She, Myself & I

by Whitney Gaskell

  Her very round pregnant shape was blocking the door to her mammoth white limestone house. It looked so much like every other mammoth white limestone house in the subdivision that I’d driven past it three times before remembering that Sophie’s had an heirloom-rose bush planted under the front bay window. When it was in bloom during the hot summer months, the almost too-sweet scent of the roses would envelop you as you entered the house.

  “Doesn’t anyone in this family ever say ‘hello’ anymore?”

  “Hello. What are you doing here?”

  “Mom made me come by. She thinks you’re going nuts. Are you going to let me in?”

  Sophie tottered backwards, then stood with her enormous stomach pushed out, both hands propped against her arched back. Under one of Aidan’s blue oxford shirts, Soph was wearing a white maternity tank top and a pair of black capri leggings. She’d caught her wild blonde curls into a low ponytail, and her toenails were painted dark purple.

  “Mom is so fucking dramatic,” she said. “And I’m fine, you didn’t have to come all the way out here.”

  “She said you had a meltdown over some pastry.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “That’s such an exaggeration. I was slightly upset that the bakery has stopped carrying those croissants that I love, and yes, I might have gotten a little peeved at the manager of the store when he told me that they wouldn’t even let me special order them, but I didn’t have a meltdown. What’s in the box?”

  I handed her the white bakery box I’d carried in with me. “Croissants. They carry the chocolate ones at a bakery near my office, so I stopped off on my way over and got you some.”

  Sophie whooped with joy, and waddled toward her kitchen faster than I would have thought possible, clutching the box to her chest.

  “You are the most wonderful, perfect, amazing sister in the world!” Sophie called out.

  I started to follow her into the kitchen and then stopped at the door.

  “Uh . . . what’s going on?” I asked.

  The kitchen was a disaster. All of the cupboards had been torn down, the appliances were pushed together in the center of the room and draped with plastic sheeting, and what was left of the counter was covered with a light film of sawdust.

  “Didn’t I tell you? I decided to have the kitchen remodeled,” Sophie said. She placed the pastry box on the island and began digging out a croissant for herself. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks. When did you decide to do this?”

  “Yesterday. I haven’t told Aidan yet. He’s in Houston for some stupid business thing, and I wanted to surprise him.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “You haven’t told him that you’re tearing apart your kitchen? Isn’t he going to be mad?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Why? Do you think he’ll be mad?” Sophie asked. Her voice was muffled by the piece of croissant she’d stuffed in her mouth.

  I looked at the destruction before me and just shook my head. It wasn’t as though the kitchen hadn’t been gorgeous before. A month after two lines appeared on the home pregnancy test, Sophie and Aidan had sold their 1940s two-bedroom cottage in central Austin for this enormous house. I couldn’t decide if I loved it—it was very chichi, with ten-foot ceilings, a posh master-bed-and-bath suite, and gorgeous hardwood floors throughout—or hated it, for how conventional it was. Aidan was a project manager at Dell and had fallen in step with every other executive there by staking out a McMansion on the north side of town. And their cottage had been adorable. They’d moved into it right after their wedding and had spent every spare weekend fixing it up. It was like they’d traded in the beloved family mutt for an aloof pedigreed whippet.

  “Maybe you should sit down and rest,” I said, in a tone so uncharacteristically gentle that Sophie shot me another suspicious look.

  “I don’t need to rest. Stop talking to me like I’m an idiot child,” she said, her mouth twisting into the petulant pout she’d perfected at the age of two.

  “Soph, you’re losing it. Did you really get up this morning and decide to knock down all of your kitchen cupboards, without so much as mentioning it to your husband first? Does that sound like rational behavior to you?”

  “I didn’t decide on it this morning, and I didn’t do it myself. I made an appointment with a builder weeks ago, and he came over yesterday, showed me some pictures of how gorgeous he could make the kitchen, and I decided just to go ahead and have it done. I want it to look nice for when the baby arrives.”

  “I don’t think the baby will notice the kitchen.”

