“Doubt the missus would be cool with that,” said Jessica.
“I don’t mean literally,” said Amber. “Not, like, reaaaally sleep with him.”
“You mean figuratively sleep with him?” said Jessica.
“Yes. Exactly. I’m being hypothetical.”
Megan and Jessica laughed.
“Enunciate, hon,” said Sarah. “It’s too early to be slurring.”
“Ha ha,” said Amber. “I’m collecting data. This is a fact-finding mission.”
“I thought it was a celebration,” said Jessica.
“We’re celebrating and fact finding. I need to establish my sexual range. I haven’t had sex with someone who isn’t Alan since I was a junior in college. A fucking junior in college! I mean, are you kidding me?”
Slurring had become swearing, and Jessica decided it was time to take her shot. Tequila burned her throat, and there was a trace of something sugary. Since The Divorces, she’d struggled to adjust to seeing these women as individual entities. In her mind, they were still parts of couples. Megan still went with Terry. They were moneyed, blunt talkers, distant with each other. Sarah still went with Doug. They bought Vitamin Water in bulk and drove a Volvo. And Amber still went with Alan. They were funny and always arrived in Ubers, because they were usually already half in the bag.
“I bet I could hook up with that guy over there,” said Amber. “Maybe him, too.” She was just pointing randomly at dudes, like she was leafing through a J.Crew catalog.
“What about that guy?” asked Megan.
“Well, yeah,” said Amber. “Probably. If I want to feel like an Amazon woman every time we leave the house together.”
“Oh, stop it,” said Sarah. “You’re gorgeous.” As the best looking among them, Sarah was constantly telling the others how beautiful they were.
“Nope,” said Amber. “This isn’t about looks. This is about height. Feet and inches. I’ve been dealing with it since sixth grade. Guys don’t want someone taller than them. It messes with their heads. And I don’t want some guy who’s shorter than me, quite frankly. You small bitches don’t get that. Alan was—well, is—six-two. I went all the way up there. So, that’s where my range starts. Mayyyybe six-one if I wanna wear flats every day for the rest of my life like an Amish woman. Which, for the record, I do not.”
The Wives made skeptical faces, but Jessica knew Amber was right, and she knew that Megan and Sarah knew it, too. There are rules to attraction. Rules to everything.
“Should we get another round?” asked Sarah. “I’m buying. Tito’s on me.”
No one got a chance to respond, though. A couple of guys with spiky hair shoved through the middle of them like bird dogs, and enough was enough.
“Okay, I’m done with this place,” said Amber.
“Amen,” said Jessica.
“Where should we go?” asked Sarah.
“Somewhere that doesn’t completely suck,” said Amber. “That’s my one stipulation.”
“Agreed,” said Megan.
They listed some spots—some new, some old, some Jessica hadn’t heard of. Amber suggested Bar Vasquez. “That place is kinda decent, right?”
Sarah and Megan liked this idea.
It was where Jessica had just been with Mitch on date night, but it was too late to protest. The decision was made, and the Wives were already heading for the door.
* * *
—
Her mom hadn’t wanted her to marry Mitch.
In Mitch’s defense, her mom hadn’t really wanted her to marry anyone. At least not then.
He proposed by way of a quote from a Curtis Violet novel, which was just like him. They were sitting on the couch together in the little apartment they shared in Federal Hill—shacked up and poor. It was a Saturday afternoon, and she was studying.
“I’m thinking of assigning this to the kids,” Mitch said, holding out a paperback. This was when he was teaching junior high English, before the cushy private high school gig.
“Maybe a little aggressive for seventh graders, don’t you think?” she said.
“Nah. It’s one of his early ones. Less sex, short chapters, hardly any swearing. Check out this passage. I think the kids’ll respond to it. It’ll inspire them.”
She very nearly told him to leave her alone. She was busy, after all. But when she saw that he’d circled a paragraph with pink highlighter, she knew something was up. Mitchell Butler would sooner key his own car than deface a book.
