “I’ve always adored fluffy coats and après-ski sweaters and fur-lined boots. My dream is to dress like Julie Christie in Doctor Zhivago. But I live in Taos!! And I adore it. My whole family’s here, and I love working with my kindergartners, and the topography moves me. But what about my fashion fantasy?” -@MelissaJustDoingMeLopez

  A: Sweetie, it might be time to surrender to your reality. It’s, like, two thousand degrees in New Mexico—I’m frightened that embracing the Ski Chalet look might give you a heat rash. Also, I can’t in good conscience advise you to do what I call “Forcing the Season” (I see this during New York winters when we get a rare day above forty degrees, and women break out their Freakum dresses). The harsh truth is that the temps are too high for your winter style dream. Sure, you might not rock faux-mink earmuffs anytime soon, but you have the privilege of living in a place that you love passionately. Try adding winter-wear elements to your New Mexico wardrobe, like pairing a gauzy sundress with a lightweight, cropped bomber (check out

  Nordstrom.com or Zara for my favorite season-splicing essentials!).

  PS: The older I get, the more I wonder if the secret to true happiness is knowing which dreams to let go of.

  CHAPTER 26

  The next evening, Jenna attempted to mask her misery at the New York Academy of Art Tribeca Ball, one of the chicest charity affairs of the spring season. Tonight’s theme was “Believe in Luck,” and whoever had designed the space had taken this literally. The entire room seemed to have been French-kissed by Tinkerbelle. The ceiling and walls were shot through with a million flickering, tiny white lights. Everything was beige, cream, or ivory, and sprinkled with a fine spray of shimmer—from the waiter’s gloves to the satin tablecloths on the dining tables along the perimeter of the room. The guests were a cross-section of New York luminaries. Robert de Niro, Anna Wintour, Zac Posen, Puffy, SJP, and Alec Baldwin mingled with supermodels, fashion editors, brand name socialites, and Wall Street tycoons.

  The tickets were upwards of a thousand dollars, but Jenna was invited by Ralph Lauren’s PR team. Elodie was invited by one of her clients. When Jenna had received her over-the-top, duchesse satin-wrapped invite, she’d wanted to RSVP no—which she told her best friend the night before.

  “Those scene-y, New York-y, fancy-schmancy balls are designed to make civilians feel like shit. The ones I went to with Brian were fun. But if you have your seat paid for through a work connection, you feel like somebody’s poor cousin, and then you spend the entire night trying not to get red wine on your borrowed Marchesa gown while being mortified that John Hamm’s girlfriend had her publicist tell you to stop staring at him.”

  “Come again?” Elodie asked.

  “It wasn’t my finest hour,” said Jenna. “Are you bringing anyone?”

  “No, I recently saw this psychic who told me to stop with the online dates. According to her, my soulmate is just around the corner. And even weirder? She said he’s coming from a sunny state. Do you think she means a sunny state of mind, or literally a state that has a lot of sun?”

  “Either way, you’re winning,” said Jenna. “Nothing wrong with a happy man, or a man with real estate in Malibu. Wait, do you even believe in soulmates?”

  “No. But cares? I don’t believe in fillers, but I just shot up my laugh lines with Botox.”

  “Why? You’re perfect. The last thing you need is Botox.”

  “And the last thing you need is to stay in tonight,” said Elodie.

  “You and Eric just had a tiff.”

  “It was more than a tiff.”

  “Jenna, go to the ball. I know you’ve been sulking at home all day in your trashy cutoffs, eating Nutter Butters and marathoning Girlfriends.”

  “Purple Rain.”

  “You need to get out,” said Elodie. “It’ll be fun. So many couples we know will be there.”

  Jenna sipped her champagne, remembering this conversation. So many couples we know will be there. Indeed. The room was lousy with couples. Stunning, glamorous women on the arm of rakish, debonair men with grey-flecked temples and fully paid for summer homes in the Hamptons. Married couples with full, rich lives—families, children, college tuitions and robust life insurance plans. If and when the men had affairs, they were respectful. The women allowed their Pilates instructors to give them head, but wasn’t that what they were there for? The gala might’ve been called the Esteemed Married Couples of Manhattan Ball, because that’s exactly who was there.