  “Well, I’ll notice,” Sophie insisted. Her voice was rising in pitch, and I sensed that one of my sister’s legendary hormone-induced temper tantrums was about to erupt. A few weeks earlier we’d gone to see the new Renée Zellweger movie, and I’d had to practically tackle Sophie to keep her from throwing her soda at the couple sitting behind us in the theater when they wouldn’t stop talking.

  “Wait. You just hired the builder yesterday, and he was able to start work today? Most reputable builders have waiting lists. Remember how long it took me to get those bookshelves installed in my apartment? What kind of credentials does this guy have? Where did you find him? Is he bonded?” I asked.

  Soph rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to go all lawyerlike on me.”

  “I just think it’s odd that a carpenter would be available so quickly.”

  “I had a last-minute cancellation,” a male voice said.

  I turned around and saw a man standing there, his shaggy brown hair and faded blue T-shirt flecked with sawdust.

  “Plus, Mrs. O’Neill insisted that I start immediately. She’s very persuasive,” he said, grinning at Sophie, who in turn blushed prettily.

  “I told you, call me Sophie,” she said, giggling.

  I stared at my sister. Sure, the guy was sort of cute, if you could get past the grubby clothes and the unshaven face that was reminiscent of a Miami Vice–era Don Johnson. Not my type, although he certainly wasn’t repulsive. But Sophie was happily married and extremely pregnant. I would have thought her coquette days were behind her.

  “Right. Sophie,” he said.

  “Zack, this is my older sister, Paige. Paige, this is Zack Duncan, who came highly recommended. He did Ashley and John’s den. Remember? I told you about it. They had a built-in entertainment center installed, and also put in wood floors,” Sophie said, ignoring the dirty look I shot her for the “older” crack.

  Zack looked at me and smiled. His narrow lips curled up and engaged hazel brown eyes that drooped down at the outer edges. He reminded me of a grown-up version of the slick, good-looking, morally deficient guy who brags about his sexual exploits with his girlfriend and then ultimately loses her to the cute, sensitive, misunderstood guy in the PG-13 movies of my youth. The character James Spader was always cast to play.

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, keeping my voice cool enough so that he’d know I wasn’t about to fall for his act. “Aren’t you working late?”

  “I was just on my way out,” he said.

  Zack stared at me for a few beats longer than I was comfortable with, but I’d be damned if I was going to look away first. I hadn’t succeeded as a litigator by allowing men to intimidate me, although enough of them had certainly tried. Some men were just threatened by strong women, and pulled all kinds of aggressive crap in order to dominate—they’d raise their voices, move toward you suddenly, try staring you down. I’d faced it all before in court. I raised my chin up a few millimeters and held his gaze.

  Suddenly Zack grinned at me and winked, before turning his attention back to Sophie as she asked him about the placement of the island. I flushed and felt disproportionately pissed off. Maybe it’s that I’ve never been able to abide winkers (I always feel like they’re making fun of me), or maybe it was that I was suddenly extraneous, just standing there, overdressed and rigid, while Soph and Zack leaned over the counter to look at a sketch Zack had made on a scrap of a brown paper grocery bag. They looked like
actors in a coffee commercial, all pink cheeks, gesturing arms, adorable pregnant belly.

  “I’m going to go,” I said abruptly.

  “What?” Sophie looked up from the plans. “You just got here, and besides, you have to stay for dinner. Aidan’s gone, and I hate eating alone.”

  “It’s just . . . ,” I started, and then stopped when I saw that Zack was also looking at me. His smile was pleasant enough, but I got the distinct impression that he was amused by my discomfort. Irritation rubbed at me.

  “Okay. Fine. I’ll stay. I need to borrow some sweats,” I said, and walked out of the demolished kitchen and across the living room to Soph’s bedroom before she could answer.

  I rifled through her drawers and withdrew a black sweatshirt and matching cropped yoga pants. I stripped off my clothes—after first making sure that I’d shut the door firmly behind me—and pulled on the pants. The bedroom door swung open before I could shrug the top on, and I froze, clutching the sweatshirt to my chest.

  “It’s just me. Why are you being such a freak?” Sophie asked.

