Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  She looks up from her phone and winces. “Is he pissed?”

  “No," I lie. “He’s glad you didn’t drive. And we got Tokyo home safe and sound. She texted around midnight to ask if you were okay. I told her you were.”

  Kris reads her phone as I scoop eggs onto the plate, then add a few strips of bacon. “I’m so embarrassed," she tells me.

  “Hey, if the most embarrassing thing you ever do is get drunk at a party, you can never star in a reality show," I tell her as I hand her the plate. “So you wanna tell me what made you drink so much?”

  She looks mortified. I put up my palm. “Or you don’t have to," I assure her. “Totally up to you. Juice or coffee?”

  “Coffee," she tells me.

  “Milk or sugar?”

  “Both.” As I get her a mug of coffee from my pot, then add a little half and half from a carton I put out and a teaspoon of sugar, she says, “His girlfriend came back. I thought she was his ex.”

  I have a few thoughts, but instead of giving advice, I stir and hand Kris her coffee, give her a sympathetic look, and continue to listen.

  “I’m so stupid to think I ever had a shot at him.”

  “You are NOT stupid," I can’t help but interject. “You’re beautiful, smart and funny and you have a runner’s body. Believe me, any boy would be lucky to have you.”

  Kris shakes her head. “Dad always says that. I mean, except the body part. You guys just don’t get it. Dating in this day and age is so hard.”

  “Dating in any day and age is hard," I tell her. “It all sucks, I do get it. But can I tell you what my friend Alex told me?”

  “You have a friend named Alex?”

  “What? You don’t know any other Krises?”

  She shrugs, so I persevere. “What he told me was, ‘Every generation seems to find a new way to fuck up dating, and yet in every generation, we find the person we are meant to find.’”

  I am aware as I say this that I never did find my person. And I may never. But I hope Kris hasn’t noticed this glaring error in my reasoning. So I continue, “Sometimes it just takes way longer to find each other than you want it to. But a word of advice: Don’t get together with some guy you don’t even like just to make yourself feel better. It will just make you feel worse long term.”

  “Tanner’s cute," Kris argues.

  “Oh, sweetie. There are so many Tanners in the world. You can do better. And another thing: no one marries their high school sweetheart unless they want to be divorced two years later. This thing with you and Brody? It’s not over yet.”

  Kris forces a smile. I can tell she thinks I’m wrong. She takes a small bite of bacon. “This is good.”

  “Which leads me to my final piece of advice for the day, and then I’ll shut up. Bacon. Solves. Everything. Oh, and chocolate," I say, pulling out a chocolate croissant from another white bag and handing it to her.

  We spend much of breakfast eating in silence. Once I am satisfied Kris got enough food, aspirin and coffee into her, I drive her to her car.

  “Thank you for everything,” Kris tells me as I drive. “Both last night and this morning.”

  I smile. “It was my privilege.”

  “I owe you some serious dog sitting.”

  “Well, I have to go to New York for a few days next month. Maybe you can take Tunny then if your Dad says it’s okay.”

  “Done," Kris says, smiling back.

  Her phone beeps and she takes it out of her pocket to look at. Her eyes widen. “Oh my God. It’s Brody.”

  And I become a sixteen-year old girl. “Oh! Oh! What’d he say?”

  She reads, “Sorry I had to leave so soon. We were having such a good talk, and I’m so embarrassed. I had no idea Emma was coming to the party.” She looks at me. “Oh my God! What should I say?”

  “Get everything out in the open. Write, ‘You think you’re embarrassed? I got drunk and then had to go work for my crazy boss. I’m her dog walker and she is batshit insane.’”

  Kris eyes me, smiles to herself, then types.

  After she hits Send, I ask, “Did you text what I told you?”

  “Nope. I wrote, ‘You can’t be nearly as embarrassed as me. I got drunk and had to have my boss drive me home. Oh and Tanner hit on me!’”

  “Wow. Honesty. A fresh take on an old problem. I like it.”

  As I pull up to Kris’s old Honda Accord she gets another beep. "He wrote ‘LOL. I heard. Hey, wanna grab Starbucks some day next week after school?’”

  And Kris bursts into a smile, bunches her fists and dances a victory dance in her seat. “Okay, I’m gonna go. See you tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” I lie.

  So much for honesty. She won’t be seeing me. Later today, her Dad will tell her that I’m not coming, and give her his take on why it didn’t work out. He’ll get to be the good guy and I’ll be the bad guy (well, the jilted girl) and that’s what he deserves because he’s a good dad and a good man, and he should get to be the hero once in awhile.

  Kris gives me a hug and leaves. I stay parked, watching her get into her car, wave, then drive away.

  I stay put for a few minutes.

  Here I sit, with the whole day to myself.

  I’ll bet there are parents out there who would kill to have a whole day to themselves. To do whatever they want, with whomever they want, however they want, with no one to answer to or be responsible for.

  They’re wrong.

  Forty-three

  Michelle

  I am awakened later that morning by the sound of urgent knocking on my front door.

  “Michelle!” Steve yells, not sounding angry, but definitely wanting to wake me. “Come on! Open up. We need to talk.”

