“Well, if the definition of insanity is doing something again and again and expecting a different result, let’s just say I’m ready to be committed.”
I catch him up on the rest of the night, and tell him briefly about Ashley and the computer incident. Before we hang up, he asks me if I’m free that evening.
“Yeah, of course,” I say. “Although I can’t promise I’m going to be in great shape.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “How about I swing by your work around six?”
“That’s great for me, but can you actually get out that early?”
“I can get out of work, worrywart,” he tells me. “See you then. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” Now if only that was enough to keep me from thinking about my frickin’ ex-boyfriend.
I must look worse than I realized, because when I run into Naomi in the office kitchen, she asks me if there’s any chance that I might be pregnant.
“You’re kidding, right?” I say to her, popping off the tab to my soda. Naomi may swear by ibuprofen, but Coke is my hangover helper of choice. “Would I be drinking like that last night if I was pregnant? The kid would come out looking like a bottle of vodka.”
“Don’t joke. I was a wreck my entire pregnancy with Isla because I’d been drinking for almost a month before I realized I was knocked up,” she tells me, eyes wide.
“Well, thank God, there are no Rogers-Bergman babies on the way anytime soon,” I assure her.
“Whew,” she says. “Because I seriously don’t know what I’d do if you had to go on maternity leave.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, and drain the rest of my Coke.
The rest of the day, frankly, is a loss; it’s all I can do to try not to fall asleep in the middle of a meeting with the sales department, and I spend almost an hour trying to edit a story only to realize that I have made a total of one change and can barely articulate what the piece is about. When Ashley corners me at four o’clock to find out if she can help me, I am actually relieved to see her.
“Yes, yes, and yes,” I tell her. “I have tons of stuff for you to do.”
“Fantastic,” she says so perkily that I am tempted to ask her if she snorted an upper before knocking on my door. “Call me crazy, but I had a feeling you were a little swamped.”
“No, I’m on top of things,” I say, but as Ashley’s eyes dart up and down, I realize that I, slumped over in my chair, wearing ancient pants and a sweater in nonmatching shades of black, do not exactly look like the picture of control. “It’s just that I’ve been waiting to get an assistant for ages and there’s a lot of back-end stuff that I’d love to have you take care of.” Once again, I sound apologetic as I say this.
“Great!” Ashley says, smoothing the front of her red knit dress. “I’m here to help.”
“Excellent.” I grab a stack of files from the bookshelf. “There are instructions stapled to each file, including the phone numbers you’ll need and where to put each file after you’re finished with it.”
Ashley looks surprised, and I am tempted to say, See? I told you I was on top of things. Instead, I say, “If you can wrap this up by the end of the week, that would be great. Oh, and if anything’s unclear? Please just ask. I swear I won’t mind.”
“Thanks, Marissa,” she says, and gives me what I recognize to be an actual smile, which is a welcome change from the chimpanzeeesque teeth baring she’d been doing.
“Thank you, Ashley.”
The next two hours feel like twenty. Finally, when I feel like I cannot stare at my computer one more second, Gladys, our receptionist, buzzes me. “There’s a very nice-looking young man here to see you,” she teases.
“Now, Gladys,” I hear Dave say in the background. “The good-looking guy took off five minutes ago. Tell Marissa it’s me. I don’t want her to be disappointed.”
Here’s the thing about Dave: Women love him. And not just in an “I wanna get you in bed” way (although he gets that from time to time, too). I don’t know if it’s because he’s completely nonthreatening or because he grew up so close to his mom and sister, or all of the above. But the fact is, he rarely meets an XX chromosome carrier who doesn’t instantly befriend him, be it Gladys or my sister or his boss, who chronicles her trials and tribulations as a mother to him daily.
“Well, Gladys, if the good-looking guy is gone, you might as well let the ugly one in,” I tell her. Not a minute later, Dave is standing in my doorway. He’s smiling, but looks ever so slightly concerned. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” I confess.
