by C. Spencer
As I round the corner just past the jeweler, the chocolatier, the shop that sells lighting decked with its sparkling display of fixtures and chandeliers.
And here’s the darkened pub, where I step in, gazing across shoulders to find Nelson before he’s shaking my hand—squeezing it, actually. And I’m noticing their drinks, low, as I join in on their conversation about staffing and morale and network security before they’re sinking into a blur of NBA, which is when I tend to drift off, imagining Rae in that thin shirt with the insignia on the back, and I can’t help but grin. So by the time my drink arrives, I’m turning in my seat to check voicemail.
Stanley Porter…Madisen, it’s Stan…which I save for later because Madisen, Juan Alvarado…I need to get your decision on that by next Monday, no later…Katrina Strojko…Ms. Mitchell. Wednesday morning is perfect. I have to thank you for being so flexible. And afterward Rachel Matheny…and my stomach tanks. Hey, it’s Rae. But you knew that, right? So I’m stuck here in rush hour traffic thinking about you, and well, you have the sexiest voice on that message. Have I ever mentioned that? Anyhoo, don’t call me back. I’m heading home. But, yeah. I miss you. Bye.
Which makes the next hour of modular this and poché that seem that much more bearable, in a way, at least. I add a glass of wine. And the next time I catch our waiter, I ask for a spread of hors d’oeuvre.
Until a few hours in, it’s Taylor who mentions it first. That she needs to head out. So I do as well.
Attentive now, somehow even though I’m exhausted and anxious to get home thinking, how is it I’ve never really noticed the enchantment of this shop—as night sets, illuminating Taylor’s cheeks as we pass, as we laugh. As we go our separate ways into a lot where I’ve parked and where, once inside my car, I play that message over and over again as I’m gazing at the glow of my screen because, yeah.
Because I should be doing something more productive, like driving or, at the very least, calling Andi.
Which is what I eventually will myself to do. Call Andi, that is.
“The pub,” I say, “we just had a couple drinks.”
“Drinks and things?”
“Drinks and hiring and moving and a bigger, brighter place—I told you that. I’m meeting with a Realtor tomorrow.”
“You already ate?”
“Yes, mom, doughnuts,” I say, “and drinks.”
“Please don’t be serious.”
“It was just one drink. Plus a few mozzarella sticks.”
“You’ll never guess what arrived today on my doorstep. Or better yet, don’t guess…I’ll tell you. Mail-order food. It’s apparently a thing, a care package from the ’rents since, you know, the flu equates death in their mind. So why’d I even mention it?”
“What, that you were sick?” I say. “It was allergies. And I’d love to get that.”
“Have you tried fried rice on dry ice?” she says. “Because you can. I’m on this weekly plan for who even knows how long. They didn’t say. And have I mentioned Styrofoam coolers, if you’re ever in need.”
“Weren’t those outlawed?” I say.
“Apparently not,” she says. “And for the record, you were right.”
“Of course I was.”
“She read so far into it.”
“Your friendly dinner date?” I say.
“My dinner date, yes. So why’d she even go?” she says.
“Because,” I say, “subtext.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s an evening and dinner with an ex. There’s subtext to that. Read between the lines.”
“I guess I’m more literal,” she says.
“When you dish more subtext than anyone I’ve ever met,” I say.
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying, don’t act as if you’ve never done it. It doesn’t soften the blow. It just prolongs the agony. Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do it to her.”
“I wish you would’ve warned me,” she says. “It was that awful.”
“I did warn you. There are platonic and nonplatonic venues you could’ve taken her to.”
“And platonic would’ve been…?” she says.
“Wakeboarding. Shopping,” I say. “Okay, nix wakeboarding, given the lack of clothing involved. But afternoon or lunch…not dinner, not some darkened booth with an ex who has sordid expectations.”
“Whatever,” she says. “You and I have dinner all the time.”
“And we’ve never been more than friends.”
“Unfortunately,” she says, and I just roll my eyes like I always do.
