Hangovers & Hot Flashes

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “No," I tell him quickly. “I need advice. From an old friend.” I hesitate for a moment, then add, “I, actually, kind of need to talk to an old boyfriend right now.”

  Yup. Boyfriend. The truth is, Carlos and I dated very briefly in college. It’s not something we ever talk about. We liked each other so much, but we just… didn’t quite fit. He made me laugh and he was cute, and there was no one I’d rather rent a video with on a Saturday night. Or get drunk on cheap margaritas and play board games with on a random Tuesday.

  But the chemistry just wasn’t there. Which was weird because Carlos was (and still is) Foin! (Rhymes with coin.) He was hot. Like A-Rod hot. He even did some modeling back in college. Just catalogue stuff. But seriously, how many women can say they ever dated a male model?

  He was (and is) possibly the best looking man I ever dated. Yet at the time, I was heartbroken over this asshole I had met in Econ 101 who just blew my mind. So Carlos never stood a chance. And, while he looked like the guy you should be heartbroken over, in reality he was the guy you could call after a really bad breakup and cry shrilly into the phone, “Buy me drinks and tell me I’m pretty!”

  And he would.

  We had sex a few times. It was always… off. So much love. So little passion.

  Eventually, we settled into the friend zone and set up camp there for years. Carlos hated the term “ex-girlfriend." It never bothered me, so I would play along and call myself an “old friend."

  Which is what he called me the night I brought him to a party years later, when he met Zoe.

  You should have seen them. The second they laid eyes on each other from across the backyard I thought they were going to run at each other from opposite sides of the lawn like that old Diet Coke commercial. You know, the one where the girl jumps into the guy’s arms and wraps her legs around him while someone sings, “Just for the thrill of it! Diet Coke!” He introduced me to her as his friend, and I ran with that. The dating thing wasn’t a threat. Why borrow trouble?

  But we had, and continue to have, a bond. And I treasure it. He is my secret gem that I keep in my pocket: no one knows what we mean to each other, and frankly it’s nobody’s business. He is the one man in my life I can tell anything to, and the one man who always tells me the truth.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I ask him now.

  “What?” he asks, sounding distracted.

  “There’s this guy I like and… actually, I think I love him. Even though I’ve only known him for a few weeks, which makes no sense, but Carlos... I would marry this guy. I can’t explain it. I dumped Connor for him. And I adore his youngest daughter. I accidentally hired her to walk my dog, that’s how we met. But I’ve already promised her a job next summer on Diamond Girls, and I bailed her out of a party last night, and when I found out they were broke because he’s already paying for his two other daughters to go to college, I immediately started setting up a scholarship for her and I…”

  “Stop," Carlos commands. “I know what you’re doing wrong.”

  “Please don’t tell me I’m being an alpha," I argue. “I’m not.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t I be?!” I snap. “Why does the guy always get to make the first move? And ask for the first date, and pick out the restaurant and the movie, and fix the toilets and be the hero? Why does the guy get to go after what he really wants, but the girl never does?!”

  Carlos waits for me to continue. I don’t. Finally he asks, “I’m confused. Did he fix your toilet on your first date?”

  “Sort of. It’s complicated.”

  “It always is with you. Anyway, we don’t really want to fix toilets. And most of us hate the chase. We loathe having to be responsible for everything on the first date and putting ourselves out there to ask for your number and all that crap. Really, deep down, we want to just be in a relationship without having to do all the work. But every guy needs to figure out how to get to that point at his own pace. And you can’t prod us along to go at your pace, we need to go at our own.”

  “But all I’m…”

  “Stop," Carlos insists. “You don’t just do this with men, you do it with your friends, too. Alex, I love you, but you are constantly showing everyone why your way is the best, and it’s not always. Can you imagine how emasculating it would be to have a relative stranger offer to pay for your kid’s college? Even if it’s done with the best of intentions, what you’ve basically just told this guy is, ‘How the fuck could you think this was the proper way to do things, you imbecile.’”

