This Was Not the Plan

by Cristina Alger

  “Why? Because he’s not some hard-charging corporate lawyer?”

  “No, because he’s just . . . he seems really chill. Doesn’t he look like that dude from The Hangover?”

  “Zach Galifianakis?” Zadie giggles a little, even though she’s trying to be annoyed with me. “That’s just because of the beard.”

  “And the beer belly. And the Birkenstocks.”

  “Charlie! You can be so judgmental sometimes. Seriously. Like with Buck. Why can’t you just accept that not every guy is going to be as type A as you? Just because a guy is laid back doesn’t mean he’s some lazy, freeloading stoner.”

  “Buck is a stoner. We’ve established this.”

  “Okay, well, I don’t think Tom is. And regardless, both are really nice, solid guys. It might do you some good to spend time with them.”

  We’re heading for a fight, I realize, and a stupid one at that. “You’re right,” I concede. “I should get to know Tom.”

  “And Buck.”

  “And Buck.”

  “Good,” she says, and inhales sharply. “Because I have some news.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Buck and I are engaged.”

  Though I can’t honestly say it comes as a surprise, the nonchalance with which Zadie drops this news on me stuns me.

  “Congrats,” I say, sounding even less enthusiastic than I actually am.

  “Gosh, thanks.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just a little caught off guard by this.”

  “Come on, Charlie. You know I love him.”

  “It’s not the engagement itself. It’s just the timing I’m finding a little surprising.”

  “What timing? We’ve been together for a year.”

  “It’s just not exactly an awesome time for me right now,” I say, knowing full well how self-centered this sounds. “You moving out is going to be a big change for Caleb, and we haven’t even told him about my job yet—”

  “Please do not bring Caleb into this,” Zadie snaps. “That is not fair to me. I live for that kid. You know that.”

  “I know you do. I just feel like the timing—”

  “Yes, you said that already. The timing of my engagement is not working for you. Well, you know what, Charlie? Maybe I don’t care. Maybe this is what works for me. Did you ever think about that?”

  I bite my lip.

  “Exactly,” she says with a loud sniff.

  “Listen, Zadie, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be a prick. I’m happy for you.”

  “Yeah, you sound thrilled.”

  “So, do you have a date?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  “We were thinking July twenty-first.”

  “Jesus Christ, Zadie! That’s in three weeks.”

  “So?”

  “So, what’s the rush?”

  “The rush is that we are in love and we want to be together. Listen, you should be happy there’s a wedding at all. Buck wanted to go to City Hall and just get it done.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Actually, I thought it was very romantic.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Don’t roll your eyes,” Zadie huffs.

  “I didn’t!”

  “Could you just come out here to East Hampton, please?”

  “What? East Hampton? Why?”

  “I need your help planning. We want to get married out here.”

  “Zadie—”

  “Just pack a big bag, come this weekend, and stay through the wedding. There’s tons of room for everyone at this house.”

  I groan. “This weekend? Thanks for the heads-up.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had such a full dance card.”

  I pause, unable to come up with a quick retort. Normally, I wouldn’t be able to just toss a bag in a car and drive off for a spontaneous vacation. I’m way too much of a planner for that kind of thing. But right now I can’t think of a good reason why not.

  Maybe it’s time to do things a little differently, I think to myself. Maybe I need to loosen up.

  “Fine, fine,” I scowl. “We’ll come.”

  “Oh, hooray!” Zadie says, sounding both surprised and delighted.

  “Do you have a venue in mind, at least?”

  “Well, that was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Zadie. You need to find a freaking venue.”

  “We have a venue. It’s just . . .” She trails off, and I realize that this is the part where she asks me for money. I cock the phone between my ear and my shoulder so I can rub my temples. “It’s just a little complicated,” she says.

  “I bet it is. It would probably be less so if you gave yourself some lead time.”

  “Maybe. But how hard can it be? Buck and I are low-key people. We just need some flowers, some food, a band . . .”

  “Famous last words.”

  “I have a dress.”

  “Well, that’s something. Did he at least get you a ring?”

