by Ellie Monago
Everyone starts reminiscing about stupid things they did in college, stupid boys they did in college. I’m laughing, though I still know to keep mum about my own exploits.
“I didn’t go to college,” Raquel says, “so I had to fuck things up in other ways.” She drains her glass. It’s her second Silk Purse. She’s slurring, just a little bit. While cursing still seems wrong from someone who appears as innocent as she does, I remind myself about East Oakland, crack, the BART train. She’s lived, maybe as much as I have.
“My problem is,” Tennyson says, and everyone perks up just a little, since Tennyson seems least likely to have problems, “Vic and I have plenty of sex, but he still wants more.”
We all look a little disappointed. Her confession is sort of like when you’re asked at a job interview about any weaknesses and you say you’re too detail-oriented. It’s really a strength. I mean, we could have guessed Tennyson and Vic were hot for each other all the time. There’s no need to flaunt it in front of us mortals.
“When he wants sex and I don’t,” Tennyson continues, “he gets all desperate and pushy. Sometimes he sulks. It’s like, I’ve got enough kids.”
Raquel laughs loudly. “Yes, you, of all people, have enough kids!”
“Do you have an issue with the size of my family?” Tennyson demands.
We all fall silent. You just don’t expect anyone to turn on Raquel.
“You make all these comments,” Tennyson says. “What is it, Raquel? You think we should have a one-child policy like China?”
“I don’t think China has that policy anymore,” June says in a charmingly inept attempt at deflection.
“You want the truth?” Raquel says. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “I think it was kind of messed up that your last child was a mistake.”
Oh. My. God. Did she actually say that? I don’t know if I’ve ever heard anything as ugly as calling someone else’s child a mistake.
No one moves; Andie freezes with her drink halfway to her mouth.
Then Tennyson laughs. “I think it’s messed up, too!” We all join in, relieved. Fight averted.
I’ve never witnessed or been a part of friendships that can handle that degree of honesty. These women aren’t just drinking buddies. There’s a genuine depth to their connection. Part of me wants what they have. Another part is frightened by it.
“Sex is one of our favorite topics on girls’ night,” June says. “Whatever you do or don’t do, there’s no judgment.”
“For example,” Gina tells me, “I’m asexual. I just have no desire. Never have. But it’s still fun to listen to my friends talk about it.” She must see the expression on my face because she adds, “Oliver’s fine. We’ve worked out an arrangement.”
If I were drinking like the rest of them, I might ask exactly what sort of arrangement she’s talking about, but instead I just nod, as if I meet people who proudly declare themselves asexual every day. It is pretty cool that someone as overtly sexual as Tennyson has no problem with it, that none of them does.
“I want to want sex,” I say. They all look at me, and I’m surprised to find that I spoke it out loud. I must have been lulled by the promise of all that acceptance. I don’t desire sex, but I desire reassurance that it’s normal not to. They’re all looking at me expectantly, so I have to keep going. “I don’t want to just become Doug’s roommate or just the mother of his child.” My tone is full of sadness, and maybe that’s why no one speaks for a long moment.
Shame rushes in to fill the void. I can’t believe I just told a table full of women—of neighbors—that I have no desire for my husband.
“If I wasn’t attracted to Bart anymore,” Raquel says, “I’d feel the same way.”
“It’s not that I’m not attracted to Doug,” I say. “It’s that I’m not attracted to sex. I’m so tired all the time, and it just seems like a lot of work.” I never should have said anything. I’m not just your average new mom with no sex drive. It’s a lot more complicated, and it all started much further back than having Sadie. In childhood, actually. But if Doug doesn’t even know that, there’s no way I’d ever tell a group of women I’ve just met.
Only I already told them far more than I should have.
“Sex is a lot of work,” Gina says. “For not a lot of payoff.”
“Your baby’s only a few months old,” Tennyson says. “Give yourself a break.”
“Maybe you have postpartum,” Yolanda says. “That can definitely do a number on your sex drive.”
“Every relationship ebbs and flows,” Raquel chimes in.
