Chuckling, Melanie says, “It’s called a husband.”
Rolling her eyes, Jodie says, “Hence why you’re still married and I’m not.”
“Speaking of which, any developments with Goatee Man?” I ask.
“He’s in Vegas shooting a wedding,” Jodie says. It turns out, Charles, a.k.a. Goatee Man, is a wedding photographer. He took several candid shots at Jodie’s birthday party, including one where Jodie, Amanda, and I were twerking. We made an agreement not to post the picture on Facebook under any circumstances and, instead, leave it stored safely in the cloud for nostalgic purposes to laugh over when we’re in our sixties.
Her voice barely louder than a whisper, Amanda says, “I’ve got news.”
“Do tell,” Jodie says.
Amanda bites her lower lip and gives us a sheepish grin. “I’m signing up for a speed dating event.”
As my jaw drops, Jodie and Melanie say in unison, “Really?”
A blush creeping across her cheeks, Amanda nods. “It was my therapist’s idea. She thought it would be a good way to ease into dating.”
“Your therapist considers meeting a gazillion guys in one night easing into dating?” I ask doubtfully.
“My first reaction too,” Amanda says. “But she claims the short duration of the dates—five minutes each—is a lot less pressure than an hour or two with one guy. And a bad conversation with any one guy is less likely to have a lasting effect on me since I’m meeting so many at once.”
Melanie nods. “Makes sense.”
“But she suggested I ask one of my single friends to do it with me to further alleviate my anxiety,” she says, locking her eyes on me.
“Good idea,” I say encouragingly.
Amanda smiles at me.
I smile back.
“So you’ll do it?” she asks.
Ruh roh. I knock back the rest of my drink as a wave of panic splashes through my center. “Why me?” I turn to Jodie and Melanie, hoping they’ll help me.
“Count me out. I’m married,” Melanie says.
“What about you?” I ask Jodie.
Not making eye contact, Jodie says, “I’m seeing Charles.”
“I thought you were casually dating. Your sudden exclusivity is very convenient,” I mumble. “Did anyone hear what I said less than ten minutes ago about taking a break from dating?” Neither Melanie nor Jodie jump to my rescue.
“Please, Magpie. I’m finally trying to meet someone again, but I’m scared to do it alone.” Amanda cocks her head to the side and protrudes her lips in a pout.
I want more than anything to say no. Well, almost more than anything. But when she ogles me with her puppy-dog eyes, I can’t do it. With a loud sigh, I relent. “Fine. But I’m only doing it for you.”
Clapping her hands, Amanda says, “Thank you.”
I’m genuinely moved by Amanda’s enthusiasm to attend a singles event. This time last year, and probably even last month, she would have flat out refused to even consider it. It’s a big step for her, and I’m proud she’s taking it, even though I would prefer she find someone else to go with. I catch Jodie’s eye across the table, and she winks at me. I roll my eyes. “When exactly are we doing this?” I ask.
“February 15th. The theme is Valentine’s Day for singles. I’ll email you the signup link.”
“Swell,” I say, not even trying to disguise my sarcasm. “What’s the age range?”
“Women twenty-nine through thirty-nine, and men thirty through forty,” Amanda says.
“Another reason I can’t do it. I’m too old now,” Jodie says with a chuckle.
My muscles tense. “Why are the women younger than the men?”
Amanda says, “I don’t know. They’re almost all like that.”
“I’ll be the oldest girl there, and almost every guy will be younger than me. This is getting better and better.” I assume Amanda is unfettered by the age discrepancy because at thirty-four, she won’t be the oldest or the youngest in attendance.
Squeezing my hand across the table, Amanda says, “If you focus on it being a favor for a friend, it will go down a lot easier.”
“You owe me one,” I say, only half joking.
“And people always mistake you for being younger. I guarantee you won’t stand out,” Jodie says.
“And you like younger guys,” Melanie says, after which her face immediately drains of color.