  “Of course he got me a ring. And it’s quite beautiful, thank you very much. It’s an antique.”

  I bite my tongue. “So I don’t get a vote on the date, huh?”

  “No, you don’t. Life’s not fair.”

  “You really don’t need to tell that to the thirty-five-year-old widower.”

  “Charlie, please. For once.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Look, I want you to be happy. Even if it means I have to pay for a big expensive Hamptons wedding. In three weeks.”

  “Who said anything about expensive?”

  “Isn’t that what ‘complicated’ means in bridespeak?”

  “No,” Zadie says, obviously offended. “ ‘Complicated’ means complicated. Anyway, you’re not paying for the wedding. We have it all figured out.”

  “Buck’s paying for something? Now I am rolling my eyes.”

  “And I’m hanging up.”

  “Fine. Congrats again.”

  “I really am happy, Charlie.”

  “I’m happy you’re happy.”

  “I want you to be happy, too.”

  “Working on it.”

  “Well, work harder. Kiss Caleb for me, all right? I love you guys. Even when you’re being a stubborn asshole, I still love you.”

  “I appreciate that,” I say. After a second I add, “We both miss you, Zadie,” but she’s already hung up the phone.

  Pickup

  I’m on my knees, double-knotting Caleb’s sneakers while he sits on the bench in the lobby of his preschool, when I get the sense that I’m being watched. I look up to see a woman hovering over me. She’s wearing a low-cut blouse that’s doing an inadequate job of covering up her ample breasts. She beams at me with such abject tenderness that I can only assume she’s either intoxicated or a friend of Mira’s who I can’t quite remember.

  “Hi, there,” she purrs, her words slurring together with the slightest tinge of Southern drawl. “Charlie, right?”

  “Yep.” I pop to my feet as fast as I can so that she’ll stop bending over me. She straightens up; the breasts mercifully recede into her blouse. I stare at her face, rack my brain for a name.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, unable to place her. “I can’t seem to remember anyone’s name today.”

  “Oh, we haven’t met.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and lets out a shrill laugh, as though this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. A manicured hand finds its way to my bicep. “I’m Coralie Davis. Arabella’s mom.”

  “Right. Arabella’s mom.”

  Caleb, drawn to Coralie’s armload of glittering bangles, reaches for her.

  “Well, hello there!” Coralie says, giving his hand a little squeeze.

  “Pretty,” Caleb says in response.

  “What a sweetie you are!” Coralie shifts her focus back to me. “And what a good daddy you are.” The way she says “good daddy” makes it sound vaguely dirty. Coralie moves in closer. I notice with moderate trepidation that she is not
wearing a wedding ring.

  “Oh, well. Thanks so much.” I start to pull my arm away, but Coralie is having none of it. She tightens her grasp, the sharp points of her nails digging in through my worn Star Wars hoodie. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caleb frowning at us disapprovingly.

  “I mean, my ex-husband would never bother to pick up Arabella. Once he even sent his driver to pick her up and take her straight out to the Hamptons, all by herself. Can you imagine?”

  “No,” I say. “That sounds amazing. I’m jealous.”

  She looks at me, confused, until she realizes I’ve made a joke. “Oh!” She laughs, squeezes my bicep harder. “You’re too much.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “It’s just so refreshing to see a father make time for his family. It’s so rare in Manhattan.”

  “Well, it’s one of the perks of unemployment. It’s either this or SportsCenter.”

  Coralie laughs again, nervously this time. She glances down at her watch—a diamond-encrusted Rolex—and her eyes widen in feigned surprise.

  “Oh!” she says. “I better dash. Arabella hates it when we’re late to ballet.” She leans in and attempts an air-kiss. I flinch reflexively and end up whipsawing her in the face with my jawbone.

  “It was nice to meet you, Charlie,” she says, recovering gracefully. She smoothes back an errant strand of platinum hair. “Please let me know if you and Caleb ever want to come by for a playdate. Arabella and I love company. In fact”—she reaches into her handbag and withdraws a card—“here’s my number. Call me anytime.”

