“I can’t have a friend who’s a man?” Claudia asked innocently, although she couldn’t think of one male friend she’d had since getting married.
“I find that women my age don’t usually want to make friends with single men,” said Fred. “Usually they’re married and their husbands don’t take kindly to the idea. They kind of treat me like I have the plague.”
“It might help if you were less good-looking,” said Claudia. Now that she had established her marital status, she felt safe in making such an observation.
“That’s nice of you to say,” said Fred, a little embarrassed. “But I don’t think that’s it.”
“Sure it is,” said Claudia. “The women are afraid that their husbands will be threatened by you. And they’re also afraid that they’ll be tempted by you.”
“Really?” said Fred with pretend fascination. “So why then would it be okay for you to be my friend?”
“Steve—my husband—he’s not the jealous type. And me—I’ve never had a wandering eye.”
“That’s good to know,” said Fred.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why aren’t you married?”
“I don’t mind. I was married, actually.”
“Kids?” asked Claudia.
“No,” said Fred.
Claudia could tell Fred didn’t want to take the discussion any further. “So here’s to trusting husbands and faithful wives,” she said, lifting her glass of water.
Fred lifted his glass and said, “I’ll drink to that.”
The next day, Fred invited Claudia to lunch. And the next day, Claudia invited Fred. Soon there were no more invitations. The two simply always had a default lunch date. Sometimes one of them brought leftovers from home but always enough to share with the other. If Claudia had a lunch meeting or was too busy to take a break, they would meet for an afternoon coffee.
Claudia hadn’t spent that much time with one person since college, but Fred was so easy and fun to be around. From their first lunch date, they clicked. The conversation always flowed, but when there was a moment of silence, they waited it out comfortably, without a trace of self-consciousness. It was obvious to both that they found each other attractive, even remarking freely on each other’s good looks. But it was okay, because Claudia had made it clear that she was a loyal wife who was simply going through a rough patch in her marriage, and Fred was a single guy simply wanting to have a female friend his own age.
In fact, Fred even counseled Claudia about her marriage, telling her things she could do to improve the strained dynamic.
“Don’t bring up the fact that Steve’s out of work,” he told her. “It doesn’t help and only aggravates the situation.
“If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all,” he advised. “Just go to your room and relax until you can be civil.
“And maybe you should try lowering your expectations a little,” he said. “Then you won’t constantly feel disappointed.”
Claudia took Fred’s advice and it worked. She and Steve had stopped fighting and were actually getting along pretty well. But Claudia felt like it also had something to do with the fact that she now had Fred in her life. She felt calmer and happier and more hopeful. And even though their relationship was platonic, she enjoyed having a man to interact with—to joke with and spar with and discuss common interests. She was able to let go of her anger and dissatisfaction with Steve because she got fulfillment from Fred.
One day, Claudia came home early to find Steve at his computer, his Facebook account open. From a distance she could see that he was having a lengthy exchange with someone but couldn’t tell who. So she decided to try something.
“Steve? Would you do me a favor?”
“What’s up?”
“I meant to pick up some cereal and milk on my way home but completely forgot. Would you mind running to the store?”
“Sure,” said Steve. Claudia noticed that he clicked on his MSN home page without logging out of Facebook, then closed his laptop.
The moment Claudia heard Steve’s car pull out of the driveway, she ran to the computer. She figured she had at least fifteen minutes—five minutes to the store, five minutes in the store, and five minutes home. She opened the laptop and pressed the space bar. Then she clicked on the “back” button and found herself in Steve’s Facebook account. And there she was: Marjorie Gooding.
“That must be so hard for you, Steve,” was Marjorie’s last message.
What was so hard for poor Steve? wondered Claudia. She didn’t have the patience to read the entire string from the beginning so she went right to Steve’s last comment.
“Claudia’s definitely been better, not on me so much. So I don’t feel so angry like I used to, so pissed off at her. But now I feel … just empty, like nothing. I don’t feel anything, you know?”
Claudia scrolled up, scanning the ten or so messages that preceded this one. Her eye was caught by the words “Café Bella,” a coffee shop a few blocks from the house.
“Maybe we should meet at Café Bella sometime?” wrote Marjorie. “It would be nice to talk in person for a change.”
“I’ve got a job interview Thursday morning,” wrote Steve. “Maybe after that? I’ll give you a call.”
He has a job interview? thought Claudia. Why didn’t he say anything to me?
Claudia stared blankly at the rest of the conversation but couldn’t bring herself to read any more. She knew what she was doing was wrong and knew she had to stop. Yes, part of her wondered what else lingered in Steve’s inbox. But another part of her didn’t want to know.
On Thursday, Claudia suggested to Fred that they go to a Mexican restaurant about fifteen minutes away by car, in a neighborhood neither had been to before. They rarely drove to lunch, partly to save time and partly because there were plenty of places to go within walking distance of the office. But sometimes either Claudia or Fred had a hankering for a certain type of food or they simply felt like they needed to get away.
“Where’d you hear about this place?” asked Fred as they sat down.
“There was a review in the paper last week,” said Claudia. “They said the tamales are amazing. And the margaritas are to die for.”
