I can tell he’s trying to play it cool, but the slight twitch of his lips gives him away. Men. Even the most patient and gentlemanly of them turn into horny schoolboys when invited inside a girl’s apartment for the first time.
After I treat us to a scoop of ice cream (Oreo Cookies n’ Cream for me and German Chocolate Cake for him), we walk over to my apartment. Since beer doesn’t go well with ice cream, I tell Ben to make himself comfortable on my couch while I pour us each a glass of Baileys Irish Cream on the rocks. After I join him, I kick off my shoes, put my feet on the coffee table, and take my first spoonful of ice cream. I close my eyes and moan as the creamy deliciousness slides down my throat. “Nothing hits the spot after sushi like ice cream.” When I open them, I see Ben smiling at me in amusement and immediately feel my face flush. “What?”
Ben shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s nice to see a girl enjoy dessert.”
I angle my head towards his cup. “How’s yours?”
Ben takes a spoonful of ice cream and closes his eyes. “Mmm. Delicious.” He opens his eyes and laughs.
Swatting him gently in the leg, I say, “Stop teasing me.”
Ben slides closer to me on the couch. “Okay. I’ll stop. You’re cute, though.”
Facing him, I smile shyly. “Thank you.”
Ben inches his face closer to mine. “You’re welcome.” His eyes roam from my mouth to my eyes and back to my mouth again before he kisses me.
This is the moment in a date most women anticipate—when the talking stops, and the action begins. I’ve always felt this way in the past, most recently with Philip—I couldn’t remove his clothes fast enough. It was the same way the first time Doug and I got hot and heavy. After going out to dinner, we spontaneously ended up at the Pine Tree Lounge, a watering hole in Murray Hill which looked more like a log cabin in the Adirondacks than a dive bar. We lost track of time singing along to Top 40 hits on the jukebox and were completely surprised by—and unprepared for—the hurricane-like rainstorm waiting for us outside. Even today, I can practically feel the lack of oxygen in my lungs from sprinting to my apartment a few blocks away. Once inside, it took us several moments to regain our bearings as we stood shivering and dripping rain all over the wood floor of my studio. And then we locked eyes and cracked up until I asked if he wanted to join me for a hot shower. The rest, as they say, is history. Just as Doug and I are now history.
I yank myself out of the past and try to concentrate on the present and Ben, the man I am kissing while our ice cream melts into liquid, and the Baileys Irish Cream dilutes in ice. We have now shifted positions so I’m lying horizontally across the couch, and Ben hovers above me. His lips are soft, and I feel his warm breath as he moves his mouth along my neck in between kissing my mouth. I slip my hands under his wool sweater and run my fingers along his smooth and, thankfully, hairless back. There is a hint of cocoa fragrance in his cologne, and I inhale deeply. I know I can enjoy this if I give myself a chance.
Ben stops kissing me and moves a hair from my face. His complexion is ruddy, and he’s slightly out of breath. “Are you okay here, or should we move this to your bedroom?”
And this is when I know I can’t go through with it. I can’t sleep with Ben in an attempt to force romantic feelings for him I don’t have despite how well we get along. Einstein said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Last July, I questioned my feelings for Doug. We broke up because I said I wanted to “get my ducks in a row” before I turned forty. Nine months have passed, and my ducks are not lined up. Instead of taking the time to sort myself out, I’m a layer of clothing away from jumping into a relationship with Ben—not because I’m crazy about him, but because I’m afraid of entering my forties as a single woman. I’m not sure my behavior is insane, but it’s definitely stupid.
Ben is staring at me expectantly with his brow furrowed, and I know I have to say something. I exhale deeply and bite my lip. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this.” In a cowardly move, I close my eyes for a moment before meeting his glance again.
“Is it too soon?” He sits up, his facial expression one of both disappointment and concern.
I position myself so we’re sitting side by side on the couch. “In a way, yes, but I don’t think a few more dates will resolve it.” I run a hand through my hair and blurt out, “The truth is, I’m still in love with my ex-boyfriend.”
