Life After Yes

by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

  So here I am with yet another “query” that inherently eludes answering. It’s my job to spin my little Ivy League wheels. The fact that I will spend hours searching, however fruitlessly, for an answer, will comfort Fisher. And cost the client. The fact that someone has billed some hours “toiling with the enigma,” “wrestling with the puzzle,” will scatter the responsibility of a potential misstep in representation. We lawyers never stop thinking about liability; it’s our job, after all.

  In no time, I’m immersed in yet another obscure research assignment. Our case has been brought in Texas court, a state full of notoriously sympathetic and conservative jurors, so it’s my job to scour Texas tort law for arguments to save our executive clients from scores of women who’ve suffered for one reason: They’ve opted to have safe sex.

  After an hour, I’ve pasted together snippets from cases that seem remotely similar to ours, bits and pieces of arguments we will expertly morph with the help of legalese to suit our purposes. I e-mail my vacuous summary to Fisher with my strategic hedges and the requisite parting line: “If there’s anything I can do to follow up, please let me know.” It’s bullshit. But I hit send.

  Just for fun, I do an Internet search for our lead plaintiff in the class action: Crystal Sugar. In no time, I’m on Crystal’s Web site and she stares back at me through sad eyes of electric blue. She stands there, legs splayed, in the center of the screen wearing nothing but an American flag–print thong. We all need a little Sugar at a time like this, a sultry voice says.

  I scramble to find the volume control on my computer.

  She’s probably my age. I wonder if two sane parents could actually give a child this name and expect her to grow up to be anything other than a stripper. But I assume that the name’s fake—just like her ginger hair, golden tan, and perfect breasts.

  Dad told me never to talk to strangers, and this girl has made a profession out of seducing them. She’s selling herself.

  I look around. Out the window. At the ringing phone and the blinking BlackBerry. At the pinstripes, simple and straight, running the length of my thigh. And for a moment, I wonder if what I’m doing is really any different.

  A few moments later, two e-mails arrive: one from Fisher and one from Sage. I don’t know which one I dread opening more.

  Fisher: Impressive, O’Malley. I thought your mind would still be in Paris. Your fiancé’s a lucky man; he’s landed himself an efficient girl and a looker. Well done, indeed.

  And then I open the e-mail from Sage. A single question, sweet and simple, waits for me. And makes me want to cry. Will you be my valentine?

  Chapter 7

  When I was little, I hated restaurants. It’s not a restaurant, Prue, Dad would tell me. It’s a pub. Technically, the simple argument was sound; every Sunday, my family went to the Irish pub on our corner where the accents were thick and the beer was black. Have a taste, Dad would say, offering me a sip. And though I was young, a decade-plus from being legal, I would take that sip. A bit reluctantly because Mom hated beer and I figured this must mean it was terrible stuff. It’s not beer, Prue, Dad would tell me. It’s Guinness.

  But I was a smart kid. I knew pubs were restaurants. The fact that paper shamrocks dangled from the ceiling for the whole month of March and that rugby games played on the little TV on the bar didn’t fool me. I was still expected to sit still and behave. I was still expected to pick one thing from the menu and then eat it when it came. But I never wanted to choose. Because I’d order the potato skins, and when they came, steaming hot and smelling delicious, I’d want the grilled cheese.

  And I knew that Guinness was beer. The fact that it was dark and frothy didn’t fool me. It was a drink I wasn’t supposed to have yet. But I think I knew even then that I’d grow up to love it and that I would always think of it as Dad’s drink.

  Despite my aversion to eating out, Mom and Dad vowed not to let me dictate; the O’Malley family would head out for dinner in hopes that my inevitable meltdown would be low on the Richter scale. Invariably, before the waiter finished jotting down our drink order, I’d do my trademark disappearing act, slithering down in my seat to hide under the table. Mom and Dad learned to ignore my antics; they’d talk to each other about the menu, whether to order the pork chops or the penne. They’d ask Michael about school and he’d seize the opportunity to talk about art class, how his watercolor was his teacher’s favorite, how she said he was a talented painter.

