by Erin Spencer
“Sorry, I left my jacket on the back of the couch. I knocked a couple of times, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
I glance over my shoulder, and sure enough, there is his denim jacket in plain sight. I’m mortified that he overheard me acting like a girl gone wild. I wipe off my damp brow with the back of my sleeve.
Then with a grin he says, “I’m excited too.” With that, he takes his jacket from Liv’s outstretched arm and starts to walk away. “I’ll talk to you soon!”
This time, Liv and I both stand at the front door as he heads to his truck and backs out of the driveway. No hiding behind the curtains this time. But standing like the women we are in full sight, waving and smiling, not ashamed of our excitement but proud of it.
Lying in bed, energized yet relaxed, I close out Amazon after making sure that the scraper I just bought is being shipped to the correct address. Popcorn ceiling, be gone! It’s time I made some changes around here. Out with the old, in with the new.
I then place my thumb over the Tinder icon on my screen until it quivers and the x appears. I proceed to delete it and every other dating app from my phone. I am so done with this millennial style of dating. I’m a single woman, living in a twenty-something dating world, but that doesn’t mean I have to play by these new rules.
“Buh bye, Tinder,” I mutter. I’m feeling confident about Devon and if I’m wrong, so what? I’ll just go out on my own if I feel like it, order myself a Pappy like the adult I am and see what happens. Maybe that Laker will make an encore appearance!
Content with my choice to delete the dating apps, I drop my phone onto my comforter and listen to Liv knock around in her room on the opposite side of the landing. I’m tempted to get up and go help her, but the need to just lie in bed and savor the surprise of today is too much. Liv really knocked it out of the park.
As I reach to turn out the bedside lamp, my phone rings. I purse my lips in annoyance, assuming it’s Patrick, but when I look at my phone, I see it’s Devon. Devon! The fact that he’s calling and not texting is such a shock! So atypical of every man I’ve interacted with in years, that I’m hesitant to answer. A phone call? How odd. How refreshing! Here we go, I think to myself. Time to say yes to new beginnings. I turn off the light, pick up the phone and simply say, “Hello.”
Chapter Nineteen
Cruising Altitude
LIV
“You got everything?” Bex says in her mom voice as we pull out of the driveway for the airport. “Passport, keys, phone, money.”
“You make it sound like you really don’t want me to leave anything behind.”
Bex slows to a stop at the curb and turns to look at me. “Liv, you know you can stay here anytime. I mean, you can come live here if you want to.”
“We’re too young to be the Golden Girls. But I’ll keep it in mind,” I joke away Bex’s sincerity. I hate goodbyes and I can’t believe it’s already time for me to go back home. Home…
Flashes of LA blur into one as we make our way to the airport.
“Hey, can we stop at the drug store? I want to pick up some eyeliner,” I say.
“Eyeliner?”
“Yeah, CoverGirl. I always stock up when I’m on this side of the pond, but I forgot until now. It won’t take long.”
“CoverGirl? Don’t you have all kinds of fancy French brands over there in London?”
“Have you tried Liquiline Blast?”
“I have not. But, let’s wait until we get closer to LAX. There’s a bigger CVS over there on La Cienega.”
After about fifteen minutes of silent driving, we pull into a parking lot.
“You coming?” I hold my door open about to jump out.
“Nah, I’ll stay here.” Bex seems slightly distracted, but happily so. I know she’s daydreaming about Devon.
“Okay, be back in five.” I dash into the CVS and make a beeline for the cosmetics section.
Silver Spark, Black Fire, Green Glow—who wears neon green eyeliner?
Where the hell is Brown Blaze? I rifle through the hanging cardboard and plastic enrobed eye pencils and mascaras, knocking a few down in my haste to find what is truly the perfect shade of dark espresso brown.
I take a quick walk around to see if maybe there’s an end aisle display of CoverGirl. Nope. I walk back to the original display area and kneel on the floor, scrounging around to see if any brown pencils might have fallen underneath the shelves. This eyeliner has suddenly become the one thing that will make my life perfect. I have to find it before I get on the plane.