  Her fingers brush mine as I take the card. She flashes me a suggestive smile, one that I’m sure warmed the loins of many men a decade or so ago. Then she spins on her heel and disappears down the hall, her hips swaying like Jessica Rabbit’s.

  “I hate Arabella,” Caleb announces once she’s gone. “Don’t make me play there.”

  “Don’t worry, buddy,” I say, wrapping my arm around him. “I won’t.”

  “Her daddy has another family. They live in a duplo.”

  I think on that for a minute. “A duplex?” I ask.

  Caleb shrugs. Duplo, duplex, it’s all the same to him. “And she smells like cheese.”

  “That’s not a nice thing to say, buddy,” I say, suppressing a smile. “But I promise, you don’t have to play with Arabella. Not on my watch.”

  Caleb doesn’t respond. He stares glumly at his sneakers.

  “Hey, is there anyone you would like to play with after camp?” I ask as cheerfully as possible. “I’m happy to organize a playdate for you.”

  “I want to play with Fiona.”

  “I meant someone—” I start to say “real” but stop myself when I see the look on Caleb’s face. “Someone from camp.”

  “No,” Caleb says, his face darkening. “No one.”

  “How about Delaney?” Tom’s daughter, I realize, is the only one of Caleb’s classmates whom I know by name. “She seems nice.”

  Caleb cocks his head to the side, considering this. “She’s nice,” he concedes.

  “So maybe I’ll call her daddy and we can all get together. I think that could be really fun.”

  “Okay,” Caleb lets out a long sigh. He’s been to this rodeo before. Then: “Can I have ice cream?”

  “Sure, buddy. Let’s get ice cream.”

  He smiles, his mood noticeably brightened by the prospect of sugar. “I want sprinkles, too. Rainbow ones.”

  “You got it.”

  “And you get the rainbow ones, too, okay.”

  “You’re the boss,” I say, helping him off the bench.

  “Hey, man, wait up!” I turn and see Tom waving to us from across the school’s lobby.

  Caleb lights up. “Daddy, do you see?” he says, breathless. “It’s Delaney and her daddy.”

  “Yeah, buddy, I see.” Everyone else does, too. Tom and Delaney are hard to miss today in matching lavender jogging suits. The scary mommy crew exchange openly disdainful glances as Tom breezes past them. If he notices, it doesn’t faze him. He and Delaney couldn’t look happier.

  “It’s my birthday!” Delaney announces, beaming, when they pull up beside us.

  “Happy birthday,” I say. “How old are you today?”

  She holds up five fingers. Each fingernail is painted either purple or pink.

  “Wow, you’re a big girl.”

  “Big enough to pick out our outfits today, right, Dee?” Tom beams at his daughter.

  “Yeah,” she says, delighted.

  To me he says, “You wouldn’t believe what you can find on sale at Bloomingdale’s right now. Surprisingly, not too many plus-size women are in the market for purple tracksuits.”

  “It’s a great color on you. Brings out your eyes.”

  “I think so. Slimming, too.”

  “Purple’s my favorite color,” Caleb says.

  “Mine too.” Tom nods enthusiastically. “Delaney doesn’t like purple at all, though, right?”

  “Yessssss I do!” Delaney laughs and twirls like a small, drunk ballerina.

  “Hey, Purple Tornado! You’re going to lose your lunch if you keep that up,” Tom says. Delaney stops, sways in place, and then drops to the floor in a fit of dizzy laughter.

  “Tornadoes are deadly. They kill sixty people a year,” Caleb announces.

  “Caleb.” I give him a look.

  “That’s nothing. Avalanches kill more than one hundred and fifty people worldwide,” Tom replies. “I got caught in one once, skiing in the Alps. Totally wild.”

  “No way,” Caleb breathes, his eyes wide.

  “Way.”

  “But you survived.”

  “I did.”

  “That’s supercool.” Caleb nods approvingly.

  “Hey, thanks, man.” Tom attempts to give Caleb a fist bump, which Caleb botches. “We’ll work on that. Listen, you guys want to hit the park with us? We’re meeting the Dads’ Club at the Meadow.”

