by Emily Belden
car like it’s spare change in the cup holder—all because I was
so preoccupied with things at a company that isn’t even ac-
knowledging my employment right now. Did I really think
the interns wouldn’t be able to handle the event?
Just as I get up to grab my keys and drive over to Brian’s
uninvited, I get a ping back.
Sorry, took a shower. Yes, I have D. We are drinking brews, watching footbal . I can bring him back tmrw.
I think about offering to come get Decker (read: I abso-
lutely want to go get Decker and bring him back to my place
right this very minute), but realize Brian is probably a little
“Charlotte’d-Out” for the night, especially when it comes to
the urn. And who knows, maybe Brian actually is enjoying
the throwback to SportsCenter and simpler times with his best
friend by his side. Either way, now that I at least have confirmation of Decker’s whereabouts, I can breathe a little easier.
Thx. Sry I kind of freaked out.
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Speaking of…in med school, they teach you to pick up on the non-verbal signs of your patients.
What’s that supposed to mean? I ask back.
I saw you get a little weird when I mentioned hanging out again.
You clammed up then abruptly left.
I type and delete. Type and delete. I’m caught between
wanting to apologize, deny, and explain myself all at the same
time. Meanwhile, he fires off another text.
I want you to know I wasn’t trying to be forward. We can hang, I’d like that. Or we don’t have to if you don’t want to. But we SHOULD
clear the freakin’ air.
A few seconds go by. Am I supposed to say something?
Thankfully, he picks the text convo back up. Unfortunately,
it’s by stating the obvious…or rather the obvious ly swept under the rug: We kissed, Charlotte.
I inhale deeply and tuck my hair behind my ears as I wait
to see where this conversation is going.
It was a long time ago, we were young, we were grieving, and I’m sure the Jack and Cokes had something to do with it. Bottom line: it happened, it was a mistake, and it meant nothing. Can we agree on that and move on?
Yes, that’s right. I kissed Brian. Or he kissed me. You be
the judge.
I wanted to be alone that night—that’s the ironic part. But
I knew it was physically impossible to get what I needed done
on my own. That’s where Brian—or more like, Brian’s Jeep—
comes into the picture.
His Wrangler was parked in my driveway, ready to be
loaded with moving boxes to be shuttled from my nearly
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empty house in Highland Park to my rental apartment in Stu-
dio City. Brian was helping me bubble wrap dishes while we
nursed our second third Jack and Cokes of the night. The next
thing I know, Brian’s hands were cradling my neck and we
were kissing. And not just a quick peck on the lips à la Dodg-
ers Stadium, but a passionate, albeit sloppy, kiss with tongue
and hands where they shouldn’t have been, my shirt off and
bra unhooked. I’m still not sure if it was the grief or the booze or the combo of both, but I don’t how else to explain.
As quickly as it happened, I stopped it. I clutched my shirt
and bra to my chest and ran off to the bathroom. From be-
hind a locked door and a stream of tears, I told him to go. He
begged me to come out—said he was sorry and that I couldn’t
finish the move on my own. I refused his help, shouting louder
for him to leave.
I reread his text. I’m not sure how I feel about him boiling
that night down to one convenient little thesis statement, but
it’s nice to know that this can be it on the conversation about that if I just let it be. We can drop it, which sounds and feels a lot better than just completely ignoring it if I’m being honest.
OK. Deal , I send back.
I agree that it was a mistake. I’m not sure, though, if it
meant nothing.
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14
There’s a knock at my door around that jolts Leno into a bark-
ing fit. Even though I’m already awake on this Saturday morn-
ing, I’m definitely still in pajamas, and the dilapidated topknot that’s lobbed to the right side of my head suggests just how annoyed I am that Casey has let her phone die and forgotten her
keys once again. But when I look through the peephole and
see that it’s Monica double-fisting two pints of Salt & Straw ice cream, I welcomingly open up the door.
“Surprise!” she squeals.
“What the hell are you doing here? I thought you went
back to Turks and Caicos?” I throw my arms around her and
give her a hug. I’ve missed my closest coworker/beauty con-
sultant to be honest, and that has nothing to do with the ice
cream in her hands.
“No, Danny ended up flying back here for some big player
trade and we just decided we’ll pick up where we left off some-
time around the holidays. That’s life for you, eh?”
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under the assumption it was just a complete and total intern
fuck-show.”
