“That’s right,” I say. “I’m a whole new woman. A woman who doesn’t drink.”
“That’s odd,” he says. “But fine. You don’t have to swallow.”
We both laugh, as it’s our custom to race each other to the punch line: “That’s what he said.”
But then when he hands me a wineglass, I get serious again. And nauseated.
“I really don’t think—” I start to say, but the nausea takes over, and it must show all over my face.
“Are you okay?” Brett asks, concerned.
“No,” I say. “I told you I quit drinking. The very smell of the wine is making me—”
I can’t take it anymore. I grab a spit bucket, turn away, and throw up. A nattily dressed man walking by comments, “I didn’t care for the merlot, either.” I want to knock his glasses off.
“I’m so sorry, Lay,” Brett says, rubbing my back.
“I told you I quit drinking,” I say defensively, hoping that my throwing up won’t give anything away.
“I didn’t really think you were serious.”
“Well, I was,” I say.
“What can I do, Layla? I just wanted us to have a nice time. To reconnect. How can I make things better?”
“You can’t,” I say. My emotions are all over the place. “Unless you can invent a time machine and go back in time to undo your leaving me, there’s nothing you can do.”
This just hangs there in the air. Brett looks down at his left sneaker. I stare out the window. We gather our things and drive home without speaking.
The date? Total fail.
brett
Dads are supposed to know all about navigating relationships. So I go over to my parents’ place to talk to my dad about Layla, what’s going on, and how I tried to have a nice date with her but my mere presence made her physically ill.
“If you’re going to fix things, you have to first figure out what was broken,” he says.
“I know what was broken,” I say. I think about my childish focus on myself and yet can’t bring myself to say that. Instead I remark, “Everywhere I looked, there was Layla. She’d become so tightly integrated into the family, it’s like I almost started to view her more like a sister than a wife.” Because she seemed more focused on them than on me.
“Well, she was your wife, not your sister,” my dad remarks.
“I know,” I snap. “I made a mistake.”
“We all knew you were making a mistake.”
“Saying ‘I told you so’ doesn’t help. Maybe I should just go talk to Mom. She won’t even remember what an asshole I am.”
The look on my dad’s face tells me I’ve overstepped. That and the fact that he walks out of the room.
I call Coach Wells and ask him to meet me at our spot: Baby Blues Barbecue in Venice. I know he won’t let me down. And even if he does, I’ll still have the ribs.
“Sounds like you missed the signal,” Coach Wells says. “You decided to drop back to pass and she was thinking it was a running play. You need to figure out a way to get on the same page with the rest of your team.”
“I’m not talking about my team,” I say.
“Yes you are, moron. That relationship with Layla is the most important team you are ever gonna be on.” He’s right. I know that.
He goes on. “So now you wanna play in the national championship? You gotta earn your trip. You can’t just decide you suddenly want to play in the title game. You don’t just waltz into the Super Bowl if and when you feel like it. You gotta go through the play-offs. You gotta earn it. You gotta keep fighting.”
I shake my head, feeling like earning it is the last thing I can do.
Coach Wells knows me. He puts his arm around me and says, “You know, kiddo, I meant to talk to you about something at the end of the season. Dusty Caldwell came to me. He said he saw how—let me get this straight—‘whack’ you were looking, and he wondered what was going on. He wanted to assure me that you’re one of the best coaches he ever had, and wanted to tell me you stopped him from doing something pretty stupid earlier this year. He didn’t elaborate. He also said that he didn’t care what our record was this season, next year he’s going to break every interception record in the books. And do you know, I think that kid could do it. So do you know what I’m saying?”
I do. I really do. And it’s perked me up.
“One more thing,” Coach Wells adds. “He says he’s done visiting the Crab Shack. I have no idea what that means, and I don’t think I want to.”
• • •
It’s a confusing day when you go to your lesbian sister for relationship advice and tips on how to get a girl back. Not to mention humbling.
“Ouch,” I say, as she smacks me upside the head. “Hold still,” she says, and reaches her arm out to do it a second time.
“Are you kidding me?” I say. “Quit!”
“It’s too fun,” she says. “And deserved.”
“Fine, but that’s it. No more.”
“Idiot.”
“I know, okay? I know.”
Kimmy walks out of the kitchen and smiles at me. “Trish always said this day would come.”
“Really?” I say. “I’m gonna get I told you so’s from my sister and her girlfriend? Have you even been her girlfriend long enough to have those privileges?”
I smile, so she knows I’m kidding. She smacks me upside the head like Trish did. It catches me off guard.
“Hey!” I shout.
“Yes,” Kimmy says, “I qualify. And I’ll be sticking around, so get used to it.” She shows me an engagement ring around her finger.
Trish beams and wraps her arms around Kimmy’s waist from behind. “She’s not going anywhere.”
It’s sweet to see Trish this happy. And rare. If I wasn’t so desperate for help—and if I wasn’t so sensitive about mistakes and marriage—I’d rub her nose in how in love she is. Because that’s what we do.
“Who’s gonna be the best woman?” is all I manage. Weak, I know.
