Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Actually, I kissed you.

  I know. It’s one of my favorite memories of you.

  Really? Honestly, I don’t remember our first kiss. I remember our first time.

  What do you remember about it?

  That I did not plan to have a one-night stand. That I genuinely thought we were going to your apartment to have coffee and talk.

  Ha! Well, I remember our first kiss. We were in this alcove away from everyone and I had just told you about planning to go to Santa Barbara for the weekend for work and you leaned in and kissed me.

  I stare at his post.

  I don’t remember that. I’m sorry.

  And I thought to myself: man, I’m a goner with this one. I could fall in love with this woman.

  I stare at his post again. I have no idea how to respond to that.

  He could have fallen in love with me? He has never told me that. I have never heard him say, “I love you.” I used to get a few “Je t’aime”s now and then, or an Italian “Ti amo.” But they were always said lightly, even jokingly. He’s never said it in English. He’s never said it in seriousness.

  “I’m home!” I hear David call out as he opens our front door. He sees me on the couch, then notices the cookies. “Oh, you’re already eating. I was hoping you might want to go out to lunch. I could go for a double-double from In-N-Out.”

  I snap to attention. “And chocolate shakes," I declare.

  “See, I knew there a reason I liked you,” David jokes. “Meet you in the car?”

  “Great.”

  I watch him inexplicably walk to the kitchen. As he disappears through our kitchen doorway, I happily fling myself off the couch and text…

  Gotta go.

  I went too far. I didn’t mean to freak you out. I’m sorry.

  Nothing to do with that. David’s home. I have a lunch date.

  Then I head to the kitchen to grab my purse. David passes me, holding a giant bag of white cheddar popcorn, and munching fistfuls as he heads towards the front door.

  That metabolism never fails to astonish me. “I thought we were having burgers," I whine.

  “We are. And chocolate shakes and fries and all that good stuff," he says through a mouthful of popcorn as he walks away from me and out the door. My phone buzzes. I glance at it before throwing it in my purse.

  Oh. Well, can you talk later?

  I don’t answer until we’re at the restaurant, and then I am vague.

  Sundays are crazy here. Let’s talk later this week.

  I don’t hear from Tom for several hours. But then…

  I can’t wait. Je t’aime.

  Twenty-nine

  Michelle

  Figaro is a cute little bistro in Los Feliz where the waiters are French, the tables are small, and the atmosphere is cozy. On the one hand, the place is casual, the décor reminiscent of fin-de-siècle Paris, with its checkerboard floors and red banquettes. And yet, it can also be very romantic, particularly if one were to arrive at 7:03 to be greeted by a handsome companion and a martini glass filled with something pink already waiting for her.

  “Hey there!” Nick says, his face brightening the moment he sees me. He stands and gives me another hug.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say, hugging him back.

  “No worries. I’ve already ordered you the French martini, and escargot and beef carpaccio are both on their way.”

  I’m both surprised and thrilled to hear that. “You remembered my drink and my appetizer order?” I ask as I take the seat in the red banquette across from him. “We haven’t been here in years.”

  He shrugs. “You only eat about forty foods. It wasn’t hard to remember.”

  “Really?” I say, equally charmed and embarrassed. “So what do you think I’ll order tonight?”

  “If I had to guess, it would be the Canard au Miel.”

  “One can never do wrong with duck.”

  “Indeed. Also a much better choice than the canned chili you like to eat which you put, disgustingly and inexplicably, over vermicelli pasta.”

  “Okay, now you’re just scaring me," I say, but my smile must be wider than Julia Roberts’s in Pretty Woman. I take a sip of the French martini. “Mmmm… I haven’t had one of these in years. Perfect as always.”

  As Nick drinks a Belgian beer, the two of us quickly dispatch with all of the usual pleasantries. But by the time the appetizers come (snails for me, beef for him), I decide to dive right in. “Okay, so what happened?”

  Nick forces a smile and asks, “Gory details or abridged version?”

  “Whichever you’re comfortable with.”

  “Laura cheated on me.”

  “Whoa…”

  “Right? Anyway, the first time it happened was back here. It went on for about six months. After she got caught, we went to therapy, and she promised to never speak to the guy again. Deciding we needed a fresh start, I took the job in Hong Kong, and off we went. Laura planned to quit her job, write a novel, learn to cook… Meanwhile, I’d be back in a city where I was comfortable, my parents would be nearby, so I’d see them more, Kent could be exposed to more of the world... All looked great on paper.”

  “Ah… nothing ever cuts like paper.”

  “Indeed.”

  “So what happened?”

  He raises his shoulders in a Que sera sera shrug. “Hong Kong became Holland.”

  Wow. I forgot he knew the Holland story.

  There is a story written by Emily Perl Kingsley about having a special needs child. I won’t do it justice, but to paraphrase: you dream of going to Italy, make plans of how your life will look there, get on a plane: and somehow wind up in Holland. Which is a very pretty place, but not where you set out to go. Over the years, “Holland” among my group of friends is shorthand for anything you had a dream about: careers, men (or in Cara’s case, women), parenthood, life, that didn’t go as planned. None of us ever really lived the life we dreamed of. We failed a lot. Occasionally we had success, but it usually came with a price. I never knew I’d sell real estate, or that I’d actually like it. I never knew how much I could love someone until I met my kids. Sometimes life is better, sometimes worse. But no matter what, it’s always different than you expect.

