I thought for a moment before responding. How should this all work, exactly? He wanted family time just as I did. The thing was, our understanding of family had shifted. Kylie was his family, but where did that leave me? What happened when a man and woman, to borrow from Gwyneth Paltrow herself, “consciously uncoupled”? Could you be family one week and not family the next? That was the trauma of divorce. The forced reimagining of we to I. The thought was depressing.
“You just met them,” Matt reiterated. “Maybe you should go slow?”
“I just want to get to know her a little,” I said, fully aware of how defensive I sounded. “It’s also important to gather any information she might have about hereditary illnesses. Who knows what kind of valuable information she might have? There isn’t anything wrong with that.”
“No, but I can’t shake the feeling that your judgment’s off.”
“I don’t think so. Will you give me Kylie for Sunday or not?”
“I don’t think we should make too many changes to our agreement. It’s unstable.”
“I agree, but it’s just this once. I thought we were supposed to leave room for flexibility.”
“We should save that for emergency situations.”
We sat there, fuming and rigid, neither of us having the least bit of interest in being flexible.
“That Dr. Indigo,” said Matt, changing the subject. “Do you think she’s helping?”
“Too early to tell, but if I had to say, I’d say . . . a strong maybe.”
“Then I have a compromise,” Matt said. “If I let you take Kylie on Sunday, then you don’t give me a hard time about tagging along to Kylie’s next appointment with this doctor.”
“Tag along?” That made it sound lighthearted, not the tense showdown it was likely to be. “Why?”
“This woman is treating my daughter. And charging a crap ton of money to do so. I want to see what she’s all about.”
I couldn’t argue with that one. “Okay,” I said. “Fine.”
Matt hopped off the bench and turned to me, nervously moving his hands from his hips to his sides to his pockets. “This thing with your mom, well, I know it’s not necessary,” he said. “I also know we don’t need to be spending the money. I remembered how much Sophie needs a project, and I think it would be really good to do something productive with Kylie. She’s been through so much, with the . . . sickness, and . . . the divorce. She needs to work on something fun that doesn’t have anything to do with the challenges she’s facing.”
I knew he was right, but I thought I detected a slight note of condemnation in his comment. I fought my lesser self, but hell, when divorce cracks open a relationship, the stuff that oozes out usually isn’t pretty.
“You aren’t doing this just for Mom and Kylie,” I said. “What is it you need? What are you looking for?”
Matt broke my gaze for a moment, silent, probably contemplating whether or not he should tell me something personal. Our shared history won out, because he met my eyes again and said, “I’ve been a teacher for seventeen years. I still try, honestly I do, but I think careers age like people, and mine is having a midlife crisis. I’m a little restless, a little impatient. Since you left, I’ve been waiting for some other purpose to show itself. The other day, when I saw the lamp your mom was working on, well, I felt so useless. I don’t know how to do things, to really do things that matter.”
“You’re a teacher. You’ve been responsible for educating thousands of kids. That definitely matters.”
“I’m not saying it doesn’t. I’m just saying . . . I need something more. And this might seem like a stupid thing, a small, meaningless thing, but it’s one thing I know I need right now. I’ll see this project start to finish. It’ll be something real, something tangible. Does that make sense?”
His sincerity touched something inside me—a spot I thought had hardened, but turned out to have a soft center. “Okay. I get it.”
Slowly, as though I was made of spun glass, he put one hand awkwardly on my shoulder. “Thanks,” he said. He looked like he wanted to say more, to add something to the rare civil moment, but he didn’t.
He also didn’t move his hand until I slid off the bench and made my way back into the kitchen.
And I kind of didn’t want him to.
Search: Cassie Flores
I had a case of internet paranoia. There is a small part in all of our brains that secretly suspects everyone else has some kind of magical power where they can immediately see who was stalking them on Facebook.
Cassie Flores seemed like just the kind of person to have that power.
