The Overdue Life of Amy Byler

by Kelly Harms

  Oh.

  The hot librarian is in bed with me. He is snoring. I seem to have brought home a hot librarian last night. Huh.

  Huh?

  I pop up like a jack-in-the-box. No, like a skank-in-the-bed. I’m wearing underpants but nothing else. My breasts are just . . . bare. Where is my shirt? Or my bra? My mouth tastes like I bit off a squirrel’s tail. A city squirrel. The hotel TV is on, quietly playing ESPN, which I believe we put on last night because Daniel wanted to see the Mets highlights. That’s right. Daniel is a baseball fan. He sheepishly asked if we could watch SportsCenter about four minutes after the first time we had sex.

  We had sex!

  More than once.

  Slowly, like I’m in a Mission: Impossible movie, I slink out of the bed sideways. My eyes are on Daniel the entire time, but he doesn’t move a muscle or break his snore. When my feet find the hotel carpet, I dart around looking for the bathrobe, then remember it is on the back of the bathroom door from yesterday’s shower. Ok. To the bathroom. Which has a loud pocket door, but I manage to slide it shut smoothly before turning on the light. In the huge, brightly lit hotel mirror, I see the startling evidence of my misdeeds: tangled bedhead . . . mascara on my cheeks . . . is that a bite mark? I see what might possibly be a small bite mark. I see, to my combined shock and relief, a condom wrapper on the counter. I see the bathrobe and grab it. I see my phone.

  It’s 6:30 a.m. I have a new text from Lena. It says: “Call me in the morning, you wild child.”

  I think I must have drunk texted her last night. I open my messages. Yep. I pretty much live texted my fall from grace. It’s all there in the transcript.

  Amy:

  I’m on a date!!!

  Lena:

  No. Really?

  Amy:

  Really! With a hot librarian. We are at a sushi restaurant. I’m in the bathroom!

  Lena:

  Well, get out of there and go flirt with the hot librarian!

  Amy:

  You’re right! K bye

  And then an hour and a half later,

  Amy:

  I’m in the bathroom again!

  Lena:

  Um . . .

  Amy:

  With the hot librarian!

  Lena:

  He’s in the bathroom with you?

  Amy:

  No! We’re having after-dinner drinks. I think he wants to have sex with me. He makes terrible Latin puns.

  Lena:

  That’s great! I mean, not the puns. That’s awful.

  Amy:

  I’m horrified!

  Lena:

  You’re being silly. Go get some!

  Amy:

  Is that allowed?

  Lena:

  It’s encouraged.

  Amy:

  K bye!

  That’s all there is. Apparently after three high-end cocktails, I didn’t need much encouraging to get naked with a stranger. I set down my phone for a second, wishing I could call Lena, and then I realize maybe I can. I don’t hear anything in here. Not the snoring, not the TV. This bathroom is pretty soundproof.

  “Daniel?” I call out softly. There’s nothing.

  “Daniel?” I say a little more loudly. I wait for a long time. No response.

  “Daniel, the hotel is on fire!” I say louder still.

  When he fails to dash out of bed, I call Lena.

  “I didn’t mean six thirty in the morning,” she says instead of hello.

  “I had sex with a stranger last night!” I stage-whisper.

  “Hey, hey!” The grogginess and enthusiasm mingle in her voice. “That’s great.”

  “What? No. It’s not great. He’s in my hotel room right now, sleeping in my bed!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Locked in the bathroom.”

  “Well. That explains the incredibly loud whispering.”

  “Lena! I’m trapped in a hotel bathroom with no coffee and a stranger in my bed.”

  “Isn’t that the name of a Lifetime movie?” she asks.

  “I could kill you.”

  “Ok, slow down and tell me what you need.”

  “I don’t know. What do I need? I haven’t had sex in three years. Do I need a rabies shot?”

  “Is he part raccoon?” Lena asks. “If not, you don’t. Did you use a condom?”

  I look around the bathroom and take a quick inventory. “Apparently we used three condoms. Successively.”