“Are you sure you’re up for an outing?” he asks.
“Yeah, fresh air might do me good. Where to?”
“I’ll show you when we get there,” he says secretively.
I switch off my monitor and grab my coat and bag, determined to be a good sport, even though I’m having flashbacks of Julia’s wild-goose chase through Ann Arbor last week. I still haven’t told Dave about Nathan, because I don’t trust myself to explain it in a way that doesn’t make me sound like I haven’t spent every second of the past decade obsessing about him. As far as Dave is concerned, Nathan is nothing more than a short-lived relationship from the very distant past, and I am determined to keep it that way.
We walk to the subway and hop on the southbound F train. After fifteen minutes or so, my ears pop, and I realize that we’ve just gone under the river.
“Brooklyn, huh?” I ask suspiciously. Dave has lived in the West Village since I’ve known him, and when he plans outings, that’s inevitably where we end up. In fact, if I didn’t convince him to stay at my place at least once a week, he’d happily be one of those New Yorkers who never leaves the island of Manhattan.
“Yep,” he says and leaves it at that.
We get out at the Bergen Street subway stop, in the heart of Cobble Hill. Dave leads me a few blocks over to Clinton Street, which in spite of the wet sidewalks and barren trees, looks like a movie set. “You seem to know your way around pretty well for someone who doesn’t do Brooklyn,” I tell Dave, but he just smiles.
Finally, we reach a brownstone with a slate blue door. Dave starts up the stairs, and motions for me to follow him. He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket and opens the front door.
“What?” Still fuzzy from last night, I’m confused.
“One sec,” he says, and grabs my hand, guiding me through the hallway to a door at the back of the first floor. He throws the door open. “Welcome to my new place!”
“Really?” I ask as I walk into the living room.
“Really. Let me show you around.”
The apartment isn’t big, but it’s gorgeous, with dark, polished hardwood floors, marble fireplaces in the living room and main bedroom, butcher-block kitchen counters, and a small, light-filled second bedroom that will make a nice office space. Or, I realize, baby’s room. The best part, though, is the small yard off the back of the kitchen, which, Dave informs me, is his alone.
“I love it,” I tell him. “Can you imagine the barbecues you can have back here? The dinner parties?”
“No, Marissa. We can have here,” he says, putting his arms around my waist. “What I wanted to say earlier is, welcome to our new apartment.” He looks at me long and hard, his warm brown eyes reminding me why I fell in love with him in the first place. “I want us to move in together. But you haven’t mentioned it, and I don’t want to pressure you. So I’m just going to let you know that whenever you’re ready—if you’re ever ready—this is your home, too.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out another set of keys, which he puts in my hand.
“How long is the lease?” I ask, trying to do the math in my head. It is mid-December, so if he already has the keys, he must have signed the contract earlier this month and hasn’t moved his stuff in yet.
“It’s not a rental. I bought it,” he says. “I’ve been saving for ages, and the market is so good right now . . .”
“You what?”
“Yeah,” he admits sheepishly. “A coworker of mine told me about it a couple months ago, and I liked it so much that I barely looked at anything else. I knew you would, too. But it was just after Julia’s accident, and you had so much on your mind . . . I thought I’d just wait to see if the deal went through. I closed while you were in Michigan.”
“Isn’t it really expensive?” I ask incredulously. I can’t even afford to rent in this neighborhood, let alone live here.
“Nope. I’ve been saving for a while, and my parents gave me a little money, so the mortgage is less than half of the sale price. So if you want to chip in—which I’d prefer you didn’t—it would be less than half of what you’re paying on your rental.”
“Wow. I don’t even know what to say.” The apartment is, truly, perfect. Dave is perfect. Everything is perfect. And yet, somehow, the prospect of making such a huge decision right now makes me want to run back to my own apartment and hide under the covers until next summer. Because moving in with Dave is not the same thing as moving into Julia’s apartment. This is giving up my own space—my security—to live with Dave. What if it turns out to be a disaster? What if he decides that I’m not the one because I can’t be bothered to fully screw the cap on the toothpaste or I eat the last of his blue corn chips? What if I feel guilty because he’s footing most of the mortgage?