I logged out and logged in as my mom. She hadn’t used her Facebook account since 2014. One solo photo acted as both her profile pic and the entire content of her feed—a shot of Mom behind the bar at Stef’s Tavern, dressed in a Santa hat and ugly Christmas sweater. Her features were blurred by the glare of the twinkling lights bouncing off the mirror behind her. She could be anyone.
I typed Cassie’s name in the search bar again, this time with more confidence. There. Her profile showed an attractive brunette with her arms around a large, menacing Doberman, the kind of dog police use in movies when they are hunting someone down.
The cover shot behind her was of a random sunset on a random beach.
Didn’t Matt say she had a kid?
I scrolled down a ways until I spotted him, a cute, skinny, bespectacled boy, shyly holding up a medal he won in a chess tournament. Second place! Cassie wrote. Next time we go for the gold!
Gut instinct? I did not like Cassie Flores.
My gut was often faulty, though, so I continued my cyberstalking. Cassie leaned left politically, a plus for Matt. She could water ski, kick box, and, like Jenn with two n’s, she was really into CrossFit.
Awesome.
We shared a handful of mutual friends, no one I was all that close with. We both belonged to an informal parents’ group from our school district, so I went to that page and searched for her name.
Bingo. A post from earlier in the week.
District 168 Parents: Open School Board Position
Bree Nguyen: OMG—Rich Jenkins resigned from the school board! Don’t know why—maybe a certain set of newborn twins has something to do with his decision (Ha—wish you the best, Rich and Kelly!!! XO!!!)? Anyhow, there’s an emergency meeting a week from Sunday at 6pm, in the school gym, to discuss a special election, as the district bylaws state a position can’t go empty for longer than sixty days. I’d consider it, but Bill would have me committed—Whitman is in soccer, Math Olympiad, and fencing. Bronwyn has Mandarin class, ballet, Poms, and meditation. My evenings are insane. How about you guys? Any takers?
Gloria Morales: Raine has gymnastics, improv class, Girl Scouts, and she’s dead set on trying out for Iron Chef Kids. I’d like to, but no freaking way.
Hallie Oakland: I’m giving up volunteering. I mean it this time. Carbs too. And wine. Red meat. Maybe chocolate. Definitely sugar of all kinds . . . I plan on being in ketosis for the next fifty years . . .
Bree Nguyen: Oh, come on. Being on the school board is like being the wizard of Oz. You hold all the puppet strings!
Hallie Oakland: Actually, getting a position is more like being on an episode of Naked and Afraid. No, thank you. I’ll be busy committing myself to a new low-carb, no sugar, no booze, meatless, joyless lifestyle. And the last thing I need is the whole district judging my life choices.
Gloria Morales: We have choices? I do not know of what you speak.
Cassie Flores: What’s the actual time commitment?
Bree Nguyen: One evening a week, Sunday afternoons, and special sessions when needed.
Cassie Flores: Elliot has chess and Science Scholars, but I think I could fit it in. I’ll be at the informational meeting.
Bree Nguyen: Yay! You are exactly who we need on the school board, Cassie.
People “liked” the heck out of Cassie’s comment. Sixty-two people, to be exact.
; I sincerely did like Rich Jenkins. During his time on the school board, he’d developed a new drop-off system for all the schools that resulted in way less mayhem and possible vehicular homicide. He’d also lobbied for an allergy table in the cafeteria, but to my frustration, he couldn’t garner enough support. So, Cassie, a woman who likely valued her dog over her kid, was going to take his place?
No way.
I quickly logged out as my mother, logged in as myself, and started typing.
Ally Anderson: Your right, Bree. This is an important position. I’m interested, so I’ll be at the meeting too!
And before I could hit the “Edit” button . . .
Cole Flounders: Not to be a grammar nerd, but it’s “you’re,” Ally. You are. Not the possessive.
Bree Nguyen: Well, the more the merrier, I guess. And, Cole, “your” a total nerd, that’s why we love you!
I didn’t bother editing my comment. I already had two “Likes.”
