On Second Thought

by C. Spencer

  “I did,” I say. “We still had takeout.”

  “And what’d you get? Tell me.”

  “Pizza,” I say. “Avery bought.”

  “Not noodles?”

  “Not noodles,” I say. “They thought it might clash with our drinks.”

  “Which it would,” she says. “How’d everything go otherwise?”

  “As expected,” I say. Then pause to reflect. “But how am I supposed to focus?”

  “All wholesome thoughts?”

  “How would you like me to answer that?”

  And in her soft-spoken sort of way, “It’s warmer than usual tonight, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure how I’ll get to sleep in this,” I say.

  “Just do what I do,” she says.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Don’t wear anything to bed.”

  “Why do you do this to me?” I say, kicking a mound of sheet to the foot of the bed, then crossing the room, gazing out. “Now I’m picturing you,” I say. And out the window, it’s moonlit everything.

  “Imagine that,” she says. “Did you get the storm?”

  “Avery drowned in it,” I say.

  “So did I,” she says. “I left my umbrella at home. I always do.”

  “And where’s your mind?” I say.

  “I didn’t check the weather,” she says.

  “So what about you,” I say, “and your date with…”

  “It wasn’t a date,” she says. “Andi. We went to the Cantina.”

  “I’ve never been,” I say.

  “It’s worth a try. Margaritas, fresh—which happens to be a weakness of mine.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Then dinner. Came home. Closed out a few things.”

  “Work?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “And waited up,” I say.

  “I did,” she says followed by silence. And eventually, “Why can’t I be there?” Which makes my heart heavy.

  “I could say the same,” I say before making my way to the bed to collapse, gazing at dim ceiling tiles and wishing I could crawl through this line. “How was work?”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” she says.

  “And what would you rather think about?”

  “You tell me,” she says.

  “Oh, I’m happy to go there,” I say.

  “So that’s the thing,” she says.

  “What is?”

  “I’m worried that I don’t know you,” she says.

  “But you do,” I say. Too much.

  “Then tell me something.”

  “Tell you what?” I say.

  “I don’t know. Something, anything you haven’t told me already.”

  “That my thoughts are far from wholesome right now,” I say.

  But the sound she makes. “Andi’s been on this kick. She gets like this.”

  “What kind of kick?” I say.

  “She’s just so apathetic.”

  “How come?” I say.

  “No sparks, apparently.”

  “With that girl she met?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Jiffy Lube.”

  “The dreaded friends trap.”

  “Not quite,” she says, “just not love at first sight, which isn’t realistic, I said.”

  I pause. “Don’t you think?” But there’s this emptiness on the line.

  “So, love aside, you had that with me?” she says.

  “Are you saying you didn’t with me?”

  “Oddly, well,” she says, “maybe. It feels like it’s going too fast. I guess that’s why I’m worried.”

  Until silence settles between us. “Why do you say oddly?”

  “In the past,” she says, “I’ve really only fallen for friends. This is so different.”

  “I hope so,” I say, trying to hide this disappointment.

  “Who were you with before this?”

  “Is that something we should talk about?” I say.

  “I don’t know enough about you.”

  “Well here’s the thing. If I trash-talk an ex, you’ll say I’m insensitive, bitter, need to get over it. If I don’t,” I say, “if I don’t trash-talk her, you’ll get suspicious and flip this around into some, I don’t know, rivalry.”

  “No,” she says. “You can absolutely trash-talk her.”

  “Okay. So the thing is, she was married.”

  “Isn’t that ethical of her.”

  “And I hung around for nearly two years,” I say. “And, yeah, I knew. I’m sure that makes me out to be some abomination, but far from it. For one, I didn’t wreck a home. They’re still together.”

  “And two?”

  “There is no two,” I say.

  “You like telling stories with numbers, don’t you? First, second, one, two.”

  “Do I?” I say. “I haven’t noticed.”

  “You do,” she says. “And why’d that end?”

  “That’s an interesting story,” I say. “She wanted a ring from me—how ironic, given the state of her own marriage. I wasn’t in love,” I say. But I hear nothing back. “Hey…”

  “Hey,” she whispers.

  “I was wondering.”

  “What about?”

  “Hypothetically,” I say, “if I was to ask you to come along to something, say, tomorrow, with insanely short notice like this—”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “A few friends, they’re dragging me up a mountain. But I’d rather be with you.”

  “How could I possibly turn that down?”

  “How could you?”

  “Does this mean you’re hanging up on me?” she says.

  “Well, the hike,” I say, “it’s early.”

  “And how do I sleep?”

  “I know what generally works for me,” I say. “But you do whatever you want.” And it pains me to end our call.

  Chapter Seven

  After You

  Madisen

  I was still on the couch with my laptop at seven this morning in what they call loungewear, otherwise known as pajamas you could potentially leave your house in should you have one of those early morning cravings for an apple fritter drizzled in icing with a barista-made latte. Which I’m not saying has ever happened.

  But as opposed to basking in Friday, I spent most of my morning paying bills and wondering how Aline was able to vanish without a trace of guilt or remorse, and here I’m the one logging into my bank account transferring I won’t even admit how much in support over to her.

