by Erin Spencer
This is her fault, not mine. Liv can be so controlling. Waltzing into my life like she knows how to fix it. How would she even know? We haven’t seen each other in what feels like years. She acts like all I need to do is wear a push-up bra, go on Tinder, and voilà! I’ll find my dream man.
I shouldn’t have expected it to be any different though. Liv’s always been this way. A Fixer. A fixer who loves to focus on other people but not on herself. She’ll even try to fix things that don’t need to be fixed. Like that time she fixed my perfectly good haircut, which then looked so bad I had to spend another seventy-five dollars at the salon to fix her fix!
I’m starting to wonder what it is that’s wrong with her. We’ve both been so isolated in our own worlds that I have no idea what’s going on in her life. All I know is that she came out here on a whim. Meanwhile, she’s hardly even said three words about Ethan or her life in London. I know about that dalliance with Francois, but she hasn’t said anything about it since our phone call. We should be spending time reconnecting with each other, not on this crazy dating scavenger hunt that’s giving me bad flashbacks to wondering whether or not someone’s going to ask me to prom.
Tears burn down my cheeks. I look into the rearview mirror to make sure I don’t have mascara smeared all over my face, to see that I don’t look like the hot mess that I feel like I am. I let out a big sigh, resigned to the truth of the matter. It wasn’t Liv who messed things up. It was me. Self-sabotaging again. I could have told Liv to just give me a minute. I could have been confident enough to ask Devon for his number. I could have mentioned to Devon that I meant to match with him on Tinder, and that this real-life encounter feels like a second chance. I’m a grown woman, dammit. If I didn’t make a move on Devon, it’s because I chickened out, nobody’s fault but my own.
Even so, I don’t want to say sorry to Liv. That would mean explaining the connection with Devon. How could I even begin to explain the unexplainable? Recounting the whole thing will just make me feel like even more of a failure. If I hear Liv’s Just Say Yes and You Gotta Get Out There lecture again, I might lose it once and for all. As much as I love Liv, she doesn’t have life figured out any better than I do. Hell, nobody does.
I wipe away my tears and accept the reality of the situation. This mission for love isn’t about me. It’s about her. Something serious must be going on and she’s not letting me in on it. Fine, I’ll play along until she wakes up to it herself. In the meantime, why not go on a few dates? I’m probably crazy to be obsessing about Devon after only one coffee. We weren’t even together for more than half an hour, max. But I can’t deny that it felt like we’d been talking for hours.
Feeling lighter with this newfound clarity—I always feel better after a cry—I turn on the radio. I gaze at the Pasadena hills rising in the distance, squinting my eyes in the direction of Sierra Madre. Despite myself, I can’t help but wonder what Devon’s house is like. He probably has a perfectly restored Craftsman house, with a garage that’s been converted into a wood shop.
I can just picture it…
“Sunday Kind of Love” comes on the radio right as I walk into the sunlit garage. Devon is leaning onto a sideboard, moving his arms back and forth in a strong, steady motion as he sands down its surface. Sweat drips from his forehead and he’s so intent on his work that he hasn’t noticed me in the doorway. But he must feel my presence because he looks up and our eyes meet. He lets the piece of sandpaper he’s been working with fall to the ground and never breaking my gaze, peels off his T-shirt. He approaches me with a slow, confident stride, a lion stalking his prey, his abs rippling with every breath he takes. A goofy smile spreads across my face because he’s so damn sexy, but as he gets closer to me, I turn serious in heated anticipation. We breathe in unison, deep and heavy, and I can feel the fire between us before we even touch. Finally, his hands are on me. He lifts my yellow sundress up to run his fingers along my thighs and up to my hips, then caressing me over my panties, gently at first, then with an increasing pressure. He lifts me and sets me down on a nearby workbench, leaning in to kiss me as I stare into his beautiful brown eyes. His lips lightly brush against mine as he slides my panties down my legs. Our kiss gets deeper, our tongues meet as I reach for his zipper…
“Okay, let’s go. You ready?” Liv opens the car door and throws her purse onto the passenger seat floor as she climbs into the car.
