Life After Coffee

by Virginia Franken

  But worse than all these questions ricocheting around my head is the realization that I actually kind of do want to go out with Matt, just the two of us. And I know I’ll give it much more thought than I should, until the day it happens.

  CHAPTER 15

  So everything was going just fine until the three-day mark. Days one and two, Peter came home from the new job late, but happy. However, it’s now day three and he’s home early. Not so early that the kids are still up, but way too early in the evening for a network writer to be coming home. Too early for it to be anything other than a bad sign. He’s been sitting on the couch now for about ten minutes looking seriously tense. We’ve exchanged guarded hellos, but that’s it. I know better than to try and coax out whatever’s troubling him. Firstly, because with Peter, it’s definitely better off in than out, and secondly, I already know what the trouble is. It’s the trouble that’s been inevitable from the beginning of this new job: Peter’s not a team player. In fact, if we can get to two weeks in and claim just one paycheck, I’ll be happy—and rather surprised too.

  As if he’s just been stung on the butt by a wasp, Peter jumps off the couch and charges out the front door. I sneak a look out the window. He’s making a phone call. The front yard is his private call place. I don’t know why he thinks it’s any more private than sitting beside me in the living room. I can hear every word he says through the windows. Somehow, the glass that was used in the twenties, when this house was built, has survived in those same frames for almost a century. It lets in the cold, the heat, and also Peter’s phone calls much more generously than modern-day windowpanes would. It’s pretty clear from the first few sentences that Peter’s talking to Matt. It’s also clear that Peter’s doing everything he can to control his temper and that Matt seems to be doing everything he can to provoke him.

  “It’s just that this seems directly oppositional to everything you said before . . . Yes, I do understand the new direction, but I still don’t think that . . . Uh-huh . . . I think you’re wrong about that . . . Yes, I know what executive producer means . . . I just don’t see why you have to tear me a new one in front of the whole room . . . fine.”

  The phone call comes to an abrupt end. I wonder if Peter’s already blown it just three days in. Why can’t he just play nicely, for God’s sake? I leave him sulking on the porch, and knowing what I’m going to do even before I’ve granted myself permission to do it, I make my way to the back of the house for a private phone call of my own.

  So, after pressing me to pledge my eternal friendship the other day, Matt has yet to contact me about us “hanging out.” And frankly, I’m annoyed about it. It’s like he’s dumped me all over again. It’s like he’s too busy for me all over again. If I were a wiser sort of person, I’d surely be focusing my attention on the other areas of my life that need serious help right now—for example, my lack of employment, my terrible parenting skills, my sticky marriage—but like a scab that demands to be picked, I keep coming back to Matt and wondering why he hasn’t called me for this hangout. It’s ridiculous! This is one of the reasons you get married: so you never have to worry about this kind of crap ever again. And it’s not that I even want to hang out. I just want him to want to hang out so that I can say “no thanks” and then put the phone down, shaking my head at what a sad loser he is to be so desperately obsessed with his ex. However, this little fantasy of mine has been ruined by the fact that he’s clearly demonstrated that he’s got more on his mind than calling me. But now, after overhearing Peter’s phone call, I have what I’ve been waiting for: a bona fide reason to call him. And while I’m doing my wifely duty of asking Matt to take it easy on Peter, he’ll suddenly remember what an idiot he is for losing me, urgently ask to see me, and I’ll say no. Mission accomplished. It really is disgraceful the lengths I will go to satisfy my ego.

  I tap out Matt’s number. It rings. It rings for way too long. I use the time to try to convince myself that ego has nothing to do with why I’m calling; I’m just trying to help out my husband here. Right as I’m about to hang up, he answers.

  “Amy. I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Really? Well, what happened? All the skin on your index finger fall off?” is what I want to say. Instead, I give a noncommittal “Oh?” and move straight on. “I just wanted to talk to you about Peter. See how he’s getting on. He seems a bit . . . tense.”

  “Let’s meet.”