My head is pressing against the cold industrial linoleum floor, in fact, I’m almost lying down flat on the ground trying my best to make my arm longer, which is now wedged under the narrow gap of the display shelf.
“Liv! What are you doing?”
I look up, ungainly, get on all fours, and then stand up. Bex is staring at me in a mixture of bemusement and concern.
“How far away is the next CVS?” I swat away dust bunnies that have floated on to my hair and clothes like magnetic dust.
“Um, I don’t know, like ten to fifteen minutes.”
“Let’s go. They don’t have my color here.” I turn to the eyeliners once again and start taking them all off the shelf, in one last ditch effort that a brown one might be hiding in the back.
Bex takes the eyeliners out of my hand and puts them back on the shelf.
“We don’t have time. It’s in the other direction. Away from the airport. You need to be at check-in, like now.”
“There’s time.”
“I can just mail you a few, for God’s sake. Who misses their flight over eyeliner?”
I turn to Bex, deadly serious. “No, you can’t just mail some to me. Customs are a nightmare. They’ll hold on to it and make me pay tax. I probably won’t even get a notice and the eyeliners will all rot in a warehouse out in the boonies!”
“Liv, get a grip. It’s a six-dollar eyeliner.”
I know what she’s saying is true. In the back of my mind, I can see that I’m behaving irrationally, but I’m out of body at this point, like watching myself from afar. A knot tightens in my stomach. A fight-or-flight sensation. A feeling that I don’t want to take flight, but I’m not yet able to fight. Adrenaline gushes through me and I feel like I’m going to faint.
“I just. I just need—” I burst into tears, my head in my hands. If I press hard enough into my face, maybe I can make these tears stop. My wrinkles and crying grimace feel like they’ll be etched in stone. A midlife makeover of despair and cliché crisis. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to stay. I just want to fall down, right here, in aisle five and disappear.
Gasping for air and almost hyperventilating, I lean into Bex and hold on to her for dear life. My tears, snot, and saliva make a damp patch on her shoulder. Seeing it makes me think about Bex as a mom. Maddie on her shoulder, baby burps, and changing diapers. Love, safety, completeness. A deep well of sadness bursts inside. It’s not about not having a baby. I can deal with that, and I’m pretty sure I’ve come to terms with it. It’s that I don’t have love. That I want it. How am I supposed to go back to the sham of my marriage?
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper in a staccato of crying gasps, my head on Bex’s shoulder.
“It’s okay.” Bex smooths my hair. “It’s okay. None of us do.”
The valium Bex gave me has finally started to kick in. I recline my airplane seat and pull out the remote control that’s wired to the armrest. Ugh, this thing must be covered in germs. I cringe and press the greasy buttons to switch on the in-flight entertainment, looking for something to watch. Dirty Dancing in the Classics section alongside Casablanca and Some Like It Hot. Really? Sure, it’s a classic, but a classic-classic, as in black-and-white classic? When did my favorite childhood movie reach this category? And where is Patrick Swayze now? Dancing in stardust.
I put the controller back and fidget in my seat, doing my best to adjust the cheap Styrofoamy pillow around my shoulder
to settle in for what I hope will be a long sleep. I say goodbye to the Pacific ocean as we head east and the blue fades away, the same ocean that Adam was swimming in. Knowing that in a few hours the plane will be crossing a different ocean. A big expanse of nothingness, of deep memories, yearnings, and unfulfilled needs. Imaginings of a future, missing something familiar that you haven’t even met yet.
Where does Ethan even fit into that?
At cruising altitude, the white noise and dimmed lights of the cabin lull me into a meditative state. I just want to sleep in this suspended animation, between lives, between my past and present. I close my eyes and it feels like I’m falling.