  It’s always Holland.

  “So did she start talking to the guy again?” I ask Nick knowingly.

  “Yeah. He flew out to see her in February. I could smell him on my sheets one night. I confronted her and just…” He shakes his head several times quickly. “It was brutal.”

  “Jesus," I say, shaking my head. I’m sick to my stomach thinking about poor Nick. And I want to kill Laura.

  “We agreed Kent had to finish the school year, and then we’d all move back to Los Angeles, but in two households. Kent and I stayed in Hong Kong, but Laura decided to fly home. She bought a house so Kent had somewhere to land when she finished the school year in June. I interviewed for a new job, got to come home in August, and took a one bedroom sublet in Los Feliz.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. The breakup was over six months ago, and honestly I haven’t felt this optimistic in years.” He takes his small silver fork and pops a thin slice of beef into his mouth.

  The waiter comes to our table and asks in his Parisian accent, “And what can I get you this evening?”

  I smile and tell him, “Oh, he’s going to order for me. This is my favorite part of the night.” The waiter and Nick converse in French. Nick orders the duck for me, and something for him that maybe has the word green in it?

  After the waiter leaves, Nick asks, “That’s your favorite part of the night, huh? So it’s all downhill from here?”

  “Pretty much," I joke. “I mean, unless there are macarons.”

  “There can always be macarons," he says in mock seriousness. “So let’s get all of the yuckiness out of the way. What about you? What happened with you and Steve?”

  “Well, I didn’t smell anyone in my bed. But he was cheating on me.”<
br />
  Nick makes a show of letting his jaw drop. “Stop it. On you? Has he seen you?”

  I smile bashfully. “Awwww... Oh, and with a mom at Megan’s school. Which just adds to the fun, because now I get to see her at random intervals.”

  Nick winces. “Ugh. At least I never have to see Bill again. I mean, other than at Kent’s wedding. Graduations, birthdays, Christmas…”

  “I’m dreading Thanksgiving. Are you dreading Thanksgiving?”

  “Nah. I spent most of my childhood in Europe. Thanksgiving was never my thing.”

  “Great. Can I spend it with you then?” I deadpan. “Because Steve and I are already trading holidays, and I lost Thanksgiving.”

  Nick lights up. “I’d love to spend Thanksgiving with you. Kent is with Laura and her family, so that would be great.”

  I must have looked startled, because Nick quickly backtracks, “Oh, that wasn’t a real invitation, was it? Sorry.”

  “No, no. I’d love to spend Thanksgiving with you. I go to my friend Zoe’s house. You can be my plus one.”

  The conversation moves on to all sorts of lighter topics: we talk about how amazing our kids are turning out, travel, work, the type of house he was looking for, etc.

  After dinner, we decide to walk around the neighborhood for a bit. Nick walks to my left, on the side of traffic. That’s one of those little gentlemanly things he always used to do that I found so charming: he was always on the outside part of the sidewalk, near the cars. At some point, the conversation fades for a moment. In the silence, Nick gently takes my hand.

  We walk hand in hand for a few minutes. “My apartment is just a couple of blocks that way,” Nick says, pointing. “You want to come over for a nightcap?”

  What’s happening?

  I glance at our hands, still together. “Is Kent home? I’d love to see her.”

  “No, she’s with her Mom tonight. It’d just be us.”

  “I kind of have an early morning. Would you hate me if I head over to my car?”

  “Not at all. Let me walk you.”

  As we turn around, his right hand drops my left hand so we can both turn around, and he can stay between me and the cars. Within half a block, he takes my right hand with his left. When we get to my car, I drop his hand, but tell him truthfully, “I had a great time tonight.”

  “Me, too. It was great to catch up.”

  I smile and make a point of hugging him, rather than kissing him, goodbye. I think it’s going to be a quick hug, but when I pull back slightly to end the hug, he pulls me in tighter.

  He smells amazing. He’s wearing Issey Miyake for Men. I know, because I like cologne on men. And I liked this fragrance so much in the store that I bought Steve a bottle. He never opened the box. Joked at the time that if he wanted sex, he could just ask me, “Without needing to smell like a department store.”

  I inhale deeply. I like it. A man taking the time to put it on shows he might be interested in…

  Michelle, do not fuck this up thinking with your crotch.

  I pull away. “Again, great evening," I repeat, only now I’m thinking about kissing him. “Call me tomorrow. I have a couple of ideas.”

  “Perfect," he says, then, “Would you mind driving me back to my apartment?”

  Which startles me out of whatever trance he has put me into. “Oh, of course. So sorry," I say. I beep my car, then practically jump over the hood to the driver’s side, I’m so quick about getting some distance between the two of us.

  When I get into my car, I realize that I’m going to have to open the sunglass compartment above my rearview mirror to get my glasses. Which will make me look ten years older. Damn.

  I press the button to pop it open, and throw on my glasses.