“Jordan called.”
“Did she ask for me?”
“Not this time,” I say. “She was crying. Me, thinking it was Aline when my phone rang so I almost let it go. And can I just say one thing? If you ever tire of adulting, two words: third grade. Those girls put a curse on my kid.”
“A what?” she says, cracking up.
“It doesn’t really matter, does it? Some mean girls, with nothing better to do than burn sage and curse my kid, who was petrified. She thought she was dying because of some spell kit they bought online. I calmed her down. We don’t believe in that, I said. And given Mom said the same thing, that was that.”
“Kids today,” she says. “The most we had was, what?”
“We had a lot,” I say. “You’re forgetting third grade.”
“All right, I’ll give you that,” she says, “but it’s worse now.”
“I’ve already banned social media,” I say.
“Oh, not to change the subject,” she says, “but why were you freaking out?”
“Oh my God, I was not freaking out,” I say. “Where do you get freaking out? I was cautious, that’s all. Then it started to pour and we went inside.”
“I’m not exactly sure how to take it were your exact words.” Okay, so I was freaking out, but not in that way. And Andi wouldn’t get it, and besides, she doesn’t need to know every little thing.
“Yeah,” I say, “before our talk.”
“Your talk?”
“We had a talk,” I say, “about Jordan.”
“So alas, you told her. You were so freaking out,” she says.
“You’re reading way too far into this,” I say. “It’s just going fast.”
“I’m empathizing,” she says.
“You’re not empathizing,” I say.
“So you told her about Jordan, and she’s in love with you,” she says, clearly bitter. “I was honestly waiting for you to tell me you’d eloped.”
“How does one go from freaking out to eloping?” I say. “And besides, it was the other way around. I hadn’t told her about Jordan yet.”
“You freaking out always means something good.”
“But here’s the thing, though…Why? How, when she doesn’t really know me? Not in the way you do. After a few weeks. After some happenstance encounter at a bar and now this. So what, am I to throw caution to the wind, like one more thing I’ll live to regret—or what I really mean to say is, one more thing she’ll live to regret? I’m not sixteen. I’m responsible.”
“You could never be irresponsible.”
“But she’ll break my heart.”
“More like, you’ll break hers.”
“But I have a kid,” I say.
“I cannot stand fried rice on dry ice.”
“Why are you changing the subject?”
“Because,” she says.
“I brought up the marketing thing,” I say.
“At work?” she says.
“She’s interested,” I say. “Now it’s up to me to convince the others.”
“You’re pretty convincing,” she says.
Chapter Fourteen
Checkmate
Rae
I’m at my stove reading a packet of authentic Cuban black beans and rice that I picked up because it seemed healthy enough, which is what I’m going for, prepping broccoli to steam, tipping a glass into the dishwashe
r, when I get this call from Rebecca telling me, “My only friends are Sangiovese and Jazz à la Mode.”
Because whereas Elizabeth is the epitome of chill and Avery my glowing breath of sunshine, Rebecca lands somewhere in between.
“And this would mean your adoring wife is where?”
“Where else?” she says. “Come commiserate.”
“I may take you up on that offer,” I say. “I just learned that Madisen has a kid.”
And what her silence really means is that right now she’s picturing the mom bun. Madisen slogging over sandboxes in fleece, flipping bubblegum novels, and tugging apart a bag of Lay’s potato chips at the kitchen counter—screaming at someone.
As opposed to houndstooth, pinstripes, dry-clean only. And have I mentioned hot?
Because what kind of response do I get? “Interesting.” Mind you, Rebecca’s the type who could say fuck and make it sound cultured and sophisticated—of course with that undercurrent of something, I don’t know, conniving perhaps. More like judgmental.
Which is fine. It’s not as if I’m the archetype of family, settled down, two-car garage stuffed with dirty lawnmowers and coiled up hoses. Recycle bins. My loft has no yard. I sleep on a platform bed made of leather with a kick-ass Alex Kanevsky oil on wood hanging just above. And I dine on my couch most of the time.