“Read it out loud. It’s better when you actually hear it.”
Whatever doubt she had that he was about to propose was erased by the expression on his face. True, unguarded vulnerability. So she read.
“She was better than him in all the measurable ways. Better looking. Anyone could see that, plain and simple. Smarter, for damn sure. A brighter future. The product of better breeding—cleaner, far more ambitious genes. She wore better clothes, too. She had a better all-round disposition, and she looked like an angel when the light hit her just right through their bedroom window. Somehow, though, impossibly, illogically, despite all of this, she was his. Which was why he said what he said. Screamed it, in fact. ‘Will you marry me?’ ”
She left the whole Curtis Violet thing out when she told her mom a few days later. By God, the woman hated Curtis Violet. They were sitting in her old row house in Mount Washington, drinking mint tea.
Her mother didn’t immediately respond. The wooden clock on the mantel sounded like a heavy-metal drummer tuning up. The cat, Susan B. Anthony, walked into the room, assessed the situation, and quickly got the hell out of there.
“Well, congratulations then,” she finally said.
That might’ve been the end of it. Jessica might’ve ignored the tone and accepted the sentiment, but she just couldn’t. “How can you not like him, Mom? Everyone likes him. That’s Mitch’s thing—his defining feature. Universal likability. He’s like Tom Hanks.”
Her mother set her tea down. “I like him fine. But to marry you—now? My brilliant daughter? He’s such a turkey sandwich of a guy.”
“I don’t even know what that means,” said Jessica.
“You’re too young.”
“I am not.”
“Dramatically too young.”
“No, I’m not. We’re all getting engaged.”
Jessica hated how that sounded as soon as it left her mouth. She was referring to the Core Four, but it sounded like she was talking about a cult—a commune with sister-wives and group showers.
The cat came into the room again. She looked around and rubbed her head on the leg of an end table.
“It’s okay, Susie B. We’re being civil. Jessica’s marrying the most likable boy in all of Charm City.”
Susie B. turned her back to them and curled up in a sunbeam.
“I will say this for Mitchell. He’s the opposite of your father. Kudos there. I’m sure that’s why you’re attracted to him, by the way. Don’t need all those textbooks to tell you that.”
“See, then? That’s good. You hate Dad.”
“True. He was handsome, though. Still is, the son of a bitch.”
She felt a burst of defensiveness so sudden and intense that it surprised her. “What the hell do—”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “Oh, would you stop it? Relax. Mitchell is handsome, too. In his way.”
“Well, shouldn’t you be happy, then? He’s handsome. He’s got a good job. He’s nothing like Dad. Isn’t that the goal?”
“The goal? Oh, Jessica. Have I failed you so badly as a mother that you think marriage should be the goal? At your age?”
“Not the goal. But the destination, at least.” Jessica didn’t know exactly what she meant by that, which often happened when arguing with her mother. Her thoughts came out confused and pieced together.
<
br /> “For women, Jessica, it’s a trap. Society set it thousands of years ago, and we keep stumbling into it. It strips us of our power, takes the best years of our lives—our identities.”
“Our identities? You’re being melodramatic.”
“You will be defined by someone else henceforth. Mrs. Mitchell Butler. Because it’ll always be about him. It’s always about the man. Is he happy? Is he still attracted to me? Is he paying enough attention to the kids? Is he fulfilled? Is he losing interest? There’s nothing needier on planet Earth than a man. And your needs will come second. Always.”
It had seemed so dated, like so much bra-burning, hippie-era bullshit. But now, years and years later, sitting at a four-top table at Bar Vasquez listening to her best friends talk about men, she was forced to consider that maybe her mom had been onto something.
It was about them. Megan, Sarah, and Amber wouldn’t shut up about guys.
“Maybe I should just focus on finding someone to have fun with,” said Amber. “I mean, I can do that, right? I don’t need permission.”
“Sure,” said Sarah.
