How Do You Know?

by Meredith Schorr

Ben cocks his head. “Is that so, Sheryl Crow? I don’t know anyone in marketing, but I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  He takes a step closer to me. “I had a great time. Thank you.”

  “I had a great time too. Thank you.”

  “Do it again?”

  “I’d love to.” As I say the words, I realize they’re mostly true. I very much enjoy Ben’s company. Hopefully, that’s enough for now. Like Jodie said, I don’t have to worry about loving him anytime soon.

  “Great. I’ll call you.”

  Ben leans forward and kisses me. He applies more pressure than last time, and I open my mouth against his and kiss him back. With tongue. We stand under the awning of my building, kissing for a few moments. My knees don’t go weak, and I don’t hear fireworks, but I’m not repelled.

  It’s a start.

  When I get home, the first thing I do is kick off my chestnut leather boots and peel my form fitting dark blue jeans over my ankles. I throw on a pair of sweat shorts, not bothering to remove the long-sleeved white V-neck t-shirt I wore out, and wash off my makeup. After pouring a glass of water, I crawl into bed and replay the evening in my head. I conclude the date was a success.

  Still, it’s Doug I think about when I hug my stuffed Snoopy and close my eyes for the night.

  Amanda places her menu on her lap and takes a sip of her peach bellini. “Is this the first time we’ve all gotten together since Maggie’s birthday in July?”

  I consciously fail to remind them of our reunion at the Oyster Bar after my ill-fated attempt to reunite with Doug, but Jodie does it for me. “We all saw each other in January. At least, I think it was January.” Squinting her eyes at me, she says, “Was it January when you and Doug met up?”

  I nod.

  “Oh, yeah. I guess I wiped it out of my memory,” Amanda says.

  “You and me both,” I mumble into my mimosa.

  Artfully changing the subject, Melanie asks, “Do you guys know what you’re getting?”

  After a dozen emails back and forth over the last month, the four of us finally managed to nail down a date for a girls’ brunch. We’re at the Flatiron location of the trendy Sarabeth’s restaurant. The average age of the diners is thirty, and I’m guessing there are fewer than five people over the age of forty-five. Packed with couples and groups of girls, we waited fifteen minutes for a table despite having made a reservation.

  “I’m getting the pumpkin waffle,” Jodie says. Cocking her head to the side, she says, “You guys ever notice how often we meet in Maggie’s neighborhood? A coincidence, or strategic planning on Maggie’s part?”

  “There are some great restaurants in my hood,” I say.

  There is no shortage of quality restaurants in other neighborhoods, but since I’m the common thread of this group of girls, I don’t complain when one of them suggests meeting someplace convenient for me. “I’ve never refused to go uptown, by the way.”

  Jodie points her finger at me. “I’ve got your number, girl.”

  I playfully kick her under the table. “I’m bummed they don’t have steak and eggs on the menu. I was craving some red meat. I think I’ll get the scrambled-egg-stuffed popper and a side of bacon. Or maybe the sausage.” I crinkle my nose in indecision.

  “Why don’t you get both?” Amanda suggests.

  “So glad you said it and not me,” I say.

  We place our orders with the waitress, and I take Amanda’s advice and request sides of both bacon and sausage.

  “How you’re not four hundred pounds is beyond me,” Jodie says. “Remember when you used to eat an entire turkey hero from Mr. Sub in one sitting in college?”

  I would also wolf down a family-sized bag of Smartfood White Cheddar Cheese Popcorn by myself and not worry about working out to burn the calories. “Those were the days. When I turn forty…” I fake a shudder. “I plan to watch my calorie intake. I’ll probably add strength training to my workouts too. Until then, I will enjoy my youthful metabolism to its fullest.”

  “You’re blessed you can get away with only cardio. Running keeps me from gaining weight, but it doesn’t do anything for flab. After thirty, I noticed the skin would jiggle when I moved my arm, so I started lifting weights to increase muscle tone. Check out these babies.” Melanie proudly lifts a toned arm and points to her tricep. “I agree you should add weights to your workout, if for no other reason than it’s good for your bones, but you don’t honestly think your metabolism is gonna turn a switch the second you turn forty, do you?” she says with more than a hint of doubt in her voice.

