Fortunately, Jefe Jeff smiled. “Paradiso doesn’t let pilots give out our info to clients,” he said, shaking his head as if the policy was idiotic. But I wasn’t sure. Maybe he thought I was idiotic or at the very least, a misguided cougar.
“It’s actually in my contract. But tell you what. Leave a comment postcard with your email and phone. Put my name on it. I’ll be in touch.”
So I did. Bella shrieked like a banshee as soon as he was out of sight.
* * *
After the lushness of Mexico, daily life on the East Coast was a shock. No more volcanoes. No more fresh mango. No more helicopter pilots.
Two days after I got off the plane, an email arrived. The header got my attention pretty quickly.
Re: Red Hot Lava!
Hi Leslie! I got your email address and cannot wait to get your fantastic pictures! We’ve been doing training the last couple of weeks so it makes for really long days of flying and then ground school:(
Popo is still great. I can’t believe you left;) I got to swim with this guy last weekend near Cancun.
He had attached three pictures of sea turtles.
Let me know when you’re back in town;) or I’ll let you know when I make it back to Philly to visit my old Peace Corps friend.
Jeff
The next night, I showed KC his email over sushi at our favorite place a block away from Penn. I was kind of embarrassed that there were so many typos. What was up with all the semicolons?
KC started snickering after reading Jeff’s email.
“Those are not typos!” KC said, shaking my phone in my face. “They are winky faces.”
“What are winky faces?”
KC grinned at me with the pity-face older sisters reserve for their hopelessly clueless younger siblings, even though, in this case, I was chronologically older.
“Leslie, if you’d date online like I’ve told you to, you’d know what a winky face is,” she said, shaking her head at my pathetic cluelessness, miming How does my dear friend survive in the world? “It means he wants to have sex with you.”
“What? Okay, smarty pants. Explain this entire email to me. Translate.”
“See that thing—the ;)? After the ‘I can’t believe you left’ and ‘Let me know when you’re back in town’? Those are winky faces. Like emoticons. A secret message. You only send those when you want to hook up with someone. Basically, he thinks you’re hot.”
She insisted on helping me write a reply, squeezing in my own winky face.
Hey Jeff! Thanks for your great email. I was reminiscing about how amazing the ride with you was ;). How’s the lava? Been missing Mexico every day since I left. When you get stir crazy for the good ole mainland USA come visit me in Philly!
Leslie
I blushed as I hit send.
* * *
Hello, love. I woke up to Mishka’s text. I hope you enjoyed Mexico.
I texted him back. Yes. Dreaming of you.
I didn’t hear back from him, which was typical. I decided to surprise him at the office space he rented in South Philly, something I’d never done before. I parked behind his building and crept inside past a half dozen other leased office spaces. I stood in the doorway of his small, cluttered, square room, one hand on each side of the door frame. Tools and papers were strewn everywhere. He had finished lunch and was about to sip his Coke when he looked up and noticed me.
He smiled mid-sip. “Nice of you to stop by,” he said after swallowing. He looked me up and down in frank assessment. He put down the Coke and dried his hands on a crumpled brown napkin.
“God, you look hot,” he said softly. He stood and cupped my face in his hands. “Prettier and prettier every time I see you.” His words made me feel as if the Mexican sun were still shining on me.
He stood up, went over to the door, locked it, and turned off the lights. I watched him, unable to figure out what he was doing.
“Come over here,” he whispered, standing in the empty space between some large boxes of tile and the locked door. “No one can see us.”
I went to him.
“Stand in front of me. Jesus, I missed you.”
He put his fingers on my hips to turn me around so my back was facing him. He pulled down my yoga pants and he entered me from behind. He held me tight and bit the back of my neck as he pounded my pussy, going as hard as he could standing up, until he let loose inside me. He held me for a minute, breathing heavily. Then we both burst out laughing. He pulled my pants up, and I smoothed my hair and sat on a refrigerator box next to his swivel chair as if nothing had happened. He drained his soda.
