by Doxer, Debra
“Then he started calling me. I missed the first call. He left a message on my machine saying he needed to talk to me. I figured he wanted to apologize or ask me to forget the whole thing. So I called him back at work. But he didn’t want to forget it. He wanted to see me again.”
I feel a knot forming in my stomach.
“I refused to see him though,” she says defensively, her eyes wandering back to the street.
“You’re talking to him on the phone?” I ask, finally finding my voice.
“Yes. He still calls me. During the day, mostly. When we’re both at work, to talk. But I don’t ever call him.” She makes sure to tell me this, obviously thinking it somehow means she’s less guilty.
“Does he want a relationship with you?” I ask.
“I don’t know. There’s an attraction there, but neither of us want to hurt Katie.”
“Oh my god, Bryn.”
“I know,” she nods miserably.
“This is why you’ve been acting strange? Why you haven’t spoken to Katie?”
Bryn nods again. “I didn’t know what to do, and I couldn’t face her.”
“But you can chat with Mike on the phone whenever he likes? Does he talk to you about his relationship with Katie?”
She’s reminding me of a bobble head doll as she continues nodding.
I look away from Bryn, breaking the terrible spell she’s cast, and the world comes back into focus. I stare blindly at my surroundings. Katie is going to be devastated. I reluctantly return to the conversation. “Why did you tell me this?”
“I had to tell someone. I feel so awful about everything.”
“Not awful enough to stop talking to Mike.” I glare at Bryn. Her eyes are red and her face is tearstained. “You like him.”
She seems surprised by my statement. I think she’s not going to comment when she finally says, “I don’t know.”
“Is he going to call off the wedding?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“I know he’s been having second thoughts. But I don’t know if he’s serious.”
I feel queasy as I push away my half empty frappuccino and study Bryn, her full face pale against her faded yellow Life is Good T-shirt. “What have you been thinking?” I ask, genuinely wanting to know. In my opinion, Mike isn’t worth even five minutes of thought, and yet he has two women fretting and pining over him. I suddenly feel restless. Before she can answer my question, I stand abruptly.
Bryn jumps to her feet. “Are you going to tell Katie?”
The thought makes my chest feel tight. “Maybe you ought to tell her.”
“I can’t.” Her voice is quiet but adamant.
Then a terrible thought occurs to me. I can feel the frappuccino churning in my stomach. “If you tell Katie, you’re afraid Mike will be angry with you. But if I tell her, you might have a chance with him.”
Her response is silence. No denial.
“He’s a miserable asshole, bad-mouthing his ex-wife all the time and now doing this to Katie. How could you want someone like that?”
“But he isn’t that way. You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand?”
“It’s not his fault.”
“What isn’t his fault?” I challenge. “His life?”
“He and his wife were never happy. She never really loved him. And now Katie’s pushing him to get married, and he isn’t ready for that again.”
“So rather than being straight with her, he keeps up a charade while he’s taking his consolation from you?”
“You just don’t understand,” she says softly.
I walk out of the Starbucks without looking back.
“Interesting morning,” Joan comments, back at her post again.
“You have no idea,” I mutter, and continue on to my desk. Nate is gone, probably uneasily continuing his paternity leave.
“You don’t want to miss The Bachelor tonight,” Rob says, stopping by my cube.
“Why not?” I ask, feigning interest.
“I saw the previews. The panty girl gets drunk and passes out on the bed. She’s too wasted to show up to get a rose.”
“She sounds like quite a catch.”
“They sure can pick ‘em for that show. During the auditions, they must look for the wackiest, most mentally unstable women they can find.”