  There under the table, their words became gentle rumble, a familiar melody muffled by the paper tablecloth that protected me from the adult world above. I’d sit there, legs crossed, in relative darkness, and watch as my parents and brother crossed and uncrossed their legs, occasionally bumping knees. Sometimes, someone would lose a shoe and I’d return it to the appropriate foot. It became a game for me. At least once a meal, Michael would kick me, but not very hard and only in good fun. Periodically, Mom and Dad would peer under and ask me to rejoin them, but usually I ignored them. They’d never push too hard; I guess they figured an absent child was better than a screeching one.

  They let me do my thing. I’ve decided this wasn’t because they felt helpless, or couldn’t control me, but because they respected my decision to be alone, to sit in silence and contemplate things. At any rate, I’d always emerge when the waiter brought my Shirley Temple.

  But one magical day, things changed. Restaurant meals became treats not torture. Portobello mushrooms were delicious not slimy. Birthdays were dreaded instead of anticipated. Valentine’s Day was no longer about perforated Snoopy cards, but about prix fixe dinners and scheduled sex.

  I’m not sure where my penchant for fine dining—for the freshest guacamole, the most delicate slices of sushi—is rooted. Maybe it’s because I can’t cook. Perhaps it’s all about being in New York City—where good restaurants are as plentiful as deer in the suburbs. Or maybe it’s my dear brother. After a brief stint in the fashion world, he’s now in cooking school. His studies have only reinforced a feeling he’s always had—that food is a religion—that needs to be studied and absorbed. Maybe his piety for the gastronomical wonders is contagious.

  It has nothing to do with the food, Mom has said. You were born an anthropologist. Even as a baby, you loved watching people. Why do you think I stopped breastfeeding you?

  Because I bit you?

  No, because you wouldn’t stop looking around. You were more interested in the people than my breast. And you’d fling that little head around exposing my nipple to the world.

  Mom, you were a hippie. You never wore a bra. You loved nipple exposure.

  Of course I initially interpreted this anthropologist talk as another of Mom’s attempts to dissuade me from a career in the legal world, but she’s right. I’ve always been fascinated with people, how they cut their steaks, how they giggle on an uncomfortable first date, how they treat the waiter who serves them, how they deal with an improperly calculated bill. I can sit at a restaurant for hours watching people come and go, wrestling with oversized strollers, getting doggie bags to go, watching an aspiring actress shuttle Bloody Marys and bread baskets to make her month’s rent. I’m captivated by the body language of couples, why one pair doesn’t make eye contact for an entire meal while another ignores the food completely, devouring each other instead.

  Oh how one could interpret us now: the clichéd young couple celebrating Valentine’s Day. What should be made of our stiff silence, the good food between us, the way we sip our complimentary Kir Royales a bit too quickly? Sage and I sit side by side on a banquette at Café des Artistes, one of the city’s finest. This is the first time we’ve had dinner out together since Paris. The restaurant is packed with old people, refined regulars no doubt. Sage and I stick out. He’s too big for the banquette; he keeps shifting around, his elbows on the table and then off again.

  “We need to talk, Bug.”

  To me, this means breakup. He will tell me—over gourmet food and with the assistance of fine wine—that he’s
made a grave mistake, that he wants the ring back. That a little bit crazy is okay, even a good thing, but he underestimated me.

  We need to talk.

  To him, apparently this means: We need to talk.

  “It’s good to finally see you,” he says, draping his arm around me. “I mean really see you. We have so much to talk about.”

  And suddenly I want to slink down in the booth, to go under the table and take a time-out like I did as a kid. Suddenly, I crave quiet. And solitude.

  “We didn’t need to do anything this fancy, Sage.”

  Tonight, it seems, our agenda is twofold. We will do our best to revel in this Hallmark holiday and we will discuss our future. It’s a very efficient way to do things and my man loves efficiency. No harm in killing two birds with one stone, he has said. (This once gave me a naughty idea about the two pigeons who’ve made a home of our bedroom windowsill.)