Fred looked at Claudia and smiled, tilting his head in mild disapproval. That was one thing about Claudia and Fred’s lunches: No one ever drank. Somehow, they both implicitly knew that going down that road would lead to no good.
“Oh, come on,” said Claudia. “Just this once, I promise. I love margaritas, and the article said these are the best!”
“Okay,” said Fred. “Just this once. But I want the Gold. On the rocks. With salt.”
“You got it,” said Claudia.
The first drinks went down so easily and so fast—before their food even arrived—that they decided they needed another one to accompany their tamales and enchiladas. Not until their sopaipillas and café de olla arrived did they really start to feel a buzz.
When they got into the car, Fred paused before putting the key into the ignition. “Hmmm. I still feel a little tipsy. Maybe I shouldn’t drive.”
“Me too,” said Claudia.
“You see?” said Fred, smiling. “You are naughty!”
“I know.” Claudia smiled. “I’m sorry. Sort of.”
“Let’s sit here for a minute,” said Fred. “Maybe it’ll wear off.”
“ ’kay,” said Claudia, leaning her head back on her seat, facing Fred.
Fred also put his head back against the seat, sank down low, and twisted his body to face Claudia.
“I’m drunk,” said Claudia.
“You’re a lightweight.”
“You are too, buddy.”
“I know,” said Fred.
After a minute of silence, Claudia said, “I like you.”
“I know,” said Fred.
“You know?” said Claudia, lifting her head slightly in indignation.
“Yes, I know,” said Fred. “I like you too.”
“Duh,” said Claudia.
They sat for a moment, looking at each other and smiling.
“Fred?”
“Yes?”
“I’m dying to kiss you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
They sat for a moment, looking at each other, no longer smiling.
Claudia leaned in close to Fred. She smelled his hair. Then she smelled his neck. Then she brought her mouth close to his and kissed him gently on the lips. She pulled back and looked at him. Then she went in for another kiss. This time, Fred responded. They sat in the car and kissed for about fifteen minutes.
“What time is it?” asked Claudia.
“Two-thirty,” said Fred.
“I want to go to your place,” said Claudia.
And Fred said, “Okay.”
Chapter Nine
It was fun for Annie to use the online sperm bank’s searchable database to create her own wonder child—randomly choosing straight hair over curly, blue eyes over brown, Welsh ancestry over Irish. But when it came right down to it, she couldn’t stand the idea of weeding out prospective donors so mindlessly. What if the man who was meant to be the father of her child was hidden within the less-than-five-foot-five range? Besides, she had heard that height was inherited from the mother. So Annie was forced to methodically go through hundreds of profiles, essays, and statistics in her quest to find the perfect man.
Then there was the problem of defining what the “perfect man” was. Was he a blond-haired, blue-eyed Viggo Mortensen? A dashing and confident George Clooney? A sly and silly Ben Stiller? Annie was reminded of the first time she walked into Bloomingdale’s as a child, of being completely overwhelmed by all of the departments, all of the choices, all of the different personas she could create for herself there.
Annie’s dilemma was crystallized one day when she found herself stuck on two prospective donors who could not have been more different.
Donor No. 59873—whom Annie referred to as Rick—was twenty-eight years old, six foot three with thick light-brown hair, an athletic build, and a 3.8 grade point average. He was in his last year of business school. He played varsity basketball in high school but his favorite sports were tennis and golf. He went to Northwestern for college and majored in economics with a minor in political science. He hoped to make it big in the business world and then one day run for public office. He spoke Spanish, played piano, loved to cook, and had traveled extensively through Europe. His favorite foods were Thai and Italian. The places he most wanted to travel to were Vietnam and Kenya.
Donor No. 43009—whom Annie referred to as Bob—was twenty-two years old, five foot ten with dirty-blond hair, an average build, and a 2.7 grade point average in his last year of college. He played pickup basketball and handball but didn’t play organized sports. He was an art major, aspiring to be an illustrator of children’s books. He spoke only English, played a little harmonica, and had never traveled outside the United States. His favorite foods were steak, peanut butter, and mangoes. He hoped to one day travel to Mexico to see the Mayan ruins.
Rick was a star and knew it. According to his personal essay, he was raised by doting parents who always told him he could be whatever he wanted to be. He considered himself confident, outspoken, and brave in the face of adversity, even though he’d never really had any. Under “Staff Impressions,” they wrote that Rick was charming and friendly and always asked staff members about their lives and how they were doing.
Bob had modest goals and was comfortable with himself. He wrote that his parents probably could have been more encouraging and affectionate, but he loved them anyway. He was shy and uninterested in politics, tending more toward quiet activities such as reading and listening to music. The staff wrote that Bob was sweet and thoughtful, with a lovely smile.
In his note to the child who would be born of his sperm, Rick wrote: “I am honored to have played a role in giving you life, and I hope my genes serve you well. I wish you a happy, healthy, successful life full of fun and adventure.”
Bob wrote: “No matter what life might throw at you, always know that you can handle it. Maybe someday you will read one of my books and you will like it and you will think that you have a special connection to the author—because you do.”