CHAPTER 7
When I got to the salon the next day, Heather was sitting in my chair, balancing her laptop on her knees. Jenn with two n’s stood behind her, pointing at the screen and shouting out directives.
“I know you took the photo here, but with the sink in the background, it looks like a bathroom shot. Bathroom pics are a hard no! The kind of men you want to meet will think you’re loose, or worse . . . poor.”
“I am poor,” Heather said. “Relatively speaking.”
“That information should remain private and confidential,” Jenn said.
I dropped my bag off at the front desk and hustled over to them. Was Heather actually on a dating site? I checked for signs of the apocalypse. “What are you guys doing?” I tried, and failed miserably, to not sound excited.
“I want you to even out my haircut,” Jenn with two n’s said. “The party was fun, but now it’s back to business. I don’t have an appointment, but you don’t start officially working for forty-two minutes, which leaves us plenty of time.”
This was not unexpected. And I wasn’t exactly sure what kind of business she was referring to, but I also thought it was probably best I didn’t know. Too interested in what Heather was doing to allow a stopover for irritation, I hunched down to get a better look at the laptop screen.
Cupidworks.com
Wasn’t that the site Matt was on? And Cassie too? I tried not to think about that and read Heather’s bio:
Heather, 39
Status: single
Occupation: hairdresser/stylist
Interests: traveling, watching Netflix, yoga
Looking for: single male, 35–55.
The photo she’d chosen was taken three years ago on a weekend trip to Michigan. It was slightly blurry because the photographer had a bit too much pinot grigio. I know because that photographer was me.
“Do I get an opinion on this?” I asked, working hard to keep my tone neutral. Heather, in the five years I’d known her, had barely dated, barely shown any interest in romance at all. What prompted the change?
“Yes,” Heather said. “You just aren’t allowed to laugh.”
“I would never laugh. I might laugh at some of the guys who come up, though.”
Jenn with two n’s snorted. “Slim pickings. I keep telling Heather she should go on Buzz. The men on that site are of a certain quality.”
I wondered what that meant to a woman like Jenn. CrossFit trainer? Hedge-fund manager? I couldn’t imagine Heather with either.
“Those Buzz guys look like they hired a team of professionals to style their photo shoots.” Heather sighed. “I don’t want someone high maintenance.”
“You won’t find any bathroom shots or dick pics on Buzz,” Jenn said. “I promise you that.”
I reread Heather’s brief profile. It was generic, mild, and could have belonged to any woman. It wasn’t likely to attract anyone worthy of my friend. Still, I knew this was fragile territory, and I didn’t want to discourage her. “What kind of guy are you looking for?”
“Nice,” Heather said without hesitation. “Employed. A grown-up man.”
“Boooring,” Jenn muttered under her breath.
“Any guy on this thing would be lucky to have you,” I said, ignoring Jenn. “But I don’t think this profile communicates how awesome you really are. Let’s start with travel. Everyone uses that. People who haven’t been farther than St. Louis in twenty years type travel in their profiles. It’s supposed to make you sound worldly and interesting, when all it does is say you couldn’t think of anything else to put.”
Heather hung on my every word. She knew I’d met Matt online, and even though it wasn’t working out, Matt wasn’t a bad guy. Our first date was one of the best first dates I’d ever had—we had a picnic in the park and laughed about how we’d lived in the same town and never crossed paths. It seemed funny then, but now I realized that the older you get the more your life depends on the patterns you set—we make our lives small in search of safety and convenience, and only branch out when absolutely necessary.
“So let’s get rid of travel,” Heather said, poking at her keyboard.
“And watching Netflix,” Jenn with two n’s contributed. “Because that is code for sexy-time stuff. You don’t want to attract all the pervs.”
“Matt and I used to watch Netflix all the time,” I said. “We weren’t having sex while we were watching Stranger Things.”
“Maybe that was part of the problem,” Jenn said, failing to keep the comment under her breath.
“Okay, I took out Netflix,” Heather said. “Now, don’t tell me there’s something wrong with yoga.”
