There Are No Men

by Carol Maloney Scott

  I get in the car and remember the swarm of cops that were out earlier, hoping they nabbed some wild Easter egg hunters and ham eating revelers. Now I need to be extra careful driving home. It’s dark out and I must fight to stay awake. The window is cracked and the radio is blasting to keep me alert (worse than getting a ticket would be falling asleep and dying). With the additional noise, I am oblivious to the phone buzzing in my purse, like a swarm of angry bees.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Is it too short notice? I know you’re busy between showing houses and your volunteer work.” I hold up one finger and silently mouth the words “give me one minute” to an eager looking Justin, who has been pacing in front of my door the whole time I’ve been talking to my sister. Frank was wrong with the open door idea—I need a closed door policy.

  “Don’t be silly. You haven’t even seen my new place, and of course I can make time for you. If I have to show a house you can busy yourself until I’m done, and you could come with me if I have a volunteer event. I think the homeless shelter thing is the following weekend, though.” Jackie sounds upbeat and on top of things.

  I’m still trying to craft a suitable response now that I’ve heard the words “homeless shelter.”

  “It’s too bad. There are some cute guys at the homeless shelter,” she continues.

  “Now you think I should try to date homeless men?!” Justin walked by again. There is something wrong with him. I am at least old enough to be his maiden aunt. Maybe I should show him my driver’s license to see if that helps reality set in.

  “Of course not! There’s this crazy concept—people other than me volunteer at the homeless shelter. There is actually a whole huge group of people in the world who help others. You should look it up and read about it. It’s sweeping the nation—more popular than wedge heels this season.” Now she has moved into her sarcastic tone, but I suppose I deserve it.

  “You don’t have to get all self-righteous. Maybe a man who volunteers his time would be better than assholes who get you drunk and try to attack you in your living room, or Internet liars with pictures from the eighties.”

  Jackie sighs softly and I can picture her sitting cross-legged on the floor like a little girl, and shaking her head full of black curls. “You still may be missing the point, but let’s make this a girly weekend of indulgences. You need to treat yourself better. Mom said you were a nervous wreck at their house.”

  “Really? Did she tell you all the crap she was asking me? Thank God for Dad’s intervention.” I pause and take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs and help me find my words. “I’ve just had a…hard time lately. I need to get away. This will be a fun weekend.”

  “It’ll be fun for me, too. Now go make a reservation at the pet resort for the little ankle biter and start packing your girliest gear. Take off Friday so we can make it a three day extravaganza.” Her enthusiasm is catching—I can see why people buy houses from her.

  “I’m on it! I’ll text you when I’m on my way. Have a good week.”

  Somehow Jackie grew up in our family and escaped being neurotic. I guess it’s because she has more of my father’s personality. My mother drives me nuts because I’m too much like her. I just don’t have a child to nag so the circle of life is broken. I bet that’s what a therapist would tell me.

  I’m going to have to let Justin in if I plan on getting anything accomplished today. I do not understand his persistence, but it has to be the challenge. At this point if I was a snaggle-toothed hag, he would court me to the altar just to win. Maybe there is something to this playing hard to get thing, except I’m not playing. He called four times on my way home from Charlottesville last night, and Brandon called twice. I didn’t hear a single buzz thanks to my blaring music. When I got home I didn’t feel like calling either of them back. When I see their names on my caller ID I don’t see “Brandon” or “Justin.” I see blinking words in big letters, shouting warnings like “Disappointment” and “Heartbreak.”

  “Hi, Claire. Are you off the phone? Sorry to keep stopping by, but I wanted to give you this before my big meeting this afternoon. I’ll be tied up most of the day.” Justin places a pastel gift bag with Easter eggs all over it on my desk. There’s lots of multi-colored tissue paper sticking out at odd angles, but it’s a sweet presentation, and he looks genuinely pleased with himself.

