“Yeah…” Kris says, wondering where I’m going with this.
“So ask her what everyone’s doing after the game. Do you know her well enough to do that?”
“Of course. But how is going to a party after a game going to help me with Brody?”
“Just text her.”
Kris texts. Tokyo texts right back. She reads, “Tanner’s parents are out of town for the weekend, so he’s having some people over. She asked if I can give her a ride.”
“Perfect," I say, deciding to just gloss over Tanner. Life’s too short. “Now, ask her what Brody’s deal is now that he broke up?”
Kris looks up from her phone. She appears dubious.
“What?” I ask.
“What ‘his deal’ is?” Kris repeats, wincing a little.
Ooohhh… I hate that look. I get it from the interns when I sound my age. It’s similar to the polite look you give your great aunt when she asks what “those interwebs” are.
“You’re lucky I’m not telling you to get off my lawn," I tell her dryly. “Just ask her in your own, teenage ‘my generation is convinced we invented cool slang’ way.”
Kris stares at her phone and furrows her brow. I try a new suggestion. “How about something as simple as, 'Is Brody in play again?'”
“No, it’s not that. Although,” she wags her index finger at me, “Do people say that?”
“Apparently not. What’s the problem?”
She looks at her phone again, clearly deliberating in her head. “It’s just… do I want to admit to Tokyo that I have a crush on him. What if she tells someone and it becomes gossip?”
“Okay, I am going to give you a piece of advice that I hope will help you get through your entire life: guys are great, and a lot of fun. But you gotta find your girl squad…”
Kris looks pained.
“Don’t say ‘squad’?” I infer.
“Well,” she says, her voice rising like Samantha Stevens in Bewitched, “It’s a little…”
“My point is: It’s your girlfriends who help you move on to the next stage of your life, whatever that is. They’re the ones who help you meet the great guy. They’re the ones who feed you ice cream when the asshole guy dumps you. They’re the ones who cry on the bathroom floor with you when your cat dies, or when you don’t get into the school you want, or get the job you want, or just when life is shitty and you need to cry. Find the good ones. Trust the good ones. Never second-guess the good ones. So, is Tokyo one of the good ones?”
Kris thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Yeah.”
“Then let’s text!”
Kris texts, then waits. A moment later, her face lights up. “She says she doesn’t know for sure, but she thinks he’s coming to the party. She wants to know if she should text him and ask him about me.”
“Ask her if she has a class with him.”
“She does. We’re all in AP English together.”
“Seriously, how may AP classes does your generation take? Never mind. Tell her to wait until class, then to try to do a little covert investigating.”
I watch Kris type in my exact words. She reads the screen aloud after Tokyo types back:
Girl, I’m gonna hook you up. I owe you for Brick back in 7th grade.
“Please tell me Brick is a boy’s name, and not a new drug’s street name," I beg Kris.
Then I see a text pop up from John, and an anvil drops into my stomach.
Where are you? Your car is here but I can’t find you.
I jogged to Alex’s house to walk Tunny.
You jogged 4 miles? What’s his name?
Ha-ha. Have you talked to Alex yet?
No. Did you give her back the ball?
Absolutely not. You love that ball. I told her you said Hi.
What? Why?
Because you’re not a jerk. And, by the way, did you ever text her to say thank you?
“Your Dad’s not talking to me,” I admit to Kris, mortified.
“He’s acting like a jackass. We’ll fix it,” she says as she hits the blue Send arrow.
“You don’t have to do this," I tell her.
“Yes, I do," she says. “Give him a minute.”
Against my better judgment, I wait.
Gulp. And then, a minute later…
Not yet. I will.
Okay, it’s not a wildly good sign. I can’t explode in happiness. But maybe it’s a start. As I try to formulate my next plan, Kris is already in the zone, texting…
She says Hi back.
She does? Okay, well, tell her I say Hi.
I already did that.
Okay, well, what time will you be home? I’m grilling chicken.
6. I may have Alex take me home. Should I invite her for dinner?
No. Take a Lyft. I only have two chicken breasts, and the house is a mess.
You know, there’s this thing called grocery stores.
There’s also this thing called homework, and it’s a school night.
Damn.
But then a miracle pops up.
But tell her if she’d like to come over for steaks on Saturday, I’d be happy to fire up the grill.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim, smacking Kris on the shoulder excitedly. “You’re a genius! Ask him what kind of dead yeast I should bring?”
Kris squints her eyes at me. I point to her screen. “Just ask.”
She wants to know what kind of dead yeast she should bring. Does that make sense?
You’re not letting her read as we’re talking are you?
Ewwww… Of course not!
Okay, tell her to bring whatever pairs well with a ribeye.
And then…
Tell her to bring that one from before, I don’t remember how to pronounce it.
He’s flirting! That’s the Mourvedre! After I said Mourvedre, he said I looked liked I wanted to be kissed.
And I’m back in the game!
Kris and her Dad text goodbye. She tosses her phone down, picks up Tunny, then looks at me proudly as she ruffles his ears.