  And no mention of where it goes, either. Her girlfriend, I’d presume.

  Because eight years old and, still, most of the kid’s camps, her lessons in ballet, pink leotards and slippers, her violin rental—all paid by me. And it’s not as if she’ll outgrow her skirts or Mary Janes anytime soon like she used to. She’s not two. She’s not up-sizing months before they’re even scuffed.

  Which would be why I never saw that promotion where it counts, in Quicken.

  It’s also why, by the end of the day, I’m gladly ducking away from all that and my too-long day at work, plus everything else, through an unexpected downpour, lacking one extra-large umbrella I left at home, and needing a drink, as I make my way past the mural to the mariachi band and subsequently to a table lit by candles where, tucked away in a taller than average booth, I find Andi slouched, and she’s making out on freshly baked tortilla chips and salsa, drink in hand, that adolescent grin. I take a seat.

  “I can get you a towel,” she says as the waiter steps in and we order drinks.

  And afterward, I scoop a chip.

  “A double?” Andi says, somewhat accusatory.

  “They don’t make a triple.”

  “They will if you ask them to.”

  I shake my head.

  “So the latest on Rae,” she’s saying, lounging against the back of the booth. It’s cute, the way she looks at me.

  “After I promised myself I wouldn’t
bring her up.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because,” I say, thinking I need to get a handle on this. Before bending across the table, saying, “We never seem to talk about us anymore.”

  “Don’t we?” she says.

  “And I miss that,” I say. “So no Rae. And no whatever her name is.”

  As she looks at me, bewildered. “Then what is there to talk about?”

  “Let’s talk about you.”

  “And what would you like to know?” she says.

  “Anything, really. Everything.” That might distract me from the obvious. “You have a game tomorrow.”

  “Right,” she says, shaking her head as she spins a napkin sidelong. “And this new girl, she’s sort of kicking my ass. And that’s not okay.”

  “Which is to say, she’s better than you?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say she’s better. Just new, and personalities, and look, I know you don’t like this stuff.”

  “I don’t understand the intricacies of soccer,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested.”

  “So what’ll you have?” she says in hopes of changing the subject.

  “No clue,” I say. Then she asks about my day. “It’s just busy, that’s all, to the point that I have no idea where I’m going, goals, ambitions, purpose. What’s next? Like in the next five, ten years. I’m starting to feel stuck.”

  “Who thinks that far ahead?”

  “I do,” I say. “As should you.”

  “But it all depends,” she says.

  “On what?” I say.

  “See, that’s the insecurity in single,” Andi says. “You never do know.”

  “So you’re telling me you’d up and truck your life away for some girl?”

  “I could,” she says. “At least, the right one.”

  “So your life’s essentially on hold.”

  “I’m not sure if we should be discussing this,” she says. “Isn’t it borderline—”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say. “So how’d we get back to that?”

  “In ten years, I’ll be driving a Jeep. That’s all I really know.”

  “Which makes you well ahead of me,” I say. “I need to think about that.”

  “When Jordan’s eighteen,” she says.

  “My God, you’re right.”

  “At which time, you’ll be old and gray.”

  “Not quite,” I say.

  “And you’ll have earned the coveted prize of primary custody.”

  “Ever the idealist, you.”

  “As if Aline could survive her teens,” Andi says.

  “Hey, what’s a chimichanga?”

  “Amazing,” she says.

  “So I should get one?”

  “Get whatever you’d like,” she says.

  “Whatever I’d like…Tell me what that is,” I say, “and make it something I’ve never had. I’m that completely burned out on making decisions.”

  “Yet you bring up such complicated topics over dinner,” she says. “Order taquitos with me.” And as I unlock my phone, the server dips in with a pair of drinks.

  “Your Jeep Wrangler,” I say. “But what about the sort of things money can’t buy?”

  “Like abs?” she says with this look. “Honestly, I’m more the type to ebb and flow. See where things go. I won’t even pretend I have it together.”

  “I’m amazed you get anywhere,” I say.

  “Why, because I don’t know where I’m going?”

  “I would lose all shit,” I say.

  “But you already have it all.”

  “I don’t actually,” I say. It’s crazy, though, when I think about that. How I’ve spent all this time planning as if life would follow this track. Then shit happens and it’s all up in the air. Not that I need to think about…Look, I’m not thinking about anything. But what if? You know, one day.

  “Then what’s next?” Andi says.

  What’s next? “Maybe a larger slice of the company—twenty-five percent,” I say, lifting the straw to my lips. “They make the best margaritas here.”

  “You could make those at home.”

  “I know, I know,” I say, exhausted. “I could do so much more than I already do.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “Don’t take me wrong. I’m not criticizing you. I’ll make you one sometime. How about that? A triple.”

  “I adore you.”

  “And about tomorrow, the game.”

  Mm-hmm.

  “I won’t see you,” she says, “will I?”

  “I don’t have Jordan this weekend. And you know what that means. Piles and piles of adulting.”