I appreciate the chorus of support, but what I really want is to change the subject. Away from reality, back to reality TV. I want them to forget I ever said anything, not become an object of their pity.
“Nolan and I have been married nine years,” Andie says. “So I find that lately, I’m horny a lot more.”
All the women laugh, except me. June explains, “In California, ten years is the magic number. That’s when alimony kicks in.”
“Wyatt and I haven’t been doing it much lately,” Yolanda says, her voice so low I have to lean in. Everyone else does the same. “I can’t blame him for not finding me very attractive anymore. I don’t find myself very attractive these days.”
Everyone tells her how gorgeous she is, and Yolanda seems bolstered. She’s clearly a person who can take a compliment.
So, they’re not perfect, but Andie was right. They’re all great.
I’ve never been a joiner, but part of me does really want to be a regular. From here on out, I just need to keep my sex life to myself.
CHAPTER 9
Come outside, Kat.
I’ve got a surprise for you.
Hurry up, OK?
Please?
Pretty please?
It’s not even five thirty, which is earlier than Doug’s been getting home, and the texts come one after the other, barely a pause between them.
I step onto the front steps, leaving the door open behind me so that I can hear Sadie if she wakes up. A pickup truck is double-parked, and Doug and a grizzled man are lifting two bikes onto the sidewalk, one red and one blue. Crayola colors. They look brand-new.
“That’s not all,” Doug says. He’s practically vibrating with excitement; it’s so strong it’s seismic. You could measure it with a Geiger counter. He steps back into the bed of the truck with a ta-da motion. The object of his affection has two large bicycle tires on the sides and is encased in bright yellow fabric with mesh inserts. There’s a silver hitch. “It’s a bike trailer! So Sadie can attach to one of our bikes and we can all go riding together!”
I have to choose my words carefully. “You want to go riding with a newborn?”
“She’s not that newly born anymore, Kat.” He turns to the other man. “This is Milo. He just happened to be in the bike store when I was there, and he offered to help. Otherwise, I would have had to buy a bike rack to get these babies home. I mean, we’ll need one anyway, but still. It was pretty awesome of him. Milo, meet Kat.”
“Hi, Milo,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
“Congratulations on the move. You’re going to love it. You won’t believe how many kick-ass trails you can get to from here in, like, five minutes.” It’s funny to hear “kick-ass” from a fifty-year-old man, but then, he’s not a mere man; he’s part wildebeest. I’ve never seen a beard that bushy in person before.
“Thanks,” I tell him, “for bringing the bikes home.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy them.”
I wait until he’s back in the truck and has pulled away before I turn to Doug, who is eagerly awaiting my reaction. “What were you thinking?” I hiss.
The hurt on his face is instant, and it pains me to see it, to cause it, but I can’t humor him. We’re probably skating into overdraft territory. “Can you return all this?” I ask.
He shakes his head, as if dazed. “I wanted to surprise you.” It’s like he can’t even fathom this reaction and yet
, how could he not have? He knows me, and our finances.
“Let’s talk about it inside.”
Doug remains planted on the sidewalk. “How can you not be excited, Kat? They match the house. They match our life. It’s summer in the AV. Everyone goes out bike riding.”
“I haven’t ridden a bike since I was eight years old, Doug. We didn’t even discuss this.” I gesture back toward the house. “Sadie’s sleeping. Can we please talk about this inside?”
He ignores my request again. He wants to keep it outside. He probably thinks I’ll have to cave, if I’m in full view of the neighborhood. Anyone walking by would take his side and assume I’m some ungrateful bitch.
No, Doug’s not manipulative. He just can’t believe I don’t feel as he does. He’s sure he can convince me with the force of his vision.
He smiles at me in a way that normally makes me melt. “I told the guy at the store that you had limited experience riding a bike. He said this is a great starter bike. It’s called the urban cruiser. Try it. Just get on and go.”
“Sadie’s sleeping inside.”
“I’ll wait in the doorway. Get on. I want to see you take a spin.”