Did a quickie in Mishka’s office make me feel like he was using me? No. The reality that a man I liked and trusted could not be alone with me for more than a few minutes without wanting to be inside me made me feel valued and sensual. And I craved Mishka with the same desire. I couldn’t think of a reason to feel badly about either.
I had a conference call at one thirty, so I had to go. When I stood up, there was a small oval wet spot on the box where I’d been sitting. We caught each other’s gaze and laughed out loud again.
* * *
Nice visit, Mishka. When do I get to see you again? Tonight?
My text that afternoon was a joke, considering Mishka and I rarely saw each other more often than every three weeks. So I was surprised when he wrote, If only. I have to work tonight. This week is pretty busy. But Saturday is all yours. Can you stay over?
Whoa. A Saturday-night sleepover, like a real girlfriend? I was honored. And scared and confused. I didn’t want to be anyone’s girlfriend. Or did I?
I texted back one word: Yes.
All week, my palms tingled every time I replayed the breathless way he’d said “I love you” as he moved inside me the last time I’d gone to his loft. I hoped he would say it again Saturday. Multiple times.
He called me on his way home from a job one evening a few days later. It was the first time he’d ever called me rather than texting.
“Leslie? It’s me.”
“Hi!” I was cleaning up cat vomit from the stairs, a pyramid the size of a small portion of caviar in a nouvelle cuisine restaurant. I sat down on the stairs and put the paper towels next to me. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Hey, look, I’m wondering about something. I don’t get it. Why you like to see me.”
Where was this coming from?
“Um, well, it’s obvious that I like you, right, Mishka?”
He laughed.
“Yeah, but is it just the sex?”
“Well, yes, of course. I love making love with you. But you know I really like you. Not just the sex with you. Why are you asking all of a sudden?”
“I can’t figure you out. You’re not . . . needy the way other women usually are.”
What was this really about?
“Mishka, you’ve always made it clear that you don’t ever want to get married, to me or anyone. The other day you said you don’t even like people that much. It’s sweet when you tease me about marriage, but I assume you don’t mean it. I’d be setting myself up if I tried to get something from you that you don’t want to give. And also, I’m not ready for any kind of commitment myself. What’s going on?”
“It throws me off. That you don’t need me. I guess it’s okay, but maybe I like to be needed. Even when I don’t want more.”
That made no sense. Why was it okay for Mishka to say he didn’t want a commitment, and not okay for me to feel the same way?
“Well, okay, Mishka. Thanks for telling me this.”
I paused, thinking this over. I decided to be bold.
“Why don’t we admit we’re falling in love with each other and that it frightens us both and talk more about it this weekend?”
“Well, okay,” he mumbled. An unexpected lump rose in my throat. We both hung up. I finished cleaning up the cat puke. Were women supposed to be needy, even when men made it clear they weren’t going to meet that neediness? How was that double sta
ndard fair? What woman would fall for it? Mishka never struck me as that kind of sexist guy. But he was a man, after all, and I still had much to learn about them.
* * *
Winnie heard through the high school grapevine that Lyon was in Philly for the weekend, visiting his dad. She knew I was trying to reach him. She looked up his father’s landline and sent me the number.
His dad sounded far more delighted to hear from me than he ever had back in the day, when gliding into Lyon’s childhood house through the kitchen door at midnight like a moccasined Cherokee was one of my superpowers. While he took the phone to Lyon, I shut my bedroom door and lay on my bed, as I had as a teenager talking to him late into the night.
“Leslie? Is that you?”
Even after a thirty-year silence, we knew each other well enough that I didn’t chitchat.
“Hi, Lyon, look, I hope you’re well. I’m going to jump right in. First, I love you, I always loved you, and you will always have a special place in my heart.”
Silence on the other end. Of course. After three decades of me being angry with him, what could he say in response?
“Second, I finally get it. Why you cheated. Why you couldn’t say no to those girls. You loved me. I know you did. But you loved all of us, right? That’s why you couldn’t say no.”
