My eyes open wide. “Oh, wow.” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry.”
Philip pushes out his lower lip, which makes him look like a teenage boy instead of a forty-something man. “Thanks. We agreed a permanent split is for the best. And since we sought therapy and attempted reconciliation first, we won’t have to wonder if we gave up without a fight.”
Trying to come up with something supportive to say, I smooth out my ponytail with my palm and offer, “A mutual and well-thought-out decision is good, I guess. Right?”
Philip nods. “Right.”
If I wait for Philip to mention the white elephant in the room, I’m afraid we’ll be here until my forty-first birthday. “Is there a reason you’re telling me this, Philip?”
Chuckling, Philip says, “You’re not a patient woman, are you?”
“Excuse me, but you did show up at my door unannounced.” The edge in my voice is unmistakable.
With a crooked smile, Philip says, “Technically, I announced myself before I arrived at your door. I was across the street when I called.”
My lips curl up against my will. “Semantics.”
“The reason I’m here…” Philip pauses and locks his eyes on mine. “The reason I’m here is because I’ve missed you. And I’m hoping maybe you’ve missed me too.”
I am stunned to silence and stare at Philip with wide eyes. “Wow.” I gulp, wishing I had a glass of water nearby.
Philip gives me a sheepish grin. “I wanted to ease into the conversation, but Ms. Spitfire wanted an explanation post haste.”
The “thump thump thump” of my heart pounds in frantic speed. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting this at all.”
“You know I never meant to hurt you, right?” Philip stares into my eyes like they’re the pathway to my soul.
Nodding, I say, “I know,” in a soft voice.
“I wanted to do the right thing by my family, and didn’t think quitting a twenty-year marriage for a woman I had only been dating a couple of months was it.”
A bit stung by his words, I reply, “I thought your marriage was over before we started dating. If I had any inclination it was a temporary separation, I wouldn’t have gotten involved with you.”
Philip sighs and scratches his beard. “I apologize. That came out wrong.”
“It’s okay. I know what you meant.”
Smiling hopefully, he continues, “Since we don’t work together anymore, we won’t have to deal with all of those complications like ethics and sexual harassment. We can be a regular couple.”
I jerk my head back. “You never seriously thought I would file sexual harassment charges, did you?”
Philip reaches an arm across the couch and gently pats my shoulder. “No. Of course not. But as a partner, I had to consider it, and it’s something the management committee would certainly be leery of.”
I study Philip as he repeatedly taps his leg against the floor. He’s nervous, and it’s rare to see him without the upper hand. “What do you say? Assuming you’re not already dating someone else.” He scans the room as if expecting another man to come out and stake his claim on me, but there is no other man hiding behind a piece of furniture, and I’m not dating anyone else.
It would be so easy to give in and say yes—yes to giving my relationship with Philip another chance, and yes to being part of a couple again. Philip wants me, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared, lonely, and very sex deprived. Succumbing to Philip could take the edge off all of those feelings. And the sex was great. He was a bit on the rough side, and I am tempted by the knowledge that if I said the word, he would kick the bags of shredded paper to the side, throw me against the wall, and take me.
I shake myself out of my sexual fantasy and return to reality, and the reality is that Philip is not the right guy for me, and jumping into the sack with him won’t change anything. Despite the lingering physical attraction, my fascination with him ended as fast as it started.
And so, for the second time in just a few months, I thank Philip for the opportunity but tell him the answer is no.
After Philip leaves, I play the “Fierce Female Artists” playlist I created on my iPod. First song is Katy Perry’s “Roar,” and I turn the volume all the way up and continue cleaning. Then I grab a large box of Hefty bags from my kitchen cabinet. Removing one, I pluck the drawstring sweatpants from my closet floor and throw them inside. It’s time to clean house.