  “Well, well, well!” she says. “Nice work, Amy! I call that a hell of a comeback.”

  “Lena, I don’t even know his last name.” This isn’t true. It’s something hyphenated with Seong. He goes by Mr. Seong. His mother is a first-generation Korean immigrant. His father is . . . I can’t remember. I know he told me, but it was probably while I was busy being stunned about how handsome he is. And besides, the conversation was so rapid fire we hardly stayed on one subject for long without getting sidetracked.

  “Did you pick him up in a bar?” she asks.

  “No!” I practically shout. “Jeez. How slutty do you think I am?”

  “Not slutty at all,” she says blithely. “There is nothing slutty about safe sex between two consenting single adults.” She pauses a second and then adds, “He is single, right?”

  “Yes! Or . . . I mean, he said he was. I guess he could be lying. Maybe I should google him. Are you near your computer? Can you internet stalk him for me right now?”

  “Aha! So you do know his last name. I knew it.”

  “I just remembered it. It’s Seong.”

  “S-o-n-g?”

  “S-e-o-n-g. First name Daniel. Resource librarian in the New York Public Schools.”

  “Please hold.”

  I sit quietly on the closed toilet for a few moments. Then I blurt, “He took me to a bookstore and got me drunk.”

  Lena snorts through the phone. “Well played, hot librarian. Oooh! I think this must be him. Daniel Seong-Eason. My, he is a hot librarian.”

  “Is there a wife in the pictures?”

  “No wife. This could be a daughter, though. Teenage girl? Looks like him, only girlier.”

  “That’s the one. He has a daughter who is a rising senior. Apparently she’s brilliant. Acing it at Bronx Science.”

  “Very nice. I can’t think of a better streak breaker than this guy,” says Lena. “Is it true that you haven’t had sex in three years? I had more sex than that when I was a nun.”

  “I’m not sure that’s something to brag about,” I say. “Anyway, I feel pretty weird.”

  “Was the sex bad, then?”

  “No. I mean, I’m out of practice, so it all felt weird. And now I feel even weirder after the fact. I mean, is it ok that I did this while my kids’ father is taking care of them day in and day out for an entire week? Are my priorities all out of whack?”

  Lena scoffs. “Wait, you’re asking if it’s ok if you cheated on your ex-husband?”

  “Not ex. Remember, no actual divorce?” I sigh. “Mostly, I’ve been too busy to think about sex or dating much over this time, so it’s not like I’ve been holding out. But yeah, somewhere in the back of my mind, I guess I might have thought of myself as being faithful to him.” Even as I say it, I think of the charges on the credit card. Lingerie. Waxing. Heat rises in my face.

  “Please, Amy. Don’t be a dummy. We’re talking about a man who left his family to live on the other side of the world with a college coed. There’s no one to be faithful to.”

  I frown. “What about my kids?”

  “You think your kids care if you’re celibate? You think they want to know either way?”

  I say nothing because she’s so obviously right.

  “But,” I say, “I mean, if I was going to sleep with someone after all this time, it should have been with someone I’d been on a couple of dates with, right? Someone where there’s a good chance of us having a future together. Not some random stranger from a vacation.”

  “Where on earth are you g
etting those rules from? As I understand it, single adult women are supposed to do exactly what gets their rocks off, without guilt or shame. If for you, that means sex on vacation, where is the harm in that?”

  “I’m not like that.”

  “Apparently you are! Which is good news, because being like ‘that’ is way more fun than the alternative.”

  I am silent for a moment. Finally, I hear myself say, “It really was fun.”

  “Aha!” says Lena victoriously. “Of course it was! That’s awesome!”

  “He is cute, and he has this nice, easy way about him, and he really cares about his kid and his classrooms and teaching. And he did this thing with his mouth on my neck when we were . . . you know.”

  “Wow. Wow! I love it,” says Lena supportively. “So now what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you going to, like, have a vacation affair with him until you come home?”