Lyon made a sound like a dog choking.
“Yes. Yes, Leslie. That’s exactly what it was. I’m not defending myself—it was wrong for me to cheat on you. But you and the other girls were all amazing. Nice. Beautiful. You made me feel so special. I never meant to hurt you, Leslie. I know I hurt you more than the others, because you came first. But I couldn’t stop myself. I needed every one of you.”
He sounded so relieved, I knew he was smiling. I wished I could see his face.
“I’d love to see you again, Lyon. Next time you’re in town, let’s go for a walk or have coffee. I’m not making a play for you. I promise. But . . . all this came to me, finally. And I wanted you to know. I didn’t understand before. I couldn’t. I wish I had. But I do now.”
* * *
On Saturday afternoon around four, as I was starting to think about what to pack for our sleepover, I got a text from Mishka. One of the cats is sick and i have to take her to the emergency vet. I don’t think tonight is going to work.
A sick cat? I know what you’re thinking: this is the oldest, lamest trick in the book. But I knew how much he loved that cat. I believed him.
I texted him back, with as much sympathy as I could cram into the phone. Oh my god. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?
No I’ll keep you posted.
He didn’t keep me posted.
In fact, I didn’t hear from him for hours and then days. He didn’t even text me to let me know if the cat was still alive.
I waited until the next Friday. I asked him if he wanted a makeup sleepover that Saturday. Because sweet Jesus, I did.
He texted that he wasn’t feeling well. A bad cold. The second-oldest excuse in the book. I fell for that, too, even though a quiet part of me whispered: You know how you always feel you might not see him again? This might be it.
I waited another week. I sent him a teasing text: It’s gonna be hard to get married if we only see each other once a month.
I didn’t hear back from him for forty-eight hours. Then this:
Well, I’m actually thinking of leaving Philly. My business sucks. I’m thinking Dallas would be better.
I finally got the message. I stopped texting him and was met with radio silence in response.
I found a new handyman to finish the basement. He was seventy-five, bald, and openly gay.
Maybe I should have been angry. I wasn’t. Instead, I felt sad for both of us. We’d had such a sweet, private connection. But he’d gotten spooked, and maybe I had, too. It was over.
Or was it? With Mishka, I never knew for sure.
* * *
Jefe Jeff sent two pictures of himself hiking naked, in addition to the winky-face, emoticon-laced, flirty emails I got almost every day. He was too modest to send a full frontal, so they were only of his butt, the skin pale until the tan line started halfway to his knees. I found his approach charmingly old-fashioned in its reserve. Through our emails, we got to know each other a bit, because it’s hard to flirt all the time via email; you need some filler. He’d moved to Mexico only three months before, after living for ten years in Boston. He loved traveling and had flown a helicopter all the way across the United States. I could tell he’d never dated an older woman. His shyness came through, as if emoticons and naked butt photos were the only way he could channel brashness.
One weekday afternoon I was sitting in yet another postdivorce mediation session as we continued to finalize details about the kids’ vacation schedules and who got which Persian rug, trying not to scream When will this torture end? The windowless law firm conference room felt like a jail cell. I surreptitiously snuck a peek at my phone under the table, while Marty was droning on about how his “effective tax rate” affected the “net present value” of his child support payments.
Desperate for a distraction, I read an email.
Hi Leslie,
Thank you for the lava pictures. Jeff shared them with me a few weeks ago. They truly are beautiful. Your recent emails have become inappropriate. Please tone it down and remain friends or do not write again.
Annabelle
Jeff’s girlfriend of 7 years
Oh my God! Jefe Jeff never mentioned a girlfriend amid all the ;) ;) ;)!
What adult man lets his girlfriend read his emails? And what about the “inappropriate” emails he sent me? She’d signed her name as “Jeff’s girlfriend of 7 years” as if it were an official job title. But I wanted to take the high road here and treat her as part of the sisterhood, rather than start a catfight over email. Plus, she had been civilized, mostly. So I decided to be polite, too.