Several hours later, I have gone through the entire contents of my closet and a few of my dresser drawers, but I’ve only managed to get rid of a few items. I can’t bring myself to throw away the numerous oversized t-shirts Doug left behind. The only reason I haven’t worn them is because I didn’t know they were there. They would be perfect as night shirts. I also can’t part with the black leather pants I purchased at the Gap in my mid-twenties. They still cling perfectly to my tush like they were painted on, and even though they are not currently in style, tight leather pants always make a comeback.
My underwear drawer is next, and I dump the contents on the floor in one fell swoop. Among my favorite thongs and boy shorts are the Hanes briefs I never wear but keep around in case of underwear emergencies; bras in almost every style in existence, mostly in neutral colors but a few red, pink, and even polka dot varieties add pops of color to the collection; gym socks, argyle socks, hunter socks, linen socks, and socks missing their other half but never thrown out because I was certain I would find the complete pair eventually; and an embarrassingly large collection of black tights.
I take a deep exhale and remove another Hefty bag from the box. Any sock not part of a pair is tossed aside. Being a singleton myself, I feel a twinge of guilt, but I remind myself that socks are not people, and I am not discriminating against the romantically unattached by throwing them out, especially the ones with holes in the toes.
I intend to sort through the tights next, but when I remove a pair from the top of the pile, I spot a white paper envelope underneath. My name is written on the back in bright pink marker. At first, I have no clue what the envelope holds, but as I slip my hand inside and remove the contents, I remember and gasp out loud. Inside the envelope is my thirty-ninth birthday present from Cheryl—two open-ended tickets to Six Flags Great Adventure.
I walk over to my bedroom window and pull up the shades. Looking out onto 27th Street, I see the sun is shining brightly, and I wonder what Doug is doing today. Maybe he and Lindsay went to Central Park for the afternoon. Perhaps they rented a pair of city bikes and took a ride up the West Side Highway. Do they live together now? Are they engaged? I shouldn’t be thinking about him anymore. It’s been a year. He’s moved on, and according to his new girlfriend, I didn’t share his dreams anyway.
But my heart insists we have unfinished business and won’t allow me to let go—not only in my waking moments, but in my sleep. Doug makes appearances in my dreams almost nightly, as if my subconscious won’t give up on the possibility of reconciliation. I allow my memory to revisit the fateful day in January when I asked him to take me back. He shot me down because I couldn’t pinpoint the source of my apprehension. He said if I didn’t know why I had doubts in the first place, how could I be sure the uncertainty wouldn’t rear its ugly ahead at a later date? I didn’t have an answer for him, so he walked out of the bar and out of my life. He also said something else—something I forced myself to forget because it didn’t make a difference at the time. But now I remember—he said he still had feelings for me.
My heart begins to beat faster, and the blood rushes to my face as I realize something—I have an answer for Doug now. But do I deserve a second chance?
There is only one person I trust to give it to me straight. I scan the recent contacts on my phone until I locate Cheryl’s number and hit call before planting myself on the couch and extending my legs across the coffee table.
“Hey,” Cheryl answers.
> “Was I a shitty girlfriend to Doug?”
“Um…what?”
I bite on my knuckle and flex my leg muscles to keep from shaking. “Besides the obvious faux pas—asking for a break—did I treat him poorly when we were together?” I brace myself for her answer since I know she won’t blow smoke up my ass.
She doesn’t say anything.
“Cheryl?” I say in a soft voice.
“You weren’t a bad girlfriend. You didn’t cheat on Doug or physically or verbally abuse the guy, and you definitely made him happy…” Her voice trails off.
“But…”
I hear her exhale into the phone. “You sure you want to hear this? You might not like it.”
“I’m aware.”
“Let me put it this way. I can name off the top of my head at least ten single women who wish they were dating Doug, and probably just as many married women who wish their husbands were more like him, but you…”
I swallow hard. “What about me?”
“You almost held his good qualities against him. As if he’d somehow be worth more if he wasn’t so wonderful.”
I open my mouth to argue, but clamp my lips together before any sound comes out because she’s right.