Once Rob ambles away, I settle in at my desk and stare blindly at my computer monitor. Poor Katie. Telling her is the right thing to do, despite the fact that Bryn has manipulated me into it. It has to be in person. I can’t tell her something like this over the phone. We’ve all had that hypothetical thought. If your boyfriend or husband were cheating on you, would you want to know? It’s a big ‘yes’ for me. As appalled as I am with Bryn, I know I’m angry for another reason, too. I’m feeling astounded that two sensible women have allowed themselves to be hooked by this completely despicable man. Are the pickings so slim that if any man pays some attention to you, you have to latch on to him with a death grip because you don’t know if another man will ever be interested in you again? They can’t be blind to his considerable shortcomings, can they? The whole situation is just too depressing.
I call my mother, the most enthusiastic purveyor of advice I know.
“If you decide to tell her, be prepared for her to be angry with you,” Mom cautions.
“Maybe I should wait to see how this wedding date issue plays out. Katie was going to try to pin him down on a date, finally. And he hasn’t actually cheated on her yet.”
“I’d say he has,” Mom replies. I think she’s right. He has betrayed Katie.
After I hang up the phone I’m too distracted to get any work done, so I compose an email to Katie simply asking when we can get together. Her reply appears about a half hour later. She wants to go shopping for swimsuits on Saturday. This is not my favorite activity, but I agree to go. Why do I feel like I’m summoning her to her execution?
eight
A few uneventful days have passed since Bryn’s confession. It occupies my thoughts constantly, ahead of the company buyout, about which there has been no further news. I thought Bryn might try to call or email me after our conversation. No doubt, she’s wondering if I’ve told Katie, but I haven’t heard from her. It would be easy to vilify Bryn, but I’ve thought things over, and I find myself feeling sorry for her instead. Having the attention of an attractive, successful man, no matter how despicable he obviously is, would be hard for her to resist. Character issues aside, Bryn is insecure and probably a little bit lonely. Mike found the perfect candidate with which to share his own significant issues. Katie really would be better off without him. But I have a feeling she just won’t see it that way.
The nagging nausea I now feel reminds me that I have to hurry and get dressed if I want to be on time for my date with Jason. I’m always slightly nauseated before a date. No matter how many dates I’ve been on, or how many years I’ve been dating, nerves are my constant dating companion. Also, a part of me doesn’t want to go and would rather stay home. I wonder if that’s normal.
I drive toward a red velvet sky as I head into the city. The last moments of daylight are bleeding into a layer of purple clouds just above the horizon as I pull into one of the many public parking lots downtown and pay the attendant. The humidity has dissipated with the sunlight, and my clip-free hair feels as though it’s behaving nicely. I swiftly walk the two blocks to the restaurant with my clicking heels broadcasting my progression. Someone is leaving as I’m arriving, and he graciously holds the door open for me. The artificial arctic air hits me as I enter the restaurant. I’ve been to this place before when it was a more casual spot that served Mexican food. Since then it’s changed hands, transforming into an upscale Italian place. It’s crowded, and echoed voices create a constant level of noisy conversation occasionally punctuated by a burst of laughter.
The main foyer is filled with people waiting to be seated. I don’t see Jason. It’s just eight now, and I�
�m right on time. When I spot a crowded bar area in the back, I decide to take a quick look over there, hoping that I’ll recognize Jason if I see him. I crane my neck and glance around, ignoring the invitations for eye contact that I notice in my peripheral vision. I don’t think I see Jason, and I move back toward the door to speak with the maitre d’. When I do, I learn that there is a reservation for two under the name Randall. I let him know that half of the Randall party has arrived and then, rather than stand in the chilly foyer, I move outside to the sidewalk and the balmy evening air.
Boston is a great city for people watching. The street on which I stand is comprised of mainly of upscale restaurants and shops. Expensive cars line the sidewalks, and couples dressed for an evening out stroll by. The streetlights have been constructed to look like old-fashioned gas lamps, but they are juxtaposed by the modern skyscrapers that stretch up into the night sky. The tangy scent of garlic is in the air. I’m taking in the scene and thinking of Katie again. What will this second relationship disillusionment do to her optimistic outlook? Like Katie and myself, I know many women who are bright, ambitious, and successful in every aspect of their lives except romantic relationships. Why is that last frontier so hard to conquer?
