Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  He immediately leans in to kiss me. “I’m sorry babe, I’ve been busy.”

  I pull away from him like I’m trying to avoid getting cooties in the third grade. “This isn’t a good time. I’m entertaining.”

  Connor doesn’t even try to mask his irritation. “Jesus, the hangover girls are here again? Aren’t you a little old to still be having slumber parties?”

  And then he looks past me and his face falls.

  I turn around.

  John. His T-shirt a little tight from his muscles, still slightly bulging from when we lugged around all of those toilets earlier. His hair a little windblown from the beach. My wineglass in his hand. And his eyes just as beautiful as Connor’s.

  The two quickly size each other up, and my shoulders tense up to my ears.

  Connor doesn’t miss a beat. “Hey man. I’m Connor," he says, confidently walking up to John and putting out his hand. “I’m Alex’s boyfriend.”

  John looks down at the hand, debates, then shakes. “John,” he says pleasantly. Then he looks at me. “I’m going to go walk Tunny. Give you a minute.”

  What a classy move. “Thank you," I say.

  “My pleasure. We can finish the wine when I get back.”

  Smack down alpha move. Nothing classy about it, and so nicely played. “I would love that," I tell him as he takes Tunny’s leash from its hook.

  Connor and I watch John talk to Tunny as he puts his leash on, then grab a green poop bag from a box on my kitchen counter and head out the beach side of the house. Once he is well out of earshot, I turn to Connor, grab his elbow and pull him back to the doorway. “You need to go.”

  Connor yanks his arm away. “Wait, are you sleeping with that guy?”

  “Wow. Okay, I just gotta ask… would you be mad if I am?”

  “Not mad. Just surprised. He’s not your type.”

  “Really?” I ask, offended. “What is my type, Connor?”

  Connor responds with an almost disgusted tone, “Oh, come on. You date actors and musicians. That guy looks like he drives a minivan.”

  His comment gets under my skin and slithers there. “Actually, he drives a pickup truck. But I’ll admit, it’s not nearly as awesome your motorcycle. The one I made the last three payments on.”

  “Okay, clearly you’re mad at me, so I’m gonna go. Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

  He marches through my front doorway, take three steps towards his motorcycle, and then stops.

  And pauses.

  Huh. How come I’ve never noticed that before? He’s waiting for me to stop him. It’s subtle, but it’s there. After a few beats, he continues to his motorcycle, and starts to put his helmet on.

  He stops his helmet in midair, and turns to me. “I think we need to take a break.”

  And despite the ruggedly handsome man walking my dog… the ubercute one I have a crush on who has been nothing but nice to me and done nothing but take care of me… Despite him, I am heartbroken.

  “No,” I tell Connor sadly, “We don’t need to take a break. We need to break up. Permanently. We need to not talk or text at all. Not even once. We need to pretend that we’re in college in 1992, back when a breakup meant the person didn’t exist anymore. You need to not exist. I need to quit thinking about what I can do to catch you. I need to quit thinking that if I just get one more show on the air, or take one more trip that makes me look smart and cosmopolitan, or bail you out one more time, or give you one more hot night in bed, you will finally choose me. You will never choose me. And you know what? You’re wrong. And you’ve been wrong over and over again for years. And I’ve just stopped caring.”

  Connor takes a breath to answer, but I shut the door before he can. Then I walk into my kitchen, silently take a seat on one of my barstools, and wait until I hear his motorcycle pull away.

  It takes a few minutes. I know he’s debating walking back and knocking on my door. But he won’t. He’ll wait for me to text him before he returns. An alpha male would come back. But Connor is a beta. Maybe even a gamma. I’m not. As hard as I tried to be. As many times as I tried to stuff my square alpha peg into that circle beta hole.

  I hear the tires pull away. And poof! There goes twelve years of my life.

  I take my wineglass that John has left on my counter and walk back out onto my porch on the beach. I sit back down on the couch and try to relax. This is the right thing to do. Frequently the hardest thing to do is also the right thing. I listen to the ocean waves, nibble some cheese and sip my wine.