“Remember how he’d always be the most sober guy at the party in case there was an emergency, and someone needed to take action?” I ask.
“I recall you telling me that. You teased him for being ‘soft.’”
My stomach churns at my cluelessness. “Did you know he has a portion of his salary automatically donated to various charities?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Do you think I could make it up to him? I mean, if he took me back, am I capable of being a worthy partner to him?”
Without hesitating, Cheryl says, “I think you’ve learned a lot this year, Mags. If you ask me, things would be different if you were with Doug now.”
I agree with her assessment of my growth over the past twelve months, and as always, Cheryl’s validation is reassuring. “One last thing—do you think he’s too good for me? I don’t want to be one of those couples folks look at and question, ‘why is he with her?’”
Cheryl laughs. “No. He’s a wonderful guy, but you’re an amazing woman, Maggie. You’re just a late bloomer when it comes to this love stuff.”
“That’s my story, and I’m sticking with it. Thanks, Cheryl.”
After we hang up, I remain unmoving for a few seconds, lost in thought.
Maybe it’s too little too late for Doug and me, but what if it’s not?
While waiting in line at a coffee cart outside the Time-Life Building, I keep an eye out for someone I recognize from CBS Radio, where Doug works as a copy writer. I hope to spot one of his colleagues walking into the building, but I’m terrified Doug will see me first. Personally handing the letter to Doug would be the most surefire way to confirm he received it, but having someone else give it to him is the chicken-shit way and, make no mistake, I am chicken-shit. The Time-Life Building is only a few blocks away from HBO headquarters, and so with any luck, one of his co-workers will walk by soon, agree to play messenger, and I will get to work on time.
After I exchange my two dollars for a small coffee and throw a five-dollar bill in the tip jar for good karma, I drop my oversized sunglasses over my eyes and hope it’s a good enough disguise. Then I hide behind the giant blue cube-shaped statue outside the building and try to be inconspicuous. I’m glad I never considered a career in undercover anything. I clearly suck at it.
I sip my coffee and, as I check the face of each person who walks by hoping to spot a familiar one, I think about my plan and marvel at how easily it all came together—in theory. Doug is the key to making it work in practice. My coffee cup almost empty, I glance down at my watch. Almost ten minutes have gone by, and I release a frustrated sigh, afraid I’m going to fail my mission, but then I see her—Heidi—one of the broadcasting assistants. We did multiple shots together at the last Christmas party I attended with Doug. Hoping to reach her before she gets into the building—since I won’t get very far without identification—I speed walk over to her, suppressing the desire to shout her name. The wedges I’m wearing allow for more speed than the high-heeled pumps she sports, and once I am arm-distance away, I lightly tap her on the shoulder.
“Can I help you?” she asks after turning to face me. There is zero recognition on her twenty-something face, but her eyes look patient, and I hope this means she’ll agree to help me.
“Heidi. It’s Maggie. Doug’s ex-girlfriend?” I remove my sunglasses in case my disguise is working too well.
Recognition lights up her face. “Maggie. How are you?”
I breathe a sigh of relief. “I’m good. This is gonna sound weird, but can I ask you to do me a very small favor?”
Worry lines appearing on her forehead, she says, “Sure. Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, but I don’t want Doug to see me. Do you have a minute?” Afraid Doug will show up at any moment, I motion my head toward the statue.
When we are hidden from sight, I remove the Betsy Clark stationary from my purse and extend it towards her. “Can you please give this to Doug for me?”
Heidi removes the card from my hand and cocks her head of blond curls to the side. “That’s it?”
I nod. “Pretty much, yes. But if you can give it to him personally instead of leaving it on his desk or somewhere else it could get misplaced, I would appreciate it. I need to make sure he gets it.” I hand her my business card. “If there’s any problem, please call and let me know.”
“Sure, but you can give it to him yourself. I can let you—”
“No.” My cheeks burning in shame, I say, “I can’t face him.” I bite my lip and avert eye contact, but then she pats my shoulder, and I meet her gaze.