  “Thank you, Justin. You really didn’t have to do this. It’s only Easter and…” I stop myself before I say something mean like, “and we’re not even dating.” Instead I finish with, “…it is very nice of you.” Good recovery.

  He’s standing in front of my desk staring at me, so I begin to sift through the paper to see what’s in the bag. I fish out a big Lindt chocolate bunny and a pair of pink bunny slipper socks. “These are so cute, Justin. Thank you. Chocolate is my favorite.”

  “There’s something else in there.” He sits down in my guest chair in anticipation of the next gift unveiling. Crap. Now I’m worried.

  I reach back in the bag and pull out a small box. This looks like jewelry. It better not be jewelry. I unwrap the box and sigh before lifting the lid. A perfect sterling silver bracelet with little dangling wiener dogs.

  “They had one with bunnies but when I saw this one I thought it would be much more fitting for you.” He is still waiting for me to say something. “You do have a wiener dog, right? Daisy?”

  “Dixie,” I quietly respond as I keep my head down, still staring at this gift and not knowing how to receive it.

  Justin jumps up and moves forward, reaching for the bracelet. “Here, let me put it on you. I had them make it smaller because I noticed how tiny your wrists are.” He gets down on one knee to get close enough to see what he’s doing, and clasps the bracelet around my left wrist. I hope no one else walks by my office and sees this scene. The morning sun is streaming in through my office window, and as I shake my wrist little happy puppies are dancing and sparkling against my skin.

  “Justin, this is such a thoughtful gift.” My eyes are filling with tears and I wish his meeting was starting now so he would have to go.

  Instead he gets up and walks to my door and softly closes it. He comes back to me and pulls a chair up next to mine. “Claire, please just come out and have a drink with me. We don’t even have to call it a date. It’ll be fun.” I notice the contrast between his youthful features and his furrowed brow and troubled expression. I see more man than boy now, realizing that sometimes we see only what we want to see.

  Justin has patience—I will give him that, and maybe maturity beyond his years. I don’t remember the last time I had actual fun with a man. Actually I do, but it wasn’t a date. I wonder if Brandon and Justin have the same source for wiener dog swag.

  “Okay, I’ll have a drink with you.” I wipe my eyes and sit up straighter. “Anyone who goes to this much trouble deserves a night out with Fun Claire. I’m going to see if I can find her. She may have been stuffed under the bed a couple of years ago. I’ll dust her off and dress her up.” I smile warmly and squeeze Justin’s hand.

  “Wonderful. It would be awfully good to make it through a conversation without making you cry, too. I need to work on that.”

  “Justin, you don’t make me cry. I make me cry.” I release his hand and look into his confused eyes.

  “Maybe someday you’ll explain that, but for now—when can we have this fun night out? Friday?” He looks hopeful so I hate to tell him about my plans.

  I wince and say, “I’m visiting my sister this weekend. I’m taking off Friday—driving up there either Thursday night or Friday morning. Can we go when I get back? I have to go to a work conference tomorrow night—I still need to find an editor—”

  He puts his finger to my lips to silence me. Thousands of electric currents course through my body. Breathe, Claire.

  “I have to meet a software supplier on Wednesday night. This will give me more time to plan something special next week.” He gets up to leave.

  “Hey
, I thought you said a drink? I agreed to a drink.” I fold my arms and pretend to look indignant.

  “A drink is like a code word for ‘expertly planned date of Justin’s choosing.’ So sorry, you walked right into it and now you’re stuck. You accepted the bribes.” He smirks and points to the foot high pile of exploded tissue paper on my desk.

  “I see how it is. There’s a secret language and a plot!” I fake my exasperation at this discovery of his manipulative tactics.

  “Hey, I don’t want to completely stop being a dick. That was your original attraction, right?” The bunny slipper sock misses his big grin by an inch and bounces off the door.

  He looks down at the pink bunny with the big embroidered eyes and says, “This is going to be quite a time, little bunny. Keep Claire warm until I can.” He is out the door before the second bunny beans him in the head.

