Point, Click, Love

by Molly Shapiro

  “People here are very friendly.”

  “Yes, they are. Especially when you’re as beautiful as you!”

  Deirdre smiled shyly.

  “I’m sure you hear that all the time,” said Maxine.

  “No, not really,” said Deirdre.

  “I know, you’re right,” said Maxine, who was never shy about highlighting people’s attributes. “Maybe it’s because I’m an artist. I appreciate beauty. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with pointing it out.”

  “Well, that’s nice of you to say,” said Deirdre. “But it still makes me uncomfortable.”

  “That’s better than being vain,” said Maxine. “I’m always telling my girls how beautiful they are, but sometimes I worry it’ll go to their head.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Deirdre. “Girls are so critical of themselves, I think it’s great that you tell them they’re beautiful. As a kid, I was always so hard on myself. And my parents weren’t very … complimentary.”

  “Really?”

  “They were kind of cold. They expected a lot of me but never gave me much encouragement.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Maxine. She felt sorry for Deirdre. Then she wondered if Deirdre was now looking for approval from an older man—a father figure.

  “It’s okay. I managed all right.”

  “You certainly did.”

  “But I admire the way you and Jake are with your kids,” said Deirdre. “They’re so well behaved and so happy. They clearly come from a loving home.”

  Then why do you want to break it up? thought Maxine. From one minute to the next, she couldn’t figure out how to read this woman. “So you’re getting along well with the other doctors?”

  “Oh, yes, everyone’s been so wonderful.”

  “I hope Jake’s been helpful,” asked Maxine, hoping a direct reference to Jake would bring something out.

  “Yes, definitely. They all have.”

  Interesting, thought Maxine. Deirdre seemed to be avoiding talking about Jake. If there was nothing going on, wouldn’t she want to praise him a bit?

  “Because I know firsthand he can be difficult,” said Maxine.

  “Really? You two seem to have such a perfect marriage.”

  “Oh, God,” moaned Maxine, a little too annoyedly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Deirdre, confused about what she might have said wrong.

  “No, it’s just, I get tired of hearing that,” said Maxine. “No one has a perfect marriage.”

  “You’re right,” said Deirdre. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay. It’s funny, people don’t seem to want to admit how hard marriage is. Including me. I’ve always been happy to perpetuate the notion that I have a perfect marriage. Or maybe I just really believed I did.” Maxine wasn’t quite sure why she was saying this to Deirdre, whom she not only barely knew but who was quite possibly having an affair with her husband. But then she thought maybe this was exactly whom she should be opening up to. Besides, she couldn’t help but like Deirdre.

  “I know it’s hard!” said Deirdre. “I saw it with my parents. Look at me. I’m in my thirties with no prospects in sight. I’m obviously not anxious to get married.”

  “I often wish I had done it your way. Not get married so young and instead establish myself first. I feel like I did everything for Jake during those first years.”

  “But then you might not have those three gorgeous children,” said Deirdre. “You have to look at them and know you made the right choices.”

  Maxine was touched by Deirdre’s words. She always thought about her children when she questioned marrying so young, always thinking that she wouldn’t trade them for anything. But it meant a lot to hear such reassurances from someone else, especially someone who had taken the opposite path.

  “Thanks, Deirdre,” said Maxine. “That means a lot to me.”

  Maxine left the coffee shop not knowing any more about her and Jake’s problems than she did before. But what she did learn was that Deirdre was a truly lovely woman, and she wouldn’t have blamed Jake a bit for falling in love with her.

  Later that evening, Maxine got an email from the Los Angeles gallery that was showing her work in a few weeks. The owner wanted to know if Maxine would be willing to come out for a week before the opening to help set up the exhibit and do interviews with some local magazines. They offered to buy her a first-class ticket, put her up at the Chateau Marmont, and pay all of her expenses. Without figuring out how the kids would get to and from school, without checking her calendar or talking to her agent, and without asking Jake, Maxine replied, “Yes!”

  Chapter Eight

  Claudia’s heart started racing when she stepped off the elevator and headed toward Fred’s desk. Her palms were sweating too, dampening the invoice that she clutched tightly in her hands. She thought about turning back but pushed herself forward. It’s no big deal, she said to herself. You’re just checking on an unpaid invoice. No, that’s not all, she thought. Claudia wanted to be honest with herself. You want to say hi. Maybe chat. There’s nothing wrong with that.

  When Claudia arrived at Fred’s desk and saw his empty chair, she wasn’t relieved. She was disappointed. She was surprised at how much she wanted to see him again. She turned around and went back to her desk, wondering how she’d get through the last two hours of the day.

  As she stared at her computer, Claudia suddenly remembered that she needed to go to Facebook and see what Steve had been writing. It was something she had always avoided because she didn’t like seeing that side of Steve, the Steve who made stupid jokes and embarrassing comments and laid out his life for all to see. Now she had to worry that something more sinister was going on. What could he have put up there that would make his friend Heather say all that?

  She logged on to her account and went to the “News Feed” page. Claudia had only about fifty friends, so half of the posts had Steve’s little half-inch photo next to them. His most recent entry was that day, an hour ago, posted from his cell phone: “Is it weird that I wish I were in high school again?”