I remember when Bex and I were kids at the pool, we’d hang on to the edge at the back end of the diving area, away from the boards so we could watch people jump. The sixteen foot depth of chlorinated blue beneath us seemed endless, as deep as the ocean. We’d watch the older kids drop from the high dive. Some would fearlessly walk to the edge, bounce up and down a little before taking the plunge. Some held their nose with one hand, then did a kind of one legged jump, curling their knees up as they fell toward the water. A few would attempt a dive, and often someone would land with the wet slap of a belly flop. But it didn’t matter, we watched all of them in awe. They’d climb up that ladder, leave the safety bars behind them as they’d walk to the edge and jump, belly flop or not.
One humid August day, toward the end of what seemed an eternal stretch of summer, Bex said, “Let’s do it. Let’s jump off the high dive.”
I was shivering even though the water was warm, struck with paralysis at the thought of such a challenge. I couldn’t say anything, could only hold on to the ledge with one hand and look up at the diving board, trembling and shaking my head no. It had never seemed higher. I still regret that moment and wonder if my life would be different if I’d said yes. The memory of Bex high above the pool. She seemed like she could float up and fly away. I watched from below as she jumped, and I’ll always remember the electric energy of her head bursting up above the water after she’d plunged to its depths. She swam toward me in a fast doggy paddle, smiling and shouting out to me that I had to try it for myself.
But I didn’t. I just couldn’t.
I don’t want to be paralyzed anymore by fear. I want to climb the ladder, walk to the edge and jump. What am I so afraid of? Hitting the bottom? Not being able to swim on my own. Giving up? That’s what I’d felt like on the floor at CVS, just me and the dust bunnies.
Bex had taken the plunge. She made the decision all the way back then when we were little, consciously or not. To jump from the high dive. To divorce Patrick. None of it was easy. But she did it. She did something.
So what if Bex has been living like a nun for a while. Who has the time to date regularly? After this week, the idea of dating sends chills down my spine. Besides, Bex is too busy being a mom to worry about being someone’s girlfriend.
This whole trip, this whole project of mine to get Bex out there, I know now it’s been about me. I’d been so eagerly pushing her to jump—to “say yes”—when all along, it’s what I’ve been wanting to do myself. I want to jump off that high dive.
Do I try to make it work with Ethan? After everything that’s happened, how could I? We’d definitely need to stick with seeing a counselor, at least once a week if not more. I can’t solve this on my own. But I can just imagine how that would all go. Exactly how it has been the few sessions we’ve been to. He’d probably just say that I’m bored, that I’m having some kind of midlife crisis. That I should get involved in a charity, or that things would be different if I had a baby to keep me busy.
I don’t even think he’ll bother with working on our relationship. He already said that he didn’t think we should keep going to counseling. I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that he’s daring me to leave him. So he’ll be free to trade me in for a newer model, someone to be the mother of his future children. I know he secretly blames me for not being able to give him all the props and accessories he needs to be the perfect partner at Treadwell & Sloane: wife, a towheaded toddler, a second baby on the way.
But something had attracted us together in the first place. Our curiosity, our hunger to explore the world. Sharing our ambitions and wanting to succeed in life. We used to talk for hours about our goals, our dreams. I miss that. Maybe I’m being too cynical. Maybe we could actually work it out. After all, we’d made it this far, even if it wasn’t perfect. We could have a second wind in our relationship—maybe our forties and fifties could be a new beginning, a new adventure, a new romance together. But he hit on Bex. Drunkenly, but still…who does that?
What was it that Adam had said at the beach? That his marriage was like being in one of those dreams where you can’t wake up but you want to.
Adam…I smile to myself, my eyelids heavy. My muscles relax and I fall deeper into the airplane seat. I reach into the pocket of my jacket to touch the shell he gave me, still gritty with sand. God, it would feel so good to fall asleep in his arms.
Chapter Twenty
Treasure Found
BEX
The car feels empty without Liv in the passenger seat beside me. The radio is off and my phone is plugged into the car charger. I take a deep breath and loudly exhale just to push away the silence. It’s back to reality. But with a twist. Because I have a date with Devon tonight. I smile to myself as I crack the driver’s side window to let in the outside world.
