Keep Me Posted

by Lisa Beazley

  The week of Jake’s restaurant party had arrived, and after the embarrassment of the yoga class, I was determined to redeem myself. I had worked more running into my nightly walk-runs, a strategy that was supposed to help both my restless legs syndrome and my overall physique. A free makeover at Sephora and three hundred dollars’ worth of products had me looking a bit more put together, and I had the perfect outfit from my ShopBop splurge. It wasn’t only about being seen by Jake, I told myself. This was going to be the way I always dressed and looked from now on.

  The night of the party, as I was headed out the door to meet her, I got a text from Monica. “Covered in barf! A+J both sick. Can’t come. So sorry! xM.” I texted Mandy, but she was on a date. I thought about going home, but it was a gorgeous June night, and I was all dressed and the party was only a few blocks away. I figured I’d go, congratulate Jake, have a bite, and leave after one or two drinks. I wonder how differently the night would have gone had Mandy been available. Mandy is the one who introduced Leo and me. They were neighbors, and she had mentioned him to me a few times—the cute guy who always helped her move stuff. Mandy doesn’t like labels, but she dates women. So when she learned that Leo was single, she immediately thought of me, fresh off my latest breakup with Jake. She invited both of us and a handful of other friends over for one of her game nights. After several rounds of Balderdash and red wine, we started on Encore, a game where your team wins by being able to sing a song with the word on the card. Leo and I were on opposite teams, but we were unquestionably the MVPs. He seemed to know every pop song ever recorded from the mideighties through the early nineties, while I specialized in nineties alt-rock and show tunes, thanks to my high school devotion to the local college radio station and Grandma Margie’s love of musical theater. He had a terrible voice but could carry a tune, so everyone recognized his songs. My voice wasn’t as bad as his, but I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life. In all, we sounded awful and had everyone in hysterics over the obscure songs we’d recall. We went back and forth for what seemed like an hour on “rain” songs. By the time we petered out, everyone else had lost interest in the game, which left Leo and me drunkenly serenading each other, gray toothed and purple lipped from the red wine. The party moved from Mandy’s to the Spring Lounge, where Leo and I huddled at the jukebox and flirtatiously argued about what to play. When a group of twentysomethings vacated a booth near us, we nabbed it and sat across from each other, until last call, yelling to be heard above the noise. I remember thinking that it would be easier to continue our conversation if we sat beside each other, but I was afraid to make any small change for fear things would be less perfect if any single variable was shifted. For the same reason, I held my pee for the last hour. My heart beat faster when I realized why he seemed so familiar to me. With his kind eyes, longish face, perfect smile, and wavy, wiry hair—he looks an awful lot like Jimmy Stewart. I had seen both It’s a Wonderful Life and Rear Window at least a dozen times and had always had a strange crush on Jimmy Stewart. Of course, it was 2006 and not 1947, but still, I couldn’t believe my luck that this guy was single and, it seemed, interested. We sat in that booth until last call, when Mandy and the rest left without saying goodbye. We clearly didn’t want to be interrupted. While he walked me home at four in the morning, I stopped myself from busting into “Buffalo Gals,” but I did allow myself to imagine me as Mary and him as George. That night I learned that he’d spent most of his childhood and adolescence in the back of a Volkswagen Vanogan listening to Top 40 radio. He was one of four boys and had some kind of bone disorder and had to wear leg braces until he was thirteen, so while the rest of his brothers were shuttled around to their various sports activities, he sat and listened to music, memorizing lyrics. The next day I slept until two in the afternoon, and he called me at six and asked me to join him in a five-mile run in Central Park later that week. It was called the Run Hit Wonder, and every mile there was a one-hit-wonder band from the eighties or nineties playing their famous song. After we passed Tone Lo¯c performing “Funky Cold Medina,” he said, “This is a cool first date, isn’t it?” When I didn’t answer right away, he nudged me with his elbow. “Hey, don’t pretend you didn’t know this was a date.” “I wasn’t!” I panted. “I mean, I did pay your entrance fee, which includes all-you-can drink Vitaminwater and a banana. Plus, we are going to, like, five concerts in one. I mean, did you ever imagine you’d be this close to Tone Lo¯c?” “Okay, you’re right. It’s an awesome first date.” We exchanged a smile that remained on both of our faces for an embarrassingly long time. Afterward we took the subway back to my stop and he walked me to my door. It was a strange time of day to end a date—about eight o’clock at night—but we said good night and I let him kiss me. Then I went upstairs with my race swag, took a shower, ordered Thai food, and fell asleep on the couch, watching It’s a Wonderful Life. Things progressed quickly between us from there. Within two weeks, we were sleeping at each other’s place nearly every night. Jake’s predictable call a few weeks after that went unreturned. Leo and I had settled into our own routine. We went to a new restaurant every Thursday and the same little Chinese place around the corner from his apartment every Friday. Saturdays we’d stay in and watch a movie, and we’d spend Sundays—my favorite days—lounging around reading the New York Times, eating bagels, having afternoon sex, and occasionally going to the park or a museum. We’d retreat to our own apartments for a night or two on Monday, when I’d catch up on doing laundry, paying bills, and other mundane tasks that tend to fall through the cracks when one is in love. But I wasn’t replaying the early days of our romance when I walked alone to the party. I was psyching myself up for a solo entrance and hoping I would be able to find some non-mom things to talk about with a bunch of hip strangers. New York June 20 Sid, I’m sitting at the bar at the Pig, trying to pretend I’m not really here. I can’t leave. So I’m sipping my