They’d been there forty-five minutes, and this was how it’d been the whole time. Jessica squeezed her wineglass and tried to change the subject. “Did you guys hear about that thing in Nebraska the other day?” she asked.
They looked up from their drinks and dinners. They’d all ordered heavy, except Amber, who was quite possibly the only woman in Baltimore who’d transition from shots to a kale salad.
“Omaha, I think,” said Jessica. “This gay activist group. They went to the top of the tallest building in the city and threw buckets of glitter from the roof. It got caught in the wind and spread for miles. Apparently, it was glorious.”
Megan smiled. “Yeah. Saw it on Morning Joe, I think.”
“God bless the gays,” said Amber.
A man about their age passed in a polo shirt and jeans, blatantly checking them out on his way to the restroom.
“Have you ever noticed that if you squint your eyes, all guys basically look the same now?” said Sarah.
Megan laughed.
“We go on cleanse diets and take online spin classes at five-thirty in the morning,” said Sarah. “They take a shower and tuck in their shirt and they think they’re David Beckham.”
“Stop it,” said Amber. “He didn’t look that bad. And he was tall.”
“You know, Amber,” said Megan, “as fun as it is discussing dudes for you to hypothetically sleep with, if you want some veteran advice, maybe take your time with the sex stuff.”
“I have to agree,” said Sarah.
Amber laughed. “What? Why?”
“It’s different now,” said Megan.
“How’s it different?”
Jessica leaned in. “Yeah. How? They still put their you know in our what’sit, right?”
Megan bit into a shriveled potato. “You can make fun if you want,” she said, “but it’s true.”
“Come on,” said Jessica. “Is there really nothing else we can discuss? Books? Movies? Dismantling the patriarchy, maybe?”
“In a minute,” said Megan. “Amber needs to hear this. This is her life now, and everything’s changed.”
“How so?” asked Amber.
“For starters, it’s not nice anymore.”
“What isn’t?”
“It,” said Megan.
“And them,” said Sarah, joining in.
“Sex isn’t nice, and neither are men,” Megan said.
Jessica imagined Megan and Sarah practicing this, like two midlevel executives clicking through slides on a keynote presentation.
“It’s porn’s fault,” said Sarah. “That’s my theory.”
“You’re damn right it is,” said Megan. “I haven’t had sex with a guy once since my divorce who hasn’t tried to come all over me.”
Amber choke-coughed on her drink.
“Same,” said Sarah. “Which is such a delight, because God knows that’s exactly what we’re hoping for.”
“Is this the part where I yell ‘Check, please’?” said Jessica.
“That’s what they think sex is now,” said Megan. “Target practice. Oh, please, Troy or Chad or whatever, can you aim for my face? I’m just dying to get it in my eyes.”
“Point is,” Sarah said, “you should probably check out some porn. At least know what you’re getting in to.”
“And maybe get some protective eyewear,” said Jessica.
Amber shook her head. “Whatever. If I wanted to not have sex, I’d have stayed married. Believe me, I’m ready. I’ll wear a hazmat suit if I have to. The other day I grazed a guy’s hand at Starbucks when I was reaching for the almond milk, and I wanted to put his fingers in my mouth.”
“That’s actually kinda hot,” said Megan.
“I think finger-in-mouth porn is a whole thing now,” said Jessica. “Google it.” She thought this was funny, but the Wives were dialed in, and a moment of sisterly silence settled over them. Jessica pulled out her phone and tapped out a text to Mitch.
Divorce is awful. We’re never getting one.
“It’s not just sex, by the way,” said Sarah. “That’s just part of it. It’s them. Guys. They’re different, too—and these dating apps have made it worse.”
“God, the apps,” said Megan. “Fuck the apps.”