“You’re gonna have to do something major,” Kimmy muses, as we get back to my dilemma. “What she said,” Trish agrees.
“I know.” I sigh. “But what? I have no idea where to start.”
“What have you tried?” Kimmy asks.
“Lunch,” I offer meekly. “At one of our spots. And wine tasting—something she always wanted to do—a beautiful drive up the coast, and then she yaks.”
“Pardon?” Trish asks.
“She threw up,” I confirm. “Apparently, she quit drinking and—”
“Wait,” Trish interrupts. “Who are we talking about here?”
“Layla,” I answer, annoyed. It’s not like she didn’t hear me. Making me repeat it for comic effect is not my idea of a good time.
“I’m gonna let you two talk this one over,” Kimmy says. “But I suggest you show Layla what she means to you in an unexpected way. Show her that she comes first, above all else.”
Kimmy walks off, leaving Trish and me staring at each other.
“You fucked up, brother,” she says. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“What can I do?” I ask. “What does she need?”
“A bunch of money would be nice. Oh, and a husband who’s not a total idiot,” she says.
We sit quietly as this resonates, and suddenly it’s crystal clear what I’m going to do.
“You’re a genius,” I tell Trish.
“I know,” she says. “But why are you pointing this out?” I don’t take the time to explain.
layla
Do people always want what they can’t have? Is the grass always greener? Am I suddenly on the other side? I don’t know, but for more than a week Brett has done at least three things a day—every day—to show me that he’s changed, that he’s grown up, that he wants me back.
Today it was: a) a song medley that he sang into my voice mail (“It’s Been Awhile” by Staind, “We Built This City” by Starship, and “Tonight, You Belong to Me,” the o
dd yet sweet song sung by Steve Martin to Bernadette Peters accompanied by ukulele in The Jerk); b) the case of my favorite brand of split pea soup (Andersen’s, no bacon) that was delivered to my door—I’m talking thirty-six cans of soup, more soup than I know what to do with—accompanied by a note that read “Souppose we get back together;” and c) a five-line e-mail inspired by the letters of my name:
L - Let’s pretend I wasn’t such an asshole.
A - Anytime you’re ready I’m here. (And I love you.)
Y - You know we belong together.
L - Lucky for me you’re a forgiving kind of girl.
A - Although you have two L’s and two A’s in your name, you only have one Y. I’ll bet nobody has ever pointed this out to you. I see the fact that I was the one to do so as an excellent reason to get back together with me.
He’s been relentless. Maybe if he was so enamored with me when we were together we never would have broken up. So every time I start to swoon over his little gestures, I remind myself that he wasn’t. That he grew tired of me. That he broke my heart. That he’s … at my front door?
I hear the knock and see through the window that it’s him. He shrugs as if to say, “Yup, it’s me.”
I open the door and gesture for him to come in.
“We can’t be over,” he says.
“You did this,” I reply.
“I take it back.”
“There are no take-backs in divorce.”
“Really?” he says, all kinds of cocky. “What about Pam Anderson and Tommy Lee?”
“What about them?”
“They got back together. A bunch of times.”
“Are they together now?” I ask.
“Depends on what time it is,” he replies with a smile. “Okay, seriously, what about Melanie Griffith and Don Johnson?”
“They divorced.”
“Woody Allen and Mia Farrow?”
“They did not get back together, you sicko. He hooked up with her daughter.”
“Eminem and Kim.”
“Really?” I ask. “He wrote songs about wanting to kill her. Brutal, violent, maiming and killing. The mother of his kid.”
“But love prevailed, did it not?”
“Actually, I think not. I don’t know. They fall into the Pam-and-Tommy category. Boy, you’re really making a strong case here.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “But we can make it. We need to give it another shot. Things weren’t even bad. I was just an idiot.”
“I just don’t get why now?” I ask. “You had me. I wasn’t going anywhere. Why now that I’m suddenly out of your reach am I so interesting to you?”
“It’s not because you’re out of reach,” he says. “It’s because … I don’t know. I know it sounds trite, but it took losing you to realize what I had. What I wanted. What my future was supposed to be. That’s you, by the way.”
“I’m your future?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” he suggests. “So if you don’t come around, I’m kinda fucked. My life will be like that empty fortune cookie.”
I laugh and remember the time several years ago when we were eating Chinese food and after our meals we opened up our fortune cookies to read them aloud to each other, but his was empty. When he asked what it meant if there was no fortune in your fortune cookie, I told him it meant he had no future.
“Remember that?” he asks. “We cracked up.”
“I remember.”
“I miss you,” he says. “I miss us.”
“I miss us, too,” I say. “But the us I miss was in my mind. Because the you I thought was half of us would never have done what you did.”
“It was a mistake, Layla.”
“I’ll say,” I reply. “And if I take you back, when will the next mistake happen? Next month? Next year? Next time the school hires a new SID?”
I find I’m getting angry again. He softens me up, but then I remember how hurt I am and I just want to scream.