  “I wasn’t implying…”

  “Yes, you were.” Carlos interrupts. “Whether you meant to or not. You have a way of making men feel like your opinions are facts, not choices. And that any choice we make that differs from yours is idiotic. And you have a confidence level and a tone of voice that goes with your opinion that can make a guy feel like shit. My God, a few years ago you criticized my choices for fantasy football, and I was upset for the rest of the day. And you don’t even like football. And that kind of, ‘I’m going to take over because I can’t trust any man to do a decent job’ attitude is why you always ended up with losers who have no interest in doing a decent job, like Connor.”

  I’m quiet for a moment. That was a really sucky thing to say.

  Even if he’s completely right.

  “So how can I start over?” I finally ask.

  Carlos is quiet for a moment, clearly giving my question some thought. Then he says, “You know, when we were younger, I would have said, ‘Give me the exact details'… nowadays I’d say 'Show me all of his and your texts… and we’ll craft a plan of attack.’ But I think I’m going to give you better advice. Ask him. Most men are happy to tell you the truth if we know you’re really listening.”

  I nod. “That’s good advice. Thank you," I tell him. Then I add, “So what’s going on with you? Am I interrupting family day?”

  “No. The kids are on a college tour this weekend. I’m out… Window shopping.”

  “You’re finally buying new windows?”

  “Now, see, why do you say things like that? I’m finally…”

  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” I blurt out. “What did you mean by window shopping?”

  “Just… I don’t know. Just trying to figure out my life. How sad is it that I’m almost fifty, and I’m still trying to figure out my life?”

  “You’re not actually considering the open relationship idea, are you?”

  He sounds sad. “I don’t know. Maybe? Works for a lot of couples.”

  “Yeah. But they’re not you. You can’t even cheat at Monopoly.”

  “You accidentally gave me an extra $1,000 at the beginning of the game. How was I not going to say anything?”

  “Which is why you’re the accountant. My point is, maybe you could cheat. But you won’t. It’s just not you. And that’s a good thing, by the way. And Zoe’s not the type to cheat either. I still remember the look on her face when you took her to that picnic a couple of days after you met. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a couple that much in love. The heat was palpable. Like, ‘Let me go get a bottle of chardonnay and a straw, I hate these people’ palpable.”

  Carlos laughs. “By the way, thank you for cockblocking her at the bar on Girls’ Night.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t me! Vanessa gets all the credit. You should have seen her. She was in rare form: made up all of these bizarre rules that made no sense. She made dating look exhausting. I had to leave early, but as far as I know, Zoe didn’t talk to a single guy all night.”

  “I know," he says sadly. “Thanks.”

  “You sound… weird. Is everything else okay?”

  He doesn’t sound weird, he sounds sad. But I learned years ago not to open with that.

  He sighs loudly. “It has not been my best day. Hey, do you love me?”

  “Of course.”

  “There is something I really need to do, and I actually think you could help me. Plus, it’ll be fun.” />
  Forty-six

  Michelle

  After Steve left, I thought about cleaning up all of the broken dishes. But, honestly, at least until the kids come back tomorrow, I like how the house looks. It makes me feel alive and energized.

  This is good. Nothing changes unless something changes, right?

  And on that note, I text Nick.

  You up?

  It’s the middle of the afternoon, why wouldn’t I be up?

  Never mind. It was a joke. I have a bottle of Cristal that I got from a client a few years ago after I sold her mother’s house. I’ve been saving it, and I want to celebrate. Are you up for a little day drinking?

  Sure. What are we celebrating?

  I’ll tell you when I get there. Give me an hour.

  Forty-eight minutes of which I spend showering, shaving, plucking, perfuming, and putting on makeup.

  And then I do something I’ve never done before: I put on the red lingerie I bought yesterday, and throw a trench coat over it.

  I’m so nervous, I spend the entire drive to his duplex, the walk up to his building, and my walk up to his second floor apartment ready to throw up.