What if, I think as panic rises from my gut and wraps its tentacles around my lungs and throat, Dave isn’t the one I’m supposed to be with?
My mind is spinning from the possibilities, but none of them are things I can say aloud.
Besides, it’s not Dave I want to talk to; it’s Julia. The old Julia.
“Don’t worry,” Dave says, and kisses me on my forehead. “I know it’s a lot to think about. Why don’t we go to dinner and talk more about it later?”
“Okay,” I agree. “But how about you give me the tour one more time?”
“Right this way.”
Fourteen
Normally, I ignore the advice that I dish out in Svelte, including but not limited to: avoid apple fritters (which contain so much trans fat they may as well be laced with cyanide); get eight hours of sleep a night (which would mean not watching The Daily Show); avoid consuming copious amounts of alcohol (why bother, when I already face certain death from liver disease?); and my personal favorite, start the day right by taking the stairs (which would require me to scale twenty-four flights in order to reach my office).
But I am forced to admit the article I’m in the middle of editing may actually be worth my attention.What are friends for? Longevity, for starters—as well as better brain health, a slimmer physique, and sunnier outlook, according to recent research. A major Australian study of more than ten thousand people found that women with large circles of friends were nearly 25 percent less likely to die early than women with few social ties. Another study from Harvard showed that people with large social circles had better cognitive functioning and were less likely to be depressed than their wallflower peers. As if that wasn’t enough, a similar study revealed that women who befriended those with healthy habits—like eating well, exercising regularly, and not smoking—were a whopping 60 percent less likely to be overweight than women with few friends or friends who had unhealthy ways. “It’s proof that there really is power in numbers,” says Stephen Jones, PhD, a psychologist at Montefiore Medical Center in New York City. “Good friends encourage you to do your best and to make smart choices, both personally and professionally,” he explains. “Even highly motivated people experience peaks and valleys. Having a network can keep you going during low periods.”
Wow, I think, tossing the manuscript on my desk. I’m screwed.
Lately I’ve been feeling incredibly lonely. I may never have traveled in a large circle—that was always more Julia’s style—but suddenly I’m feeling like I’m the sole inhabitant marooned on Marissa island. After all, Julia’s in Ann Arbor for the foreseeable future, and Dave’s tackling a major brief, which means he’s working even more than his usual twelve-hour days in order to make sure his clients mind their Ps and Qs and cross their Ts and dot their Is and whatever else corporate tax attorneys do to keep mega-milliondollar corporations from getting caught swindling the government. (At least this is my interpretation of what he does for a living.) When I confronted him about how much he’d been at the office lately, I expected a fight—his workaholism is one of the few things we argue about—but he just sighed and said, “I know, Marissa. It sucks, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” which transformed my anger into pity for both of us: me for the constant nights alone, Dave for turning into a shadow of a person who used to have a life outside of his law office.
To make matters worse, I’ve seen Sophie and Nina all of two times since Julia’s accident. Which, I realize, is my own fault: I’ve pulled out the old I’m-so-busy card every time they try to get together. But unless I want to die a research-proven untimely death thanks to obesity, stupidity, and depression, I need to start getting out there and being social again.
In a fit of inspiration, I dial Sophie’s work number. “You have lunch plans?”
“Thought you’d never ask,” she responds.
“Remind me, why aren’t you doing anything for your birthday?” Sophie asks me an hour later, holding up a bright orange blouse to examine. We’ve decided to forego a proper lunch in favor of a falafel cart on Fifth and a quick trip to Anthropologie, which is in the middle of a huge preholiday sale.