“That was genius," I tell her. “You are a genius.”
“Quid pro quo," she answers back. “And as a wise woman once told me: It’s your girlfriends who help you move on to the next stage of your life, whatever that is. Never second guess them.”
Thirty-seven
Zoe
Wednesday, the day after we made out, I sent Tom a quick email via Facebook.
Hey there! ;-)
I know he sees it right away. I wait all day for a response but, true to form, he ghosts me.
I try again that night.
Hi. You are amazing, and reconnecting with you has been the highlight of my year. Please say something.
The day after, I get even more pathetic.
Tuesday was fun. Want to make out in your car during your lunch hour?
Nothing. I tried light, serious, and sexy. Nothing.
I shouldn’t care. He was just a fling. I wanted a first kiss again, and I got it. I should just be happy I didn’t do any real damage to my marriage or my life, and forget it ever happened.
Friday, I try one more post: I let him know his favorite band will be in town in a few weeks, and that I could get free tickets through work.
Still nothing.
So here I am: nearing my golden years, happily married, with two amazing kids, a job I like, and a pretty good life, and yet I have landed myself in a situation where I am doing this century’s version of waiting by the phone.
I’ve come a long way, Baby.
Then his Facebook update tells me all I need to know: It’s their wedding picture. And his post? How do you get twenty years to fly by? You marry the most beautiful woman in the world! Happy Anniversary!
And then her name – I still can’t face her name.
I fall in love with you more and more every day!
Followed by a “feeling in love” emoji.
That one update makes me miserable for hours.
But then, someth
ing changes. I go back to the picture and study it.
She’s not smiling. I scroll back several years in his photo section to click on a few other wedding pictures. She’s not smiling in any of them. Which is weird to me. How is it possible not to smile on your wedding day?
I was so happy on my wedding day. I could not wait to spend the rest of my life with Carlos. I couldn’t wait for our life to begin.
And I suddenly realize: She’s not smiling because she’s not happy in the marriage either. She married her safety net.
And Tom knows that. He’s a smart man. And that lack of unconditional love on her part explains why he will forever keep tracking me down and trying to contact me. He’ll do it every so often until one of us dies. Because I am his safety net. And even this late in the game, he wants to make sure that he could still have me if he wanted me.
Because I’m not a real person to this guy. I don’t have feelings. It doesn’t matter if he endangered my family or broke my heart. Nope, I’m not a person. I’m a toy. A long, lost Mego Batman action figure he needs to make sure is still hidden away in a box in the attic, just in case he needs something to hug when life gets scary, and he needs to feel unconditionally loved.
And then another realization hits me. Maybe one reason why I was so happy on my wedding day had nothing to do with Carlos. Maybe it wasn’t just my unadulterated euphoria because I was so in love with him and so excited to get to spend the rest of my life with him. That was certainly the biggest part of it. I loved Carlos with all of my heart then. I still do.
But maybe part of my glee that day was knowing that I would never have to deal with the Toms of the world ever again. Or the Michaels, or the Jays, or one unfortunate Ludvig. Never again would I have to feel that emotional punch in the pit of my stomach after being ambushed one night over dinner by a boyfriend telling me this “just wasn’t working out” for him. Never again would I worry about throwing up after hours of gut-wrenching crying because the man I was madly in love with didn’t think I was enough. Never again would I have a guy tell me how beautiful I was one night, only to leave the next morning with an empty “I’ll call you” promise. Never again would I wait by the phone, mean thoughts swirling through my brain about what I did wrong. Never again would I wake up feeling like a slut because… damn, I really liked the guy. But did I sleep with him too soon? And wondering what the latest rules were on the number of dates before it counts as making love and not just fucking.
Never again would I care if an ex was already sleeping with someone else.
My God, these past few weeks have been so stupid. No, I never get a first kiss again. But I also never have to pretend to be “just friends” with someone I can’t stop thinking about kissing. I never have to worry about saying the words “I love you” too soon. I never have to worry about…
“We’re home!” I hear Carlos yell from the front door as Sofia yells, “Oh my God, Mom, I love you!”
I turn off the computer and head to the living room.
“I love you, too," I say happily. “What did I do?”
“You bought me the Mac lipstick I like in the old color,” Sofia says, hugging me tightly as she holds the small lipstick box in her hand. “Just in time for college tours! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” And she runs up the stairs gleefully.
Once she’s upstairs, Carlos reminisces, “Remember when you were that excited about makeup?”
“I don’t think anyone has ever been that excited about makeup," I joke. Then I rub his arm lightly and ask softly, "Hey, can I talk to you a minute?”
“Sure. What’s up? You look weird.”
I open my mouth to answer just as David magically appears in the kitchen doorway. “Where’s my Pink Floyd shirt?!” he asks in a mild panic. “I need to pack it for the trip.”
I turn to him. “I’m gonna guess dresser, dryer, washer or hamper.”
“No. None of those," he assures me.