  Clutching the cold bottle so tightly I worry I will break it, I inhale a deep breath through my nostrils, then exhale out the nervous energy through my mouth…

  Just as Kent, his daughter, comes charging out the door.

  And the nerves are back. Shit.

  When she sees me, her face shuts down. “You’re NOT my mother," she screams at me.

  And shit graduates to fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Kent eyes bug out and her jaw drops. “Oh my God… Michelle. I’m totally kidding!” she says, then hugs me. “I’m so sorry. If you saw the look on your face right now… I’m totally kidding. I swear." She turns toward the open front doorway and yells into the house. “Dad! Michelle’s here and Ava and her mom are downstairs waiting for me!”

  “Okay!” he yells from somewhere in the house. “Enjoy your movie!”

  “I will!” Kent yells back. Then she says to me, “Good seeing you. I’m really late. Gotta go. Sorry.”

  “No problem,” I say as she runs down the stairs, immersed in her teenage world. “Good seeing you, too!”

  Well, that did not go according to plan. At all, I think to myself as I let myself into their living room, and shut the door.

  “I have nothing in this house that goes with champagne!” I hear Nicolau yell from the kitchen. “How do you feel about Oreos?” he says as he pops through the doorway, and sees me. “It’s ninety degrees out. Why are you wearing a coat?”

  I dip my chin and glare at him to show how dumb I think the question is. His eyes widen. “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” I say dryly. “Pretty sure your daughter figured it out, too. In retrospect, it was stupid. I was trying to do something daring and sexy and… so not me. And of course it went like this, because it is me.”

  “Well, I like it,” he says, grinning as he takes me into his arms and kisses me.

  “Wait,” I tell him as he begins to kiss my neck. “I need to… Mmmm, that feels really good.” His tongue sort of gets me lost in the moment for a bit, but I persevere, gently pushing him away. “Okay, wait. I need to be a girl for a minute and talk, okay?”

  “Okay,” Nick agrees, “So what’s up?”

  “I don’t want to get married again," I begin. “Ever. Turns out I suck at it. So if your end game is to get married, I’m not your girl.”

  I wait for him to respond. He doesn’t. So I continue. “I have also realized in the past few weeks that I don’t know what a healthy relationship looks like. So if you want someone who doesn’t overthink and isn’t crazy, I’m not your girl.”

  I wait again for a response, and again get nothing. Keep going, I guess… “I have just been cheated on. Which means that if we’re going to date, we are exclusive. Starting now. If you want to be with someone else, fine. But, with me, it’s monogamy or nothing. So, if your end game is to have sex with me for a couple of weeks and then dump me, I’m not your girl.”

  Still nothing. Okay, confession time. “But I have missed you so much these past few days. And not just because I want to kiss you. I wanted to call you and cry when I got served with a divorce summons yesterday. I wished you were with me as I danced around the house later that night, gleefully breaking nearly every dish in my house. I painted for the first time in ten years, and I desperately want to show you what I made. I can’t stop thinking about you. And it’s thrilling and terrifying, all at once. And I really want to be with you, even if I have no clue how it’s going to work. So… do you want to be my boyfriend?”

  I realize that word sounds odd coming out of my mouth. “Even though at our age, the word boyfriend is kind of weird.” I start looking around the room nervously as I try to come up with a more mature word. “Maybe… no, not lover. That sounds so romance novel. Mate is too scientific… Raison d’etre…”

  “Okay.”

  I look up. “Really? Okay? Just like that?”

  He smiles. “Just like that.”

  “What if we start dating, and you realize I’m crazy?”

  “If?” he asks in mock confusion.

  I smirk at his joke. “What if I stop talking for awhile, and we open the champagne?” I ask, handing him the bottle.

  “I like that idea," he says, taking the bottle, then leering at me lasciviously. “And what if you open that coat? Are you naked under there?”

  My face drops. “Wait, I’m supposed to be naked?! Man, I suck at this! See, how I suck at this?” I ask as Nicolau unbelts my coat to see what’s underneath.