I did not send a snarky reply to Annabelle, or forward her message to Jeff with a note saying, “Did you know your girlfriend reads your emails? ;)” I do not condone cheating, or snooping in someone else’s computer. But love is messy, and boy do I know firsthand how it brings out everyone’s strange and sometimes terrible insecurities.
When I looked back up from my phone, Marty was still waving his HP 12c calculator with one hand and stabbing his pointer finger at me. I blinked to discover myself back in an airless law firm conference room in Philly, rather than sitting next to a hot helicopter pilot pointing out a waterfall in Mexico. I nearly burst out laughing. Instead, I bit my cheek in order to keep a straight face.
* * *
Marc smiled as I walked passed his desk in the newsroom on my way to the on-air studio. It was simultaneously erotic, and unnerving, to see him. Sometimes I stopped to say hi after my segments. Sometimes I walked by. How did we pretend, in a public workplace, that we had not been naked together in broad daylight a month before? That this boy-man twenty years younger than me had never gushed, “God, baby, your cunt feels incredible,” when he first moved inside me?
After I got home, he sent me a text.
Good to see you today, babe. You looked like you really want to get fucked.
Which turned me on. God, had I always been this dirty? If a man had sent me a text like that when I was a single twenty-six-year-old, or a married forty-year-old, I would have bolted my doors and contemplated legal action. Today, my response to Marc was simple: Yes. I did.
His next text elaborated.
I broke up with my girlfriend this weekend. Well, she broke up with me, actually. I can’t stop thinking about you and I want to see you again.
I texted back. I’m so sorry. About your girlfriend. What did you have in mind?
Many many things :)
Whoa. That made me smile.
Tonight?
The three dots on my phone rippled.
Yep. Or sooner. I’m dying to see you.
And, shazam! Marc was back.
* * *
&
nbsp; An hour after he left the fun and games of my bed, an hour after he held the back of my neck and kissed me good-bye, fiercely, at my front door, Marc sent me a text that read, That was just a one-time thing again, right?
* * *
On the way back from my next business trip, this one to Houston, I got to spend an entire day in airports. A year before, I would have seen it as a day wasted. Now, it felt like research.
I changed planes in Charlotte and sat in a plastic seat near the gate for my Philly flight. Layovers had once meant frantic diaper changes and snack restocking; now, I leisurely found an outlet for my phone and surveyed the men waiting for the flight. Even though I’d done it a few times, I wasn’t sure I had the guts to talk to anyone, but it felt like therapy to evaluate random men as if they were Bachelorette contestants.
One man walked toward the ticket counter, which made it seem as if he was walking toward me. He was tall, with thick, dark hair. He wasn’t looking at me or anyone else. Instead he looked down at the airport carpeting. He gave off a shy vibe, which I liked far more than masters of the universe, with their expensive shoes and multiple cell phones. He had on a striped gray and white rugby shirt and faded Nantucket red cloth shorts, the kind Timmy liked from J. Crew. He was carrying a matching red and white duffel bag. Definitely not a businessman, given he was wearing red shorts in an airport.
The flight was called and I boarded early. I got settled in my window seat, climbing over a clean-cut, attractive, gray-haired man in the aisle seat. The middle seat was empty. I was already feeling sleepy. I usually passed out before a plane even took off. A few weeks earlier, I had slept for an entire flight from Boston to San Francisco, drooling on a strange man’s shoulder. (We went out on a date afterward.)
The dark-haired man was walking toward me again.
No way does he have the seat next to me, I thought.
He did.
God, he was attractive. And polite—barely able to squeeze out “Excuse me” to the gray-haired passenger in the aisle seat. He slipped carefully into the middle seat, as if, conscious of his size, he was afraid to be rude. His legs and forearms were strong and muscular, with a sprinkling of soft, straight black hairs.
The Naked Truth Page 16