  “What? Oh no. No, no, no. I’m just wondering how I can get out of this hotel room without waking him up so I never have to see him again. I’m going to stay with Talia tonight. It was just a onetime thing.”

  “A streak breaker.”

  “Exactly. Now I can go another three years without sex if I want to.”

  Lena laughs. “The question is, now that the streak has been broken, will you want to?”

  And in the farthest recesses of my heart comes an answer so unequivocal I almost shout it out. But before I can, the pocket door slides open, and the streak breaker himself is standing in front of me.

  Needless to say, he’s completely naked.

  —

  “Good morning.”

  Daniel is very fit. I remember noticing and commenting on it last night. I was delighted by it then. This morning his lean, broad body isn’t sexy; it’s intimidating. My body is not fit or lean. I clutch my bathrobe around my midsection tightly. That is where I gestated two healthy babies, and you can tell.

  “Um, Lena? Gotta go. Talk later.”

  “Wait, I wanna listen in!” I hear her say as I click off. I turn to Daniel, trying not to look at his flat stomach.

  “Good morning?” I hear myself ask, not exactly sure why it’s a question.

  He grins at me. I imagine he must be taking me in, cowering on the closed lid of a hotel toilet, clutching my phone, a garble of smeared eye makeup and tangled hair and shame.

  “Will you come over here?”

  I stand up hesitantly and take a few slow steps toward him.

  Daniel meets me halfway, puts his too-strong arms around me, and gives me a kiss that is equal parts desire and morning breath. I find it incredibly human and reassuring, and when we break off, I look up at him and smile. “I’m feeling shy,” I tell him. “This is not my usual MO.”

  “Same here,” he says, moving some of my tangled hair away from my jawline. “Well, I’m not shy. But the MO part. Using gratuitous Latin phrases is my modus operandi. It was fun, though, right?”

  I nod. “Really fun.”

  “One thing led to another,” he says.

  “It did.”

  “I wish it could lead to another,” he says, slowly slinking a hand under the edge of my bathrobe. Instead of enjoying the sensation, I wonder if my breasts are droopier than those of other women he’s been with. I remove his hand and pull the robe up higher around my neck.

  He looks disappointed but says, “You’re right. I’d better go,” and turns to find his pants where they dropped the night before. “I want to grab something for my daughter on the way up. Something from Barney Greengrass. She’s in love with the whitefish salad, and I pick some up whenever I’m in the neighborhood.” He pulls on his shorts and pants and starts doing up the fly. “Want to come along and have the best smoked fish of your life?”

  My stomach turns a little. “I think . . . I’d better . . .”

  Daniel kisses me again. “Come with me,” he says. “I know this was a onetime thing, but I don’t want to say goodbye just yet.”

  I blink. A onetime thing. Ok, I think. He gets it. Good, right? It feels not so good.

  “I’m sorry, Daniel. I just can’t. I didn’t sleep enough, and I’ve got to make it to at least three more presentations today to get my hours before the conference ends.”

  He nods. “Of course, I get it. And then back to Pennsylvania?”

  I quirk my mouth. I’m here for a few more days. Would I want to see him again during that time? Absolutely I would. But look at him. Look at me. I don’t want to be around when his gin goggles finally wear off. “Back to Pennsylvania, yeah.”

  He smiles without teeth. “Too bad.”

  I sigh and look away. Is this what I wanted out of this trip? One-night stands in hotels, awkward partings, some strange cocktail of pleasure and guilt, longing and shame, all combined together?

  The hell with that. I look down and touch the knot of my robe. He’s already seen me naked, and he still wanted to have sex with me. He saw me this morning and didn’t run screaming. What am I hiding? What am I so afraid of?

  “Daniel?” I say, looking up. He’s already tying up the laces of his Sperrys.

  I should just let him go. I should just be happy for this little adventure and keep in mind that real life is just five days away.

  “Mmm?” he says when he straightens up.

  “Last night was incredible,” I say. Then I stand on my tiptoes and plant the hottest, most confident, most adult kiss I can summon on his lips.

