by Logan Belle
“Are you hearing me, ladies?” Aimee says, startling me out of my reverie.
We mumble in the affirmative.
Aimee straightens her Banana Republic skirt, and saunters off to her office. Patti scurries to my side.
“Not much to work with? Is she kidding me? Clinique is the most classic brand in this department. Mothers bring their daughters to get lipstick because it was where they got their first lipstick!”
“Don’t take it personally,” I say. But I know how she feels. Our counters are our babies.
“Speaking of personal,” she says, steering me to my counter. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but really, I was talking to Geoff last night, and we both think it’s a bad idea to wait until November to do your surgery.”
Patti and her husband, Geoff, talk about everything. It’s difficult sometimes to maintain my cynical distance from men when I see their wonderful marriage. But they are the exception, not the rule. Sometimes I wonder if their closeness has to do with the fact they never were able to have children. Their whole lives have been devoted to taking care of each other. Maybe that makes all the difference.
“Patti, the doctor said there is no rush. I would never do something risky. Look, Max just went off to school. I want some time to enjoy myself and to get all my ducks in a row.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is? Because if you have doubts, or want a second opinion, I’ll go with you to someone else. My sister said there’s a woman in New York who’s fantastic.”
“I’m not going to New York, Patti. I like Dr. Martell. Honestly, there is nothing more going on here. I feel okay about it.”
“Have you told Max?”
I bite the inside of my lip. This is my second toughest decision. I hate to lie to my son — at the very least I am lying by omission. But I don’t want to burden him with this. It’s his first semester of college. I don’t want him worrying about mom.
“Not yet,” I admit.
“He’d want to be supportive, Claire. You have to tell him when it gets closer to your surgery.”
“I will.” My phone vibrates in the pocket of my uniform. If I get caught checking on the floor during store hours I’ll be in trouble.
Meet me at Red Ruby’s on Broad Street tonight 10:30.- J
I cannot believe he’s texting me.
I smile and type back, That is way past my bedtime. I’m not being coy. I can’t remember the last time I went out at that hour.
Exactly how u got into this predicament. Nothing on the list will happen before midnight .
He can’t be serious about that list.
Chapter 7
On the way home from work I do something impulsive. I stop at Pet Valu on Lancaster Avenue, and buy a litter box, litter, a plastic food bowl set, and a bag of IAMS cat food.
The cat is waiting for me on the front stoop again.
“I told you to stay in back,” I scold, juggling the bags of supplies as I put my key in the front door lock. Her tail is held high.
Here we go.
I open the door for her. The cat looks at me, her green eyes bright and almost quizzical. Or am I imagining it?
And then she strolls right in. Like she belongs here.
“Okay then. I guess that’s that.”
I set up the litter box in the first floor bathroom, and her food and water bowls in the kitchen. I scoop her up, and place her in the litter box. I read somewhere that all you have to do is show a cat once and they’ll get the whole litter box thing. But her feet barely hit the gravel before she shakes off and walks out of it.
“Okay, you do your thing for now. But I’m not leaving here until we have an understanding about this litter box situation.”
She wanders away, sniffing my furniture, exploring.
That’s when the panic sets in. What if she has fleas? What if she starts clawing up my upholstery? I have to tell Justin I can’t go out tonight. This situation needs on-site management.
My phone is in my bag, and I find his last text and write back, Sorry can’t make it tonight. I just got a new cat and can’t leave her.
As soon as I hit send, I feel relief.
Then realize what I’ve done.
I got a cat — a live animal that will be with me for possibly the next fifteen years — just to avoid whatever awaits me tonight with Justin. And what was I thinking last night — spilling all my personal crap? Maybe focusing on my non-existent sex life is my way of avoiding the real problem. It’s more fun to think about sex than breast cancer, right?
But deep down, I don’t believe that’s it. Hearing those stories at the reading salon stirred something in me — and it wasn’t lust.
Regret.
I look at my phone, a sinking feeling in my stomach. Is there a way to take back a text? My phone vibrates.
Ah, the old cat ate my homework excuse. Romi, don’t be a pussy. See you at 10:30 .
*** ***
Red Ruby’s is a world away from the bars I occasionally frequent with Patti. We always stay local, Bryn Mawr or Conshohocken. Certainly nothing fancy like this place in Center City with its low lighting, leather furniture, and fifteen foot high ceilings. The crowd is young and professional. I don’t belong here.
Justin is already at the bar. He smiles at me as I make my way across the room. For the first time in a long time, I feel attractive. I feel like I’m out for the night. I feel like I’m a woman — although a woman with a coach that will turn into a pumpkin in eight weeks.
I slide onto the seat next to him. He is wearing a suit, no tie. His hair curls around his shirt collar. If there is a better looking guy in the place, I don’t see him.
“You look hot,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, wryly. I’m wearing a black Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress that I bought during Employee Discount Day last fall. For my great-aunt’s funeral.
“I mean it. Glad to see you came ready to play ball.” He gets the bartenders attention.
“Just, ah, a glass of Chardonnay. Thanks,” I say.