“Yes, and Charlotte, it was the most amazing event ever, which is why I’m here. With these!” She holds up the ice
cream like she’s flashing her boobs to me. “You’re the only
other person who would be as relieved as I am that it miraculously all worked out, so I decided we should celebrate with
ice cream for breakfast.”
I cringe at the word miraculously but she has my favorite ice cream in hand so I try to look past it—and the fact it isn’t even 9:00 a.m. There has got to be a logical explanation for
how both of the events managed to go off without a hitch—
an explanation I will dedicate serious time to figuring out just as soon as Zareen reactivates my office key fob.
“Plus,” she continues, “the event organizer at the museum
overordered the ice cream for the sundae bar, so we all got to
take home a bunch of free pints. Sorry, it’s kind of early but
figured you’d want a scoop or two before I leave to go catch
Danny’s Galaxy game?”
A scoop or two or six.
“Come in, put your stuff down. You and I both know it’s
never too early for mint chocolate chip,” I say, already reach-
ing in the cabinet for a couple of chipped cereal bowls.
“Screw the bowls. Where are the spoons?” she asks.
A moment later, Monica and I clink our heaping scoops to-
gether at my kitchen counter. I forgot how good and simple
it is to eat ice cream straight from the container.
“So…where is he?” Monica’s eyes get wide as she scans my
apartment from wall to wall without moving her neck.
“Where’s who?”
“Your husband.”
I almost choke on a chocolate chip.
“Excuse me?”
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“Did you really think Zareen wasn’t going to tell me what
fell out of your bag at the Voyager dinner? I want to meet
your man! I want to see the urn!”
Clearly this conversation is sponsored by Monica’s sugar
rush. She’s a direct person by nature, but I can’t see her just casually bringing this up by the water cooler at work.
“Sorry…he’s actually at a friend’s house.” Even though I’m
trying to play it cool, I realize how weird that sounds, like I’m sharing custody of a child or something. But, it’s the truth—
he’s not under my roof right now and his absence is duly noted.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me that you were married,
Char?” Her tone shifts from high energy to slightly serious.
“I tell you everything. You know I have irritable bowl syn-
drome. You were there for me when my dog died last year.
I tell you about the petty fights I get in with Danny. I’m not
saying we are total besties, but we’re work besties. That counts for something, right? We spend a lot of time sitting across
from each other, you know. At the very least, you could have
told me you were struggling with something personal and we
could have worked through it. Together, like we do with all
of our projects.”
I shrug my shoulders. I don’t really have a good answer for
her, just like I didn’t have one for Casey. Truthfully, I do appreciate Monica’s friendship and we are a great team. While
I’m not an open book, I realize it takes a lot of strength to be one like she is. In fact, I’m envious of her ability to wholeheartedly confide in another. In me, at that.
“The whole thing is just weird,” I summarize. “My hus-
band dying is like an old wound I never want to break open
again. So I just keep things separate, life before Decker and
life after Decker. Professional life, personal life. Black, white.
One, zero. It’s just easier that way.”
“Zareen told me the urn came back to you out of the blue?”
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“It showed up on my doorstep last weekend. Thought it
was a hard drive.”
“Well then, see? You can only do so much, girlfriend.
Sometimes life has other plans. Or, as I’ve come to witness,
no real plans at all. Hell, I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon
right now, aren’t I? Instead I’ve got a soccer jersey on and I’m triggering my IBS while hanging out at your apartment.”
Touché.
“Also, there’s no rule that you have to split your life into
some weird, binary ‘before’ and ‘after’ he died,” she goes on.
“Those are two eras that can speak to each other, blend, blur and still be okay. Know what I mean?”
“I’m just trying to control what I can control. And to me,
it makes sense that if I keep quiet about Decker, the pain stays silent, too.”
“I’m not so sure that’s healthy. Or scientifically proven, at
that.”
She sticks me with the data and I can appreciate that. “You’re
right,” I acknowledge. “I’ll try to be more open with you.”
“Ugh, I can’t eat anymore,” Monica says, ditching her spoon
in the sink. “I just got a massive brain freeze.”
“Want to sit down for a few?”
I put the lids on the pints, store them in the freezer, and
gesture toward my sofa in the living room. I have to admit
I’m a little embarrassed at the disheveled state of my place,
but oh well. She’s the one who sprung a surprise visit on me
this morning.
“So, what have you been up to with your time off?” she
asks.
“Nothing really.” I join her on the couch. “Last night, I
went to a baseball game with an old friend. And this week-
end I’m going on a singles cruise with my roommate. So as
you can see, making excellent life decisions, really figuring
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out this whole urn thing, and definitely ready to be back at
work with no distractions,” I say facetiously.