  “Actually, I think your way is better," he tells me approvingly.

  “You do?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah. Way better.”

  I smile bashfully and blush. “Thank you," I say, and drop the coat into a heap on the floor.

  We don’t talk for awhile after that.

  Forty-seven

  Zoe

  I spend the day doing everything I can to keep Carlos off my mind. I do four loads of laundry, change all of the sheets, go to the dry cleaners, get rid of every unnecessary scrap of paper on my desk. I clean out the junk drawer. Put fresh batteries in all of the smoke detectors. Pay all of our bills online. Cry.

  Yeah. I cry. I cry a lot. Ugly, snot dripping from my nose, barely able to breathe because I’m crying so hard and have to get oxygen through desperate gulps of air.

  Late in the afternoon, I am sitting in our living room, my eyes bright red and wet, my face puffy, staring outside of our window, desperate to see Carlos’ car pull up. Is this what the beginning of a divorce looks like? Is it actually possible to get divorced after thinking you were happily married for more than twenty years? Are there happy marriages that end in divorce?

  I watch a silver Mercedes come down our street, and turn into our driveway. I’m surprised to realize Carlos is driving it. I can vaguely hear the strains of Springsteen echo in his car, then silence as he turns off the ignition.

  I run out of the house and walk toward his car to greet him just as he gets out. He stops in his tracks, and the two of us just stare at each other, less than five feet apart, yet worlds away.

  “Hi," I eke out.

  “Hi," he returns perfunctorily.

  We continue to stare at each other. “Nice car," I say.

  “Thanks.”

  And more staring and silence. Finally, I can’t help myself. “Did you get together with Stacey? Or whoever this mystery woman is?”

  “I did not," he declares firmly.

  I wait for more details, his reasons for why he didn’t. But he just stands there saying nothing. He turns to the Mercedes and admires it. “I’ve always wanted a Mercedes. I frequently tell my clients, ‘Money can’t buy happiness.’ But I look at this car and think, ‘Well, that’s ridiculous. Of course it can.’” He notices a smudge on the door, and uses his sleeve to buff it away. “I used to joke about my middle-aged clients who bought Porches or second
wives half their age. I used to think they were clichéd. And they are, but now I get it. There are so many things in your youth that you want, that you know would make you a little happier in your day to day life. Yet most of us sacrifice them, usually for other people.”

  He turns to me. “You think you’re the only one who wishes we had more money? You think you’re the only one who doesn’t feel appreciated for what you do every single day. You think you’re the only one who misses passionate sex or walking around the house naked?” I look down at the ground, ashamed. Carlos continues. “You called me a cheapskate…”

  “I didn’t actually call you that…”

  “Can I finish?” he snaps.

  I stop talking and nod my head. “Yes.”

  “Here’s the one time I wasn’t a cheapskate. You forget, I had money when we met. Unlike you, I didn’t have student loans, and I was well on my way to buying a house. But you wanted babies. You wanted babies so much that you cried every time you had your period, for months on end. And it broke my heart to see you so sad. To see you not have the thing you wanted most in the world.”

  He’s right. I think back to one particular night in our tiny, rent controlled apartment in West Hollywood when Carlos came into our teeny bathroom to see me on the floor, hysterically crying. He sat down on the floor with me and hugged me. He told me that with all his heart he knew we would have two babies, but that they weren’t going to come on the time line we wanted. They would come on their own time. And he said he couldn’t wait to meet them. That night we agreed that when – not if, when – we had a son, we’d name him David, and when we had a daughter we’d name her Sofia.

  “And so we spent tens of thousands of dollars on testing and hormone medications and IUIs and IVF cycles," Carlos continues. “And finally, miraculously, we were blessed with the two most beautiful people in the world. They were, they are, true love children. They were the two most wanted children on the planet. And sure, we no longer had two nickels to rub together. But we had our babies. I gave you what you most wanted in the world. And you know why? Because I loved you.”