  Tunny bounds up to me a few minutes later, leaping into a high arc to land right on my lap and slightly knock the wind out of me. John has disappeared behind the side of my house for a moment to throw the poop bag into the big trashcan.

  He reappears less than a minute later. “Everything okay?” he asks carefully.

  “No," I answer honestly. Then I backtrack. “I mean… I don’t know. Can I ask you something? I mean… can I sound like one of your daughters right now?”

  He cocks his head. “Sure. What’s up?”

  “What is wrong with me?”

  He squints his eyes and shakes his head slightly, not comprehending. I race to fill the silence. “I mean, I actually think I’m okay in bed. I’m really successful, I’m really loving, I don’t think my body is so bad for my age. I have money. I solve problems. My friends and family seem to like me. Why am I still single? What did I do wrong?”

  John walks up to me, sits down next to me, and pulls me into a bear hug. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I listen to his heartbeat and inhale his scent. I think about kissing him, but the moment just feels… off.

  Which is fine, because I can feel his phone vibrating. “I think your girls need you.”

  He pulls away and checks his phone. “Oh crap.”

  “What happened?’

  He stands up. “Apparently, a pipe burst in building four, and two of the residents are at my house. Kris is turning off the main water now. What is going on with everyone’s plumbing tonight? I gotta go.”

  “Okay,” I say, jumping up from my seat, “Let me walk you out.”

  I head back through the house to the front door with John on my right, and Tunny on my left.

  “I’m really sorry,” John repeats.

  “It’s fine. It’s late. You should get home to your daughter anyway," I say, opening the door to let him out.

  John stops in the doorway. “You know, if you don’t want to be alone, you’re welcome to come with me. You can take one of the other girls’ beds.”

  I smile, touched. “You’re sweet. But I’m pretty embarrassed by what just happened, and I should probably be alone and have a little time to unpack it.”

  He shakes his head. “You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

  I laugh uncomfortably. “Schyeah, well…”

  “Oh come on,” he says, and to my surprise pulls me into another hug. Where we stay. I lie my head onto his chest, and once again I can hear his heart beating. What does he smell like? Pheromones? Irish Spring soap?

  John. He smells like John. He smells safe. He smells like home.

  We stay in the hug for… what? A minute? An hour? Eternity? I am desperate to kiss him, yet I am terrified of doing anything to risk losing him. Because somehow I realize in this moment that this guy…

  Will be in my life from now on.

  And I have no idea what that means.

  Huh.

  “Thank you for everything tonight," I mumble into his shirt.

  “Whatcha talking about?” John jokes.

  “No seriously," I say as I pull back to look at him. “I just did this really hard thing that I have been wanting to do for years, and that I’ve never had the strength to. Your being here tonight gave me that strength. That means the world to me.”

  He smiles. “It was my privilege.” He kisses me lightly on the forehead, then lifts my chin with one finger. “You sure you don’t want to come over? Kris would adore a slumber party wit
h THE Alexis…”

  “Stop that,” I say, smacking him playfully on the chest. Then I smile at him gratefully. “But raincheck?”

  “Absolutely.”

  John gives me one last hug, then heads to his truck. As he opens his door he confirms, “So are we still on for one tomorrow?”

  “Yup. And I even have a couple of surprises up my sleeve for Kris.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  He starts his car, gives me a friendly wave, and drives off.

  I slowly close the door, and turn around to contemplate my new life.

  I wonder how he will fit into it. I wonder if I should hire Kris in some capacity so he has to stick around? I wonder if I should just do nothing. Go against my nature and let the chips fall where they will, without a broom and a map to move them around. I wonder if…

  Woof!

  Oh, fuck. I wonder how I got a dog. How did I become the kind of person that has a dog? (And what kind of person is that?)

  I spend the next few minutes getting ready for bed. By the time I climb into my all white sheets, Tunny is already snoring on the pillow next to me.