  “Close the door,” I hissed. With the door open there was a straight view into the bedroom from the kitchen.

  “Why? Oh, Zack just left for the day, if that’s what you’re worried about. God, isn’t he gorgeous?” Sophie said dreamily as she heaved herself down on the bed. “He looks like he should be on one of those home decorating shows on HGTV, don’t you think? You know, the ones where they surprise people by redecorating their house? There’s always a hunky carpenter wandering around in a skintight T-shirt. Mmmm. God, these pregnancy hormones make me so horny.”

  “Actually, I thought he was kind of a jerk. Very arrogant,” I said. I pulled on the black hoodie and zipped up the front, then examined myself in the mirror over the dresser. I looked tired. When I was younger and still had the energy to go out to clubs on the weekend, black had been the dominant color in my wardrobe. Now it just served to highlight the dark circles under my eyes.

  “Really? I don’t think so at all. He seems like a really nice guy. In fact . . . I think he was interested in you,” she said.

  “What? Why? What did he say?”

  “So you do think he’s hot.”

  “I do not!”

  “Yes you do. Do you want me to set you up?” she asked mischievously.

  “No! No, no, no,” I said.

  “Why not? You’re not seeing anyone, and I know he’s not,” Sophie said.

  Uh-oh, I thought. Sophie had been obsessed with Jane Austen’s Emma while we were growing up, but my sister was, without a doubt, the worst matchmaker in the history of the world. Soph never seemed to have any sense of compatibility, and always just assumed that two people she liked and found interesting just had to be perfect for each other. Even if one was a Deadhead and the other a chorus nerd. And her judgment on such matters hadn’t evolved much since high school.

  I hated Emma. Jo from Little Women was much more my style.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t try to set me up,” I said.

  “Okay, fine, I won’t. But just so you know, I already gave him your number.”

  “You what?”

  “Why are you yelling at me? Your work number, I mean. He has a custody issue he’s dealing with, and he needs an attorney. I told him that you’re the Terminator of lawyers.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I thought you’d be happy about the referral,” Sophie said.

  “Yeah, that’s just what I need. Another obnoxious client,” I said.

  “Well then, if he calls you, tell him you’re not taking on any new clients. God, why are you acting so weird? You’re even twitchier and more argumentative than usual,” Sophie said.

  Why did I allow my mother to manipulate me into coming over here? I wondered. I could be home right now, watching the Home Shopping Network—my secret guilty pleasure—and painting my toenails instead of putting up with this abuse. I was going to be so glad when Sophie’s hormones stabilized and she stopped being such a complete pain in the ass.

  “Nothing. It’s just . . .” I paused. “Mom was on a tear yesterday about wanting me to start dating again, and I told her it’s not gonna happen. I thought maybe she was trying to enlist you in her campaign.”

  “Oh, yeah, she told me about that. Something about how you’re planning on staying single forever.”

  “Don’t roll your eyes, I’m serious. Ever since I made partner, I’ve been buried in work, so I don’t have time to date. Besides, why is it so wrong to want to focus on my career? Men do it all the time. Why can’t a woman do the same thing?” I asked.

  “They can. Being a single woman in your thirties is very hot right now. It’s all about amazing shoes and cocktails and sex without consequences,” Sophie said.

  “Yeah, right,” I snorted. Sophie and Aidan had met in college, so she had no idea what it was really like out there now. “Dating in your thirties is just as bad as dating in your twenties, only the men have a lot more baggage. Ex-wives, custody disputes, and impotence. Trust me, I know. A stream of newly single men file through my office every day. And I think Austin is worse than most other cities. If I see one more guy clinging to the revolting ‘I’m an evolved man’ uniform of little John Lennon glasses, a goatee, and Teva sandals, and referring to everyone as ‘dude,’ I’m going to lose it,” I continued.

  “Your clients tell you they’re impotent?” Sophie asked.