Bob or Rick? It was like during the presidential election, when everyone asked: “Which candidate would you rather have a beer with?” Basing one’s choice of a president on whether they’d be a good drinking buddy was ridiculous, thought Annie. But when it came to fathering her child, it seemed like a relevant question. Who would she rather have a beer with?
At work one day, Annie received an email from a familiar name—Jeff Briggs. “Hi, Annie,” he wrote. “Remember me? I’m doing some consulting work for Sprint. You still there? Would love to get together. Jeff.”
Ah, yes, thought Annie. Jeff Briggs. Too big for his britches was what she always thought of when she heard that name. But a nice enough guy. Annie hadn’t seen any of her old Wharton classmates in years.
“Hey, Jeff,” she wrote. “Of course I remember you. Gimme a call when you get in and I’ll show you the town.” Show him the town? thought Annie. Jeff’s firm was based in New York. She always dreaded having to show New Yorkers around Kansas City. The snide remarks, the Dorothy references, the where-are-the-cows comments.
They agreed to meet at an Italian restaurant near Sprint, located in one of the high-end shopping centers that had recently sprouted up all around the campus. These establishments were like little oases amid the eight-lane roads and endless parking lots and treeless fields of Overland Park, their plush, elaborate, dimly lit interiors a welcome contrast to the stark landscape outside.
Annie recognized Jeff Briggs right away, not because he looked the same as he did in school but because she could instantly pick out a misplaced New Yorker among a sea of midwesterners. She didn’t know what it was about him exactly, whether it was the suit, the haircut, the briefcase, or the way he stood at the bar with an air of nonchalant discomfort. Annie wondered if she still looked like an out-of-place easterner or if she had taken on the characteristics of a Kansan.
“Hey, Jeff.”
“Annie!” he said, giving her a hug. Jeff stood a good eight inches over Annie, so she had to raise herself as high as she could on her tiptoes to reach him. “Wow. It’s been so long.” He took a moment and looked into her eyes, as if he was taking in all that had happened to her since they last saw each other. Then he put his hand on her back and guided her to the hostess desk. “Come, they’ve got a booth waiting for us.”
Of course Jeff had already negotiated just the right table with the hostess, thought Annie. But she wasn’t annoyed by his assertiveness. It felt good to be with someone who so willingly took control of the situation.
“This is kind of weird, huh?” said Annie as she slid into the booth.
“Why weird?” asked Jeff.
“I don’t know. When’s the last time we saw each other? Graduation?”
“Didn’t we see each other in the city that summer?” said Jeff. “We met at that bar in the Village with Grace and Peter.”
Jeff had dated Grace, Annie’s roommate, for a few months, and Annie had dated Peter, Jeff’s roommate, for a few weeks.
“That’s right,” said Annie. She remembered that night, how she’d ignored Peter and drunkenly flirted with Jeff and worried that Grace was mad at her. “And now here we are in Overland Park, Kansas.”
“So who do you keep in touch with?” asked Jeff.
“A few high school and college friends. No one from Wharton.”
“Really? You should join our class on Facebook. Everyone’s up there.”
“No, thanks.”
“Annie! When did you get to be so antisocial?”
“I’m not, but it’s hard maintaining friendships so far away. I really don’t go back east much at all.”
“I understand.”
“I guess you keep up with the old crowd
?” asked Annie.
“Pretty much. They’re a good group. And very helpful when it comes to recommendations and all that.”
So which is it? thought Annie. Are you keeping in touch as friends or are you holding on because you think they can help you advance in your career? Annie knew she was being too tough on Jeff. He was just playing the game like everyone else. Maybe she was mad at herself for letting all those connections go—connections that could have one day gotten her somewhere.
“What about Grace? She’s one person I wish I’d kept up with,” said Annie.
“She was at Merrill for a while. Then she got married, had two kids, and now stays home and writes a blog.”
“She’s a blogger?” asked Annie in disbelief. Now that her old friend had joined the ranks of the blogerati, Annie wondered if she’d have to start taking the whole thing seriously. “What does she blog about?”
“Something about kids—eating, sleeping, bad Mommy, good Mommy. I don’t know. I can’t keep track of all that stuff.”
“I guess you don’t have kids,” said Annie.
“I’ve got two but I’m not interested in dissecting every last detail of child-rearing.”
“I hear ya, babe!” said Annie.
“I mean, when my kids were really little, I couldn’t believe the amount of time other parents spent discussing their children’s sleeping patterns, eating habits, and pooping schedules.”
“How old are your kids?”
“Four and six. Now all anyone talks about are piano lessons and soccer games and what schools they’ll go to and what we need to do to get them into Harvard.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Oh, I can’t complain,” said Jeff.
“Sure you can,” said Annie.
“I mean, things are good. I still have a job, we’ve got a great place right in the city. But what about you, Annie? Tell me what’s going on in your life.”
Annie was always surprised when a man asked her about herself. Most men she knew would go on and on about themselves and never ask her a single question. She remembered this about Jeff. How attentive he could be. Curious. He always made her feel like she was the most interesting person in the room.
Point, Click, Love Page 10