“If I ride around, then you can’t return them, can you?”
“I can’t return them anyway.”
I take a deep breath, trying not to lose it. “How much did you spend, Doug?”
“It’s an investment. In our happiness.”
He’d never even told me that he wanted bikes for us. If he had, I could have asked on GoodNeighbors about ones that were cheap or even free. That trailer could be a few hundred dollars, and someone a block over was just about to discard one, like it’s nothing.
Clearly, Doug didn’t want the neighbors’ hand-me-downs. He wanted bikes that were Crayola-bright and shiny and new. Statement bikes. Calling cards. Announcements that we’ve arrived, that we belong.
It scares me because prior to this, I’d assumed that we were in agreement. It was unspoken, but it seemed self-evident. Once we got into this neighborhood, we wouldn’t have the money to keep up with the Joneses—or the King Spuds, as the case may be—and we wouldn’t even try. We’d live within our means and be content with what we had.
He’s always been too optimistic, too sure everything will work out. I blame his parents. He’s been too pampered and protected from life’s realities, and now he’s going to have to learn, and I’m going to have to be the one to teach him. It’s not fair. But it’s better to blame them than to blame Doug himself.
Doug looked so excited and then so deflated, and now he’s stubbornly insistent. We’re locked in a stalemate. He’s urging me to go for a ride, and I’m urging him to just come inside so we can talk about it, so we can figure out some way to get around that no-return policy, or maybe we can just sell these on GoodNeighbors, since they are pretty much new. As I’m imploring, “Put them somewhere, please, and come inside,” a Porsche Cayenne pulls into the driveway of the Victorian across the street and a tall, thin man who looks remarkably like the director John Waters steps out and approaches us.
Oliver.
“Oliver,” he says, his hand extended. He looks north of fifty, with that same skeletal quality as Waters and the same slightly creepy pencil-thin mustache. His hair is salt-and-pepper.
Doug shakes Oliver’s hand. “I’m Doug, and this is Kat. Sadie’s inside, taking a nap.”
“Great bicycles! I have that one, but in black.” That’s when I know: Doug went top-of-the-line. I don’t even want to know how much he spent, except that I really, really do.
My blood is boiling, but I can’t let it show because Oliver is turning to me now. “Gina is really enjoying getting to know you, Kat. And that girl of yours—Gina keeps talking about wanting another one now. Like that’s going to happen. We’ve got the two boys ourselves.” He glances back toward his house. “You want to come over for a drink?”
Doug is nodding as I start to say, “We really can’t, Sadie’s still—” and then, as if she’s in collusion with Doug, the truest Daddy’s girl, she begins to cry so loudly that Oliver can hear it from the sidewalk. We must have woken her, Doug and me, with our argument. I’d thought we were keeping our voices low, but there was undoubtedly some heat in them, and Sadie’s room is closest to the street.
Who else on the block heard us?
“So it’s settled, then,” Doug says. “We’re coming over for a drink.”
I don’t know if he’s just trying to force us over this speed bump and back to our best behavior, our normal behavior. He could want to escape this conversation and he’s buying time to amass more arguments about the bikes. Or he’s just an extrovert and this is what he does: someone extends an invitation, and he accepts. But he has to know the last thing I feel like doing right at this moment is going to the neighbors’ house and leaving something this big, this expensive, unsettled.
Once Oliver’s out of earshot, it dawns on me. “Where are you even going to put those?” I say, just above a whisper.
“In the backyard,” Doug answers. “It’s more than big enough.”
“Are you going to lock them up?”
He smacks his forehead. “Right. Bike locks. I need to go back to the store.”
I realize he’s not kidding. “And what if it rains?”
He looks skyward in an exaggerated and comic fashion. “It hasn’t rained in weeks. I think we’re in the clear.”
“Have you remotely thought this through?”
His affable expression disappears. “How about having a little faith in your husband?”
As he starts to roll the first bike around the house, he jabs, “You think Val and Patrick are planning to steal some bikes tonight?”