  “Your brother recommended this place, Bug. He said if we could get over the geriatric element, the food’s pretty amazing.”

  “So the restaurant’s a buy then? Long or short?” I should’ve known he’d evaluate this restaurant like he does the companies and stock prices he and his colleagues assess on a daily basis. “You’ve already got me, Sage,” I say, dangling my ring in his face. “You don’t need to impress me anymore.” As I say this, I wonder if I actually mean it.

  When I first met Sage, he was your run-of-the-mill guys’ guy; he didn’t know that edamame were soybeans, or how to pronounce foie gras.

  “Terrific. So, I could have saved about two hundred bucks and you would’ve been a happier camper too?”

  Somehow, it’s always about money. He looks slightly amused, but mostly defeated. The waiter glides by with a basket of rolls. Sage opts for a pumpernickel roll and I take a slice of whole grain. The waiter slips a small dish of olive oil between us. He hands Sage the thick bible of a wine list, bows his head, and disappears. Sage opens the book and flips through the endless pages, closes it again.

  “You pick,” he says, surrendering the list to me. This is typical. I’m the wine girl.

  There isn’t a bottle under sixty dollars, and I’m not surprised. The waiter returns and I order a Sancerre. As I point to the bottle on the list, Sage peers over. When he sees that I’ve chosen a bottle that costs one hundred and twenty dollars, he slumps back in the banquette.

  “And I suppose you would’ve been happy with beer, but since you’re here you figured what the hell?”

  Sage never says “hell.” He said it once at age nine and his mother grounded him for a week and he missed two Little League games.

  “Happy Valentine’s to you too, sweetheart,” I say, raising my champagne flute to toast his.

  “Okay, what’s going on? Is this what things are going to be like? Now that I’ve given you the ring, it’s time to practice bickering like all the other crappy couples we know?”

  I shrug. “I’m just exhausted.”

  Sage looks at me with tired eyes. “It’s been a tough month for me too. We need to hire more analysts at the bank. There’s just too much on our plate with the upcoming IPO.”

  I’m no expert, but I know this has nothing to do with an overpriced wine or the fact that his department at the bank is short on staff.

  “If that’s all, fine,” I say, lying.

  The waiter returns with our wine. I taste it. Nothing special. Should’ve ordered the Riesling.

  “It’s just…” he begins. “It’s just that you’ve been so incredibly distant. And don’t blame it on the job.”

  “Just like you tried to do,” I say.

  “We haven’t even talked about the wedding and it’s been weeks. Makes me worry.” With this, he grabs my hand under the table, looks at me for a second, and then away. This is the beauty of sitting side by side; you don’t have to face the person you’re with.

  I take a gulp of my wine. And then another. “You know I’m not the prissy type who obsesses over her wedding.”

  “I’m not asking you to obsess, Bug. I’m asking you to acknowledge.”

  He has a point.

  “Okay, okay, I promise. We’ll start planning.” I squeeze his hand.

  “You’ve been weird since I asked. I thought this was supposed to bring us closer.”

  Fear and relief wash over me. He’s noticing me, the gulf between us, the unspoken uncertainty that maybe, just maybe, plagues both of us. Thankfully, there are limits to his quintessentially male oblivion.

  I scoot closer to him on the banquette. “How much closer can we get?” I say, proud of my timely pun, and kiss him on the cheek.

  “Much,” he says, smiling, and squeezes my thigh.

  But even as the wine flows, and we wordlessly anticipate a night of predictable-but-delicious Valentine’s Day sex, it occurs to me, a sobering and subversive truth: There might just be things that alcohol and sex can’t solve.

  In Paris, the morning after we got engaged, Sage and I left our room to hunt for food. Hand in hand, we walked the length of the dimly lit hotel hallway. Nibbled croissants and orange pulp-coated glasses waited on trays outside closed doors. “Ne Pas Déranger” signs dangled from brass doorknobs. The carpeting was tacky; deep red, flecked with gold leaves. Gilded sconces lined pale striped walls. We reached the elevators, and Sage pulled me close and kissed me.