I smiled at her. “There’s nothing wrong with it. You’ve just never done it.”
She reddened. “But I want to. I bought a yoga mat at Marshalls last year.”
“I think it’s a bad idea to lie,” I said, thinking of Matt’s request and my trip to Willow Falls. “What if some amazing guy contacts you, and he’s really into yoga? It could happen, and how embarrassing would that be?”
Heather paused and then said, “Fine. Yoga’s out. But then . . . I have nothing. I’m a blank slate. How can I have no interests at the age of thirty-nine? What’s wrong with me?”
I grabbed the laptop from her. “Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re just not thinking about this in the right way. You’ve got to be creative to stand out. Work this thing like you would a resume. So, how would you describe how you spend your time outside of work?”
“Well . . . I hang out with you, or with my cousin Viv. I grocery shop. I read Vanity Fair and celebrity biographies, and I don’t think I’ve ever missed an episode of Jane the Virgin.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe leave that detail out.”
“Good move,” I said. “What else?”
“I drink coffee by the gallon. I’m pretty good at making a huge dinner on Sunday nights so I don’t have to think about cooking throughout the week. I knit, and . . . oh God! When I really think about how I spend my time, I’m so boring I want to fall asleep sitting up.”
“Because that’s not how you really spend your time,” I said. “Hold on.” I typed while Jenn and Heather stared at me. “Okay, read this.”
They scurried around my chair to peer over my shoulder.
Cupidworks.com
Heather, 39
Status: single, but hoping that’s temporary
Occupation: hair expert/stylist/good with scissors
Interests: laughing, being a kick-ass friend, cooking for a crowd, drinking caffeinated beverages until my nervous system revolts, and sometimes, when I’m feeling like getting my craft on, I knit.
Looking for: I actually want a nice guy. I really do. Age-wise, somewhere in the middle of life, 35–55, old enough to have a little wisdom and young enough to have the energy to do something about it.
“Wow, you’re good at this,” Heather said.
“I like making people look their best.” A thought hit me right then that almost had me sliding off the chair onto the floor—I wo
uld need these skills for myself soon enough if I wanted to date. I buried my panic at the thought and saved Heather’s new profile. “We’ll need a better picture. The library actually has great lighting. We can go there after work.”
“Books,” Jenn said. “That is so perfect! She’ll look so smart.”
“She is smart,” I said, and Heather squeezed my shoulder.
I spent the next twenty minutes leveling off Jenn’s bob, eliciting an almost compliment. (“Well, I guess it’s even now.”) After she left, I found Heather sitting in the back room, surrounded by all the boxes of hair dye, staring at her computer screen.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she said, sounding drained.
“I’ve got to ask. Why are you doing it? You’ve never seemed very interested in anything like this.”
Silence. And Heather was no good at silence. I sat there, waiting her out. Sure enough, after an awkward moment, she said, “Can I tell you something? It’s not good, but I want you to remember how you’ve known me for five years and use that as evidence that I’m not a bad person.”
“I would never think badly of you,” I said, but I felt a heaviness in my chest, like whatever she was going to tell me was already pressing down, taking some of my breath.
“Well . . .” Heather paused. She looked at me, and her eyes welled up. “Right before I started working here, I’d just broken up with my boyfriend.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, because I didn’t really know what else to say.
“I’m sorrier. He was married, Ally. I dated a married man.”
“But you didn’t know, right?” I knew that sounded judgy, but I knew Heather, and her morals had more fiber than one of Kylie’s kale and pineapple smoothies.
“Not at first, no,” she said. “When I found out, I was in too deep. It continued for years. Lying. Sneaking around. But the worst was when his wife eventually found out. She showed up at the salon where I was working, with her kids in tow. Six-year-old twins. She just lost her shidoodle, shouting at me, telling the kids that I wanted to take their daddy away . . . I’ll never forget the look on their faces. It was awful. I felt like the worst person in the world.”
The Other Family Page 9