  I e-mail Rebecca to see if she’s free for lunch. She quickly responds and wants to hear about what just went on in my office. I hope she’s the only one who noticed how long Justin was in here, and I’m thankful that flying bunny slipper socks don’t make much noise on contact.

  I spend much of the rest of the morning preparing for my meeting tomorrow. I’m attending a publishing networking event in the hopes of snaring an editor to save our asses. I received a list of attendees from the coordinator and I am looking them up on LinkedIn to narrow down my list of targets. I found a few good prospects and practice my company sales spiel.

  I had a long lunch with Rebecca. I told her a condensed version of the Justin visit, leaving out the tears. She almost ripped my arm off to get a good look at the bracelet. It isn’t an expensive gift, but it was only Easter and our relationship does not warrant gifts. Clearly, he was making a statement and Rebecca was hearing it loud and clear.

  “He is so hot for you.” She shoves another forkful of pasta in her mouth, and rips off a big hunk of bread.

  I pick at my salad. “Rebecca, it isn’t like that.” I have no intention of explaining to her what it’s actually like.

  “Whatever. Men don’t buy women jewelry unless they’re in hot pursuit.” She winks as if I don’t know what she’s referring to by using the word “hot.”

  I steer the conversation away from Justin and back to work, but that only brings us down the Brandon trail.

  “So are you done with his book?”

  “Yes, I’m going to send it to Pam with my notes before I leave for Jackie’s. I looked up his other books, the ones he self-published on Amazon. They’re about rock stars and life on the road. Nothing about families or adoption or anything remotely like this story.”

  “You’ll have to do something crazy and just ask him why he wrote it.” She glares at me with a smug look.

  “Of course I’ll ask him. He doesn’t make me nervous. I just like to be prepared, like a boy scout.”

  “That makes so much sense. Boy scouts are often pretending they aren’t interested in cute young neighbor men. There’s a badge they earn for that.” I cringe at Rebecca’s twisted humor and ask for the check.

  I continue to dodge any questions or topics related to men on the way back to the office. Up until now Rebecca and I have talked about every detail of my dating life. However, I now realize that’s because I didn’t have one, just a ridiculous string of encounters that never had a chance of going anywhere. Going on a date with Justin isn’t exactly a move in the right direction either, but slowly the cobwebs in my head are clearing. The ones in my heart are triggering all the tears.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Yes, this editor candidate is highly professional and she completely understands the requirements of the job.” I’m on the phone with Tim explaining my conquest of Gina Rossetti. She was one of the editors I targeted to meet on Tuesday, and it just so happens she is looking for a new opportunity. She’s on board with the work we need her to do, and appreciates the realities of the economy and Bella Donna’s mission. She’s also committed to building new business and finding new authors. She was smart and savvy, and could be the injection of life we need to stay afloat and grow the business. Plus she kept making S&M jokes, just like Frank. What is wrong with these people?

  “Good work, Claire. I’ll be back from the conference on Friday. I know you’re out then and I’ll need a day to catch up. Let’s bring her in early next week. If she’s as good as you say she is we’ll get her on board as soon as possible.” Tim’s voice is beaming with pride and joy. I promise to arrange the meeting and we hang up.

  I promised myself (and Rebecca) I would join the Meetup group and attend more events, and line up fun weekend plans. Jumping into any potential dating pool is like venturing into shark infested waters, but I don’t want to stay in the kiddie pool with the plastic fish, either.

  I open up the site and fill out the profile form to formally join. Rebecca is right—there is no commitment and nothing to be afraid of. I see there is an event at the Charter House. I know that place. It’s on a big lake (sharks are highly unlikely), and they have a sprawling outdoor deck. I sign up for happy hour next Friday and notice that several people I recognize from Lorenzo’s are going, including Sherry and Andy. Hopefully they have forgotten about my unfortunate stage diving incident. However, I think that term refers to diving off the stage into the crowd, not the band. I vow to make better footwear and alcohol choices, and RSVP “yes” with a self-satisfied flourish.