  Yes, that is weird! Claudia thought to herself. You wish you were in high school again so you can go back to being the football star and the straight-A student and the girl magnet instead of the loser adult you turned out to be. But two of Steve’s friends responded with a “like this,” and one, who had a picture of Homer Simpson as his photo, commented: “I’d rather skip to college so I don’t have to get a fake ID.”

  Claudia scanned down the page, looking for something provocative among the photos and video clips and links to articles. Just as Heather had said, Marjorie Gooding could be relied upon to give Steve a vote of approval for almost everything he wrote. After one posting, they engaged in a long back-and-forth exchange.

  “Why does it annoy me so much when people say they are going ‘leaf peeping’?” wrote Steve.

  “Same!” exclaimed Marjorie.

  “Oh, good. I thought maybe I was being a curmudgeon.”

  “You, Steve? Never!” exclaimed Marjorie. Claudia wondered if Marjorie said anything without an exclamation point.

  “So what is it about that phrase that’s so annoying?” asked Steve.

  “ ‘Peeping.’ It’s a very annoying word!”

  “I think it’s that you don’t peep at beautiful fall foliage—you look at it, stare at it, take it all in,” wrote Steve.

  “Exactly!” exclaimed Marjorie.

  Claudia didn’t understand why Steve and Marjorie had to carry on this little conversation in front of all their friends. Couldn’t they have just contacted each other directly? Did they think they were being so witty that everyone needed to see? Then she wondered if they were contacting each other directly. Claudia noticed Marjorie’s thumbnail photo, which showed her with a riotous grin and her big chest sticking out of a tight yellow T-shirt.

  Then Claudia found more posts from Steve:

  Check out these classics from Henny Young
man:

  My wife was at the beauty shop for two hours. That was only for the estimate.

  She got a mud pack and looked great for two days. Then the mud fell off.

  She ran after the garbage truck, yelling, “Am I too late for the garbage?” “No, jump in!”

  Okay, thought Claudia, ugly-wife jokes. These didn’t bother her too much, since she was never one to be insecure about her appearance. But then she saw this one: “My wife and I have the secret to making a marriage last. Two times a week, we go to a nice restaurant—a little wine, good food. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays.” For Claudia, that one hit a bit too close to home.

  Claudia wondered if this was the type of stuff Heather was talking about. She scrolled down, looking for more, clicking on “Older Posts” every time she reached the bottom. But at a certain point there were no more. She couldn’t read anything older than a week ago. Claudia wasn’t sure what to make of all this. Going through a week of posts, she didn’t find anything terribly incriminating but enough to make her wonder what else there might be.

  Because she hadn’t gone to Facebook for so long, Claudia had never really wondered about Steve’s other life there. But now that she had caught a glimpse, she realized how much she didn’t know about his world.

  When she walked in the door that evening and saw Steve sitting on the couch, watching TV, he looked like a complete stranger to Claudia. Before, she thought she knew so well what was going through his head. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  “Hey,” said Steve, not looking up from the TV.

  “Hi,” said Claudia. Normally she would go check on the girls, maybe lie down on the bed for a few minutes before figuring out what to do for dinner. Instead, she walked over to the couch and sat down next to Steve.

  “Whatcha watching?” she asked.

  “CNBC. Mad Money.”

  They sat quietly and watched commercials until the show resumed. An ad for macaroni and cheese came on, with a mother doling out heaping bowls of the steamy fluorescent-orange noodles for her eager children. Wondering what he was thinking, Claudia stole a glance at Steve, who was seemingly mesmerized. Would he write something on Facebook about it? “Why do they have to make macaroni and cheese so orange?” he might write. Then Marjorie would respond, “I know! Food should never glow in the dark!!!” Claudia remembered that there was a time when she and Steve would sit on the couch watching TV and make comments to each other and laugh about what they saw. Now she felt like she was no longer a part of his life, that a comment or a joke to her would be a waste. Now all he wanted to do was gather material and run to the computer or his cell phone, where he could share his thoughts and feelings with a larger, more appreciative audience.

  The show came on, and a short, bald man immediately started yelling and gesticulating at the camera. Claudia was so stupefied by his antics, she couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. Steve continued to stare blankly at the screen, so Claudia decided to make some conversation.

  “Didn’t this guy get in trouble for starting the economic downturn or something?” asked Claudia.

  “Well, he didn’t exactly ‘start’ it,” said Steve, looking at the TV. “I guess you could say he contributed to it somewhat.”

  “So then why is he still on the air?”

  “He didn’t commit any offense. I guess some people think he has something to say.”

  “I hope you’re not taking any of his advice,” said Claudia.

  “No, Claudia. I’m not taking his advice,” said Steve, with a touch of exasperation.

  “What? I’m just saying—”

  “Fine. It doesn’t matter anyway,” said Steve, finally turning his head to look at Claudia. “We don’t have any money to invest.”

  “I know we don’t.”

  “So then why did you ask if I was taking his advice? Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?” asked Claudia. “I only wanted to make sure—”

  “Right, you only wanted to make sure,” said Steve, turning back to the TV.