Ben’s eyes open wide.
“I had no intention of meeting someone at speed dating. I only went to support my friend. But you were so nice. And we had so much in common. We even look alike. And I really like you. But…”
“But you’re not over your ex,” Ben says.
I shake my head. “No.”
“I get it,” Ben says softly.
He’s a great guy, and I hate hurting his feelings, but I know it’s better to end it now. “I’m so sorry, Ben. Maybe under other circumstances it would be different, but I don’t think it’s fair to get involved with you when my heart is with someone else.” Even as I say the words, I know they’re not true. Ben is an attractive, interesting, kind man, but even if I was ready to fall in love, I don’t believe my affection for him would ever extend beyond a fondness or a strong like. Despite Aunt Helen’s harping about my biological clock, I would rather be alone than settle. This was my mindset the morning after I broke up with Doug, when I was still doubting whether he was the one. I was ready to separate from Doug, a man I truly loved, because I wasn’t certain it was right. Surely I am strong enough to break it off with Ben after only four dates. “I never meant to lead you on. I swear.” I recall Philip saying the same thing to me when he broke things off. The J. Geils Band said it best—love stinks.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you left me at the altar or anything. And I’ve barely spent any money on you yet,” he jokes.
I grin. I wish I had someone to fix him up with, but Amanda didn’t find him attractive at speed dating. Which in a strange way makes me question how fetching she thinks I am.
“You wanna have sex anyway?” Ben says, one eyebrow lifting suggestively.
Chuckling, I say, “It’s tempting, but I think I’m gonna be a good girl for a change.”
“Just my luck, you decide to turn over a new leaf now.” Ben shakes his head from side to side.
With an apologetic frown, I say, “Sorry.” I drop my gaze to the floor and then back at him. “Thanks so much for being so understanding.” I am drenched in guilt and relieved he isn’t verbally attacking me for being a tease.
Ben stands. “I’m a nice guy. Nice guys finish last.”
Rising too, I say, “Nice guys are underrated. If it’s any consolation, my ex is a nice guy too, so maybe there is an ex-girlfriend somewhere out there who regrets losing you.”
Ben grabs his jacket, and I follow him to my front door. “Excuse me if I’m being nosy, but are you going to tell him how you feel?”
“I did.” I offer no further information. It would be way too awkward discussing Doug with a guy I almost slept with a few minutes ago.
Ben leans his back against my door, holding his jacket against his chest. “Gotcha. I hope we can still be friends.” With a crooked smile, he says, “Even if we’re just fake friends on Facebook.”
“Sounds good. I’ll search for your page. By the way, what’s your last name, Ben C.?”
“Covington.”
My eyes bulging, I repeat, “Covington?”
“Let me guess, you watched Felicity?”
“The answer is a resounding yes. I guess it’s something you’ve heard before?”
“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you’re not the first girl I’ve ever met.”
“Yes, Ben was a hit with the ladies, me being one of them. But Noel was the better catch. Despite sharing Ben’s name, you have more in common with No
el, and that’s a good thing.”
“I’ll take it as a compliment.” Ben plants a kiss on my cheek, says, “Be good, Maggie,” and walks out, letting the door close behind him.
May
Reaching across the coffee table toward Cheryl’s empty glass, I say, “More wine?”
With a handful of M&Ms in her mouth, Cheryl nods. “Yes, please.”
I fill Cheryl’s glass and observe Amanda, who is sitting on my living room floor. Wearing a silk purple pajama set, she’s riveted to the television screen on which the scene where Mark Ruffalo kisses Jennifer Garner for the first time in 13 Going on 30 is playing out. “How about you, Amanda?”
Amanda takes notice of me, says, “Huh?” and then returns her attention to the screen.
I resist the urge to laugh, since I’m positive Amanda has seen this movie at least five times already. “Do you need a refill of anything?”
“Prosecco, please,” she mumbles.