  “Meet?” I ask the question as though the thought never crossed my mind. If they gave out Oscars to normal people for Excellent Acting in a Real-World Situation, I would be awarded one purely on the strength of my “Meet?”

  “Can you get out now?”

  “No, Matt. I don’t want to meet.” There. I’ve said it. For some reason my ego is not doing the happy dance.

  “Why not? Is it because you still have feelings for me?”

  “What? No!” Yes. Damn it. This is not how I saw this conversation panning out. Why does he have to be so sincere about everything? It’s like he’s taken a course in sincere conversations since I last knew him. It makes everything so much harder to talk about with no wall of humor to hide behind.

  “Okay, I just wanted to check. You didn’t seem completely comfortable around me the last time we met.”

  And what’s with his heightened concern for my comfort these days? Maybe he spends so many hours walking around passing out emotional cushioning to writers that it’s just become a habit. “Are you comfortable? Does this make you uncomfortable? I’m just concerned that you might not be completely comfortable.” Such an insipid word. If comfortable was a color, it would be beige. Rental-unit-carpet beige.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Great. Then I do think we should meet quickly to talk about Peter. I have some concerns.”

  Sigh. Now it’s all got twisted around, and if I continue to resist our meeting, he won’t think it’s because I’m so over him, he’ll think it’s because I never got over him.

  “Fine. Where?”

  “McKlusky’s. Half an hour.”

  Forty minutes later I’m sitting on a very wobbly stool at the bar, by myself, looking like a weirdo. I’m waiting for Matt. He’s late. He’s always late. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed, I suppose. I’m kind of surprised that Matt picked McKlusky’s for our late-night meet-up. I thought he would be way beyond the dive bar thing by now. Especially as McKlusky’s isn’t one of those ironically cool Los Feliz–type dive bars. It’s just a chintzy Scottish bar that’s a complete dive. We used to hang out here all the time when we were together. In fact, it’s where we first met.

  Ten minutes and another Coors Light later, Matt finally makes his entrance.

  “Can I get a Glenlivet?” he asks the bartender. “Amy, hi.” He kisses me on the cheek. It bugs me that he ordered his drink before he said hello to me—the person who’s been waiting on a wobbly barstool for him for twenty minutes.

  “We don’t have Glenlivet.”

  “What single malts do you have?”

  “We don’t have single malts. We have Jack Daniel’s.”

  Matt’s acting like he’s never been to this bar before in his life.

  “I’ll just have a water, then. Thanks. No ice.”

  “Why did you ask to meet here if you were going to ask for single-malt whiskeys?”

  “Sorry. I forgot. I just wanted to go somewhere where you’d be, you know . . .” He glances at my torn-up are-they-slippers-are-they-snow-boots. There’s at least one button missing on each one.

  “Comfortable?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “I’m concerned . . .” He takes a sip of his water and then makes a face. “Do you have anything bottled?” he asks.

  “Bottled? No.” The bartender half laughs before walking off. I’m glad McKlusky’s is dark enough that no one can see me turn two shades pinker. I’ll never be able to come to this bar ever again. Not that Peter and I get to go barhopping much. Or at all. “I’m concerned for you,” he says.


  “Why?”

  “Because you’re married to Peter. And he’s an ass.”

  Looks like we’re diving straight in, then.

  “What do you mean by ass, exactly?” My tone comes out edgy and I do nothing to soften it. I’m allowed to criticize my husband all I like, but that doesn’t mean I like it when other people jump on the bandwagon. In fact, I feel obliged to shove them off.

  “Rewrite is a dirty word to that man. It’s ridiculous. He insists his vision for every scene is completely perfect, and he takes any suggested changes as an affront to his entire character. He’s impossible.”

  “I know he can be difficult.” Matt raises one eyebrow. Goodness, he’s really perfected that move. “Okay, he can be a complete asshole. He just gets triggered by criticism. His parents were super critical when he was a kid, and it’s like his capacity for hearing it just got all filled up by the time he was eighteen. And now he can’t handle it. I know you have to suggest changes and stuff, but maybe you could try not to do it in front of other people. Send him an e-mail or something.”