Staring into space, I say, “Correction: Younger guy. I liked one younger guy.” My lips begin to quiver as I think about Lindsay and how she’s probably close to ten years my junior. “And now he’s dating a younger girl.”
I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and take one last look at the enormous rock wall. I’m wistful after completing my final class.
“You’ve come a long way since I supervised your first climb.”
I turn to Ralph, my instructor, and smile. “I bet you never expected to see me again after that first time.”
He cocks his head to the side. “If I remember correctly, you were a little hesitant initially, but then something pushed you forward.”
My stomach drops. It wasn’t something. It was someone—Doug. His imaginary support got me to the final hold the first time, but since our disastrous meeting at the Oyster Bar, I’ve had to rely on my own strength to keep me going. “And now I’m hooked.”
Ralph waves to a group of climbers on their way out. “See you next time,” he says before turning back to me. “I hope that means you’ll sign up for our advanced beginner class.”
I haven’t thought about taking my rock climbing to the next level, but I tell Ralph I’ll consider it before thanking him for all of his help and heading home.
On the cross town bus, I chew over the option of signing up for another set of classes. Rock climbing has been a great outlet for my stress. My favorite escape used to be television, but lately it’s a reminder of Doug and what I lost. I’m not sure I can afford the fees right now, but I know if it’s not rock climbing, it will be something else. I recall Melanie’s suggestion that we try the flying trapeze. Perhaps it’s not such an outrageous idea after all.
February
I stare at my closed office door, biting back my curiosity about the condition of the secretarial desks lining the hallway today. Are they teeming with long-stemmed roses? Even when I had a boyfriend, I never made a big deal of Valentine’s Day. I didn’t go out of my way to dress in red. Doug never sent me flowers to the office, though he always brought them home for me, along with a bag of assorted candy since I prefer sugar to chocolate. The mood was a bit more romantic on Valentine’s Day than random nights, but we didn’t make dinner reservations at a crazy expensive restaurant or take a mini-break to a bed and breakfast for the weekend. Yet today, I am veritably aware of my single status on a holiday made for lovers. I make a conscious effort to stay enclosed in my office all day in order to avoid observing the mail guys delivering bouquets of flowers to the romantically-attached women in the firm.
It’s not like I’m the one kid in class who didn’t get any Valentine’s Day greetings. I did receive one—from my dad. If there is one thing I can credit to my father, it’s always remembering me on special occasions, whether it’s my birthday, Chanukah, or Valentine’s Day. The pink and red card he sent me this year depicts an image of an owl and the words, “Whooos the Sweetest?” A personalized note was written in my father’s scribbly handwriting: Dear Freckles, Happy Valentine’s Day. Love, Dad. As much as I appreciate my father’s attempts—however half-assed—to demonstrate his love, the card does nothing to ease the loneliness in my heart.
Cheryl invited me over for dinner, which I find strange since she’s married and should spend Valentine’s Day with Jim, but I accepted the invitation without hesitation. Last time we spoke on the phone, I told her about meeting with Doug, but she conveniently ended the call, c
laiming the kids needed a bath, before I had a chance to press her about Jim. For a while now, I’ve been worried something is wrong, so I hope she’ll confide in me tonight.
I glance at the bottom of my computer screen to check the time. I have a phone interview with a headhunter in less than ten minutes. This is my first phone interview ever—in my previous job searches, I always met my prospective employer in person from the get-go. My lazy side is happy I don’t have to leave the comfort of my office for this screening call (or wear pantyhose), but I know my best impressions are usually made face to face. I assume she’ll ask the basic questions about my skills and experience history, even though both are listed on my resume.
Maybe she’ll ask about my salary requirements. I’m not pining for a substantial pay increase, but I wouldn’t turn it down either. My rent has doubled since Doug moved out, and it would be nice to earn enough to make up for it. The ideal position would be one where I can put my existing skills to use with room to learn and grow. Access to an assistant would be sweet too.