I walk to my kitchen where an unopened bottle of Prosecco is chilling in the refrigerator.
The three of us are in the throes of a girls’ night meant to help us embrace our single status by doing all the “chick” things that would threaten the masculinity of our significant others if we had one. We’re spending the evening watching back-to-back romantic comedies, skimming fashion magazines, eating copious amounts of mini cupcakes from Baked by Melissa, and Cheryl even painted my toenails earlier.
Most important, however, is the requirement that all alcoholic beverages consumed be pink in color. I purchased bottles of White Zinfandel (perfectly acceptable to drink in the privacy of one’s own home) and Rose Prosecco. We are a cliché of the girls-night-in experience, but that’s the fun of it.
After filling Amanda’s glass and my own, I inspect the box of cupcakes, remove one with a peanut butter cup on top, and toss it in my mouth before returning to the couch next to Cheryl. We watch the movie until it ends, and then I mute it while the credits run. “Best chick flick ever,” I say.
“I have to disagree, though it’s definitely in my top ten. When Harry Met Sally is better,” Cheryl says.
“Do not fear. We have When Harry Met Sally in the house too,” I say, patting the pile of DVDs on the end table next to me. “I also have Bridget Jones’s Diary and Clueless.”
Cheryl yawns.
“Don’t even go there,” I say. “It’s not a real slumber party if we don’t stay up late into the night talking.”
“No offense, but one of the best things about not having the kids around is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep without a crying child crawling into my bed in the middle of the night,” Cheryl says.
“I promise not to get in bed with you, but I might paint your face with markers while you’re sleeping.” Amanda snickers.
“And I might stick your hand in warm water to see if it makes you pee in your pants.” Crinkling my nose, I say, “Or maybe not. I could do without the smell of urine in my apartment.”
Cheryl narrows her eyes at me. “You wouldn’t dare. I have my ways of inflicting torture on you. Or have you forgotten?” She gives me her best evil face, taking me back to the 80s and early 90s when she outplayed me each time I tried to one-up her in anything. And the few times I managed to pull one over on her, I regretted it. Like the time I manipulated a ride home from a party by convincing her Jason Priestley was the birthday girl’s cousin and visiting for the weekend. Cheryl pissed off her friends by persuading them to bail on a movie and join her in picking me up, and of course, “Brandon Walsh” wasn’t there. Her friends laughed their asses off. In my defense, I didn’t know she would bring her friends along, and it was a cockamamie story she shouldn’t have fallen for. She was obsessed with Beverly Hills, 90210 at the time, and I ran with it. She enacted revenge by delivering the medicine I accidently left at home, Monistat, in the hallway at school in front of my freshman year crush and his friends. These days, having cute guys think I have a yeast infection wouldn’t faze me, but I was a fifteen-year-old-girl who had never even used a tampon yet, and I avoided all social interaction for over a week.
“Point taken,” I say. I decide to change the subject before adult Cheryl devises a genius way to torment me in my own home for the fun of it. “Time for girl talk. What should we talk about?”
“Boys, of course,” Amanda says.
“I don’t have much to contribute. But at least it’s self-inflicted abstinence,” I say.
“Jim is moving back in,” Cheryl says matter-of-factly.
I sit up straighter. “When were you planning on sharing this pertinent turn of events?”
“I thought I just did,” Cheryl says with a smirk.
“And we had to force it out of you.” I mock glare at her.
“I don’t recall any forceful measures taken,” Amanda says.
I roll my eyes. “In any event, I’m so happy for you guys. The twerps must be over the moon.” I picture Cady and Michael in my mind’s eye, and my heart swells knowing they won’t have to grow up in a broken home. They are part of a small minority of children whose wish for their mommy and daddy to get back together will actually come true.
“They don’t know yet,” Cheryl says.
I refill her wine glass. “Glad to know I’m not the last to know, but why haven’t you told them, and when is the big family reunion taking place?” Motioning to her glass, I say, “Drink up. It’s a celebration.”