  “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Just go a little easy on him. For me. Just while he’s finding his feet. Give him the benefit of the doubt for a couple of weeks at least.”

  “And why should I do that?”

  “Because he’s had a rough time up till now.”

  “Not really my problem.”

  “You made it your problem when you gave him a job.” Matt stares down into his glass. I wonder if he feels silly that there’s only water in there. Who comes to a Scottish dive bar and drinks water? “You knew he was hard to work with. Everyone knows that. But he’s good, right? That’s why you decided to take the risk.”

  “He’s not good enough to put up with that bullshit. No one could be that good. But you’re right: I knew what I was getting into. And I did it for you.” Now, friends do friends big favors all the time. However, Matt is not looking at me like he’s a friend who just did a bud a solid right now. He’s looking at me like I’m breaking his heart. “I still care about you, Amy. Really care. Maybe I shouldn’t say that.”

  He reads the confused expression on my face and knocks one of my knees playfully in between his. We always used to knee wrestle on these barstools. I always won. One time we broke a stool and got banned for an entire week. We smile at the unspoken memory and without another word said, I get it. I know what we’re doing here. Our story isn’t done. It’s like a book you got tired of that keeps flipping open to the same page where you left off, demanding to be read all the way to the end. We never finished our story properly. So maybe this is our chance to figure it out the right way this time. And, of course, the right way is to be nice grown-up friends and has nothing to do with thinking about leaning forward on our wobbly barstools and kissing in the middle of a Scottish dive bar. But then before I can stop it, like a fat bluebottle that’s impossible to swat, that notion of My Rightful Life is buzzing around my head again. Only this time, the idea is wondering if I could still have it. If maybe all I have to do is be brave or selfish enough to claim it. It suddenly occurs to me that if I were living a life of luxury with Matt and sharing custody with Peter, I’d actually get to see my kids more than if Peter and I were together and I was working as a buyer. I compel myself to squash that thought. A family is a family. And besides, I love Peter. That’s the reason I’m here—to try and help him out. Right?

  “I’ll keep Peter on a little longer. See if he can settle into things,” says Matt.

  “Thank you,” I say. “And do me a favor: don’t mention that we talked, okay?”

  “I won’t. And I guess I won’t mention either that we went to our old bar and I beat you flat out at a game of knee wrestle.” Before I can answer him, he’s got two knees around mine and my barstool’s tipped almost ninety degrees. I grab the bar, hook my trapped leg around the back of his, and deftly send him flying toward the floor, the stool clattering down behind him. He falls hard on his hip.

  “Shit! Are you okay?” I ask, suppressing my laughter. I have a socially unacceptable tendency to laugh extremely hard whenever somebody falls over. If they hurt themselves, I find it even funnier. I read somewhere once that it’s actually a neurological condition.

  “I’m fine,” he says. He doesn’t seem fine. He seems really hurt. My chest is shaking with the effort of holding the laughter in. “I don’t remember it hurting this badly before.”

  “That’s because you were a decade younger and usually very drunk.” I help him up off the floor. “You forgot about my ultimate leg-hook move.”

  “I did,” he says. “I forgot a lot of things about you, but I’m gradually remembering.”

  “Good,” I say. We’re standing pretty close to each other. From here he could easily grab the top of my jeans just like he always used to and pull me in toward him. I bend down to pick up the barstool before either one of us gets any ideas about moving closer.

  “You’ve bruised me,” he says.

  “You bruised yourself,” I reply. “Can you walk?” He shuffles forward a little. He’s fine. He sits himself back on his barstool.

  “Another drink?” he asks. “A proper one this time.”

  “I can’t,” I say. “I told Peter I was popping out for wood glue.”

  “Wood glue?”

  “For Billy’s homework.”

  “You love being a mom.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am. I guess despite what you always said, I didn’t think you’d ever really want kids at all. Just didn’t seem like it would be realistic.” I must look pretty annoyed, because he adds, “I just mean with all the other stuff you do.”