“Go easy on yourself. You’re not thirty yet. Prioritize your
social life while you can still stay up later than 10:00 p.m. That said, I’m a little sad it doesn’t sound like you’re making any
time for our friend Chad?”
“How do I say this? Chad’s out of the picture,” I regret to
inform her.
“Nooooo,” she says with eyes as big as the scoop of ice
cream she just inhaled. “Just this once I wanted my match-
making skills to pan out. What happened?”
“He wanted his future wife to sign a sex contract, that’s what happened.”
I get up and walk away from the conversation with Monica
to open up my sliding glass door. I think it’s time we got some fresh air circulating through this tiny apartment.
There’s not much of a view on the fifth floor, but I can
see the cars zooming up and down the 405. The white noise
from the freeway puts me into a bit of a trance.
“Tell me about Deck,” Monica says from behind me as
she joins me on the balcony. “Did you call him that for short
ever? Deck?”
I’m not sure I want to go there, but I’m also not sure I can
avoid it. Shoving Decker under the rug hasn’t really worked
well for me in any situation thus far. So I take a pause to stare down the traffic once more before I gather my thoughts.
“No, not really. I called him Babe. And he called me that, too.”
Monica smiles and her eyes light up a bit. “Babe. I like
that,” she says. “What else about him?”
“He was a really good guy. And I’ve been scared for a long
time that I’d never find anyone better than him; that they just didn’t make them like that. That’s not me being a dramatic,
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emotional mess either. Tell me how many guys you know
who are content and sweet, genuine and smart, charming
and calming? I could go on and on and on about all the ways
he was a better person than me. I miss him, Monica. I really
do. But for as much as I miss him, and loved him, I’ve finally
come to a place where I know he’s not coming back and my
only real choice is a new life. Which makes an already-com-
plicated situation that much more difficult.”
“What do you mean?”
“Since the urn came back, it’s like I have one foot in rooted
in the past right now, which feels nice. I miss Decker. The
water is warm when I think about him. But the other foot is
ready, like ready to just spring forward. But I have absolutely no idea how to push myself in that direction.”
“It’s got to be tough with the urn—just a constant, physi-
cal reminder. It’s like, I don’t know, a shackle or something.”
I pause and contemplate her comparison.
“But the thing is,” I explain. “I’m the only one who can
make him leave and I want to make sure I do that right—with
a lot of love and res
pect. And that’s a lot harder than it sounds, trust me. You know me, Mon. I crank out new business pitches
in a half hour. I run reports on the fly. I solve things on the spot. But with this, I don’t know. It’s different. It’s like moving in slow motion. I’ve only gotten as far as a stupid Google
search or two. I thought I would be further along with figur-
ing out where to put him and what makes sense in this situa-
tion, and instead I’m just stuck here wondering why the hell
I can’t seem to get myself into gear.”
Talking it out like this makes me sweat so much, I have to
wipe my upper lip with the back of my right hand.
“You will figure this out. Remember what I told you? Life
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can. It’ll all be okay. Give yourself some time. Those warm
fuzzy feelings will come. Things will be clearer. I promise.”
Monica puts a comforting hand on my shoulder and we
stand on my balcony in silence, looking up to the sky.
“Hey, sweetie,” she says after a while. “You okay? I’ve got
to get going to the game. I didn’t mean to derail your morn-
ing or anything.”
“Oh yeah, I’m good. Don’t worry about me. Thanks for
the ice cream. Tell Danny I said hi.”
“I will. And, hey, way to leave out the fact you went to the
Dodgers game with this sexy guy . ”
She holds her phone toward me and I squint to see what
the big deal is.
Brian has apparently uploaded our selfie from last night’s
game to social media and checked us in together at the sta-
dium. Between his smile and the glow in my eyes after a few
beers, we look “Facebook official.”
“‘Behind home plate. Ain’t a bad way to watch the Dodgers
game,’” Monica narrates Brian’s caption. “Hey, wasn’t this guy
in Luxe LA with me a while back? He looks familiar. Anyway, will there be a second date? He’s clearly into you, Char.
Behind home plate, eh?”
I roll my eyes and dismiss the thought that maybe she and
Casey are on to something with their in-sync seating obser-
vations.
“Relax. He’s just someone who knew Decker and was nice
enough to invite me to a Dodgers game because he had a spare
ticket he didn’t want to waste.”