third fourth Stoli and soda and scribbling this to you because apparently I’ve forgotten how to talk to adult people. I might not actually send this to you, but I’m just relieved that my hands and eyes and brain have something to do. Jesus. Bono is here. Fucking Bono. And so is Emilio Estevez! This is too funny—remember how many times we watched The Breakfast Club? He is so small! Honestly, I could hold him in the palm of my hand. He’s not talking to anyone. Maybe I’ll go tell him about our Breakfast Club obsession—I’m sure he never gets that from drunk thirtysomething women! Never mind. Now he’s talking to Jake. Jaaaake. He looks so good, Sid. I’ll try to snap a picture for you. This is bad, but I can’t stop wishing Jake would pull me into that tiny bathroom and push me up against the wall. I’m starting to think that’s why I came here, actually. I didn’t admit it to myself at first. I mean, of course I wouldn’t have come with that as my mission. But now that I’m here and with a few drinks under my belt and all this candlelight and no one to talk to, it’s all I’ve been able to think about. I’m so embarrassed. When I first arrived I was all giggly and touchy and he was all “Where’s your husband?” And then he introduced me to his beautiful girlfriend, who looked really familiar and is possibly famous. But I can’t leave NOW. I don’t want him to think I was thinking what I was thinking, so my brilliant strategy is to stay and prove to him that I’m not in the least bit interested in him. That I’m just here as his mature, happily married ex to offer support and congratulations. And that I’m so secure that I don’t mind hanging out all by myself. And that I’m some sort of reporter or poet or songwriter who needs to be scribbling away at the bar in the middle of this party. (Sorry that I’m writing this really, really small—it’s so no one can see it.) Even though I’ve spent most of the evening alone, it is fun to be out. I miss this. No one here is in any way connected to my kids or me as a mom. I haven’t felt this free in years. Okay, I need to stop now and make another attempt at small talk. I think I was a bit unkind to these tiny, pretty twenty-five-year-olds who were actually being nice by talking to me
, but they kept misusing “random” and “literally” and I just couldn’t go along with it. One of them was doing this bit about how much she loved bacon and kind of tittering about it, like a hot, skinny girl with an interest in bacon was the most hilariously adorable thing ever. Clearly this bacon-loving shtick has worked in the past, but God, was it painful to watch. Did I ever act like that when I was single? I don’t remember anyone ever behaving like that. Lord help me if I get stuck with those two again. Xoxox, Cass I carefully tucked my letter into the zipper inside my clutch, climbed down from my barstool, and noticed that a small dance party had broken out in the opposite corner of the restaurant. I’d like to point out here that I was always a good dancer. The reason I know this is that good dancers were always coming and dancing with me. So, welcoming the opportunity to do something other than make more awkward small talk, I made my way into the fray. Within forty-five seconds, two realizations set in: One, I hadn’t been dancing since before the twins were born, and two, prebaby dancing is a whole different animal from postbaby dancing. It was as if my hips and core were in no way connected to my arms and legs. My inebriated state and the lack of recent practice I’d had in four-inch heels couldn’t have helped. I knew that things were off, even without the added assurance of my seeming invisibility to the better dancers in the crowd. Nonetheless, I plugged away for several songs, thinking—hoping—it would all come back to me. And then it was, Maybe this shot of tequila will loosen me up. I remember feeling indignant: I mean, I used to be somebody on the dance floor. Now I was clearly somebody’s mom on the dance floor. When I finally decided it was time to go, I was having difficulty walking, let alone dancing. I found Jake and made an attempt at a classy goodbye. I must have slurred my words, because he laughed at me and took me by the arm. “I’ll get you a cab,” he said, leading me to the door. “Don’t be crazy—it’s, like, four blocks!” “Maybe I should walk you home,” he said. “Oh my God, stop it!” I said, playfully pushing him away. “Listen, thanks for the invite. Great party. Congratulations on all of this. I’m so happy for you.” The hand I was using to push him off was still on his chest. He ushered me out the front door, and I said, “Okay, take care, Jake,” and we both leaned in for the perfunctory cheek peck. One of us leaned the wrong way or something. I’m not sure what happened, but the sides of our lips grazed, and then, instead of correcting themselves to their rightful place in the air on his outer cheek, my lips—his too, I think—were pulled back to the center, where they met and lingered for three or four seconds before I pulled away and then went back in, my hands at the back of his neck. For a few frantic seconds, the kiss deepened, his hands seized my ass, and we walked backward until I was pushed against the side of his restaurant. Suddenly we both pulled away at the same time. He didn’t apologize or act as if anything strange had happened, and neither did I. Without another word, I turned and left. Walking home, I convinced myself that nothing had happened—not really. Before going upstairs, I picked up an egg-and-cheese sandwich and a Gatorade from the bodega, an effort to get in front of a hangover as well as erase the taste of Jake’s lips. I carefully entered my dark apartment and sat at the tiny desk in the entryway, then took the letter out of my bag and added, PS—Oh shit!!! Jake and I made out!!! Then, because I was already sitting there at my desk eating my sandwich, I scanned the letter and saved it before finishing the Gatorade with two Advil, washing my face, brushing my teeth, and climbing into bed. You know that terrible feeling when you realize you sent an e-mail to the wrong person? Say you’re making fun of your boss and instead of forwarding your zinger to your best friend, you hit reply and it goes to your boss. And then you fumble around trying to unsend it, to no avail. And then you sit there with a stomachache until you get a response? Well, that’s how I felt times ten when, moments after I watched Quinn drop my letter from the Pig into the mailbox, I opened this: Singapore