  “Wow, you got even cuter!” Nick exclaims.

  “You think this is cute?” I ask disbelievingly.

  “Honey, so cute," he assures me.

  “Wow. I got some gray pubic hairs you’d really go gaga over," I joke.

  Then I cover my mouth with my hand. “Shit. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m sorry. That joke was totally inappropriate.”

  “Huh,” Nick says, grinning almost wickedly. “So if I were to answer, ‘I’ll bet I would.’ That would probably also be inappropriate.”

  “Probably," I assure him. “Now which…”

  Nick leans in to kiss me. The kiss is soft and sweet, yet super hot. I put my hands around the back of his neck and lose myself in the moment.

  Until I’m suddenly thinking about how weird this is. This is Kent’s Dad. And my friend. And someone I do not want to lose to a one night stand. After a minute (or ten?) he pulls away, then tries to read my facial expression. “Sooooo…”

  “Soooooo…” I concur.

  He smiles and goes for broke. “So now would you like to come to my apartment?”

  “No. I mean yeah, actually. But no. Bad idea. Insanely bad idea.”

  “How come?”

  “How come? Because I love you," I answer. “I love how you order in French. I love how I can flirt with you and tell you how hot you are and none of it counts. I love that you know I only eat forty foods. I love that you’re keeping me company on Thanksgiving, which is gonna suck by the way, and I love that you know I’m going to be a mess and you’re going to be awesome anyway. I just got my friend back, and I like him so much. He is an amazing man. And I cannot lose him just for a couple of orgasms and an omelet in the morning.”

  Nick considers this. “You don’t eat omelets.”

  And that was the right answer! I instantaneously climb over to the passenger’s seat, straddle him, and kiss him fiercely. After eventually coming up for air, I announce, “Okay, five more minutes. No sex. And we never speak of this again.”

  We make out for at least twenty more minutes, and then I drive him home.

  Where I park my car and continue to let my crotch do all of my thinking.

  I decline the invitation to come in at least five more times, and finally manage to get him out of my car around midnight.

  Before he closes the passenger door, he says, “Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.”

  “I live five minutes from here," I groan.

  “Fine. Text me from your tub, so I know you’re naked.”

  “That’s never happening," I state firmly. “And this never happened.”

  He grins. “Of course not.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know.”

  “Bye.”

  Nick continues to grin, and I can tell he’s trying to figure out a way to get me upstairs. But instead, he says, “Thanks for the ride. Get home safe.” And then, just as he shuts his door, he kills me with, “I love you, too.”

  And the door closes.

  I immediately start the car and drive away, waving to him as I do.

  Then I spend the drive home replaying that “I love you” in my head over and over again.

  And wondering how much I just messed up my life.

  Thirty

  Zoe

  For the rest of Sunday, Tom spent an inordinate amount of time sending me a succession of one-line texts.

  Too much?

  Did I fuck up?

  I’ll quit talking about sex.

  I shouldn’t have mentioned…

  And then he wrote her name. Yuck. Yeah, don’t ever fucking mention her, dude.

  The truth was, Tom did freak me out. But not the way he thinks he did. The moment he started flirting the way he used to (with the undercurrent of his words being, “Sure, she was here before you, but really I want you”) and being so nice, and acting like he wanted me again… Well, what can I say: he started healing an ancient, gaping wound.

  I think most of us carry around one gigantic dating wound that can open at a moment’s notice. At least I do.

  There will always be the exes who hurt us in little ways. Emotionally, I see them like little scrapes: momentarily painful, yet easily healed. I have the gay ex (really ca
n’t blame myself for that one) the long distance ex (that never works) the guy who I dated in college who ended up marrying Ms. Perfect (seriously, I get along better with her than him). But Tom? He’s my gaping wound, and I’ve never really healed. I liked him before he was the rich and successful comedian. I liked him because he was everything I grew up wanting a husband to be. And who, when I was growing up, I thought I deserved.

  But then I grew up, found exactly the guy I had been searching for, and the universe told me I wasn’t good enough to have him. That I deserved to be used for sex repeatedly, then dumped unceremoniously for an unattractive woman who never wanted to work a day in her life.

  And I believed the universe for a really long time.

  I think it’s bullshit when people say we should be grateful for the heartbreaks we’ve had. That’s a load of crap. No woman really wants to end up “strong." She wants to end up always having felt loved and cared for and made to feel like she’s not only enough, she is perfection.

  And something about Tom talking to me again (and my life actually being better than his) was finally healing that old wound.

  Today, everyone’s at work or school, except me. We don’t record on Mondays, so I decide to make Monday errand day.

  I once read that you can make yourself truly happier if you just do a bunch of things you’ve been putting off. I’m dubious. Maybe if I were putting off flirting with Chris Pratt, or getting paid to take pictures of the Great Barrier Reef. But I’ll hazard a guess that no woman ever got excited throwing a bag of cheap white frames from Ikea into her trunk to return.

  Actually, maybe Lauren. But she’s weird.

  After Ikea and dry cleaning, I get this text:

  You know for a woman who called me out for ghosting, you’re being rather Casper-like.