  “What do you think, bud? Wanna hang with Delaney and Tom?”

  “Yeah!” Caleb throws an enthusiastic high kick in the direction of the door. I’m impressed by how quickly he’s forgotten about the ice cream.

  • • •

  “So I saw you met Coralie,” Tom says as we exit the building. He shoots me a wry smile. “She’s kind of a one-woman welcoming committee. Especially for dads. She’s like a heat-seeking missile. If there’s a Y chromosome in the room, Coralie zeroes in.”

  “Uh, yeah, I got that vibe.”

  “She’s a piece of work. Richer than Croesus. Been married four times, I think. Always to billionaires. Arabella’s dad is Winston Davis.”

  “Wow. The oil guy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Isn’t he, like, a hundred and fifty?”

  “Yep. He’s married to a thirty-year-old now. She just had twins.”

  “Wow. Gotta respect that. I can barely keep up with one kid and I’m not even forty.”

  Tom laughs. “Something tells me good ol’ Winston isn’t doing the middle-of-the-night feeds.”

  “Yeah, probably not,” I say, quietly wondering if I ever did any middle-of-the-night feeds myself. The unspoken rule between Mira and me was that I needed my sleep so that I could be productive at work. “So you guys don’t have any help? No nanny or anything?”

  “Nah.” Tom shakes his head. “No nanny. Don’t get me wrong, we have a ton of help. Both grandmas live nearby. Our neighbors have a kid Delaney’s age, and they’ve been great about watching her if I’m jammed. And Morgan’s old secretary—this very stern German woman who insists that I call her Mrs. Weinstein—babysits occasionally. Delaney loves her. I’m terrified of her. She stocks the freezer with, like, two weeks’ worth of Wiener schnitzel every time she comes. It’s weird. But if I’ve learned anything in the last few years, it’s that you don’t turn down good help.” He smiles. I smile back, but it’s forced. There’s something devastating about his optimism.

  “I was so s
orry to hear about Morgan,” I say, not quite looking at him.

  “Thanks, man. I know you understand.”

  I nod, grateful that he brought up Mira so I don’t have to. “Delaney seems to be doing great. She’s always smiling.”

  “She’s a great kid. I’m lucky.”

  “She’s lucky to have you.”

  “Well, we’ve got each other. Just like you and Caleb.”

  “You really seem to have it together. I’m impressed.”

  Tom smiles then, and for the first time I see sadness in his eyes. “I didn’t always. The first year was tough as all hell. Hang in there, man. It gets easier.”

  We walk for a while in silence. When we hit a red light, the conversation starts back up again. “So did you work before . . .” I trail off, realizing that there’s no polite way to end that question.

  “Before Morgan died?” Tom fills in easily for me. “Yeah, I did. I was a lower-school art teacher back in the day. Loved my job, loved the kids. Made next to nothing. So it didn’t really make sense to me to spend my entire salary paying someone to play with my kid so that I could go play with someone else’s kid. You know?”

  “Lower school, huh? You must’ve been excited to become a dad.”

  “Honestly, I was scared shitless. Morgan and I had only been dating for six months when she got pregnant. We weren’t even married. Her parents were furious.”

  “Wow.”

  “I loved teaching, but I didn’t know how I’d be as a father. My dad wasn’t around much when I was a kid. He was a pretty crappy dad, actually. Total workaholic. Law firm partner, always at the office. Made a nice living but wasn’t really there for us, you know?”

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I hear you.”

  “What about your dad?”

  I bite my lip, considering how to answer. My father has never been a favorite topic of mine. In fact, if you were to take a poll of all my ex-girlfriends, they’d probably tell you that any discussion of him was strictly verboten. It took Mira nearly a year to work up the nerve to ask me about him, and this was long after she’d gotten to know my mom and Zadie. I usually deflect questions about my father in one of two ways: with humor or with good old-fashioned curtness. But I’m talking to a guy who’s just opened up to me about losing his wife. Neither humor nor curtness feels particularly appropriate.