Like a needle scratched from a record, my Devon fantasy screeches to a halt. Dammit, Liv. Again!
Chapter Eight
Break Up, Make Up
LIV
I hadn’t really needed to use the bathroom. I wanted to go back and find Devon to get his number, to somehow patch things up from the awkward goodbye. I shouldn’t have interrupted Bex and Devon the way I did. So far, my track record as a wingwoman would only count as a success for a nun.
When I went back into the fray of the market, I got lost in the slow shuffle of the post-lunch crowd. I understand now why Bex had wanted to get there so early. Time was ticking and I couldn’t navigate back to Devon’s stall because I had no idea where it was. The market seemed to have acquired a life of its own with new tables and tents that I hadn’t noticed beforehand. Finally, I gave up in frustration and fought my way back out of the maze, like a salmon swimming upstream against bargain hungry tourists, so I could run across the hot parking lot to Bex’s car. And now, after running, I really could use the bathroom as the churros are starting to churn.
“Okay, let’s go. You ready?” I open the car door and hop in. “You’re the one who’s been complaining about traffic. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Bex looks slightly drugged, like she’s woken from a deep sleep.
“Hello? Earth to Bex?” I pull the car door shut then strap on my seatbelt.
“Jesus, you scared the hell out of me! Why do you have to slam the door so hard?” Startled, Bex turns the key and cranks up the car.
“Sorry, jeez. I didn’t slam it.”
We leave the parking lot behind only to hit the freeway, which by now is a parking lot itself.
“Dammit.” Bex slaps the wheel. “I told you traffic was going to be crazy. We should have left earlier. And then you had to go and use the bathroom.”
“Relax. You have a kid, you should be used to unscheduled bathroom breaks. At least I’m not asking ‘Are we there yet?’” I hope Bex will smile, or at least blink. “Bex, what’s going on, why are you acting like this?”
She doesn’t say anything. The suffocating exhaust fumes from the traffic seem to have poured into the car. We’re drowning in a toxic mess of passive aggressiveness.
My phone rings but I ignore it. Finally, the annoying xylophone sound stops as voicemail picks up the call. But then it starts to ring again. Whoever is calling doesn’t sound like they’re going to give up.
“Will you answer your phone or put it on silent? It’s driving me crazy,” Bex says.
I scrounge around in my purse to get out my phone while the ringing continues. Bex looks over and can clearly see Ethan on the screen as the caller ID. I hold it in my hand and let it ring.
“Go ahead, pick it up,” Bex challenges me. “I wouldn’t mind saying bonjour to him. How is he anyway? You haven’t said much about him since you got here.”
Bex sure knows how to cut deep. Bonjour. That one stings. I know she’s judging me about Francois. No way I’m dealing with this now. I don’t think Bex would say anything crazy while I’m on the phone with Ethan, or would she? Our fighting is making me paranoid. I turn the phone to silent and angrily throw my purse down.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I spit out. I feel like rolling down the window to let out a big scream.
“What the hell is wrong with you? What’s the matter, you can’t ‘just say yes’ when your own husband calls?” Bex throws it back to me.
“Why are you acting like such a bitch?” I yell out in frustration.
I hate this. Why are we doing this to each other? It
seems neither of us can stop. We’ve only ever had a few knock-down, drag-out fights before. And they were all back in our twenties. Our lives are too separate now to have these kinds of fights over the phone, or in texts. We only share snippets of a hello, I miss you. A blow up doesn’t play into that. We’ve lost the rhythm of each other’s moods, having hardly spent time together in person for so many years.
One time at our apartment in Atlanta, Bex actually threw my mattress out of the window. It hit the ground with a thud, shattering a bunch of terracotta potted plants in the yard of our downstairs neighbor. She looked at me, frozen in disbelief at herself, and at the boiling tension that’d arisen between us. Realizing how ridiculous our fight had been, we quickly snuck downstairs into the neighbor’s yard to retrieve the mattress. We were laughing so hard we could barely get it back up the stairs. Life was simpler then. Now, both of us have emotional baggage that weighs more than a thousand mattresses. It’s harder to let things go. Harder to say I’m sorry.