Liv’s “Yes Factor” mission was a whirlwind, but I have to hand it to her, she really pulled through in the end. I’ve always dreamed of Ed McMahon from Publishers Clearing House showing up at my door with an oversized cardboard check, but the unanticipated arrival of Devon was even better than a million dollars. Liv truly redeemed herself after all the dating blunders of this past week. I guess that horrible night at Glamour & State had the best payoff! Liv hacking my dating apps, the infantile guys, and the fight I had with her as a result; it all happened for a reason. I still can’t believe she ran into Chloe. Thank God for Liv and Chloe breaking the rules.
I just hope I was able to help Liv even a fraction of how much she’s helped me. The fact that I didn’t know the truth of her marriage says a lot about how much our relationship needed a pick-me-up. I know that Liv is one to shield and divert, but I see now that being a good friend means pushing past comfort zones, just like she did for me. Liv has always projected the “everything is great!” face to the world when inside she’s crumbling. She’s going home to a big mess of problems and questions, and she is going to have to make some decisions. I hope, for the sake of her happiness, that she does.
I should have picked up a new mascara when I was in the CVS with Liv. But seeing her scrounging around on the dusty floor, looking like a dandelion puff ball, really threw me for a loop. Now, as I comb through my clumpy lashes in preparation for another date, my nerves (and hand) are so jangly I’ve smeared mascara all over my lids. Deep breath. I haven’t had a real date in four years. Like, a man-picks-you-up-from-your-house-and-takes-you-somewhere kind of date.
Devon and I have been texting all day since our phone call yesterday evening. Just playful banter with an occasional sexy tone. He seems as excited as I am about this date and said he has something magical planned. I asked him to at least give me some indication of dress code. With my luck I’d be in jeans and a T-shirt and he’d have a reservation at Prado or something equally fancy. Or, I’d wear heels and we’d end up at Disneyland—he did say magical, after all! Thankfully, he told me to dress “cozy casual.” Just my speed.
At exactly 5:58 p.m., I hear Devon’s truck pull into my driveway. Appreciating his punctuality because my nerves can’t handle waiting around any longer, I slip on my silver Birkenstocks (thank you, eBay), take a final look in my new Eastlake mirror (thank you, Liv), brush back a few flyaway hairs, and give my ponytail a final scrunch and fluff.
Buzzing with jitters, I answer the door before Devon even has a chance to knock. “Hi,” I say,
breathy with anticipation, my eyes drinking him up.
“Hi.” His voice is deep and intense with a barely concealed expectancy. “You look beautiful. You ready?”
Smiling ear to ear, I grab my purse off the art deco hat tree by the door, sling it over my shoulder and nod, stepping out onto the front stoop. Devon gently takes my hand as we walk toward his truck. I feel giddy from his touch and the warm night air. This is the date I’ve been waiting for. All is right with the world.
“Bex!” A screech like a velociraptor attacks my ears and the serenity of the moment evaporates.
“Keep going,” I mutter, keeping my head down and picking up the pace as I walk down the driveway. I feel like I’m in an airplane that’s going down, shocked by the sudden change in altitude.
“Bex!” My neighbor Opal squawks for the second time, waving her hands like air traffic control. Why today, of all days?
Devon, being the gentleman that he is, stops and turns to smile at Opal.
He has no idea that this date is about to crash land! She may look old, sweet, and innocent, but she’s nosy as all get out. Yes, she can spot a thief a mile away—there hasn’t been a robbery on our street for years—but it’d be nice if she could take a break from neighborhood watch so I can have some privacy and enjoy my first real date in a century! But, not wanting Devon to think I’m rude, she does sign for my UPS packages after all, I introduce them in a hurried tone. “Opal, this is Devon. Devon, this is my neighbor Opal.”
Devon’s friendly nature manages to turn Opal’s frown into a straight line, which is as close to a smile as you can get out of Opal. “So nice to meet you,” he says.
Opal gives him a once-over devoid of all subtlety and then concludes her inspection with a quick approving nod. Crossing her birdlike arms, she turns to me. “Bex, honey, you need to wear a sweater. Once the sun goes down, it’ll get chilly.”