“Well, I don’t think thirty-one sounds all that fun, do you?” I ask, pushing one hanger after the other aside as I sort through a halfprice rack. “Besides, it doesn’t feel like a good time to be celebrating.” Even as I say this, I realize that it goes against my new goal of being a more social person.
“Please tell me you’re not talking about the Julia situation.” Sophie is a dead ringer for Lucy Liu, and when she makes the don’t-mess-with-me face she’s making right now, I can’t help but think of Lucy battling it out with Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. Needless to say, I am more than a little afraid of her.
“Um . . .” I sputter, not quick enough to come up with something to deflect her attention.
“Marissa!” she admonishes me. “That was three months ago. I know you’re totally devastated and sad that she’s not in New York anymore—I mean, we all are—but you’ve got to start living again.”
“I’m living.”
“Really?” says Sophie, peering at me skeptically over her blackrimmed glasses. “Examples, please.”
“Request to adjourn until after lunch, may it please the court,” I joke. Sophie is an employment litigator and although she despises her job, she is extremely good at it. A few months ago, she took the lead on a bogus sexual harassment suit and saved the company she was defending several million dollars. Arguing against her is pointless.
Sophie glances at her BlackBerry. “Uh-oh—gotta run. Jeff needs me on something,” she says, referring to her supervising partner.
“Whew! Case dismissed.” I laugh, although I am truly relieved.
“You’re not off the hook just yet,” she tells me, and kisses me on the cheek. “I want to see you Saturday. Let’s do something fun.”
“Define fun,” I joke, but seeing her expression, I wave the white flag. “Name the place and I’ll be there.”
“Cut it. Short.”
Rubia looks at me as though I’ve just asked her to lop my ears off.
I press a picture of Anne Hathaway’s wavy bob, which I have torn from People, into her hand. “This is what I’m going for.”
I’ve never been the type to signal change through a haircut, not even after a bad breakup. In fact, after Nathan and I parted ways, I let my hair grow past my bra strap, as though, like Samson, its length would give me strength. But after such a tumultuous couple of months, I’m certain that a new look is exactly the fresh start I need—and the day before my birthday seems like the right day to make a drastic change.
Rubia does
not take my request well. “But, Marissa,” she protests in her thick Polish accent, gesticulating wildly with her comb. “Your hair. So beautiful.”
“Don’t worry,” I reassure her as she massages my scalp, working my hair into a stiff shampoo lather. “I’m going to mail the ponytail to Wigs for Kids the minute I walk out of the salon.”
“I worry you will not look like Marissa with short hair!” she warns, but after I convince her that I’m serious—and no, I won’t hate her if I hate the results—she slowly begins taking off my locks. She slices and chops and razors my ends, then does the whole sequence again and again until she has taken off more than a foot. When she’s finally satisfied, she puts me under the blow dryer, coats my head with a fine mist of hair spray, then spins me around in the chair so I can see the results.
“Wow.” Rubia is right—I don’t look like myself anymore. But I like what I see in the mirror: a woman who looks sharper, smarter somehow, and markedly more chic than the one who sat down in the chair forty minutes ago.
“Marissa 2.0.” Rubia giggles, visibly relieved that I am not in tears. “You look like movie star.” I blush. She is exaggerating, but I am surprised at how much my eyes stand out, and that for the first time, I look like I actually have cheekbones.
“Rubia, you’re a genius,” I tell her, and leave her an enormous tip.
Behold the magical mood-lifting powers of a good haircut, I think, spinning in front of the mirror that evening. I had woken up in a wretched mood. “Thirty-one is so much worse than thirty,” I moaned to Dave over breakfast at our favorite diner. “Tomorrow I’ll be officially in my thirties, as opposed to just on the other side of my twenties.”
“Personally, I like my thirties,” he said, biting into a piece of toast. “I wouldn’t go back to my twenties, or God forbid, my teens, if you paid me.”
“Easy for you to say, old man,” I told him. “You’ve had almost four years to try your thirties on for size.”
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