I am speechless—literally speechless—as I cannot think of a single thing to say to him. I want to be angry, but he seems sincerely apologetic, and I know in my gut it pains him to hurt me. “It’s okay,” I say softly.
I’m taking being dumped very well, which is lucky for Philip. I must be in the denial stage of grief. I hope for Philip’s sake he is no longer sitting across from me when I reach the anger stage.
“It’s not okay. I shouldn’t have pursued you until my divorce was final.”
“I think I might have pursued you,” I say and release a self-deprecating chuckle at my own foolishness.
Philip crinkles his forehead. “What do you mean?”
“I wasted no time in flirting with you when I found out you were separated. It didn’t even cross my mind that separated and divorced are not synonymous. At almost forty years old, I should know better.” I release a deep breath.
Philip locks eyes with me. “Mags, I want you to know I didn’t plan this. I need you to know I wasn’t using my separated status to get you in bed under false pretenses. I thought my marriage was over.”
“So what changed?” The answer won’t make things different, but I’m genuinely curious.
Philip rubs his eyes. “We stopped talking—Sheila and me. Everything was about the kids. We stopped laughing—unless it was about the kids. Our connection tempered until it eventually burnt out. Even the sex was perfunctory.”
I cough. I definitely do not want to hear about his sex life with his wife.
“Sorry,” he says. “After talking this weekend, we agree it might be worth putting as much effort into our marriage as we have other aspects of our lives, like our careers and our children.”
“And you want to try again?” I haven’t a clue why I’m asking since I already know the answer.
He nods. “Relationships aren’t easy, and marriage is the mother of all relationships. It’s remarkably easy to give up. Working on it takes much more effort. But for the sake of our children, we both want to try.”
I cock an eyebrow. “For the sake of your children? What do you want?” My ego wants him to say he’s choosing his wife over me solely for the sake of his children, and I hate myself for it.
“I wish we lived in Utah so I could practice bigamy.” He smiles at me sheepishly.
I choke out a laugh. “Sorry, buddy.”
“I do love my wife. But you’re pretty awesome, Maggie.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I don’t believe him.
The air is silent as our waitress brings over our entrees.
“And don’t worry about work. I promise things won’t be awkward,” he says.
My heart stops. I really like my job, but I can’t possibly stay there now. I hear Philip’s voice talking to me, something about what a talented marketing manager I am and not wanting to lose me, but I’m only half listening. I’m too busy berating my failure to think things through before jumping into bed with a man who is not only technically still married but also technically my boss. I wince inwardly as I mentally add “update my resume” to my to-do list.
“Picture him dancing to Abba in his tighty-whities,” Jodie suggests.
I put my phone on speaker and place it on my nightstand. Chuckling, I say, “Keep going.” After struggling through the rest of dinner with Philip, pretending to be okay with being friends and colleagues (at least for the time being), I am finally at home with most of my meal in a doggie bag in my refrigerator. I have no desire to engage in the clichéd behavior of most women who have been dumped—namely pigging out on ice cream while watching cheesy movies. And I also don’t want to go to bed and stare at the ceiling counting down the days until my fortieth birthday.
“How about, he wipes his ass with his bare hands?”
“Jodie, that’s gross even for you.” Back in college, whenever one of us liked a guy who didn’t return our feelings or blew us off after a hook-up, we would visualize him in an exceptionally negative light to completely and irrevocably turn us off. Past examples include sitting on the toilet bowl attempting to push through a stubborn case of constipation and floating through space dressed in pink feety pajamas, but Jodie has reached a whole new level today.
“Did it work though? Does picturing Philip with his own shit between his fingers make you feel all tingly down there?”
I clutch my stomach. “Ugh. Not quite.” Laughing, I say, “Thanks.”
Her voice turns serious. “You gonna be okay?”
I nod as if she can see me. “I think so. I feel more stupid than anything else.”
“Why?”
“For thinking it would be so easy to meet someone after breaking up with Doug. He was my most serious relationship, and it took me almost thirty-six years to meet him.”
“Would’ve been awesome if it worked out though,” Jodie says.
“What if it takes me another thirty-six years to find someone else?” I whine.
“It won’t,” Jodie says assuredly.
“How do you know?”
“Because you can’t count the first seventeen years of your life when you’re under your parents’ roof and barely have any free will to make decisions. With that logic, it only took you twenty years to meet Doug.”
“Waiting another twenty years isn’t much better,” I say glumly.
Jodie sighs. “We’ve been friends since college, and you’ve never had much trouble getting back on the saddle after a failed relationship. You always found a new boyfriend quickly and without much effort. Don’t recreate history now as a way to support your pity party.”
To an outside observer, it’s true I’ve had a lot of boyfriends. But, as Jodie knows better than most, the majority of the relationships didn’t last beyond the honeymoon stages of the initial six months. Within the first year, we split either because he was bored, I wasn’t feeling it, or, in the best cases, a mutual conclusion was drawn that we were not compatible for the long haul. Doug was the first one who really stuck, and Jodie knows this. “Nice bedside manner, bitch.”