  I pop open my eyes, then quickly squint as I see very bright light streaming through our living room window. I check my phone to make sure neither of the kids have called.

  They haven’t. Which is good.

  But I also see the time, and realize that I have slept later than I have in years.

  I look around the room at the piles of broken pottery strewn everywhere, and the memories of last night come flooding back to me: the solitude, the shattering, the breakthrough, the art…

  “Michelle! Something is wrong with my key! Please open up.”

  The husband, whose finances I just completely annihilated.

  “Coming!” I call out, and calmly pad in my slippers past the wreckage to get to my front door.

  I open the door and stand ready for battle. “You don’t really think it’s the key, do you?”

  “No,” Steve says quietly. “But I don’t want the neighbors to hear our business. Can I come in?”

  I squint at him. He holds up a light blue paper bag with my favorite bakery’s logo on the front. “I brought muffins.”

  I turn my neck to look at my Armageddon ravaged living room. Then I shrug. “Sure. I’ll make coffee.”

  And I cross through the living room to the kitchen as if not even a pillow is out of place.

  I can hear Steve quietly shut the door and follow me. Contrary to my expectations, he says nothing of the detritus as we enter the kitchen.

  And for a few moments, it could be a typical Saturday morning. Steve opens the cabinet, sees it is empty, then walks to the dishwasher and takes out two clean plates. He puts them on the center island, then takes one chocolate chip and one blueberry muffin from the bag and plates them as I make coffee. Then he sits in his chair at the counter and waits for me. Neither of us speaks until I press the Brew button and grab my usual chair.

  He hands me the chocolate chip muffin plate. “Thank you," I say.

  “You’re welcome," he tells me, popping off a piece from his muffin top and eating it. “So, that was very well played.”

  “Which part?”

  “The credit cards. The phone.”

  “Thanks. So how did you manage to get through the night?”

  “I used Megan’s phone. Then on a hunch, I started checking all of my ca
rds. You were thorough.”

  “I always am.”

  “You also sent a very interesting note to Francene Carter.”

  “I did," I tell him without regret. “When sending something to the Daily News, it’s important that none of your facts can be disputed.”

  “Even when they’re exaggerated?”

  “Oh, especially when they’re exaggerated," I assure him.

  I pull the paper away from my muffin, making a point to stare at it, and not my husband, while I wait for him to tell me how awful I am, what a bitch I am, how much he hates me, whatever.

  He surprises me with a dejected, “I hate this.”

  “Me, too," I agree sadly. Then I look up. “Wait. Which part?”

  “All of it," he says. Once again, I wait for him to spew bile, but all I get is silence. Finally he says, “I can’t stand to have you hate me. And not because you’re capable of completely fucking up my life. But because you’re you. And I may not be in love with you anymore, but I do love you. And I know that we are going to have to see each other for the rest of our lives, so… I think I have a solution. Do you want me to move back in?”

  I am startled by his suggestion. “Do you want to move back in?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, shrugging. “I hated seeing you with Nick. That’s probably something, right?”

  “It’s something," I concede. “But I don’t think it’s enough.”

  “The kids would prefer it.”

  “Maybe," I say, almost to myself. “I mean… I don’t know. I have friends who tell me that they desperately wished their parents had divorced. They hated living in toxic homes. And, let’s face it, this house has been pretty toxic lately.”

  “So you don’t want me to come home?” Steve asks sadly.

  I give his question some serious consideration. And eventually I shake my head. “No," I tell him apologetically. “Even a couple of days ago, as mad as I was, I would have taken you back, provided we established some new rules. But I think that time has passed. I love you, but I don’t want to grow old with you. I just don’t. Not anymore.”

  He takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Picks at his muffin. “So now what?”

  “Well, I’ve actually been giving that a lot of thought," I tell him. “I propose a truce. Stay here. Give me a second.”

  I head to the bedroom, go to my jewelry box, and pull out my engagement and wedding rings. Then I return to the kitchen.

  “Here," I tell Steve as I open up his hand and give him my rings. He looks down at the solitaire diamond, set in platinum, and its matching wedding band of a row of smaller diamonds, resting in the palm of his hand. “What’s this?”

  “This is collateral," I tell him. “I may not ever wear those rings again, but they are my favorite two material things in the world. They are a symbol of a time in my life when a man I was madly in love with was so in love me with me that he spent way too much money on some stupid pieces of jewelry. Just because he knew they would make me happy.”

  “Okay," he says, puzzled.

  “So, do you want to know what you can give me to make me happy again?”

  He shakes his head in confusion.

  “Something that is equally precious to you," I tell him. “Which I will keep as collateral. And we’re going to agree on mediation, and we’re going to agree to split things up evenly, and to have joint custody, and to fight as little as possible. And if and when we do fight, to keep the kids, our friends, and any significant others out of it. Then, on the day we sign the divorce papers, we give each other back our collateral. Does that sound fair?”

  Steve looks down at my rings, and furrows his brow. Then he lifts his right hand, and pops open the clasp of his father’s Rolex.