My final deal-breaking requirement is that the firm not employ anyone I’ve had sex with. It shouldn’t be too difficult, since I’ve been a serial monogamist since I lost my virginity the summer between high school and college and have slept with a total of eleven men—all boyfriends, with the exception of two casual hook-ups in college and two since.
I do wish the motivating factor for instigating a job search was more substantial than having nailed a married partner who was also technically my boss, but I can’t think of much I would want from a different employer that I don’t get from the one I already have. It might be cool to branch out from the law firm environment and utilize my marketing skills in a different setting. I close my eyes and try to visualize myself at my ideal job, but all I can picture is a comfy couch and a giant flat screen television. My model job shouldn’t resemble a sick day off from work.
The phone rings, drawing me out of my daydream and back to the real world. I take a deep breath and answer, “This is Maggie Piper.”
After work, I hop on the train and lean against my window seat. I close my eyes, hoping to drown out the conversations taking place among all the couples in the rows directly in front of me. When I arrive in Yorktown, Cheryl and the kids are waiting in her SUV to drive me back to their house. I tell the kids I have a gift in my overnight bag for them to share, but I don’t tell them what it is. This pisses Cheryl off, because Cady and Michael spend the entire ride taking turns guessing what it is and bouncing as much as they can while restrained under their seatbelts. The gift is from one of Melanie’s clients, a toy company. I don’t see the appeal, but it was rejected as evidence in a case Melanie’s working on and is apparently popular with the under-ten crowd. Melanie’s boys are also under ten, but I took advantage of my sadness of late to convince her to give it to me so I could maintain my status as the best aunt in the world and infinitely better than Joyce, their only other aunt and Jim’s sister.
As soon as we’re inside the house and our jackets are off, I pull the game out of my bag. Cady and Michael squeal in delight and beg Cheryl to let them play with it immediately. Cheryl says yes, but only if they take it upstairs. Then she winks at me and slickly motions her head toward the two wine glasses on her kitchen counter.
I realize this is her ploy to give us some peace, quiet, and alone time. These strategies rarely work since the kids are usually more inclined to hang on our every word (and every limb) when we most want them to go away, but this time, Cady grabs the game, and she and Michael race up the stairs with no argument.
A few minutes later, Cheryl hands me a glass of wine. “I was thinking we could order a pizza. What do you say?”
“I’m game. Good wine, though I should cut down. I drink way more single than I did when I was in a relationship,” I say, before heading to the living room and plopping myself on Cheryl’s black leather couch. Cheryl keeps her house cold, like her mom and mine did when we were growing up, so the first thing I do is pull the black and white afghan that Aunt Helen knitted over my legs. “What’s going on?”
Cheryl sits next to me on the couch and glances up at the stairwell leading to the second floor of her three-bedroom high-ranch-style house. I assume she’s listening to confirm Cady and Michael are still alive, because she doesn’t answer me until we hear them tittering together. “Not much. How’s everything with you?”
I know she’s lying, but I decide to wait it out. “Things are good. Well, things are fine. I had a phone interview today with a recruiter.”
“How did you do?”
“Aside from saying ‘um’ every other word, it went all right. She said my experience and skill set work in my favor, but the limited job market works against me.” I take another sip of wine before placing it on the cherry wood coffee table. “She’s going to try to set up some interviews.”
Cheryl nods. “Sounds semi-promising.” Grabbing the end of the afghan and covering her own feet, Cheryl asks, “Are things still awkward with Philip?”
“No, he pretty much ignores me. Except when I catch him staring at me.”
Cheryl’s eyebrows go up. “He stares at you?”
“Staring might be an exaggeration, but each time he passes by my office, he peeks inside, whereas I go out of my way not to walk past his office at all. And he checks me out at all of the biz dev meetings.” My stomach growls. “Where are the hors d’oeuvres?” Cheryl is usually a much better hostess, putting out a plate of cheese and crackers or chips and dip before the main course.
“Biz dev?”
“Business development,” I say with a smile. “Appetizers?”
“Interesting,” Cheryl says, still ignoring my inquiries about the food situation.