I curl up and stare out the passenger side window, making as much of an effort as I can to turn my back on Bex. She has both hands on the wheel, sitting upright, tense and ready to pounce.
“Car fights are the worst,” I say quietly as a half-ass apology but Bex doesn’t say anything.
We drive home in silence, like a married couple who’ve given up on fighting because stewing in resentment is more comfortable. After one hour of horribleness, we arrive back at Bex’s house and I go straight to “my room” without saying a word. Maybe this trip was a mistake. Maybe I should have just stayed at home in London and spent some time thinking about my life. Or maybe I should have sucked it up and gone to Provence with Clarissa like Ethan had suggested. To continue the charade. To pretend that the way I was living my life was making me happy. I can’t even fix my own life. Why did I think I could swoop in and fix Bex’s?
I check my phone again to see if Ethan has called back or sent a text. No, nothing but that one missed call and his voicemail that I don’t even want to listen to. His formal, nonpersonal check-in will just upset me even more. When did our marriage become so flat, so passionless? Speaking of passion, I open Instagram to scroll through Francois’ page to see if there’s anything new. I’m about to start stalking Emily when I hear Bex at the door.
“Lou Lou…Lou Lou,” she whispers in a singsong voice, using my childhood nickname. Apart from my parents, nobody’s called me that in decades.
Bex is holding out two glasses of wine from behind the door. Her apology.
I open the door wide and usher her in with a dramatic gesture and make a clearing on the bed. I take the peace offering and swallow a big gulp of wine in silence. We sit down on the bed, both cross-legged, just like we used to as teenagers except we didn’t have wine back then, it was usually a phone between us, either making prank calls or agonizing over whether or not to call a crush.
I raise my glass to clink hers. “Fuck LA Traffic.”
“Do you feel like we need some karma cleansing?” Bex says in mock seriousness.
I look at her in confusion, then it dawns on me what she means—the not-a-date yoga date on the cards for tomorrow.
“Yes, let’s get our zen on.” I move to put my hands on my knees in a meditation pose but accidentally knock over both our wineglasses.
“Sure you’ll be okay, Miss Clumsy?” Bex tries to save what’s left in her glass, as the Chardonnay soaks into the comforter.
I laugh, happy that the tension of the drive home has been dispelled. But why did she practically run away from that guy, Devon? I know I should let it go. I’m just happy she’s going to get back on the saddle…or at least, the yoga mat.
Chapter Nine
Grin and Bear it
BEX
I lie back in bed and mull through the day’s roller coaster of emotions. The high of running in to Devon in person. The low of fighting with Liv. I still wish I’d gotten Devon’s number, although there’s nothing that can be done about it now. But, his lips so close to my ear…I tingle all over recalling that moment.
And, well, the fight with Liv. I’m not going to say I enjoyed it, but it did clear the air. Why can’t relationships be like what Liv and I have? Things are so different with significant others than they are with friends. With friends we forgive so easily. They screw up; they say the wrong thing; they are who they are and we accept them. Sure there may be a few fights along the way but they quickly blow over and the friendship continues even stronger. With relationships, they screw up; they say the wrong thing, and we straight up lose our shit. Fights happen, resentment grows, bitterness creeps in and the relationship starts to rot from within.
I wish Patrick and I had had more of what Liv and I have. One wrong sentence from Patrick and I’d be wounded for a day, sulking, and stomping off to “work on a project” rather than try to resolve the situation. I nursed a grudge while he watched ESPN, ignoring that there was even a problem. I’d stew about how he didn’t give me enough attention when, in fact, maybe I bear some of the blame, too. I could have been more forgiving, less defensive, more open. I could have gone to him instead of waiting for him to come to me.
Liv and I can argue, apologize, let it all go and come back together stronger. But with Patrick, well, we just drifted and fizzled until there was nothing left, like a helium balloon that, after the party ends, eventually lands on the ground, wilted and lifeless. Once my marriage flatlined it couldn’t be resuscitated.