  So I guess the whole talking to a dog thing everyone raves about won’t be our thing.

  Meh, my therapist asks better questions anyway. And she rarely smells like wet dog.

  I gently pet Tunny’s ears, then surprise myself by lightly kissing the top of his head. He instinctively snuggles up closer to me.

  I push my arm under the dog, and cradle him the way I used to cradle my teddy bear when I was a kid.

  Then I promptly pass out.

  The next morning I realize it was the best sleep I’d had in months.

  Twenty-six

  Michelle

  It is amazing what good sex can do for your head. We all know about endorphins and oxytocin and all of those other happy hormones coursing through our veins that make us want to do a Snoopy dance. But sometimes feeling great about yourself has an even simpler solution: stop caring about how someone else sees you, and focus on how you see yourself.

  After being rejected for years, I had gotten into the habit of focusing on what Steve wanted from life and from me. My self worth was completely tied to the external validation of, “How does my husband feel about me? What can I do for him to make him like me more?” But last night, I didn’t give Steve a thought. I didn’t even really give Dan a thought. Or I did: but what I thought about was what he could do for me (raise my self worth) not what I could do for him (none of your business).

  And with that new freedom still washing around my brain, I spent all of Sunday morning doing exactly what I wanted, and thinking about what I wanted to have happen next in my life.

  I walked around Zoe’s Silverlake neighborhood, and looked at smaller houses for sale. It would just be the three of us now.

  I daydreamed of where I could move when my youngest went off to college. Anywhere in the world. What a freeing thought. Maybe Italy. I have a friend who, at fifty-six, just blew up her life and moved there. And no, she never got remarried, and no, her career didn’t stay on the same trajectory, and yes, she has much less money. But she also has boyfriends (plural), a cute little apartment in Rome (very little), and a sense of contentment I never saw when she lived here. She is constantly inviting me to stay with her and sleep on her fold-out couch. I always decline, knowing a family of four cannot squeeze onto a couch. But maybe once I’m solo, I’ll just get on a plane and go.

  I took a long bath using the nine-dollar bath fizzy I bought two years ago, but never had the gumption to actually use. I ate ice cream for breakfast, along with a bloody Mary.

  Which I learned after the first sip was gross. But now I know Double chocolate chip does not pair well with tomato.

  By the time I set up my Open House that afternoon, I felt like a totally new woman. For the first time in a long time, my brain stopped shouting at me, trying to fix the Rubik’s cube of my life, and I was content with my place in the world.

  In addition to bottled water for potential buyers, I brought a few bottles of champagne and some plastic glasses. And along with freshly baked chocolate chip cookies (to make the kitchen smell nice), I brought Ding Dongs. Because I like Ding Dongs. And if no one else wants them, great! More for me.

  Overall, the Open House was going pretty well. My showing is a four bedroom single family home that isn’t even technically on the market yet, and it has all of the features well-heeled people in this area are looking for: high ceilings, a modern kitchen with two ovens no one will actually use at the same time, refurbished antique hardwood floors, a huge backyard, and an asking price designed to start a bidding war. If only all of the homes were this easy.

  As I straighten out flyers giving details about the house on the dining room table, I hear behind me, “Michelle?”

  I look up, and am both startled and thrilled to see, “Nick!”

  What a sight for sore eyes. I don’t mean that in a dating way: although not because Nicolau Chang isn’t gorgeous, smart, charming and funny as hell. Nick was born in Barcelona, hence the Catalan name. The son of a Chinese father and a Spanish mother, he has this exotic look which, when you add in the fact that he can speak Catalan, Spanish, Mandarin and French (his father worked for the International Olympic Committee, so he has lived everywhere) makes him so perfect you’d think you’d find him in a romance novel secretly working as a gardener while trying to escape his life as the Prince of some country no one has ever heard of.

  Handsome, exotic, well traveled, smart… naturally my underwear’s elastic must be melting at the sight of him, right?