Jason is now almost twenty minutes late, and he hasn’t called. I get the feeling I’m being stood up. I decide to give him ten more minutes before leaving. But just then Jason arrives. I hear my name called, and I turn to see him walking toward me. He looks sharp in a blue dress shirt and navy slacks held up by a brown belt with a silver buckle. He pockets his phone when he reaches me, leaning down to peck my cheek. The familiar frameless glasses are in place above a bright smile. His brown hair, streaked with blonde, has not one hair out of place. I expect to hear an apology or an explanation. He doesn’t offer one.
“This is my new favorite Italian place,” he says brightly, resting his hand on my lower back, directing me inside. “You’re going to love it.”
Despite our lateness, we are led right to a table for two toward the back of the restaurant. It’s a nicely situated spot away from the noisy bar and the crowded entrance. I get the feeling Jason knows the maitre d’ as he shakes his hand and thanks him.
“Were you held up at work?” I ask once we’re seated.
He seems confused by the question.
“We said eight o’clock. I thought maybe you were held up at the office,” I explain.
“Oh, no. A friend wanted me to go by and see an apartment he’s thinking of renting.” Jason unfolds his napkin and takes a sip of his water. Now I’m the confused one. He went to look at an apartment when he knew he was meeting me for dinner, and he seems completely unconcerned that he kept me waiting as a result.
“Did you like the apartment?” I ask, deciding to put my annoyance aside and get on with the date.
He shrugs. “It’s big. Kind of pricey, too. Do you like shrimp? We could start with that.”
“That sounds good,” I agree.
The food is wonderful, and Jason is very charming. He tells me he’s originally from Baltimore, but decided to stay in Boston after attending college here. He has an older sister who is living in London with her boyfriend, and he just went home recently for his father’s sixtieth birthday. He talks quite a bit about himself, but that doesn’t bother me so much anymore. Most men I’ve dated do that, and I generally don’t have much interest in talking about myself. I already know that subject thoroughly.
“Do you rent in the city?” I ask, as our dinner plates are cleared away.
He nods. “I’m in Beacon Hill right now, but I’d like to move here to the Back Bay.”
“I love the Back Bay,” I say enthusiastically. It’s a beautiful area of the city running parallel to the Charles River. “What’s stopping you?”
He rubs his thumb against his forefingers. “It’s mucho dinero. I’d rather take that money and travel with it. Do you ski?”
“No.”
“Some buddies and me rented a place in Aspen over the winter. We had an incredible time. We’re going to do it again next year. You should come. We’re also talking about taking a place on the vineyard next summer. Do you like the beach?”
“Love it,” I reply, thinking it’s strange the way he casually threw that invitation out to me.
“Me, too. It would be great to get away on weekends to the vineyard.”
I agree with him that it would be nice to have a weekend getaway place. I’m also thinking how differently I feel about money and about saving it. I like to travel, too. I just took a vacation, but I’m getting the impression that saving money isn’t a priority for him.
“Let’s get some dessert at a café I know over on Boylston,” he suggests. Do you mind a little walk?”
“Not at all. That sounds great,” I reply. And it does, although my strappy sandals are going to make my feet very unhappy.
Jason pays the bill and I decide not to do the wallet-reach. I usually do perform it, but I don’t want to tonight. Since he extended the dinner invitation, I want him to do the right thing and he does, automatically, without letting me see the check and discreetly hands his card to the waiter. I’m pleased, and I decide to insist on paying for dessert as a thank you for what was likely a very pricey dinner.
We step outside onto the sidewalk. I look up and see only dark sky with no stars and a sliver of moon in the distance. This is one negative about the city. The lights make it too bright to see the stars at night. Jason smiles at me and takes my hand as we stroll down the street. It’s getting late, and the city is quieter now. Jason moves closer to me. It feels nice to be beside him, my hand firmly in his. We arrive at the café and stand at the counter, studying the offerings posted on a menu on the wall. I glance down and admire the cakes and cookies in the display case.