“It’s not interesting at all. It’s awkward. I wonder if he pictures me naked whenever he sees me.” I also wonder if he has visions of me bouncing on top of him with my tits in his face, but I’m too embarrassed to say this to Cheryl.
“Do you picture him naked when you look at him?”
“Of course. Which is why I only do it when we have work-related one-on-one conversations.” I can also hear his loud groan right before he comes, but again, I don’t say this to Cheryl. In contrast, my memories of Doug are not all sexually driven, probably because our relationship was not almost entirely physical in nature. Of course, now I’m thinking about the faces and sounds Doug used to make when we had sex and trying not to imagine him with Lindsay. “I’m starving.”
Cheryl stands up. “You’re as bad as my kids. I’ll call the pizza place now. We can order bread sticks or garlic bread with cheese too.”
“Garlic bread with cheese,” I declare happily. Growing up, Cheryl and I always ordered garlic bread and cheese at the local pizza places, even though it was overkill on cheese and carbs from a nutritional standpoint. We didn’t care then and I don’t care now, even though, as Aunt Helen loves to warn me, my metabolism might slow down when I turn forty. I rummage through Cheryl’s cabinets searching for chips or pretzels, but aside from several liters of soda, boxes of cereal, and various cooking staples like sugar and flour, it’s barren. “You don’t have any junk food.”
“Sorry, Magpie. Didn’t have time to stock up.”
I decide the time has come to confront her. I wait for her to call in our order to the pizza place and then I pounce. “What’s going on with you? And do not turn it around on me.” Cheryl opens her mouth to speak, but I hold up my hand. “And don’t tell me nothing is going on. I haven’t seen Jim in months. You snap at me whenever I mention his name. And…And,” I repeat with emphasis, “you invited me over for a girl’s night on Valentine’s Day. What the hell is going on?”
Cheryl’s eyes bug out as she puts two fingers to her lips. “Shh. The kids are upstairs,” she whispers.
My face gets hot in shame. Cursing in front of the twerps is a bad habit. “Sorry,” I whisper back.
> Cheryl finishes her wine and pours another glass. Gazing at the glass with a guilty expression, she says, “I shouldn’t drink this much until the kids are in bed.” Then she turns to me. “Jim and I are taking a trial separation.”
My stomach drops in dread even though I predicted it was something like this. “Oh, Cheryl. I’m so sorry.” I follow her back to the living room where we resume our seats on the couch, both under the warmth of the afghan. “What happened?”
“We grew apart. Or maybe we didn’t grow at all and have nothing new to talk about. It’s like we’re going through the motions of being a couple, but the romantic bond is broken. Or at least cracked.”
I recall Philip’s explanation of what happened with his wife, and it sounds eerily similar. I also remember Cheryl attempting to show me the positive side of Philip and his wife trying again, even though it meant he had to dump me in the process. “Are you going to work on it, or are you talking divorce?”
“We’re in therapy, but we thought it made sense to live separately while we figured things out.” She regards me with sad eyes. “Neither of us wants to get divorced.”
I’m happy to hear this. “Good.”
“But we also don’t want to be in an unhappy marriage. We’re too young to settle into a ho-hum, uninspiring existence.”
Her association of the early forties with being too young for anything pleases me. “I’m so sorry, Cheryl. I don’t even know what to say except I’m here for you, and pulling for you guys to get through this. Do you like your therapist?” My mind flashes to Miranda and Steve’s therapist in the first Sex and the City movie.
“Yeah, we both do. Jim was afraid a woman would automatically take my side, and I secretly hoped he was right.” She pauses and gives me a sheepish grin. “But she’s completely impartial. We’ll see.”
When the doorbell rings, Cheryl stands up and heads to the kitchen where she left money for the pizza. She pays the guy as the kids come racing down the stairs, shouting “Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!” I laugh at them as Cady drags me by the hand to the kitchen table. “You sit next to me, Aunt Maggie.”
How Do You Know? Page 15