Val and Patrick. Those are the names of the fanny-pack-wearing empty nesters with the golden retrievers. This time, I can’t let myself forget. It’s not Fanny; it’s Val, as in validate. Val, as in valuable. Val, as in property values. Yes, that’s it. That’ll stick.
To Doug’s back, I say, “And what about Hope next door, and her friends?”
He doesn’t answer, and I know I’ve scored a point. But I have a feeling I’m not going to win this game. He bought bikes that couldn’t be returned. He isn’t going to take no for an answer.
I feed Sadie a bottle and get her into fresh clothes. Doug doesn’t even set foot inside the house. We don’t speak as we cross the street.
Oliver and Gina’s Victorian is a dusky blue, all its windows and doorways edged in midnight, so it creates a dramatic effect, like a woman’s eyes outlined in charcoal. Gina opens the door and ushers us inside. She says that Lee and Riordan are playing upstairs, and we’ll have to meet them another time.
Without further ado, she launches into a well-practiced tour. “This used to be a duplex. We knocked down the walls so we could get nice big rooms. I love Victorians, but I hate small rooms.”
Then why do you love Victorians, if you hate one of their principal features?
I’m just being irritable. I don’t want to be here, and I resent Doug for making me.
As Andie said, the house is impeccable. The living room is light and airy, white everywhere, including whitewashed wood floors, with built-in bookshelves that are easily fourteen feet high. There’s a ladder on rollers against one corner, presumably to reach the highest shelves. Most of the books seem to be about architecture or interior design, and they’re as handsome as the room itself.
The dining room beyond is also white, with built-in cabinets and a bar. There’s a crystal chandelier above a rustic wooden table that could seat twelve. It looks like it should be in one of those Bay Area farm-to-table restaurants. Three dozen white lilies are in a glass vase at the center.
“The bar’s fully stocked,” Oliver says. “What can I fix you?”
“Water with lemon for me,” I say quickly.
“A glass of your best bourbon, please, sir,” Doug says.
Oliver smiles. “Good man.”
“A Manhattan for me, pl
ease,” Gina says. It looks like I’ll be the only teetotaler. Again. “I’ll show you the kitchen, Kat.”
I follow her in, Sadie feeling heavy in my arms. I should have brought the Björn, but I wasn’t thinking clearly.
I can hear Doug and Oliver in the next room, already in the throes of energetic manly discourse. Oliver talks like Gina, I realize—with great authority. She has a masculine conversational style, full of strong opinions and proclamations. And she hasn’t paid Sadie a bit of mind, which is notable, because everyone pays attention to Sadie. Come to think of it, Oliver didn’t, either. Maybe they’re not baby people. But didn’t Oliver say that Gina was so taken with Sadie she was talking about having another kid?
“Are you sure you only want water?” Gina asks. “I could squeeze you some fresh juice. I remember I was always depleted when I was breastfeeding.”
“I’m good,” I say. “I’m not depleted.”
Then I notice the juicer. It’s an insane contraption, something out of Willy Wonka: large and orange with a protruding black metal snout that contains four oranges, loaded up like one of those machines that shoots out tennis balls. It’s next to an industrial pasta maker, a bread maker, and some other appliances I can’t even identify. Somehow, with all that, it still doesn’t seem crowded in here.
Gina starts chopping a lemon right on the countertop—it must be some invincible high-tech material—and Oliver brings in her Manhattan. Doug loiters between the rooms, uncertain how to approach me. He doesn’t want a scene, but then, neither do I. I just don’t want to have to be fake, either. I preferred having him in the other room.
“What do you think of the kitchen, Kat?” Oliver says.
“It’s beautiful. Space-age.”
He laughs. “I’m addicted to upgrades. Wherever I am, I look around and I can always see something that could use improving.”
We’re never inviting them to Crayola, that’s for sure.
But Doug is apparently thinking the opposite. “When we have you over, you can give us some ideas.” As if we have any money to implement Oliver’s ideas. Does Doug know something about our finances that I don’t?