“Big glaring U-turn, right?” I say.
“It’s her kid, not yours,” I hear. “But how old a child are we talking?”
“She has an eight-year-old,” I say, catching that voice in the background, so I ask.
“It’s just Elizabeth,” she tells me, “with a mix of Bob Dylan to cheer me up. Did you tell her?”
“What?” I say. “You mean about Madisen? Are you kidding me? No. And hey, I’m sorry about Dylan. I’ll be right over. Just give me forty-five, give or take.”
Which means I’m back to spooning broccoli and grains, taking an off-the-edge seat on my couch to ring back Avery, and this doesn’t taste half bad.
“You’re never going to believe it,” Avery says.
As I stir my bowl. “Try me,” I say.
“Why do they always come back asking to be friends months later? But you know what?”
“What?” I say.
“I’d rather not hear about their matching tattoos.”
“I’m sorry.”
Avery, who has this way of never getting over anyone, even if she’s the one to leave, which is more guilt than anything else. “Never mind. I’m over her,” she says, clearly aggravated.
“Why’d she call? I mean, this time? What was her excuse?”
“She seriously thought we could be friends. Friends, like I’m over her. Like I’ll ever be over her. The only good thing she gave me was that aching breakup scene at the front door. God, that really was the most beautiful breakup of my life,” she says with a sigh. “She dropped to her knees sobbing—” And, “I can’t go there again. I want your news. Why’d you need to talk?”
“She has a kid with this woman,” I say.
“Who has a kid? Madisen?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Sorry, love.”
“And—?”
“And, you know what they say. If it sounds too good to be true, there’s always a deal breaker.”
“So you think this is a deal breaker?” I say.
“Don’t you?”
“Well,” I say, “would it be for you?”
“It might,” she says. “That all depends.”
“So even if…”
“Even if what?” she says.
“Nothing.”
“No, really,” she says. “What’s going on? You’re acting strange.”
“Nothing,” I say, resigned.
“You give me so little credit sometimes.”
“It’s just that, coming from you—you’re usually so off the cliff in love with a girl,” I say. “I can’t see this being a deal breaker.”
“In love,” she says. “Have you fallen in love with this girl? Holy shit.”
“I didn’t say that. Look. I don’t know.”
“In that case, okay, we need to go all out,” she says, followed by, “get this kid loaded on chocolate, and not the hollow kind. Hollow chocolate says…you know. Chocolate is highly symbolic. So truffles maybe, but this needs to be exquisite.” Symbolic, I think. “Let’s hook up. I know this place where they sell everything decadent.”
“So you’re not just saying that?”
“It’s a child,” she says. “Not a big deal.”
“So you would do this?”
“I wouldn’t hook up with a mom, no.”
As I fork broccoli.
“Thanks,” I say. Then I start sharing more than I should. And, in turn, hearing more than I want to. Correction, wondering if she could possibly get to the point. But instead she gets way long-winded about domesticity and that dreamy-eyed firefighter of hers.
But in any regard, after dinner, I head off to Rebecca’s, thinking a drink will do me good. In fact, I’m feeling pretty grounded like Sure I can do this. As I belt out this tune en route, lowering the window to a hot breeze, remembering what’s-her-name who loved Portishead, God! And that would be why we split. I split. I can’t stand Portishead. She played it all the fucking time, like incessant, and I do firmly believe in music compatibility. But why she comes to mind, not a clue. That must’ve been, what, a good decade ago? Come to think of it, that would be around the same time Madisen would’ve been walking down the aisle starting that cute little textbook family of hers. Not that I care.
So how does one even begin to converse with a child?
At the age of eight, I’m pretty sure my biggest complaint was being an only child. What I would’ve given for a sibling or three, those unforced conversations. That meant everything. Family, a big one, life overflowing with sarcasm. And a sister I could toss off the top bunk.