  “No. I’m just guessing about that part from all of the Viagra commercials I keep seeing on television. There seems to be an epidemic.” I smiled without humor, remembering Scott’s constant stream of excuses for not wanting to have sex. He kept claiming it was natural for a couple’s sex life to wane after being together for a few years. “I suggested to Scott that he try Viagra. I couldn’t figure out why an otherwise healthy thirty-eight-year-old man wasn’t able to maintain an erection.”

  Sophie grimaced. “Not your fault, Paige. You know that, right?” she said.

  “Well, I’m not stupid. I know I didn’t turn him off of women. But I’m tired of being told not to take it personally,” I said, shrugging.

  “I think you should see someone. A therapist. Your divorce and your job are making you bitter,” Sophie said.

  “I’m way past bitter,” I said. “Way, way past it. I’ve also zipped past disillusioned, cynical, and distrustful.”

  “I’m serious. This whole thing about how you’re not going to date anymore—I’m sure that’s a very normal reaction after what you’ve gone through. And anger is healthy. But withdrawing from life is not, especially since it’s been two years since you split up.”

  “I’m not withdrawing. I have my work and my family and friends. That’s enough. Not all people have to take the same path, you know. Not everyone is cut out for marriage. In fact, it’s offensive and sexist to assume that I have to be attached to a man in order to be a whole person,” I said.

  “I’m not saying that! I just don’t think it’s healthy to embrace a monastic lifestyle just because you were married to a gay man. The relationship was doomed to fail from the start,” Sophie said.

  I considered this. “Monastic” wasn’t a particularly appealing adjective to get slapped with.

  “Maybe . . . ,” I said slowly.

  Sophie brightened. “Really?” she said eagerly. She was so transparent, I could practically hear her mentally reviewing the list of guys she could set me up with.

  “I’m through with serious relationships. But that doesn’t mean I should have to give up sex, right? Confirmed bachelors don’t. They have their swank apartments with mirrored ceilings and their little black books, and date all kinds of women without ever getting serious about anyone,” I said, my enthusiasm for the idea growing.

  Sophie looked at me blankly. “Mirrored ceilings? You’re kidding, right?”

  “Well, yeah, maybe about that part. But I think I’m onto something here. You were just saying that there’s a renaissance of the thirty-something single
woman. I could be a part of that. Why not? I could get out there, meet some new men, have some completely anonymous sex—what did Erica Jong called it? The zipless fuck? It’s a fantastic idea. Maybe I’ll even start with your handyman,” I said, just to needle her.

  “Zack? I thought you weren’t interested in him.”

  “I’m not. That’s the point. At least, I’m not interested in his mind. His body’s a different story. . . .”

  “Paige! You’re not serious, are you?”

  “What? You were just telling me I need to get back out there. Do you think Zack would be up for a fling?”

  “Not Zack. I know he’s a hottie, but he’s a really nice guy. Way too nice to be treated like he’s disposable,” Sophie protested.

  “Hottie,” I repeated, and snorted. “Who says that? Are you auditioning for The Real World?”

  “That’s an idea. Do you think they’d be interested in casting a thirty-two-year-old married pregnant woman? But really . . . you’re just joking about Zack, right? Right?”

  She looked so anxious, I couldn’t bring myself to torture her any longer.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t seduce your man candy. I meant what I said—I have no intention of ever dating again. Now, what’s for dinner?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  “Whatever you go pick up,” Sophie said, lolling back on her side, one hand resting on her huge belly. “I don’t have a kitchen, and I’m too tired to move.”

  Chapter Three

  I first met Owen Malloy in law school when he lived in the other half of a duplex I rented near campus. He was a pale-skinned, freckle-faced smart-ass with coppery red hair, which had thinned considerably in the nine years since we graduated. Owen was now an assistant district attorney for Travis County, and had worked his way up from prosecuting shoplifters to major felonies. He was also gay, and the only person outside of my family whom I’d told the real reason why Scott and I had divorced.

  “I heard some gossip about your ex-husband,” Owen said, looking keenly at me.

  We’d met for lunch at P.F. Chang’s, a Chinese restaurant near my office. I was having the Szechuan Beef, and Owen was scarfing down the Orange Peel Shrimp.