  “According to Aunt Helen.”

  “Screw Aunt Helen,” Jodie says.

  “Maybe if someone did screw Aunt Helen, she wouldn’t be so mean to Maggie,” Amanda says with a giggle.

  “A flawed theory since, according to Aunt Helen, it’s more difficult to get laid after you turn forty,” Melanie says, rolling her eyes. “Isn’t she pushing seventy?”

  While my friends unite in Project: Attack Aunt Helen, I figure someone should defend her honor. “I don’t think she lies awake at night thinking of ways to make me feel bad about myself. She’s just…” I try to find the right words. Giving up, I say, “She’s just Aunt Helen. She can’t help herself. Can we please change the subject so I can eradicate the visual of Aunt Helen fornicating?”

  “Sorry about that.” Amanda says with a wry expression. “How are things with Charles, Jodie?”

  “They are progressing nicely, thank you,” Jodie says as a blush paints her cheeks.

  Raising an eyebrow, I joke, “Not doing much vacuuming lately, I gather?”

  This time it’s Jodie who kicks me under the table while Amanda and Melanie exchange confused glances. “No comment. But no, I haven’t felt the need to vacuum as much as usual.” She smiles at me. “What about you, Mags? How’s Benjamin?” She says this with a strong Spanish accent, imitating Javier from Felicity, one of our favorite old television shows.

  “Ben is fine,” I say, happy the waitress conveniently comes over to deliver our food.

  “Just fine?” Amanda asks after the waitress leaves.

  “He’s a nice guy. Funny too. I like him,” I say, cutting into a piece of sausage.

  “You’ve been out twice now?” Amanda asks.

  “Three times,” I correct. We went to the movies on our third date the week before. “The movie starred Justin Timberlake, and I tried not to squirm in discomfort when he had a sex scene with the European actress playing opposite him. Kind of awkward watching a sex scene with a guy you’re sort of dating but never slept with.”

  “What base have you gone to?” Melanie asks.

  Smirking, I say, “Base? Really? Did we jump in a time machine back to high school?”

  “I’m curious too. Has he felt your boobs yet?” Jodie asks.

  “Have you touched his penis?” Amanda says with a giggle.

  For a girl who hasn’t kissed a guy in God only knows how long, Amanda has no problems teasing me about sex. I shovel a spoonful of eggs in my mouth and swallow. “No. All we’ve done is make out.” I turn to Melanie. “Making out is first base.”

  Melanie rolls her eyes at me. “I know.”

  “He’s been a gentleman so far,” I say.

  “Is that a good thing?” Jodie inquires.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you happy to take it slow, or are you itching to move it up a notch?” she asks.

  “I’m not ready to sleep with him,” I say.

  “Do you think you ever will be?” Jodie asks.

  I crumble my napkin. “I don’t know,” I snap.

  “Okay,” Jodie says. “Sheesh.”

  I give her a fixed stare, and in a raised voice, say, “We’ve only been out three times. Is not being ready to get naked in front of him
so bizarre?”

  Melanie places her hand over mine. “Not at all, sweetie. Not at all.”

  “Absolutely, take your time,” Amanda agrees.

  I lock my eyes onto Jodie’s baby blues. “Is that okay with you?”

  “Of course it is. I’m just teasing you,” she says.

  I nibble on a piece of crispy bacon. “Please stop.”

  Jodie nods. “Consider it done.”

  Brunch continues at a leisurely pace, and I engage fully in the conversation, which ceases to include Ben. Behind the scenes, however, there is a one-man show playing in my head—all Ben all the time. Although it’s not unusual for singles to have sex even on the first date, waiting more than three dates isn’t unheard of either. I keep this to myself, but not only am I not ready to be intimate with Ben, I don’t want to. And despite finding him attractive and fun to be around, I have no idea when, or even if, I ever will.

  April

  “Maggie, right?”