“I didn’t even …” he starts to say. “I mean, we didn’t … Look, it’s not going to happen again. You’re my life, Layla. You’re my family. And I want us to make a real family. I want kids. With you.”
“Well”—the words come out before I can stop them—“you get half your wish.”
“Huh?”
“I’m pregnant,” I spit out. “Why do you think I’m wearing all this loose clothing these days? Do you really think I stopped drinking wine by choice? So now you really won’t have to compete with me for your family, because I’ll have my own.”
Tears well up in his eyes, but I’m not falling for them. I can’t. I’m too hurt.
“That’s great!” he exclaims, all pride and smiles.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is. For me. But you left me. This is my baby.”
“Our baby,” he corrects.
“My belly, my baby,” I say.
“You’re serious?” he balks.
“As a sonogram.”
“That’s my baby.”
“Wrong,” I say.
“Our baby?” he corrects.
“Nope,” I counter.
He stiffens.
Just stands there. Silent.
Then he squints his eyes at me. “You want joint custody?” he spouts. “I’ll show you joint custody. That baby is half mine!”
“Get out,” I say.
“Already on my way,” he hisses.
He walks to the door and stops. He turns to look at me. I feel myself jut my chin out and steady myself for whatever he’s got, but he changes his mind and walks out—not even closing the door behind him.
I find myself hysterical and oddly wanting to call Nick, whom I still can’t bring myself to call my father even though that’s what he is. I do call him, and he’s at my door within twenty minutes.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says when he sees my ruddy face streaked with mascara and tears. He’s making an effort, trying to be there for me. Maybe because I’m pregnant and he sees a second chance. Maybe I’m willing to give him one.
I fall into his arms even though I’m still undecided.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Brett …” I say, but I can’t get any more words out. I just sob uncontrollably.
About five minutes later, when I’ve regained some composure and we’ve relocated to the couch, I tell Nick that I told Brett about the baby and how excited he was. How I saw the elation in his face—not a touch of trepidation—everything I’d have wanted if we were still together. But I lashed out to hurt him like he hurt me. I crushed his spirit right then and there, and hated myself for doing it in the split second that I did.
“He loves you so much,” Nick says.
“Well,” I say, and again the filter between my brain and mouth seems to be missing, “your version of loving your wife isn’t exactly what I was hoping for.”
“I deserve that,” he says. “But Brett’s not me.”
“No, he cut and ran before we had the kids. As far as he knew.”
“Do you know what he said to me when he came to my place?” he asks.
“I have no idea,” I say. “I can only imagine. ‘Please take this girl off our hands. She’s yours. We’ve had our fill.’”
“No,” Nick says firmly. “He respectfully listened to me blather on and on about myself. Excuse after excuse. But then when I shut up long enough to let him get a word in edgewise, I tell ya, his eyes lit up when he talked about you.”
“The excitement of getting rid of me, maybe.”
“Brett may have acted like he was throwing me in your face as an act of aggression, but that’s not what it was. That’s not the kid who came to see me. Sure, he couched the presentation in pride and anger and childishness. What was under all that was love.”
“Ha,” I say.
“You weren’t there,” he goes on. “He said I was an idiot who’d missed out on watching an amazing girl grow up. A girl who deserved a family. He said, ‘Here’s this beautiful, brilliant girl that you ha
ven’t even bothered to get to know. Meet her. Get to know her. I dare you not to fall in love with her.’”
I feel like my heart is in my throat. Why is everything so freakin’ hard?
“That’s very sweet,” I admit.
“Brett’s a good guy,” he says. “He messed up. Royally. But at least he’s coming around months later instead of years.”
“Or never,” I add pointedly.
“See?” he smiles, ignoring my barb. “They say girls with daddy issues have broken pickers: They pick the wrong men or, worse, men like their fathers. Good to know your picker wasn’t broken.”
• • •
With a renewed sense of optimism I stop by the university to surprise Brett and see if he wants to have lunch. Instead of Brett, I find Heather.
“Hi, Layla,” she says, all chipper.
I’d never asked Brett what happened with Heather, why they ended things. If they ended things, I suppose. I’d like to think they did.
“Hi, Heather,” I say back. “Awkward question: Is Brett around?”
“I haven’t seen him recently,” she says.
“Recently” meaning what? I wonder. Recently, like, a week? An hour?
“Oh, sorry,” I say, not knowing if I should be sorry, not knowing what went down with them, and not wanting to ask, yet desperately wanting to know.
“Don’t be,” she says. “You had the right idea. Cutting off contact completely. I broke up with him on New Year’s and he took it so hard—poor thing. He won’t stop calling me, texting me. I mean, have some self-respect, right?”
“Right,” I say, suddenly feeling queasy.
“Men,” she says, and smiles and shakes her head as if we’re both in on the joke.
“Okay,” I manage to utter. “Well, sorry to have bothered you.”
“Oh, don’t be,” she says. “Honestly, it’s fun to have someone to compare notes with. Although you could have warned me what a loser he was. Girls are supposed to stick together.”
Normally, I’d jump down her throat. I’d tell her Brett’s not a loser. That he’s the best guy I know. But I can’t.
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