“They’re terrible,” said Sarah. “Everything is superficial now. Imagine the worst singles bar on earth—fully digitized. Guys are just chasing some physical ideal, some type they think they’re supposed to want. And that’s not in our favor.” She picked up her phone. “You should see the women on this damn thing. Twentysomethings everywhere in bikinis. Girls are hiring professionals to take their profile pictures. Why would some decent guy our age wanna talk to me? He can go on his phone and find a hundred versions of me the way I looked fifteen years ago.”
Since this was Sarah talking, there was no one there to do her job and tell her how beautiful she was, so Jessica stepped in. “Oh, come on. Look how hot you are. I literally want to bite your arm.”
Sarah kissed the air in her direction. “Yeah, but I’m not midtwenties hot. There’s no workout class that’s gonna make me that.”
“Consequently,” said Megan, “we get the older guys.”
“Older?” said Amber.
“Yep. Forty-year-old guys want twenty-eight-year-old chicks. And now, thanks to the motherfucking Internet, they can have them. Fifty, fifty-five-year-olds? We’re right in their wheelhouse. They love us. We’re like catnip to them.”
Amber groaned.
“Oh, and don’t forget about the dick pics,” said Sarah.
“Ah yes, dick pics,” said Megan. “I remember my first one. A year ago. A rite of passage.”
“Me too,” said Sarah. “Last year. A lawyer named Chris. I thought he was so sweet, too. He seemed normal. We had drinks. We talked about his daughter’s horseback riding lessons for like an hour. Then, I woke up the next morning, checked my phone, and it was wiener city.”
Jessica laughed, loudly, and they all looked at her. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s terrible and all, but you just said wiener city.”
Their waitress did a flyby, and they ordered another round.
“Yep,” said Megan. “In a matter of days, your phone will be awash with high-res male genitalia. Welcome to the club.”
Amber, fully defeated, sank in her chair, her kale salad wilting.
Maybe this is part of it, Jessica thought. Like the dick pics themselves, this is a rite of passage. Your divorced friends show you what it’s like behind the curtain, and you’re appropriately horrified.
When their drinks arrived, the Wives ditched all the accoutrements, the swizzle sticks and silly umbrellas, to the center of the table.
“Can I ask you gu
ys something?” said Jessica. She was talking to Megan and Sarah, the veterans of divorce.
“Is it gonna be something sarcastic?” asked Megan. “Collectively, I don’t think we’re in the mood for that.”
“No,” said Jessica. “Well…yeah, no. I promise.”
They sipped and looked at her.
“Do you ever regret leaving them?”
The Wives had discussed The Divorces in exhaustive detail—the causes, the repercussions, the effects. Not this, though. This had never come up.
Jessica pushed on. “I read this thing—a study.”
Sarah made a snoring sound.
“Stop it,” said Jessica. “This is related. Apparently, an overwhelming number of women regret divorce five years later. Something like sixty or sixty-five percent.”
“I don’t know,” said Megan. “If I could do it over again, maybe I’d just have forgiven Terry and moved on with my life.”
“But he cheated on you,” said Amber.
“Yeah. And it sucked. I wanted to chop his dick off. But after a while…I don’t know. Is it that big of a deal?”
The Wives treated this rhetorically.
“Sometimes I do,” said Sarah. She sounded pained, like a woman confessing to something. “It’s just easier to be married. And Doug used to rub my back every night. It was like this thing—this ritual. Even when we were pissed at each other, or if we’d just had a big fight. Every night.”
“Well, this is just great,” said Amber. “I should probably switch to wine. I don’t wanna puke until I get home.”
Bar Vasquez was getting louder. Every table was full now; people were two deep at the bar, waiting.
“I mean, case in point,” said Megan. She bit an olive. “If I was still married, and I had the chance to have sex with that waiter over there, are you telling me I wouldn’t go for it?”
Jessica, Sarah, and Amber turned to look.
It took Jessica a moment to recognize him. Gorgeous and familiar in a crisp white shirt. It was the waiter from the other night—from date night. Their eyes met across the restaurant.
“Okay, wow,” said Sarah.
“Jeez,” said Amber.
Last Couple Standing Page 5