  Brandon’s book is the last thing on my agenda. I open up my e-mail to send Pam the manuscript and the MS Word document containing my notes, and I pause. Why am I so reluctant to ask Brandon about his book? He gave it to me to read. My mind wanders to Jane’s living room, and his arms wrapped around me, his thumb drying my tears.

  To: Brandon Harmon

  From: Claire McDonald Ratzenberger

  Re: Book

  Hi Brandon,

  I have finished your story and I’m sending it off to Pam Rogers, our Acquisitions Editor. It was well written and deeply moving. I liked the humor as well—the little family dog was a nice touch and the grandmother was a quirky character. Of course the little boy was precious.

  I looked up your other work and saw that the genre was quite different. Just curious—why this topic? Adoption is a pretty specific and personal type of story. People usually can’t write about things if they haven’t touched their lives. Do you know someone who is adopted?

  Fantastic job! I am hopeful that Pam will schedule a meeting with you soon. Thanks again for the chocolate and I love my little wiener bunny!

  Have a good weekend,

  Claire

  There. That’s a perfectly normal, pleasant e-mail. He probably won’t get it right away. I am sorry I never called him back. I don’t like to call men back unless I know why they’re calling. Oh, I have a message already.

  To: Claire McDonald Ratzenberger

  From: Brandon Harmon

  Re: Book

  Claire,

  I am adopted.

  Brandon

  That’s it. He must be mad at me for not calling him back. He was so compassionate at Jane’s and I blew him off. I act like he’s pursuing me and I have to put up huge barriers to protect myself from his advances. I must look like such a self-absorbed asshole. I decide to call him.

  “Hello, Claire.” He doesn’t sound thrilled to hear from me.

  “Hi, Brandon. I figured I would just call since e-mailing is so impersonal.” I’m talking too loud and fast.

  “Thanks for passing the book along.” His tone is flat.

  “You’re welcome. But you could really be the one doing us a favor—”

  “Claire, are you just going to keep babbling or are you going to tell me what you’re really calling about?”

  My heart stings from the slap of those words. “I’m sorry, I just—”

  “You just what? Don’t want to talk to me but you’re hoping my book will save your job?”

  “That’s uncalled for! I’m helping you, too!” They heard that down in the ca
feteria, even with my door closed.

  Brandon sighs. “You’re right. You are helping me and I’m grateful. I just can’t figure you out. I’ve never met a woman like you. We had a nice night at Jane and Mike’s, and then as soon as we were alone outside you got all weird. Then I tried to call you on Sunday but you never called back. So I give up. I guess you just want a professional relationship, and to be cordial neighbors.”

  “No, that’s not what I want.” Even as I say these words I know what the next question will be—and I can’t answer it.

  “Then what do you want, Claire?”

  I whisper, “I don’t know. Or I do know but I don’t think I can have it, and it’s almost the same thing. There’s a lot you don’t know.”

  “It’s pretty easy to find me to tell me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about me. Why don’t you tell me more about being adopted,” I say hopefully.

  “Not today. You’re going to have to meet me halfway if you want to hear my story.”

  “I’m going to my sister’s for the weekend. I’m leaving tonight.” The tears are flowing again.

  “Have a great time. Maybe when you come back, you can come tell me what you want or why you don’t think you can have it, or whatever you just said. Then I’ll tell you the tale of little orphan Brandon. Bye, Claire.”

  “Brandon, wait...bye,” I say to a dead phone line.

  I wipe my face and turn off my computer. I need to go to the ladies’ room before I leave the office—my bladder isn’t much bigger than Dixie’s. I walk in and see Cecilia at the sink. She’s dressed in a short black skirt and a tight red sweater. Her raven hair is short and spiky. I am always struck by this. She would be prettier with a softer, longer hairstyle. I guess I’m awkwardly staring at her too long and she turns around.