  At the sound of my name, I turn away from the display of Smashbox cosmetics at Sephora and find myself facing the last person I expect to see—Lindsay. Her expression is friendly, but caught off-guard, I instinctively keep watch for Doug. I don’t think I can face seeing them together when I’m alone.

  “You’re Maggie. Doug’s ex-girlfriend, right?” Lindsay repeats herself, presumably because I have yet to utter a word.

  In an effort to compose myself, I smile. “Hi there. Lindsay?” Through my peripheral vision, I continue my lookout for Doug, but since there are two girls standing on either side of Lindsay, I assume she is with girlfriends. I hope this means they broke up, but it probably means nothing.

  “How are you?” As if reading my mind, she adds, “Doug’s not here. He’s with his brother, Connor.”

  I’m well aware that Doug’s brother’s name is Connor, but I let it go. “I’m doing well.” I motion to the display case in front of me. “Bare Minerals stopped making my favorite eye shadow color, so I’m hoping another brand carries a similar shade.”

  Lindsay frowns. “I hate when brands discontinue my favorite products. So annoying, right?”

  And I hate that she’s so peppy, that she’s already ended two sentences with “right?”, that she’s probably ten years younger than me, and that she’s dating Doug. But I agree enthusiastically with her statement. “It’s totally annoying.”

  Lindsay introduces me to her friends. “Maggie dated Doug before me. For like a year,” she tells them.

  “It was actually three years,” I mutter.

  “What?” Lindsay asks gently.

  I bite my lip in embarrassment and say nothing.

  Lindsay scrunches up her face. “Sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  Waving my hand in dismissal, I say, “We dated for three years, not one. But it’s no big deal.”

  Putting her hand to her mouth, Lindsay says, “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Her ignorance regarding how long Doug and I were together stings, as I assume it’s because Doug never told her.

  “In any case, Doug was still grieving your relationship when we met. And kind of pissed at you.” She gives me a crooked smile. “But now he realizes you were right, and you guys weren’t meant to be.” She pats me on the shoulder. “So, thank you.”

  Trying to disguise the sinking feeling in my stomach, I jokingly say, “Yeah. I drank much more than him. Apples and oranges.”

  “Exactly,” Lindsay says with a giggle. “And if you guys had stayed together, Doug would have missed out on being a dad. We were talking the other night about how badly we both want kids.”

  I jerk my head back. “In truth, we hadn’t decided either way on the issue of children.” And if Doug wants them badly, it’s news to me. As Lindsay’s friends awkwardly avoid my gaze, I wish Melanie or Jodie was with me to cut the tension with a witty retort.

  Lindsay’s eyes open wide. “Oh my God. I didn’t mean to insult you by implying you can’t have kids. I just thought you didn’t want them, and he does.” Her eyes scan the store before meeting mine again. “Can we forget I said anything? Did I stick my foot in my mouth or what?”

  Until then, I didn’t realize she was referring to the possible challenges that come with having a baby at my age, and I’m pissed. I want to ask her to take this outside, but choosing to play the role of mature grownup, I smile warmly at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She frowns apologetically. “Thanks. I’m so glad Doug is in my life, and it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t broken up with him is all I meant to say.”

  I’m itching to scream, “I wanted a break. Not a breakup!” I’m still thrown by Doug’s sudden desire for a household of rugrats, but I’m in no position to challenge Lindsay. I try to muster an appropriate response but come up short. Suddenly needing fresh air, I realize my new eye shadow will have to wait. “It was nice seeing you. Tell Doug I said hi.” After a nod of acknowledgment to the other two girls, I weave my way through the crowded store and onto the street as fast as my feet will take me.

  It is a typical Saturday afternoon in New York City: a swarm of tourists are walking up and down 42nd Street with seemingly no place to be as they stop mid-step to gawk at a tall building or stare into a store window. I summon the patience of a priest to avoid pushing them out of my way as I race to the subway. I’m almost happy for the clouded vision caused by the tears pouring down my cheeks so I can avoid making eye contact with anyone on the train platform. People say New York is a cold city where strangers don’t make conversation, but people in the Big Apple are as nosy as anywhere else, and a grown woman crying is bound to garner curious stares.