Cheryl smiles and takes a sip of her wine. “Sunday night. Jim’s going to pretend like he’s dropping the kids off as usual, but instead of leaving, he’ll stay for dinner and tell Cady and Michael he’s moving back in. We thought it would be fun to surprise them. Tomorrow will be the last time I have the house to myself for a while. Of course, I’m not complaining.”
“That’s seriously fantastic. It’s nice to have a happy ending for a change,” Amanda says, beaming.
I stand and motion for Cheryl to join me. “A hug is in order.”
Cheryl stands up and I pull her into an embrace. When we separate, she sits down and says, “It’s great news, yes. But the marriage still needs work.”
“What type of work?” Amanda asks.
“We have to make sure we don’t lose ourselves in the kids again. They’re still so young. It would be very easy to fall back into bad habits.”
I recall Cheryl’s earlier apprehension regarding her compatibility with Jim outside of the children and their initial attraction, and I try to wipe away the twinge of doubt I have as to whether they can be truly happy together. I hope they’re not staying together solely for the sake of Cady and Michael, but I don’t want to bring up something so sensitive and potentially negative, especially in front of Amanda.
“At least for the time being, we’ll still meet with our counselor once a month,” Cheryl says. “We’ll also have a date night at least one night of the weekend and a mini-date during the week. The mini-date consists of spending time truly engaging with each other once the kids are asleep. And merely sitting in the same room watching television or reading won’t cut it.”
“Bow chicka bow wow,” I sing, giggling.
Cheryl mutters, “So immature,” and shakes her head at me in amusement. “It has to be more than sex. We’re obviously encouraged to have sex, but only after we have a conversation about something other than the kids.”
“Like, for instance, sex?” Amanda asks.
I chuckle, and Amanda joins me.
Cheryl points at Amanda and then at me. “You two.”
“I’m trying to get all of my childish behavior out in the next two months,” I say.
“As if we’re supposed to believe you’ll grow up once you turn forty?” Cheryl asks.
“Of course not. But it sounded good,” I say.
“Speaking of which, any thoughts on how you want to celebrate your birthday?” Amanda asks.
“By turning thirty-nine again?” I suggest, looking at Cheryl and Amanda hopefully. My suggestion is met with silence. “It was worth a shot. I have no clue. I still have two months.”
Amanda releases a resigned breath. “Fair enough. We’ll follow up with you in a couple of weeks.”
“Make it a month. At least,” I mumble.
Amanda waves her hand in dismissal. “Fine. Back to man-talk. Guess whose online dating profile is seeing a lot of action?” Not waiting for us to answer, she says, “Mine!”
My eyes opening wide, I blurt out, “Wow.”
Between this news and Cheryl’s imminent reconciliation with Jim, I get the distinct impression I’m being purposely left in the dark in matters regarding love and sex. As thrilled as I am for my cousin and close friend, I can’t help but wonder if my recent dating hiatus is the reason my friends and family seem reluctant to share their relationship news with me. And I hate that this neurosis is taking up space in my overactive brain, since I should be one hundred percent devoted to being happy for Amanda and Cheryl.
I smile. “Who knew this girl’s night would reveal so many previously unknown developments in each of your love lives? I had no idea you’d gone on any dates, Amanda.”
“I haven’t,” Amanda says.
Confused, I say, “But you just said—”
Amanda grins sheepishly. “I said my profile has seen a lot of action. I didn’t say I went out with anyone. But I’m communicating with a few guys who seem decent, and I’m having fun.”
“Fantastic, Amanda. Keep me posted.” With a furrowed brow, I add, “I mean it.”
“I promise,” Amanda says.
I say, “Since I have no love life to speak of, I’m going to buckle down on my job search. I signed up for four more rock climbing classes for next month and it’s not cheap. I’d love to make enough money to justify joining Chelsea Piers as a member. I’d have unlimited access to the rock walls and their state-of-the-art fitness center.”
Cheryl whistles. “Check out my cousin the fitness addict.”
How Do You Know? Page 20