I can’t deny that I’m content, calling my own shots, and living life on my own terms. I like being in the driver’s seat and having my life revolve around Maddie and me. Maybe, when it comes right down to it, I don’t really want to meet someone, so I’ve been self-sabotaging all this time. I don’t want a man to come in and take over my life and time, telling me what to do, like Patrick always did. And I know I don’t want to be doing any more laundry than I’m already doing! But good sex and daily conversation with an adult would be nice. Really nice.
What’s weighing on me more though is Liv. I need to figure out what’s going on with her. Not taking Ethan’s call in the car is very suspicious.
Meanwhile, why not go to yoga tomorrow. I guess I’m ready for it. There’s no hiding the remnants of the baby weight pooch that I haven’t been able to get rid of, even though I’ve had thirteen years to try. But, my legs are still in good shape and my muffin top is nothing a cute tank won’t hide.
I grab my phone and search LoftYoga to get a look at what we’re getting ourselves into tomorrow. I don’t want any more surprises like the “house party.” I’m not against yoga, but I’m more of a Zumba girl. I have a hard time quieting my mind for meditation, plus, chanting gives me the giggles. One glance at their website proves what I had suspected—cult yoga! “Guru Stan” looks like a mash-up of an ’80s rocker and Richard Simmons before he went into hiding. With that amount of hairspray and spandex, it looks like he’s spent more time seeking nirvana in the Hollywood Hills than the Himalayans. I click on Testimonials and settle into the covers like I’m about to start a binge watch of Designing Women. There are tons of frou-frou quotes from Guru Stan’s devotees with names like Lark Angel, Moonwater, Willow Rain, and my personal favorite, Skip Stone. They’ve all written glowing reviews about how Guru Stan has led them on a path to “the Xanadu of Astral Planes,” how he “holds space for the enlightenment of the tribe” and that his “Chakra centering left me feeling a buzz stronger than my last Wu Tang concert.” That last one is written by the one and only Skip Stone—I gotta go to class just to see this guy in person!
Suddenly, my FaceTime pops up with a call from Maddie. It’s late for her to be calling and I answer immediately, worried that something is wrong.
“Hey, hon, everything okay?”
Her response is a combination of a groan, cry, and grimace. “Mom…”
Knowing the camp counselor would only give her phone access if it was important, I sit up trying to cover my concern with a soothing voice. “Honey, what’s go
ing on? Did something happen? Talk to me.”
“Mom, I started my period,” she sobs out.
I know she’s had some anxiety about when she would get her period, but I’m surprised she seems this upset. Several of her friends have already started, so it’s not like this is totally unexpected. In fact, I think she was kind of looking forward to it, in a way. Although, I can understand how being away at camp and away from me might make it a little harder.
“Honey, it’s going to be okay. You knew this would happen at some point and remember I packed you some pads in your duffel bag just in case. Check the inside zipper pocket. That should get you through the night then you can go get some tampons from Nurse Joanne in the morning so you can still go swimming!” I say the last part with a bright smile, attempting to lighten her mood. When she doesn’t respond, but just looks into the phone with her scrunched up, tear-stained face, I reiterate, “It’s going to be okay.”
“What? I can’t put in a tampon! No! No way!” She breaks into hysterical sobs. “Mom,” she gasps. “You have to come get me! I don’t want to be here anymore. And I don’t want to talk to Nurse Jo about it either.”
I realize this is a scary time for her. That whether she was ready or not, she’s taking her first step into the unknown and confusing road to womanhood. Of course, she’s feeling vulnerable. I’ve done my best to raise her to be strong, fearless and independent, which means that I can’t bail her out every single time she asks.
“Maddie, I love you and I know you can handle this. You’ve known Nurse Jo since you were eight. She can help you out. This is a natural and normal thing to happen. We’ve talked about it before. If you don’t want to use a tampon, that’s totally fine, we can cross that bridge when you get home. You can wear pads in the meantime, and I’ll put in a call to make sure you have enough for the rest of camp. No big deal.”