  The tears are still flowing freely by the time the train stops at 28th Street, and I half-jog to my building. I have so far managed to suppress the pathetic wails dying to escape my gut, and I pound the elevator button repeatedly and with force as if doing so will make the door open faster.

  When I enter my apartment at last, I toss my purse on the floor, throw myself headfirst onto my couch, and let it rip. I weep over the ending of my relationship with Doug, and the children we won’t have—the children I never even knew he wanted. I cry over losing him to Lindsay, a woman who probably won’t mourn her twenties until after I’m already in my forties. I scream in frustration for not knowing what I wanted was exactly what I already had until I didn’t have it anymore. And I gasp for air in between questioning out loud in my empty living room why in the world I ever craved a relationship filled with angst and drama—“oomph” as I foolishly described it to Cheryl. I imagine this is what Amanda felt like after she realized the mistake she made breaking up with Noah.

  Perhaps because I’ve exhausted myself and lack the energy to create more tears, I abruptly stop crying and sit up on the couch. My phone alerts me to a text message. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands and take a deep breath in and out before placing my palms on the couch and lifting myself to a standing position. Pulling my phone out of my bag, I wonder for a second if it might be Doug. I say a tiny prayer for it to be Doug, but of course, it isn’t.

  Leaning over my kitchen table, I swallow hard and read the text. It’s from Ben. He wants to know if I’m around this week for dinner—sushi—as he’s determined to revive my taste for eel which mysteriously disappeared after years of feasting on dragon rolls. I picture his friendly blue eyes and boyish grin, and I am happy to hear from him despite the events of this afternoon. I do like Ben. And Ben likes me. I’m not Amanda. I can’t afford to waste a decade playing over my mistakes like a broken record, and I won’t let them paralyze me from pressing forward. Moving my thumbs swiftly, I send a return text to Ben, making plans for dinner on Tuesday.

  I let the piece of dragon roll slide down my throat, grimace at the slimy texture, and quickly take a shot of warm sake from the ceramic glass in an attempt to drown out the residual taste of eel from my mouth. I rais
e my palms up. “I still don’t like eel. Sorry.”

  Grabbing a piece of the roll with his chopsticks, Ben says, “No need to apologize. I should thank you, since there’s more for me now.” Then he grins. “At least you tried.”

  I was dubious my taste buds would reverse over dinner with Ben at Amber, a trendy sushi restaurant in my neighborhood, but I’m glad I took the risk. “I promised you I would, and I always keep my promises.”

  Ben winks. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

  “Precisely,” I say, nodding.

  Testing my palate for eel after so long is not the only risk I have planned for the evening. Viewing Ben across the table, I doubt he has any expectations of getting laid later, but like most guys, I’m sure he hopes so. I’m relying on the theory that the oxytocin released during sex will strengthen my feelings for him—essentially doing exactly what books on dating warn women against. The way I see it, I already like Ben as a friend, but I’m not sure the physical chemistry is there. Since there is only one way to find out, I spent much of Sunday afternoon tidying up my apartment, and thankfully Anna, the only woman I trust to wax my bikini area, had a last-minute cancellation yesterday.

  Ben gestures at the plates on our table. “Is there enough food for you without the dragon roll? We can order something else.”

  “I think we have enough,” I say as I remove a piece of shrimp tempura roll from the plate and place it in my mouth. “But I’ll let you know if I’m still hungry. I’m not bashful when it comes to food.”

  Since we met for dinner at seven, it’s not even nine o’clock when we finish eating and pay our bill. Standing on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Ben points to the bar next door. “What do you say to a beer at Van Diemen’s?”

  I cock my head in the direction of Baskin-Robbins across the street. “I’m craving ice cream. I always do after sushi. Any interest in grabbing some and heading back to my place? I have beer and wine there too if you still want to drink.”

  “Ice cream at your place sounds great,” Ben says casually.