  She adjusted the delicate floral garland in her hair and smoothed her hands over her bias cut, forest green, capped-sleeved Rodarte gown (“Effortlessly Sexy Wood Nymph in Mourning”). She eyed a gorgeous, A-list Asian dermatologist on the dance floor with her stunning Hungarian husband. Deciding she looked unnecessarily smug, Jenna took another sip of champagne and glared daggers at her. Your guy’s foxy, but mine’s delicious, and we’re not even close to sealing the deal because he was just Prom King, like yesterday. And this fact makes me want to rip those perfect auburn lowlights out of your head, Dr. Jennie. I might look single, but I’m not, I’m taken-taken-taken, just not the way you are, it’ll never be the way you are, we’ll never be parents like you and that Eastern Bloc bozo and it crushes me, and I feel like you know it, and I hate you, him, and your daughter who’s a junior at Sacred Heart and had an emo song on the Billboard charts last month. Fuck the entire Ko-Stanislov family.

  Glowering, Jenna finished off her glass of champagne. She was in hell. She’d texted Eric, called him, sent carrier pigeons—and nothing. She was hardly surprised. He was hurt and stubborn.

  Plus, he was right about May’s party. Without being conscious of it, she’d wanted to see if Eric measured up—and she’d come off as trying to stage-manage his personality. Alone, in their secret love bubble, they were perfectly in sync! But around other people, their differences were magnified. She’d felt like his mother. And he’d seemed ten years younger than he already was.

  The reason why Madonna, J. Lo and Demi Moore can date guys decades younger is because they’ve already had their children. I hate them, too.

  It was an hour into the gala, and she hadn’t yet found Elodie in the crowd of hundreds. So she’d been grouchily making the rounds, getting swept into conversations with old colleagues, fashion contacts, designers; people she hadn’t seen in the almost-year she’d been back in New York. And she kept having the similar versions of the same conversations.

  “Jenna, is it 2003 or 2013?” Markie Masters had asked her, about five minutes ago. She was a gawky, but chic blonde American who was the head fashion buyer for Nicoletta’s, a luxury department store in Milan. “Your complexion is just fantastic. What are your skincare secrets?”

  “Well, I don’t go to Dr. Jennie.”

  “And who are you here with? Anyone new? I have to say, the kid in your wildly flattering New York article was one hot piece of ass.”

  “You don’t know the half,” muttered Jenna. “Nope, not seeing anyone. Not since Brian.”

  “I’m so sorry about you two,” said Markie, who’d often hosted the two at her villa during Milan Fashion Week. “Lily L’Amour. I swear, one day she’ll OD on Tory Burch. Well, I hope you get back on the wagon soon. You’re such a catch.” Katie Couric winked at Markie from two social clusters over, and the redhead waved at the superstar anchor. “Schmoozing calls, but I predict you’ll be engaged by the end of the year. Ciao!”

  Jenna laughed at this and blew her a kiss. Yeah right. Like my hot piece of ass will be proposing to me anytime before 2020.

  She plucked another flask of champagne from a roving waiter and relocated to the end of the bar, by the wildly ex
travagant band. Who paid for this collection of yahoos? The guitarist’s butt cleavage was showing and the keyboardist’s tux was fifteen sizes too big. Plus, the lead singer’s rug was slipping off the side of his head, and he were singing a cabaret-style rendition of “It’s Getting Hot in Here,” which was awkward, considering that song’s superstar producer, Pharell Williams, was twenty feet away.

  Suddenly, Jenna noticed a man approaching her from the crowd.

  “Hello,” said Jenna. “Are you Jenna Jones?”

  He stuck out his hand; she automatically shook it. But she couldn’t hear a thing he said over the relentlessly loud band. “What?”

  “Are you Jenna Jones?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “JENNA JONES?”

  “YES!” screamed Jenna. “I’m sorry, I guess standing right by this band is not the place to meet someone. You are?”

  “I’m…” he started to speak in a normal voice, and then raised it up ten decibels. “I’m James Diaz! The director of the Fashion Theory program at Fordham! Jay Lane told me all about you!”

  “Oh, James Diaz!”

  He nodded. He was about six feet tall, with an incredible head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair. He was ruggedly athletic-looking, as if he were a person who might enjoy climbing volcanic mountains or, perhaps herding massive flocks of sheep in his spare time.

  “Let’s move down there so we don’t have to yell!” shouted Jenna.

  The two wove through the crowd until they got to a relatively quiet spot at the other end of the bar. Jenna put down her flask of champagne.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand.

  “I’ve been meaning to email you, I’ve just been so swamped setting up these new courses. I know all about you, I’ve been following your career. I have to say, when Jay told me you’d been teaching, my first thought was that we had to have you.”

  “Well, you know I’m at StyleZine now,” she started, trying to figure out a way to play this. “And I love it, but God, I miss teaching. I’d love to talk to you about what you have in mind.”