Smiling at me with kind eyes, she says, “I’ll take care of it. No worries.”
“Thank you.” I glance at my watch again. “Crap. I’m late for work.”
“You’d better go, then.” Raising and lifting the envelope, she says, “I promise this is in good hands.”
I thank her one more time and walk away. Second guessing myself, I turn around just in time to see Heidi disappear into the building. Knowing it’s too late to turn back now, I sprint to my office.
“Do you want us to wait with you?” Melanie asks, completely ignoring her sons, Jessup and Lloyd, who are running around her in circles.
Melanie’s face is ripe with worry, and I’m terrified it’s because she knows I’m being stood up. I fake a confident smile. “No thanks. I should be alone when he shows up.” If he shows up. I glance at my phone. It’s only eleven thirty. I wanted to get a head start in case we hit traffic, so I took a nine-thirty train to the Summit, New Jersey station, where Melanie, Barry, and the kids picked me up in their SUV Station Wagon. After a quick stop at McDonalds, we got on the road, making good time, especially for a Saturday in the summer.
Pursing her lips, Melanie says, “Gotcha. Please keep your phone close by. I’ll be checking in. And don’t forget to reapply sunscreen. It’s hotter than Hades today.”
She’s right about the sweltering heat. It’s a sunny August day, with temperatures expected to reach 90 degrees. My hair is up in a long ponytail, and I’m wearing a royal blue ribbed tank top and white denim shorts.
Doug always liked me in white and said blue brought out the color of my eyes. Assuming he shows up, I hope he’ll be distracted enough by my outfit not to notice the perspiration dripping down my neck and between my breasts. On second thought, I would love Doug to take notice of my breasts, with or without sweat. “Hopefully, he’ll get here early.” I wouldn’t have taken such an early train if I knew the traffic would be so light.
Melanie crosses her fingers. “Hopefully.”
“Do you think he’ll come?�
�� Please say yes.
Biting her lip, Melanie says, “I hope he does.”
“That’s not what I asked,” I mumble.
“I wish I knew, Maggie. I know he loved you once. But it’s been a year. Whatever happens, you should be really proud of yourself for taking the risk.” She gives me a thumbs up sign.
I nod absently.
Melanie laughs and bumps her shoulder against mine. “For realz.”
Tugging on Melanie’s leg, Jessup moans, “C’mon, Mom.” From behind him, her older son Lloyd says, “Yeah, I’m ready to go on the Drop of Doom.”
I cast my eyes upward, where tall rollercoaster tracks in yellow, blue, and green line the sky. It’s been two years since my last trip to Six Flags, and I’m guessing the rides have gotten much scarier. I hope my forty-year-old heart can take it. “Yikes. I’ve never heard of the Drop of Doom. What is it?”
“The world’s tallest drop,” Barry says unenthusiastically.
His face is devoid of color, and I can’t help but chuckle. “I take it you’re not a fan of rides?”
“I can handle rides just fine, but not the tallest drop tower ride in the world which only opened this year. It’s not been tested enough for my liking.” In a lower voice, he adds, “Kind of hoping the boys are too short.”
“Good luck with that,” I say with a giggle.
After momentarily forgetting the real reason I begged Melanie and Barry to drive me to Jackson, New Jersey that morning—suggesting they combine it with a fun family outing—the churning of the nervous knots in my stomach serves as a reminder, and I take a quick scan of the people heading in our direction. I see lots of families with young children, and groups of teenagers, but not Doug.
Wrapping her arms around her two boys, Melanie says, “Okay, little men. Time for us to go. We’ll check back in with Maggie later.” She smiles at me. “Maybe all of us can ride the Drop of Doom together.”
“I’m terrified I’m going to experience my own drop of doom in a couple of hours,” I say, blinking back the tears threatening to escape. What was I thinking? He has a new girlfriend, a new life. What kind of evil person concocts a grand gesture to steal another woman’s boyfriend?
How Do You Know? Page 23