“You want a shot?” Justin asks me.
“No. Why? Is that a prerequisite for The List?”
“Doesn’t hurt,” he says.
“Are you serious about this? Don’t get me wrong — this is the most interesting conversation I’ve had in years. But really, Justin?”
“Let me ask you something: Why are you waiting two months to have your surgery? They couldn’t get you in any sooner?”
“No, it’s not that. He told me I didn’t have to rush. I chose a date I’m comfortable with.”
“So why not just get it over with?”
Point taken. I take a sip of wine. It’s cold and crisp, perfectly delicious. But I’m suddenly craving something stronger.
“What are you drinking?” I ask him.
“Ketel straight up,” he says. “Want a sip?”
I signal for the bartender and order what he’s having. Then I look around the room. “You think something is going to happen here? Tonight?”
“I know it will.”
“I think you underestimate the powers of a twelve year dry spell,” I say.
“And you underestimate yourself.”
My vodka appears.
“To The List,” he says.
I smile. “I guess that’s an improvement over your toast to the YMCA.”
“I told you it would be better if you’re just honest with me.”
We touch our glasses together. His irises are rimmed with gray. The color is velvety, intense. I have to look away. He smiles, and it’s as if he knows what I’m thinking — or, worse, what I thought last night alone in my bed.
“Okay. I’ve been honest with you,” I say. “Now it’s your turn.”
“I’m an open book,” he says.
“So what’s your deal?”
“I’ve told you. I own a headhunting business. I do pretty well for myself. I’m not married — never been, never plan to be. I grew up around here, went to Haverford Prep, th
en Duke.”
“Ah,” I say. “A rich kid. I should have known.” He did have a certain air of entitlement about him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No really. Let’s hear it, Romi,” he says. No one has called me by my last name since tenth grade field hockey.
“It’s just you’re extremely confident, and it sounds like your life has been pretty much straight lines…that explains a lot, that’s all.”
“You think because I went to expensive schools my life has been ‘straight lines’? Romie, that’s simplistic, even for a woman who decides no sex for a decade is an acceptable solution to bad dates.”
“So, then tell me, Mr. Open Book? What’s been the bump in your road?”
I’m smiling, teasing him. But a shadow crosses his face. Whatever nerve I’ve hit, I immediately regret it. “Or,” I say, back-peddling. “You can tell me what happened after I left last night.” I envision the giggling young women, and feel a hot, unwelcome pang of jealousy. I know it’s ridiculous to feel this way.
“I went home,” he says.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Don’t look so surprised.”
“I thought for sure you went back inside to take one of those women up on the offer their eyes were making all night.”
He shook his head. “I know you think I’m a man slut, but I do have some self-control.”
“I’m not saying you’re a man slut. I just get the sense that it’s really easy for you.”
“It’s pretty easy for everyone, Claire. Most people like to get laid. There’s no magic to it. And no mystery, either.”
“Well, maybe not for you,” I say.
“Not for you either, if you changed your attitude.”
“Yeah, right,” I scoff.
“Really. It’s infinitely easier for a woman to get laid than a man. We have to work for it. Prove our worth. All you have to do is sit back and take your pick of the offerings.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then you’re going to have to take my word for it. Don’t look now, but at the other end of the bar, right where it curves, there’s a guy with a short beard who keeps looking at you.”
“No, there is not.”
“Yeah. But don’t look.”
How can I not look? But Justin holds my gaze, and I will myself to stay focused on him. I’m not interested in some strange guy with a short beard, but I am curious if Justin is teasing me or not. I’m sure he is. He must be.
“Romi, sex is everywhere once you’ve got your eyes open to it.”
Trying to avoid looking at the guy who is allegedly checking me out, I glance away from the bar, at a table of three women in their mid-twenties. Their slender bodies are poured into tight, short dresses, their feet in treacherous looking stilettos. The prettiest one has glossy dark hair falling heavily to her shoulders. Her arms are long and tanned, decorated with thin gold bangle bracelets. There is something feline and predatory about her. Or maybe it’s the way she is looking at Justin.
He notices her attention, stands up, and pushes back his bar stool.
“Where are you going?”
He winks at me. “A good wingman knows when it’s time for a little space. I don’t want that guy to think you’re unavailable.” Just as I’m about to protest, tell him not to be ridiculous, he leans close to me and says, “Two months, Romi. It’s now or never.”
He walks away.
Chapter 8
I feel a sense of panic watching Justin make his way to the table where the pretty brunette is waiting for him. She welcomes him with a wide smile, and Justin pulls up a chair.
Don’t be such a baby, I tell myself, turning back to the bar, staring at my drink. I don’t need him as a security blanket. I am perfectly happy to sit here alone and nurse this vodka. In fact, it’s kind of nice to sit quietly. Alone with my thoughts. I should go out like this more often.
“Is this seat taken?”
I turn to find an attractive man, with salt and pepper hair and short beard, slide into Justin’s newly vacant seat.
Okay, the panic returns.