  “Look, Steve, don’t start making this my fault. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t do anything. I’m trying to protect what little we have.”

  “It’s not that bad, Claudia.”

  “Well, it will be soon. Sorry if I worry about it. I worry, okay? I worry about our future, the kids—”

  “And you never miss an opportunity to let me know.”

  “Maybe I think if I bring it up enough you’ll do something about it,” said Claudia.

  “Great. Here we go again. I’m not doing enough.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I send résumés and make calls every day.”

  “And then you sit on your ass.”

  “What should I do?” asked Steve. “I can only make so many calls and send out so many résumés.”

  “Maybe you could get a job?”

  “Huh?”

  “Just a job! Why not spend your time working instead of sitting around? Why not get a job at Starbucks?”

  “You want me to work at Starbucks?” asked Steve, struggling to maintain his composure.

  “Why not? At least it’s something.”

  “And how I feel—my self-respect—doesn’t matter.”

  “I would think getting out and doing something would help your self-respect.”

  “Really? You think me in a green apron taking coffee orders from my friends and neighbors and former colleagues will help my self-esteem?”

  “I don’t know anymore, Steve,” Claudia said wearily as she got up from the couch. “But I have to say, your self-esteem is not at the top of my list of priorities right now.”

  The next day at work, Claudia found herself unable to think of anything but Fred. She thought about going back up to the fourth floor but couldn’t bear the thought that he might not be there again. And even if he was there, what would she say? What did she want? She thought it might be nice to go to lunch with Fred—just as a friend—but how would she work up the nerve to ask? How could she ask without it sounding like a come-on?

  Claudia decided the best thing to do was to email him. No awkward conversation, no stammering before responding, no embarrassing rejection. She could construct a carefully worded invitation, and he could take his time composing a response without being caught off guard.

  “Hi, Fred,” she wrote. “In the interest of corporate unity, peace, and understanding, would you like to go to lunch and learn about what we ‘creatives’ do? I have a craving for Sasha’s Sushi but hate going there on my own. How do you feel about raw fish?”

  Claudia hit “send” and prepared herself to wait a long time for a reply. But after three minutes, her computer dinged.

  “Hey, Claudia,” wrote Fred. “Yes, as I said the other day, I would love to hear about what you creatives are up to, if only to ensure that you are truly earning your keep. And I, too, love Sasha’s Sushi. (I don’t know about you, but I find a love of raw fish to be a rare quality here in KC.) What time?”

  As she read Fred’s email, Claudia’s heart began pounding. How would she possibly sit through a whole sushi lunch with him? she wondered. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so nervous and vulnerable but liked it.

  “How about 12:30?” wrote Claudia.

  “Great,” answered Fred. “See you down in the lobby.”

  Claudia stuffed her purse with company brochures and literature, just in case Fred really did want to learn more about what she did all day. When the elevator doors opened onto the lobby, she saw Fred standing there, tall and lanky with his crisp white shirt and slate-gray pants. Fred was probably in his early forties, but he had a full head of thick black hair, no trace of belly fat, and an unlined face.

  “Ready?” said Fred, without a bit of nervousness. Claudia was grateful for how easy he was making this.

  The restaurant, which was only half a block from the office, was packed. “Should we sit at the bar?” asked Fred.

  “Sure.” As Claudia walked toward th
e bar she quickly scanned the room, looking for a familiar face, but didn’t find one.

  “You come here often?” asked Fred as he pulled out a chair for Claudia.

  “Not so much. But I love it. They say the owner is some Russian guy.”

  “Sasha,” said Fred. “You don’t know Sasha?”

  “You mean there really is a Sasha?” asked Claudia.

  “Of course. That’s the name!”

  “I thought they called it that because it sounded good,” said Claudia. “See, that’s the thing about us creative types. We assume that nothing’s true. That everything’s marketing.”

  “Wow,” said Fred. “That’s kind of a scary world you live in.”

  “Very scary.”

  “I come here a lot, so Sasha’s my buddy,” said Fred. “When you’re a single guy who doesn’t cook, you tend to make friends with a lot of restaurateurs.”

  Hearing Fred come right out and call himself “single” sent a wave of dread through Claudia’s body. She couldn’t allow one more minute to pass without letting Fred know she wasn’t single.

  “Well, when you’re a working married gal with two kids and a lazy husband, you tend to make friends with the pizza-delivery guys.”

  Claudia searched Fred’s expression for a sign of surprise, disappointment, or even annoyance, but saw nothing.

  “Lazy, huh?”

  Claudia smiled to herself. Fred could have easily said, “Husband, huh?”

  “That’s not very nice, I know,” said Claudia. “It’s just that he’s out of work with a lot of time on his hands. I mean, he could go out and learn how to make sushi!”

  “Is he Japanese?” asked Fred.

  “No.”

  “I don’t like sushi unless it’s made by a Japanese person.”

  “In a restaurant owned by a Russian,” said Claudia.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then I won’t invite you over for sushi night at my house.”

  “Fine,” said Fred. “It would probably be kind of awkward anyway, with your husband and all.”