“Did you walk out of the house wearing a Pink Floyd shirt and come home naked?” I return.
“No.”
“Then I’m gonna stick with dresser, dryer, washer or hamper.”
I get the teenage boy helpless look. (Side note: Not one teenage boy will say he has that look, and yet every Mom recognizes it. You do the math.)
“Fine," I sigh, then turn to Carlos. “Can we talk later?”
“Sure. Is it important?”
“Not really, but…”
“Mooommm!” I hear Sofia yell from upstairs. “I’m out of shampoo! We need to go buy some!”
“Can you just pack mine?!” I yell back upstairs.
“No, I need the dandruff shampoo!”
“Okay, give me a minute! I need to track down your brother’s Pink Floyd shirt!”
Which was on his bedroom floor. So that was a load of laundry that needed to be done before five a.m. tomorrow. Along with a load of dishes (also on his floor, and about as easy to clean as dried cement at this point). And a Target run. And Vons. Then I had to make dinner so Carlos had time to deal with a last minute call from Dubai.
By the time everyone was packed and ready to go, I was exhausted and Carlos and I still hadn’t “talked." Then Sofia wanted to talk about her friends, and the boy she likes, and complain about classes. I was up with her until almost midnight.
Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to stay up. These are the moments, and I almost missed them obsessing about what I didn’t have instead of what I did.
When I finally got to our bedroom, Carlos was snoring, T-shirt on.
I silently padded around the room, brushed my teeth, pushed some earplugs into my ears, and tucked myself under the covers.
I didn’t fall asleep until four.
I was going to have to tell him the truth.
Thirty-eight
Michelle
Friday nights are frequently my least favorite time of the week: I usually have Open Houses booked all weekend that I need to prep for, plus the kids are home from school, signaling the beginning of two days of “homework/birthday party/day trip” craziness.
But this Friday, I feel differently. The kids will be with Steve until Sunday, I sold three houses this week, one of which canceled the Open House I needed to do tomorrow, and I have the whole place to myself.
And I am about to do something I haven’t done in years.
Sex? No. Sex with Nicolau, if it happens, will be amazing, but it will inevitably lead me to overthinking. And tonight, I’m not in the mood to think. I am in the mood to feel.
So tonight, I’m going to paint.
At this point, I will reveal a certain snobbery of mine I keep fairly well hidden. When I say I am going to paint, I do not mean I am going to one of those wine and art classes like the one Lauren dragged us all to last year: the kind that features a broke-ass twentysomething art major cheering you on and pouring you boxed wine as you splash cheap acrylic onto a cheap canvass, and pretend to know what you’re doing.
I mean, I’m going to paint like a real artist.
Because, many moons ago, I was that broke-ass twenty-something art major.
And it was one of the happiest times of my life.
When Steve met me, I was fresh out of Carnegie Mellon, with a MFA in Art. A girl who barely made ends meet with freelance work painting elaborate nursery tableaux for celebrities and socialites from Malibu to Beverly Hills.
And, as the Eastside real estate trends continued, to Los Feliz and Silverlake. Where I met a real estate agent who loved my work, and also knew I was a newlywed with over thirty thousand dollars in credit card debt (from an elaborate wedding I had no business using credit cards for) and over fifty thousand dollars in student loans.
She offered me a real job. (“Part time! Mostly weekends!”)
Here’s how it went in my head when I accepted the position: I would work in real estate part time on days and weekends, then keep my evenings free for painting, networking and gallery openings.
Yes, back then, my work was in ga
lleries. Sure, they were small, and I hardly made any money from sales. But I was paying my dues, and I could juggle everything until my big break came. I knew the players, my reputation was building heat, and I would just paint every minute I wasn’t working or with my new husband. Steadily, month after month, I would get more successful, and eventually I would quit this new day job.
We needed the money, and it was only temporary. I had a plan.
Then baby #1 showed up.
And the rest, as they say, is history. I haven’t picked up a brush or a canvas in years.
Until today, when I went to my favorite art supply place in downtown, and spent over a thousand dollars on tubes of high quality oil paint, five stretched cotton canvasses of assorted sizes, gesso, and a beautiful new set of brushes, from bristle to sable to sponge… Oh my!
I already had an idea of what I wanted to create: it was based on a piece I saw at a show at the Chateau Marmont a million years ago (back when I knew clients who attended art shows and stayed at the Chateau Marmont.) It will be modern, a combination of a white tint mixed with purple, red and blue on different parts of the canvas with a splash of silver splattered about in (seeming) randomness. I would begin by gessoing (that’s just artist speak for priming) all of the canvases, then have one glass of wine while they dry. Then I’d do a second coat, and take a dinner break while they dry a second time.
When I would also have a second glass of wine.
After dinner was over, I would vacuum seal the wine bottle, then switch to chamomile tea.
Finally, well fed and a little tipsy, I would close my eyes, inhale a deep cleansing breath, fall back to my roots, and feel young again. I would open my eyes, be inspired to create something new, and be part of a timeless tradition that goes back thousands of years.
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