  It’s a beautiful piece. I think it’s called an oyster perpetual: stainless steel, with the classic blue and red “Pepsi” dial. His father bought it in the late 1960s, and when he passed away last year, Steve inherited it. It is by far the most precious thing he owns because it symbolizes his Dad, one of the most loving and honorable men I have ever met.

  Steve slowly pulls it off his wrist, and places it in the palm of my hand. “Truce?” he asks.

  “Truce," I agree.

  “Good. Now how do I reinstate my credit cards?”

  “Oh, I just have to call the banks," I say, shrugging. “I didn’t actually cancel any of them. I just froze them all, then said a call only from my phone number could unfreeze them.”

  “Wow, that’s… really devious," Steve says, and I can’t decide if he means it as a compliment or an insult. Then he turns towards the living room and asks, “So, you want to tell me what happened in there?”

  “Freedom," I answer.

  He nods his head silently. Then asks, “I take it you want the wedding china in the settlement?”

  “Yeah, I have some thoughts on what I want to do with it.”

  Forty-four

  Zoe

  Between the crying and the lack of sleep from the past week (shades of baby mothering past) I eventually managed to pass out and nap for a few hours.

  When I awake, Carlos is lying on the couch, eating Fritos and watching a game.

  “We need to talk," I tell him. And I would do anything to get out of this moment. I can feel my eyes stinging, still pink from earlier tears.

  “We don’t need to if you don’t want to," he assures me.

  And I don’t know how to take his statement.

  “Well, obviously, I need to, or I wouldn’t be saying it.”

  Carlos’s jaw tightens. He mutes the TV. “Just remember, once you say something, it’s out there.”

  “I saw Tom this week. We had lunch.”

  Carlos’ lips purse, but he says nothing. He looks away from me toward the window.

  “I kissed him.”

  I wait for a response. Nothing.

  “I made a mistake," I continue quickly. “A really big mistake.”

  Carlos turns to me. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He stands up from the couch, and heads toward the door. “I’m gonna go out for awhile.”

  “You head out that door, keep walking, because I won’t be here when you get back," I warn him angrily.

  Wow. Where did that come from?

  Carlos spins around and points at me. “Fuck you, Zoe.”

  And I lose it. “When was the last time you did fuck me? Huh, Carlos?!” I ask, my voice rising. “When was the last time you made me feel craved and wanted and cherished…”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake!” Carlos yells to himself, throwing his hands up. “We’re not twenty-five anymore!”

  “No, we aren’t!” I agree, matching my volume level to his. “Because at twenty-five, I thought we would have been to London by now.”

  “Jesus. Not this again. We can’t afford it, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t know it, or I wouldn’t keep bringing it up. But who cares what my thoughts are, right? Just like who cares that I want to redo the kitchen or that I want to sleep with my naked husband once in awhile or that I didn’t want the kids going to public school, or that I don’t want to host Thanksgiving every goddamn year or that we still haven’t been to London! Because who cares if I ever get to see Big Ben. YOU’VE decided it’s not important, and really, that’s better for me, right?”

  “No,” Carlos says quietly, shaking his head. “You don’t get to cheat on me and pretend it’s my fault. You want to play the twenty-five game? Let’s go. When was the last time you wore makeup for me? Not because you were going to a party, or a school function, or a girls’ night? When was the last time you wore high heel boots, just because I like them? When was the last time you wore red? Or lingerie? When was the last time you woke up early and bought me a dozen donuts from that place on Venice Boulevard for bed day? Back when bed day included things you wanted to do in bed that we haven’t done in years?”

  “Maybe I don’t want to do anything in bed anymore because I’m sick of all the non-fighting we do all t
he time. Maybe over the years, you just wore me down. Maybe I’m tired of being broke and tired all the fucking time.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sick of it, too," he agrees. He grabs his keys and his wallet from the table next to our front door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to go do what you did. I’m going to go fuck up my marriage for the day. Let’s see how you’re feeling about it when I get home.”

  And I stop talking. Because what else can I say? We both stand motionless, a few feet apart, waiting for the other to speak. “Can I hug you before you go?”

  He debates. Then answers, “No.”

  “Can I call you later?”

  “No.”

  I don’t say anything else, and I’m not sure if he stays for five minutes or five hours. Eventually, he turns and starts to head out the door.

  “Are you gonna sleep with Stacey?” I ask quietly.

  He laughs bitterly to himself. “Stacey is wildly in love with a musician. She’s just very bubbly. She’s never been a threat.”

  “But there’s someone who is," I realize out loud.

  “Well, she wasn’t until today," Carlos answers sadly.

  Then he leaves.

  Forty-five

  Alexis

  I spend the next several hours treating myself to anything I want: I hit a few local shops and spend way too much on a new dress. I take Tunny out to the local chichi pet store and spend way too much on dog toys. I book myself an at-home massage, which we do out on my front patio, where I hear nothing but the soothing sounds of ocean waves.

  Despite all of these distractions, I am miserable. I can’t stop thinking about John and all of the ways I have fucked everything up. I keep racking my brain in an endless loop, trying to find a way to fix this. Something concrete I could say or do to make our relationship like it was before.

  Finally I decide I need help from the big guns, and dial my phone.

  Carlos picks up on the first ring. “Hey. If this is about business, it’s really not a good time.”