“I hit my peak with the doody visual. What do you want from me?”
I giggle. “I love you, Jodie.”
“Love you too, Magpie. Nighty night.”
“Sweet dreams,” I say before hanging up the phone and spooning my pillow. I close my eyes, but I’m not tired enough to fall asleep. Without moving from the fetal position, I reach over to my nightstand, grab my remote control, and aim it at the television. I’m in luck as Logo TV is having a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon. Doug and I planned to watch at least one season on DVD on my birthday weekend, but we broke up instead. I sit up and lean against my headboard.
It’s the Thanksgiving episode from the fourth season. I chuckle when Anya, one of my favorite characters, describes Thanksgiving as “a ritual sacrifice. With pie.” Riveted to my television set for the next three hours with Buffy, Zander, Willow, and the rest of the “Scooby Gang” as they fight evil, I realize it never would have worked out with Philip. Television is essential to my life, and Philip doesn’t enjoy it. Maybe I always knew but was blinded by the butterflies and our mutual appreciation for sex.
After confirming there will be another Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon the following night, I turn off the television and fall asleep with dreams of a man who shares my love of both sex and television.
The next morning, when I wake up to puffy eyes and weary bones from lack of sleep, I am tempted to call out sick from work. Philip will either keep his distance to give us time to regroup, or he will make it a point to check up and make sure I’m okay. It’s a crapshoot, and I don’t want to take the risk. Even if Philip chooses to give me space or simply shares my desire to avoid face-to-face contact for the time being, rarely a day goes by when a business issue doesn’t require us to communicate. I have a feeling maintaining a working relationship with him will be difficult con
sidering I’ve seen him naked and have intimate knowledge of his manscaping habits.
Even though it’s November, and I have eight remaining vacation days I must take before the end of the year or lose them forever, I suck it up and get ready for work. If I don’t go in, Philip will assume it’s because of what went down the night before. He’s not so egotistical to take pleasure in my inability to cope, but for the sake of pride, I need to put on a good show. So, after I shower, I put on my cheeriest outfit—a burnt orange wrap dress and my favorite knee-high brown leather boots—and plant a smile on my face. Fake it till you make it. And if all else fails, sneak out of the office early.
I quietly enter Melanie’s office and close the door behind me. She’s on the phone but motions for me to take a seat. Relaxing in her guest chair, I flip through the pages of the Zagat guide she leaves on her desk. Avra Restaurant received a food rating of twenty-five—an exceptionally good score—but since I swallowed most of my food the night before without actually tasting it, I have no idea if I agree. I put the book down and observe Melanie as she holds the phone in the crook of her neck while twirling her red locks. She smiles at me and holds up a free finger.
When she finishes her conversation, she hangs up the phone and grins at me. “What’s up, girlie?”
“Philip is getting back together with his wife.”
Melanie’s smile disappears. “Oh.”
“The first word out of my mouth too.”
She stands up and comes over to my chair. “You okay?”
Standing up to give her a hug, I say, “I’ll be fine. But if you know anyone on the prowl for a marketing manager, let me know.”
“He can’t make you quit. Unless he wants to be sued for sexual harassment.” Melanie turns away from me and reaches for a law book on her shelf.
I tap her on the back. “Don’t get carried away. He’s not firing me. In fact, he wants me to continue to work here.”
Melanie releases a sigh and sits back at her desk. Clapping her hands together, she says, “Oh, goodie. I can’t bear the thought of this place without you.”
I chew my lip. “I think I should search for a new job anyway.”
Melanie frowns. “Why?” Motioning towards my chair, she says, “Sit. Talk to me.”
Sitting down, I say, “I feel dirty now. It’s like a primetime television show. Lowly member of the staff screws a partner.”
“You’re not a lowly staff member.” She shakes her head. “This is all my fault.”
“How is it your fault?”
“I told you he was available, and I encouraged you to pursue him.” I open my mouth to protest, but she continues. “I should have been more levelheaded. Separated does not mean divorced. I should have seen this coming and warned you.”
Shaking my head vigorously, I argue, “It’s not your fault. Even if you had warned me about the possibility of him getting back together with his wife, I might not have listened to you.”
Melanie frowns. “I’m so sorry, Mags.”
“It is what it is.” I lift myself off of the chair and walk toward her door. Turning to face her, I say, “I was afraid he’d mention it before I had a chance to fill you in.”
“Lunch?”
I nod. “Yeah, and then I think I’ll go home early. There’s a Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon on Logo TV.”
“Team Angel,” she says.
“Team Spike,” I counter.
Tut-tutting me, she says, “And that, my dear, might be your problem with men. Angel is the better man. Sure Spike has hidden depth, and he’s smoking hot, but Angel is solid. What you see is what you get.”
“Except when he was evil. You’re forgetting the second season.”
“And Spike didn’t get good until they put a chip in his head.”
Laughing, I say, “We’ll agree to disagree, okay?”
“Deal. But let’s revisit this conversation next year.” She taps a finger to her chin. “You should go indoor rock climbing with me at Chelsea Piers after work.”