I look back at Justin, talking animatedly while all three women at the table are clearly hanging on his every word. He touches the brunette’s shoulder. And I know he’s not coming back any time soon. I’m sure the man standing next to me knows it, too.
“No,” I say slowly. “The seat isn’t taken.”
He sits down next to me.
“I’m Allen. With an e.”
“Claire,” I say. “Also with an e.”
He’s wearing a powder blue button down and dark jeans. He’s definitely attractive. Not George Clooney territory, but certainly respectably good-looking. I decide I’ll let the odd “with an e” comment slide.
I glance back at Justin, who has the group laughing. The brunette’s right hand has disappeared under the table.
Allen starts chatting up the bartender he obviously knows. He introduces me to the barkeep, and offers me another drink but I tell him I’ve reached my limit.
“I come here a lot after work but I’ve never seen you before,” he says. It’s not a question, but I know it’s my opening to contribute to the conversation.
“It’s my first time,” I tell him, and wince at how suggestive it sounds. But Allen, to his credit, doesn’t crack a lascivious smile. I tell myself to relax. But then another glance at Justin tells me he’s no longer at the table. I look around and see him heading for the door. With the brunette.
How can he just abandon me like this? And then, as if sensing my stare, he turns and gives me a wink.
Then he’s gone.
“Everything okay?” Allen asks.
“Oh, yes. Fine,” I say, fighting the urge to make an excuse to leave as well. But damn it, if Justin can do it, I can do it. That’s what this night is all about, right? His parting words are with me, hanging in the air like a thought bubble, Two months. Now or never.
“And actually,” I say. “I will take you up on that drink.”
*** ***
An hour later, wobbly from the vodka and resigned to the fact that I will be taking an expensive cab home, I am laughing at Allen’s story about the fisticuffs that broke out at the Flyer’s game last night — the same game on the TV at the pub. I have the fleeting thought this is a sign — Allen was watching the same game Justin and I were when we hatched the list. But then I remind myself, signs don’t matter — this doesn’t matter. The list is just about sexual experiences, not love. Not a relationship. Not even a date.
But when he says, “You wanna get out of here?” I freeze.
Allen, to his credit, senses my hesitation, and doesn’t push. If I’m not going to go home with him, I wonder if I should just punctuate this little encounter and leave now. But I’m still feeling the vodka, and when Allen puts his hand on my thigh — over my dress. My heart pounds and I don’t stop him.
“You are an extremely attractive woman,” he says, leaning close to me. I know he is going to kiss me.
My first instinct is to deflect physical contact. But why? What do I have to lose? This night isn’t about conversation. It’s about chipping away at that wall of nothingness — twelve years of it.
I lean into him, and his mouth meets mine.
His beard is rough against my skin, and it’s this sensation I’m aware of before the feeling of his lips. My head is buzzing from the drinks, and with this strange man kissing me and rubbing my leg, a warmth spreads through me, like my blood pumping for the first time in years. I have the fleeting thought that we’re in public — this is exactly the type of behavior Patti and I would scoff at if we were out and observed two people lip-locked at a bar or restaurant. But I push the thought aside, and fall into the greedy kiss of this man. I don’t know where he’s from, I don’t know what he does for a living — I don’t even know his last name.
But I do know he’s a damn good kisser.
I’m f
loating away with it, the sensation of kissing and being kissed, new and achingly familiar at the same time. A few more seconds will render me incapable of having the good sense to get in a cab by myself tonight.
I pull away, and I realize how fast my heart is beating.
“You’re sure about not wanting to get out of here?” he says, smiling at me, squeezing my thigh.
The truth is, I am sure. The kiss was nice. More than nice — it was fantastic. But even through the haze of alcohol, I know going home with him will be too much of a good thing. And I’d rather end the night on this note of elation, rather than disappointment.
When I tell him I’m going and he doesn’t offer to walk me out, I suspect I’ll never see him again. Doesn’t matter.
I’ve done it. I’ve crossed the first thing off The List.
*** ***
The cab drops me off, and I’m still floating on cloud nine. So much so that I don’t worry about the logistics of retrieving my car tomorrow.
Out of habit, I look around for the cat. Then I remember she’s inside.
I jam my key into the door, fumbling from the lingering haze of alcohol and the sudden image of my couch turned into a scratching post.
I turn on all the lights, bracing myself for the damage. But all I find is the little black fur ball curled up asleep on my Eames chair.
She is dark, and the night is dark and late. In that moment, I christen her Midnight.
I sit on the couch. She peeks at me, then settles back into her slumber.
With a small groan of effort, I force myself up the stairs, and quickly change out of my clothes and wash my face before collapsing on my bed. I’m the sort of tipsy just shy of the room spinning. I’m glad I stopped when I did — both the drinking, and hooking up with Allen. I’ll never actually do most of the things on The List. Most of the fun is talking about it with Justin.
Thinking of him, I reach for my phone. I hate to admit how much I want to find a text from him.
Nothing.
He is no doubt busy with the brunette. Something stirs in my gut, something uncomfortably close to jealousy. It’s ridiculous, I know. Justin is my tour guide — he is not the endgame. I can’t let myself forget that.