Now, though, the very thought of passing my anything off to a pint-sized human being, the fact that I can’t even focus on a single thought for more than two seconds, like right now…
I cut the engine, still trying to figure out whether I’m floating on air over this girl or closer to calmly unhinged. So I make my way to the door, where Rebecca greets me with this paltry excuse of a hug, one I’m not okay with, and next thing, Elizabeth is rounding the corner gushing. “What the hell, Rae?” As I slip right past and into the kitchen.
“I can’t believe you brought Dylan to her pity party,” I shout over those incessant rhymes. “Way to cheer a girl up.” But she follows hand to mouth.
“Look at you,” she says. “You’re all Leave It to Beaver lesbian style.”
“Nice jacket,” I say, deflecting.
“You like? Light enough for rain…It’s called a sailing jacket.”
“Very nautical of you,” I say. “But you don’t sail.”
“I’d like to look as if I do,” she adds to my blank stare.
“A latte deckhand,” I say, redirecting my gaze from Elizabeth’s bullshit to Rebecca as she pours—rather diplomatically, I might add. Meanwhile I’m busy switching “Like a Rolling Stone” to EDM, effectively transforming the kitchen into an old-school gay bar.
Still sensing that weight of scrutiny as I redirect my attention to our sailor. “Are you not having a drink with us?”
“I have an engagement,” she says.
“In that case, enjoy your engagement,” I say.
“Oh, I absolutely will,” she says. But why couldn’t she leave it at that? She doesn’t. Instead, she holds my gaze well beyond the point of any reasonable, rational person. Where most would feel uncomfortable, self-conscious, compelled even to turn or leave. But instead of leaving, she wraps her arms around my waist, drawing me in, offering a kiss against a turned cheek. Next she’s beaming off through the squeak of rubber soles down the hallway. “I’ll leave you two suburbanites,” she says, “to bask in the joys of Mommy A and Mommy B.”
And as the door seals, I shift
my attention back to, well, fleur-de-lis. Why does everything in this house involve fleur-de-lis? But the sun’s angling just so, and I’m thinking, you can’t beat that hour before sunset. It smells of evening, too, the damp freshness in the air, as I follow along until French doors part into a garden courtyard where Rebecca shoves a bottle of wine into ice, taking a seat, crossing a leg, dangling the bowl of her glass like so.
As the rim of it touches her mouth, now stained with the color of a sweet patchouli sunset, earthy and warm. “Tami is not confrontational,” she’s saying. “That’s the actual word she used to describe me, confrontational. I am apparently confrontational in her mind, choosing to bring my betrothed to family gatherings.” As I try to focus on something other than myself. Other than Madisen, which is not an easy feat.
“You’re so beyond betrothed,” I say. And she makes the same first move with her pawn. The wine, by the way, is good—dry and, well, wine-like. I glance up. “I can’t say I’ve ever taken you as confrontational. Opinionated, maybe.”
“And that would be why she’s up the coast,” she says, “as opposed to here.”
As I grip the back of my neck. “Lucky you,” I say.
But that laugh of hers. “We had plans. Bar Harbor, it’s been empty for months.”
And if I move my rook like so, it’ll give her…nope, that leaves the board wide-open.
“I’m afraid I’m being too needy,” she says.
“You’re not being needy.”
As she bends across the table. “Tell me, though. You’re okay with this?”
“With what,” I say, “taking your pawn?”
“You know,” she says.
“I can’t say that I’ve had enough time to sit down and process it,” I say matter-of-factly. “Why don’t you tell me?” And as much as she tries for that poker face. “Don’t hold back.”
“She was married, you said.”
“As are you,” I say. “Marriages can be a mistake.” Wondering what does it add, really, when one swirls their wine?
“I’m thinking it’s too soon to have family discussions,” she says. “I mean, I’m not one to dole out relationship advice,” which is a total lie because she is. “But were I you,” which is never a good preamble, “I’d have to really think on this. That’s not to say—”