  Nope. Because Nick is the father of Kent, my son Roraigh’s best friend from preschool. And while we may make jokes about the DILF, we never actually have a crush on the DILF. That is actually one of the secret joys of parenthood: you get to flirt with all of the hot Dads without any fear of repercussions. Everyone knows that you’ll be going home with the gentleman who brung ya’, not to mention the fact that with a baby and/or toddler in tow, all that will be going on after the dance is three rounds of putting kids to bed, followed by passed out exhaustion.

  Back in the day, Kent and Roraigh were inseparable and Nick, his wife Laura, Steve and I soon became a family. Just looking at him, I feel like I’m home.

  Then they moved a few miles away, and we bought a house and moved a few miles the other way, and the separation began. After preschool, the kids went to different grade schools; we had a second kid, but Nick and Laura didn’t… life got in the way. The random Friday dinners we used to have after picking up both kids from school turned into liking each other’s social media posts and saying we’d get together, then not doing it.

  About two years ago, Nick took a job as a translator for a large amusement park company, and moved the family to Hong Kong. We hadn’t seen them since, although from Laura’s social media posts, their lives looked amazing, and I would find myself getting a little jealous as I’d view shots of the family watching fireworks in Shanghai on New Year’s Eve, spending Christmas in an adorable small town in Spain, going skiing in Switzerland.

  But it wasn’t just the exotic locations that made me jealous: Laura and Nick had a chemistry with each other and a genuine friendship that Steve and I had lost over the years. They seemed to be genuinely, totally in love all the time. Not in that early twenties obnoxious way, when you can’t stop making out in front of other people. They just had a heat to them, and it was palpable. And they were always on each other’s side. I don’t know exactly when Steve stopped being on my side. It happened gradually: he’d get the pizza he wanted, or he’d stop doing dishes to the point where I’d quit asking, or he’d not run to Target to pick up stuff for the kids when I was at work, adding an hour to my already long day.

  “What on Earth are you doing here?” I ask Nick as I run up and give him a hug in the arched doorway between the dining room and living room. “Shouldn’t you be in Barcelona or Hong Kong or Shanghai or somewhere equally glamorous I will neve
r get to?”

  “Been back a few months," he tells me, hugging me firmly. “We’ve been really quiet about it. We applied to Echolake back in the spring, and when Kent got in, we started making plans to come home. I’m working in Burbank now.”

  “Kent is at Echolake? Oh my God! That’s amazing. Does Roraigh know?”

  “Of course he does. They’ve been texting for weeks, and even have a couple of classes together. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “A teenage boy not talk to his mother? I’ll try to contain my shock. So how’s Laura? Is she excited to go back to work now that you’re home?”

  I watch Nick’s entire body tighten up. “Laura’s good. And yes, she did go back to work at her old firm. But… umm… we actually split up over the summer.”

  The perfect couple split up? I can not even absorb that. I know my jaw must have dropped slightly, and Lord knows what my eyes are doing. All I can eke out is a shocked, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” Nick says. “It’s been a long time coming, and it sucks, but we’re getting through it.” He forces a smile. “And part of the way we’re getting through it is we’re both buying houses. I saw you had an open house today. Came by to see if I could talk you in being my real estate agent.”

  “Of course," I say, happy to get a relatively easy new client with absolutely zero effort, but still reeling from the circumstances. “So are you interested in this place?”

  “I wish!” he says. “Way out of my price range. I should warn you, I’m divorce poor now. I only need a two bedroom, one for me and one for Kent, and if you could find something east of Los Feliz and Silverlake, but still near Kent’s school, that would be even better.”

  “Absolutely," I assure him. “And, you know, if money is a problem, I can refund my commission to you as the buyer. After various fees get deducted, I get about two percent of the purchase price from the seller. It’s all yours.”

  “No. You’re doing me a favor as it is, I know your clients are normally much higher end than me. Just knowing you’ve got my back is more than enough.”