  “Mmm,” he says again, with a very different tone this time.

  “If you’re in my neck of the woods, you’ll drop me a line, right?” I ask as I pull away.

  He looks at me, trying to read my face, probably wondering what the hell I want. Since I don’t know, either, I say good luck to him. After a moment, he starts buttoning his shirt. “Absolutely. And the same goes for you.” He is fully dressed now. This is almost over. I am almost in the clear.

  I nod. “Have fun with the smoked fish.”

  He raises his eyebrows and gives me a little half smile. “I always do,” he says lightly. And then with slightly more weight, he says, “Goodbye, Amy. Thanks for an amazing night.” And he kisses me and walks out the heavy hotel door, and just like that, he is gone.

  —

  “Welly, well, well,” says Talia when she opens the door of her condo to me that night. “You’re finally here.”

  The conference is over. I checked out of my hotel, a little sadly, went back up to Columbia for a few more workshops, and then spent a couple of hours wandering around Talia’s neighborhood, suitcase in tow. Ten minutes before we were supposed to meet, she texted me to tell me her appointment had gone late and she’d meet me at her place an hour later. I wheeled my bag into an Irish pub and had a beer.

  Finally, at long last, she texted and told me she was almost home, and I beelined for her place. Which, I quickly learned, was not the building I’d been trying to get into the last time I’d been on this street. Someone, I will not say who, had inverted the street number of her own apartment building in her previous text.

  “You’re finally here,” I say back to her. “Look at you!”

  She takes my handbag out of my hands and puts it on a table by the door, then does a little twirl. White pressed shirt, cream trousers, brown leather belt, orange scarf in her hair. “Not bad for a Sunday, right? Come give me a hug.”

  I oblige. Talia is skin and bones, as usual. I often wonder if she’s this thin because she works in fashion or if she works in fashion because she is this thin. Either way, she’s got a dress hanger of a body with a pretty but commanding face. Not actress good looks, but something more powerful than that.

  “Your hair is so curly. It’s gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. This fall will be all about the natural look for women of color, you know. You have no idea how many hours a week this trend is saving me. I’ll have to quit watching TV when it goes back to straight again.”

  “Have you ever thought of just doing you
r hair the way you like it, regardless of fashion’s whims?”

  She looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Have you ever thought about a bra fitting?”

  I look down. “That bad, huh?”

  “How old is that bra?”

  I think for a second. “Same age as my teenager, I guess.”

  “Bras are not supposed to reach their teen years. Let’s put that on the schedule.”

  “There’s a schedule?”

  “Hey, Alexa,” Talia suddenly calls to no one. “Text Matt.”

  “What do you want me to tell Matt?” asks a disembodied male voice with a thick Australian accent.

  “Make a bra-fitting appointment for tomorrow with Iris.”

  “Done,” says the voice.

  “Your Alexa is Australian?”

  “Like Crocodile Dundee doing my bidding,” she says. “G’day, mistress!”

  I laugh and then stop myself. “What’s this about a schedule?” I ask sternly.

  “Am I right that you’ve got nothing to do this week?” she asks. “You said your nerdfest was over today.”

  “You mean my librarians’ conference? Yes, it’s done now.”

  “So I thought of a few fun things for you to do while I’m working. Actually, Lena and I both did.”

  “Lena? My Lena from PA?”

  “Yep, she Facebooked me out of the blue. She’s pretty delightful, for a nun. She told me to expect that you’d try to spend every moment reading and watching Bravo in my apartment for the next five days. We both agreed we couldn’t have that.”

  My heart falls as I think of six new books on my e-reader, carefully chosen for the next few days. “We can’t?”

  “This is your momcation.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “You’re right. Ok. Your . . .” She fishes around for the perfect word. “Your momspringa.”

  “My what now?” I ask.

  “Momspringa. Like rumspringa? Where the kids go wild before they settle back down to buggies and monochrome dressing? You’re the Amish one; you know what that is.”