  “Right,” she says, sulking. But this isn’t your typical Andi upset about my not making her game. So why does it feel so heavy, like guilt?

  “I hope you’re not mad,” I say.

  “Not at all.”

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “Just how to let this girl down without, you know, letting her down.”

  “So it’s come to that?” I say.

  “She’s not what I want,” Andi says, “long-term.”

  “Then tell her you have plans with me. Indefinitely.”

  “Do I?”

  “It’s not a lie,” I say.

  And that laugh. “Can I get you another drink?” she says.

  “Sure,” I say. “And count your blessings. It’s easier to leave than the other way around.”

  “Right,” she says. “Still discouraging as hell.”

  “How’d we get back on this?”

  “It’s who we are,” she says. “Don’t fight it.”

  “Can’t we ever talk about anything else?”

  “Why do you even try?”

  As her gaze catches mine and we exchange this look. One that, I don’t even know why, makes me weak. Not for her, just. “Andi, Andi, Andi…”

  “What, what, what?”

  “I’m falling so fast,” I say twirling my straw. “Save me.”

  “She’s damn lucky to have you.”

  She is, right? More like the other way around.

  Anyway, they’re words I carry into the car the next day, still on a high to the tune of NPR with its clever assortment of random bongo drums, its accidental theatrics, the switching and tapping and repetition trying to keep me focused.

  All failing.

  The entire drive it’s failed me, but the coffee’s strong. So that’s beginning to fuel my personality as I slam the door shut, its bee-beep as I’m straightening my cap and following signs to this oddly named trail.

  Where I find all three oblivious to my arrival, too engrossed in who knows, bottled water, as I near a bench now covered in backpacks—the hiker kind with too many pockets and secret zippers and ties or whatever else those are.

  And let me pause right here to say that I could’ve spent last weekend shopping for shorts, shoes, the sturdier kind, and maybe a backpack that might’ve carried this lunch as opposed to brown bagging it. And had I, I would’ve shown up grittier, edgier, mountaineering like the others instead of, well, looking like the prima donna that I am.

  Add coffee and crisp air and that fresh scent of pine. Red cedar. White oak. Bucolic. I can practically hear John Denver harmonizing as I make my way over. As I slip right in beside her at the bench, hoping to quell too many nerves. As her gaze settles studiously at my lips and she leans in for a kiss that, God, it just sort of sinks my soul.

  But next I’m sidetracked through our course of introductions.

  As I shake hands, pinning both in their midfifties based solely on hair, given you’d never guess from that build, those thick cycling calves and Timberlands. Their extreme low-key vibe, which is never a bad thing.

  Before I’m straddling a bench in shorts observing Rae, because I can’t not. Rae, who’s talking but not actually considering who she’s talking with or what they’re saying.

  But I do. I study their hands, those programmab
le watches, the gestures, their early start this and their turkey jerky that. True trailblazers. This is their thing.

  “So which trail,” says Rae, twisting a knot, “will the two of you take?” As I admire the subtle lines of her smile and that simple way she carries on, like this, only afterward shifting her attention back to me as my breath quickens.

  As she snaps the lid off her ChapStick saying, something, I don’t know, with such a grin.

  And I guess we stay that way for a while, since they’ve taken off. But it’s not until we reach the path and I catch my stride that I find I’m trying, struggling, to connect that girl I held on the phone with the girl I met at pool—and this one, right here. With sleeves cuffed. The cap. Extending a hand as she guides me up and along another one of those inclines.

  And then she’s asking, “Did you get right to sleep?”

  “Wouldn’t you love to know?”

  “I would, actually,” she says…and that look.

  “I did eventually,” I say, “imagining this.”

  Realizing this is not the coffee-toting stroll I’d expected. The conversing kind. Closer to brambles and thorns. Closer to an actual workout. “Over here,” she says, pointing.

  “So you have done this before,” I say.

  “Not in a while,” she says. Then I catch her once-over, that crooked grin. “I see it’s not your thing.”

  “I see it’s not yours either,” I say.

  “I’m glad you came.” But her voice is softer now.

  “I’m glad you asked,” I say. Then the wind picks up and I’m thinking about work again.

  “Maybe you could take the lead and keep me on the straight and narrow,” she says.

  “Why does this concern me?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, pausing. “Perhaps we took a wrong turn back there.”

  “Are you saying we might end up lost?” I say.

  “Would you want that?”

  “Can I just say, I didn’t sleep last night.”

  “I didn’t either,” she says.

  And she smiles. And, yeah. “But you do know where we’re going?” I say.

  “I don’t,” she says.

  “Then why is it I’m following you?”

  “Because you trust me,” she says.

  “I do.” And that sort of hangs between us until I’m wondering why I said it. Why I feel it. Why I trust her. And maybe I don’t. “So, Andi,” I say, thinking something about someone else might ease this uneasiness. “Andi’s at a game right now, one I should be at, but I’m not. Which is marvelous given…Jenna. Jenna Paulsen, her new fixation turned faux pas, Jiffy Lube, will come and watch, and she’ll wait at the hill. And somewhere along the way, Andi’s going to stroll over and take a seat…and break her heart.”