  “You’re going to be my wife, Bug. Bug McIntyre…that has a nice ring to it.”

  When the elevator came, we walked on, fingers woven. The car was packed with a medley of fashion types and affluent tourists. Momentarily, all eyes were on us. This made me only a bit uncomfortable; the attention was kind of red-carpet cool. We stood at the very front of the elevator, pressed up against the large gold doors, Sage behind me, his arms linked tightly around my waist. Every few seconds, he kissed the back of my ponytail.

  We reached the lobby and Sage led me to the hotel dining room where they were still serving Sunday brunch. The room was grand—overly grand, cold and cavernous, full of reds and golds and purples, quintessentially regal tones. But predictable. The chairs had tall thronelike backs and ornate embroidery. In the corner of the vast room, a small table for two waited for us with a tiny arrangement of white flowers and a chilling bottle of rose champagne—my favorite.

  Sage had arranged this.

  What a romantic, I thought.

  But then I thought: It’s pretty easy to be romantic in Paris.

  He pulled a chair out for me and I sat down, slipped the crisp linen napkin from a monogrammed sterling ring, unrolling that perfect roll, and draping it across my lap.

  “This is a dream, Sage,” I said, surprised by my own choice of words. “You didn’t have to do all of this. I’m just so happy.” I listened to myself speak; my words were distant and fake, artificial mumblings of Hallmark banality. I wasn’t being myself.

  Even so, his smile said victory. Maybe to him, my words weren’t so empty at all. He seemed pleased he had pleased me. That was hardly a bad thing. He reached for the bottle of champagne, but a gaunt waiter in an ill-fitting tuxedo jumped in. His name tag read “Jacques.” He was heroin-skinny and gesticulated on fast forward, flailing his pin-thin limbs about with startling aggression. He had the pointiest nose I’d ever seen.

  “Bonjour! Bon matin!” His energy was exhausting.

  Jacques poured a little champagne in Sage’s glass. And instead of smiling, taking in this majestic morning, I thought: Why does the man always get to taste?

  Sage sipped it, wrinkled his brow in contemplation, and gave Jacques a slight nod and a thumbs-up, as if the two gestures weren’t redundant. Then he filled my glass. I waited for the foam to shrink and then tasted, letting it slowly roll over my tongue. I hoped it would soothe my head. It tasted good.

  Sage reached across the table and grabbed my left hand in his. I’ve always loved his hands—they are big and manly and he keeps his nails short and clean. When he pulled my hand toward him, he forced me off my chair. He studied the ring.

 
; “You like it, Bug?” he asked, knowing the answer he would hear, perhaps wanting to hear it anyway.

  “I do,” I said.

  “I’m so glad,” Sage said. “I just wanted to make you happy, and I’m so happy and relieved that you like it, Bug.”

  “It does look a lot like your mother’s ring,” I said.

  “Well, she helped me pick it,” he said. “You don’t think I could’ve done something like that on my own?”

  Then Sage started talking about the future.

  “I just never imagined this, you know? Here I am in Paris…” he said, rolling his R, attempting and failing to attain a passable French accent, “…drinking vintage champagne with the woman with whom I will spend the rest of my life.” That morning, his grammar was impeccable, as if he’d been practicing for the occasion. When I met him, Sage always ended sentences with prepositions; this “with whom” business was a huge improvement.

  Before we even started drinking, Sage started talking and talking about things, things that seemed pent up until this moment. He admitted things. That he pictured fishing trips with me and two blond boys. And I couldn’t help but picture those fateful framed photos. Of him and his brother. And I couldn’t help but wonder whether we marry to move forward, or to go back. To heal wounds? To start over?

  He said he couldn’t wait to get a Lab or a Golden. Painfully Upper West Side yuppie, but I don’t care. He told me he pictured birthday dinners around a large wooden table with cake and candles and party hats. And then he told me he pictured our wedding day, waiting at the head of an aisle watching a gorgeous woman (yes, me) walking toward him cloaked in the purest of white. Yes, he said these words just like that. Borderline poetic.