  “Work stuff?”

  “Yeah, work stuff.”

  “Women do both these days, you know. It’s not normally a one-or-the-other type of situation.”

  “I know that. I just thought it might be hard for you. Anyway—looks like you have it all figured out.”

  “Yup, I do. It’s all figured out.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Great for me. I’ve got to go.” I give him a brief kiss on the cheek. He even smells expensive. And then I take a step away. I walk out of the bar. And I leave.

  Matt and I will not be meeting up as friends again. That was too close. We’re still too close. I’m shutting this down now, before either one of us gets any more bruised.

  CHAPTER 16

  In the spirit of shutting things down before they even begin, I diligently ignore Matt’s texts over the course of the next week. There’s been a Hi, a How are things?, and then a few days after that a ???. I gave a bland response about being fine/busy to the multiple question marks—just to keep him happy (he is my husband’s boss, after all). And after that there came a text about meeting, which I didn’t respond to. After another set of indignant ???, I was busy formulating a suitably beige response about not being comfortable with us meeting up again when he took control of the situation, and now I’m sitting in the reception area of Colburn Entertainment. Waiting. For Matt. And Peter too as it turns out. And all of the other writers’ significant others. Matt’s arranged some kind of social event. And my presence is, apparently, necessary.

  I made a valiant effort to get out of it. Of course I did. But Peter really wanted me to come. And the more I made excuses, the more suspicious I could see him getting. My last hope was that we’d never find a babysitter (we haven’t needed one up till now), but unfortunately Lizzie gave us numbers for the four college students she uses on continuous rotation. So my last legitimate excuse went out the window, and here I am.

  Best-case scenario, it’s going to be super awkward. Worst-case scenario, we all get drunk, Matt and I hog the karaoke machine, start singing “Reunited,” and end up making out in front of everyone. Less than ideal.

  I’m on time—which is my first mistake, as this actually translates as horrifyingly early. Matt’s receptionist (whose lips really are as sultry and pouty as I’d i
magined) made that clear when I first announced my presence.

  “Ummm, they won’t be done for a while yet,” she said. I believe the way she drew out the “umm” for about thirty seconds was specifically in order for me to realize how ridiculous I was for showing up so “early.” It looks like the other spouses know how this works as I’m the only one who’s showed up so far, even though we were supposed to have met twenty minutes ago. My second mistake is what I’m wearing. Trying to get into the spirit of Going Out And Having Fun, I put on a pretty tight pair of jeans, my only high heels (which are made from some kind of scary material that squeaks loudly whenever the shoes touch one other), and a white top covered in tassels. I was going for bohemian chic, but after looking at Pouty (who’s dressed in leggings and a T-shirt but somehow looks two hundred percent more ready to party than I do), I can see that I just look old.

  I’m sipping an extremely bland cup of coffee that she’s prepared for me from the ten-thousand-dollar espresso machine in the corner. Maybe that could be a good idea for a business: go around teaching Hollywood’s assistants how to make a drinkable cup of coffee using nothing more than a drip cup and some decent beans. I know for a fact that Matt makes people lug that ridiculous machine on set when he’s filming. I read about it in some stupid Forbes profile I came across during my most recent “Matt Colburn” Googlefest. If the machine was some bizarre way of trying to impress me, it’s backfired horribly for him.

  I just start tapping out a text to Peter to tell him I’m leaving when the door opens and another wife shows up. At least I presume she’s a wife. She looks too casual for an executive, and the very few female writers I’ve met usually reveal much less skin. I’m sure they’d be worried about distracting the rest of the all-male writing room.

  “Kendra! OMG, it’s been for-ev-er!” the wife says to Pouty. She actually says the letters O-M-G. I didn’t know you could do that.

  “Oh, hi! How are you?” replies Pouty, who suddenly pulls her eyes fully away from her phone for the first time since I got here and stands to attention. “They’re still working. Shall I go in?”