“Cappuccino, latte, espresso?” Jason lists, raising his eyebrows at me.
“No espresso. Too much jolt for this time of night. Cappuccino sounds good.”
He nods in approval. “Want to share some cheesecake, too?”
“Sure.” I smile. There really isn’t any dessert that I don’t like.
Jason orders two cappuccinos and a slice of cheesecake. When the woman rings up the order, I move beside him. “Let me, to thank you for the great dinner.”
He studies me, hesitates, but then puts his wallet back in his pocket. “Thanks,” he says graciously.
The cheesecake comes with strawberries, and the cappuccinos are tall--topped with a layer of white foam. We sit close to each other at a small table by the window. There is only one other couple in the café.
Jason’s fork politely waits for mine to retrieve a bite as we take turns with the cheesecake. He grins at me, his eyes appreciative behind his frameless glasses, and I can feel my cheeks heating. It’s very intimate and cozy. Once finished, we linger for a bit as Jason laces his fingers through mine on the table.
Later, back on the sidewalk outside the café, he takes my hand again as he leans down and kisses me. It’s a hesitant first kiss as his lips feather over mine. “Are you headed my way?” he asks in a whisper by my ear, indicating the T stop across the street.
I shake my head. “I drove in. I’m parked by the restaurant.”
“Would you like to come with me?” he whispers, his breath warm on my cheek.
I lean back and raise a skeptical eyebrow at him. It’s only our first date.
He smiles good-naturedly, unbothered. Then he kisses me again. I feel his hand tighten on my waist and this time his lips linger on mine. The night has become still and cool, but I feel only his warmth against me. There aren’t many people around now, but I probably wouldn’t notice if there were.
“I had a really nice time,” he says, leaning back, looking down at me.
“Me, too,” I reply, feeling a little breathless.
“We should do this again.”
I smile in response and nod.
He grins back at me. “Goodnight, Andrea.” Then he turns and walks to the underground T
station across the street.
“Goodnight,” I manage to say as I stand rooted there in disbelief. Once he disappears down the stairway, I give myself a mental shake before swiftly turning and backtracking toward the restaurant. From there, I cover the two blocks to the parking lot in record time considering my feet are protesting every step of the way in the sandals I have now decided to toss into the trash. I retrieve my car, tipping the attendant and taking my outrage out on the steering wheel, which now suffers beneath my grip.
How could he walk away and leave me standing alone on a city street after midnight? I couldn’t believe he didn’t offer to walk me to my car. I guess I read the whole thing wrong. Maybe he isn’t interested in me, and he couldn’t care less if I got back to my car safely. Or maybe when I wouldn’t go home with him, he acted as though it was no big deal, but he was really writing me off and just wanting to get away.
I crank up the radio and look forward to just getting home and getting into pajamas. I hate dating. I hate it more and more each time.
nine
After another surprisingly uneventful day at work, I invite myself over to my sister’s apartment for dinner. I feel badly leaving Tiger on his own for the second night in a row. I picture him alone by the window, in the dark, his sad green eyes watching and waiting for me to come home. Although, he is most likely sleeping, dreaming of those black-capped chickadees he likes to meow at through the window, not even realizing that I’m not at home.
I’m looking forward to spending the evening with Laura and Jonathan. That is, if Jonathan is able to extricate himself from the office. With the wedding plans occupying so much of her time, I feel like I’ve hardly spoken to Laura lately. We’ve always been close, and we are very much alike. Besides frustrating hair, we both have similar temperaments and views on life. Once Laura met Jonathan though, she went MIA for a time, which disappointed me, but I try not to begrudge her that time. They had a whirlwind romance, completely caught up in each other during that first year. I knew that Jonathan was different right away. Laura had lots of boyfriends in high school and college, but she had never gotten swept away the way she did when she met Jonathan. My parents and I like him very much. Most importantly, he really appears to love Laura.