I cringe. “Not a chance.”
“You said you wanted to take a break from Doug to find out what made you happy. How are you going to figure it out if you don’t try anything new?”
“I was referring to my love life. And I have tried something new—Philip.”
Melanie rolls her eyes. “I think it will be good for you.”
“I can barely walk without falling.” I picture my broken and bleeding body at the foot of a rock wall.
“You’ll be in a harness and you’ll have supervision. I reserved an open climb with two friends from my runners’ group and there’s room for one more person. Don’t be a wimp, Piper. Do it.”
I’m not convinced rock climbing is a wise idea, but Melanie’s right that I’ve been stuck in a work, television watching, cocktails, and repeat routine for too long. Maybe trying something new will be good for me.
This was a bad idea. My breath is ragged as I grip a green climbing hold and lift a foot to the next one. Even though I’m harnessed in, I don’t look down. I’m not afraid of heights when I’m a passenger in a plane or theme park ride, and I’ve voluntarily climbed to the top of the Empire State Building and looked out the window, but this is different. I’m both the passenger and the ride, and how high I go and how far I fall is in my own hands.
“You can do it, Maggie,” Melanie calls from the ground only ten feet beneath me. I’ve only made it to three climbing holds so far.
Holding onto the climbing rope, the Rock Wall instructor says, “Slow and steady.”
I inhale deeply and focus on getting to the next green hold even though the other colors are distracting. My thighs burn and as a bead of sweat drops down my back, I’m grateful I smothered my hands in climbing chalk or I’d lose my grip. I picture my mother cheering me on as I get to the next hold. Then I visualize Jodie stomping her feet and whistling through her teeth as I reach the next one. I can almost hear Cheryl and the kids clapping as I climb higher. My brain assigns my next cheerleader and I freeze in place.
“You okay up there?” the instructor asks.
Doug’s face beams with pride and confidence. He says, “Don’t give up, Magpie.”
With an audible grunt, I take one more step. My body shakes in the workout clothes I borrowed from Melanie and I cautiously look over my shoulder. Afraid to press my luck, I say, “I’m ready to come down now.”
“You were a rock star,” Melanie says an hour later over dinner and beers at The Half King, a pub not far from the pier. Her running buddies opted to go straight home.
“More like a rock star’s roadie,” I joke before taking a bite of my slider.
“They do all the hard work anyway. Did you like it?”
I take a sip of beer while considering her question. I place my pilsner glass on the square faded-wood table and say, “I’m so glad you made me do it.”
Melanie beams at me. “I knew you’d love it.”
“I said I’m glad I did it. I never said I loved it.” In response to Melanie’s confused expression, I say, “I’m proud of myself for doing something that scared me even though I feared for my life the entire time.” I don’t tell her I couldn’t have done it without the imagined positive reinforcement provided by my family, friends, and Doug.
“Would you do it again?”
“I might.” I would be almost as afraid the second time around, but the sense of accomplishment I feel in this moment is something I want to experience again.
“Awesome. Maybe we can do something else next time. Like the flying trapeze or…” She twists her mouth in thought until her eyes open wide. “Circus lessons. We can learn silks, trapeze, rope—”
“Whoa there lady,” I say as I nearly choke on my beer. “Baby steps.”
“I suppose I got carried away.” Melanie concedes.
I sh
ake my head at her in amusement and take another sip from my glass. Beer never tasted so good.
* * *
As I reach down for another piece of cheddar cheese, my mom calls out, “Don’t go crazy on the appetizers or you won’t have room left for the main course.” I hesitate for a second and then strike a bargain with myself—one more cube of cheese, then I’ll sit tight until dinner is ready. I toss the cheese in my mouth and fall back on the couch with a satisfied smile as Cheryl comes out of the kitchen with a platter of pigs in a blanket and a dish of spicy brown mustard.
I groan. “Seriously? How am I supposed to save myself for dinner when you set all of my favorite snacks in front of me?”
“Willpower.” Cheryl winks.
With a jumbo pitted black olive on each of her fingers, Cady pokes my leg and asks, “What’s willpowow?”
I move the bowl of olives farther away from her. “Something Aunt Maggie doesn’t have when it comes to food.” I kiss the top of her head before grabbing a mini hotdog and dipping it into the mustard.
“It’s a good thing you have a fast metabolism,” Aunt Helen says from her spot on the couch. She eyeballs me from head to toe. “Hopefully it won’t change once you turn forty. Last thing a single girl your age needs is extra weight.”
“I’ll take your advice under advisement, Aunt Helen.” I recall with pride my recent calorie-burning, rock-climbing adventure and pop another olive in my mouth.
My mom approaches me and wraps me in a tight embrace. “How’s my Maggie?”
“I’m good,” I say, squeezing her back. “Excited to pig out.”
“Come see the sweet potato pie.” She takes my hand and leads me to the counter. As she removes the aluminum foil, she says, “Ta da!” Sweet potato pie is absolutely my favorite side dish ever, and my mouth salivates at the sight of the casserole bowl filled with candied yams covered with marshmallows.
How Do You Know? Page 10