by Theresa Alan
“How are you doing?”
“I’m good. Nothing very exciting. My boss is going on maternity leave soon, so I’m working really hard in hopes that I’ll be asked to fill in for her.”
“That’ll be great.”
“Yeah.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. When had my life become so boring? “Well, I guess I should let you go. I’ll talk to you later. I love you, Mom.”
“I love you too, honey. Sleep well.”
I hung up the phone and stared at the few lingering bubbles clinging to the top of the bathwater. My father had died when I was three, so for as long as I could remember, it had been just Mom and me.
She dated a few men when I was a kid, but nothing ever got serious. I liked it that way. I liked having her all to myself. We would spend our weeknights and weekends baking and painting and gardening. We’d make huge bowls of popcorn and watch Fantasy Island and Love Boat together.
Mom met Carl when I was twelve. I didn’t like Carl or his put-on smile. I didn’t like his pock-marked skin or the way he made his unfunny jokes at other peoples’ expense, trying in his sad way to feel better about himself. Mostly what I didn’t like was who my mother became around him, fawning and skittish, straining to create a semblance of familial happiness that wasn’t there. During weekday nights and weekend days I escaped in dance practice. On Saturday nights, Mom and Carl would go out to dinner and a movie, leaving me home alone with a TV dinner and my resentment.
I wanted my mom to be happy, but I knew, even then, that Carl was not the right man for her.
When they were first dating, every time he saw me his smile was so forced I thought he might bruise a dimple. I went away to a performing arts high school in New York shortly after they were married, so after that, I only saw him a couple of times a year for holidays. We tolerated each other from a polite distance until he left Mom for another woman when I was twenty-four.
Mom was so devastated; she hadn’t been able to date at all in the nearly six years since the divorce. Now, just like me, she was finally ready to test the water, dip her toe into the icy-cold dating sea, trying to muster the courage to take the plunge.
I got out of the tub, slipped on my robe, and took my book out onto the couch in the living room. The book was about a beautiful stage actress, Cassandra Davis, who was in hiding from a violent man who’d become obsessed with her. She’d fallen in love with Michael just before Ajax, the mentally unbalanced criminal, had begun stalking her. Before meeting Cassandra, Michael, a world-renowned wildlife photographer, had never wanted to settle down. Now, his only goal was to make Cassandra his bride.
Cassandra fled the country to escape from Ajax’s violent threats. She loved Michael too much to endanger him, but he loved her too much to let her go. So when her attempts at going into seclusion brought her to Italy, France, Greece, Brazil, and the Bahamas, Michael always found her and followed her, over oceans and mountains and jungles. I always wanted a love like that. An overcome-all-odds, journey-over-mountains-and-oceans love.
I thought my first love, Marcos, was that kind of love. Marcos was a musician on the ship where I worked after college. He was half-Hispanic, half-Irish, and he had striking good looks. Just thinking about his smile could still make me melt.
On the day we met, he approached me while I was warming up for practice. I was doing the splits, arching back to grab my leg to get a better stretch and loosen my back muscles.
“Ouch,” he said.
I came out of the splits and sat in a Z position, my right leg against my left knee and my left foot behind me.
“I’ve seen you dance. You’re amazing,” he continued.
“Thank you.”
“My name is Marcos. I play the piano on the ship. You’re new.”
I nodded. “This is my third day. My name is Avery.”
“Ah, to be new again. To not know who’s sleeping with whom, who hates whom, who to watch out for.”
“Sounds kind of interesting.”
“Let me take you out to dinner tonight and I’ll pull the veil of innocence away.”
“I have to perform tonight, but another night would be fun.”
“We dock at an island Saturday night, so neither of us will have to perform. Should we plan on Saturday? Say eight o’clock?”
“It’s a date.”
He picked me up just before eight as he promised. He was holding a single red rose.
“You look stunning,” he said. I was just wearing a simple sundress and sandals, but I smiled, feeling beautiful.
“Thanks for the rose. Let me get it some water.” I got a Styrofoam cup from the bathroom and filled it with water. It wasn’t the most elegant vase, but it was all I had.
“Ready?” I asked.
He nodded, smiling.
We had a simple dinner—he had jerk chicken, I had a salad with fried plantains and poblano goat cheese—and far too many piña coladas. We spent the rest of the night dancing outside, under the stars, in the cool night air. His breath on my neck, and his hands on my arms, my back, my waist—it made me feel so alive, so awake, so aware of every sensation—the smell of the night air and the sea breeze and the lingering remains of coconut suntan oil from the beach goers earlier in the day; the sound of calypso music and the waves hitting the shore; the sight of women in bright flowing sarongs and the strings of lights decorating the restaurant behind Marcos. As we danced, I could clearly see our future together: We’d have gorgeous, musically gifted children and a glamorous, adventurous life. As artists, we wouldn’t be wealthy, but we’d live rich, full lives, and grow old together but never stop dancing or listening to music and creating music of our own. We might even come back to this tiny island to retire, to spend our last remaining days in a land of endless sunshine.
That, of course, has always been my problem: I never remember to take into account the possibility of rainy days in my plans.
Marcos was charming and fun and very romantic. On our evenings off when we docked at an island, we spent the nights dancing under the stars. We’d spend our mornings making love and our days playing on the beach or shopping in the small towns. Some nights he would say he needed to work on his music, that he was almost finished writing a new piece. I’d fallen in love with him in part because of his passion for his music, so when I wouldn’t see him for days in a row, I never questioned it was because of his dedication to his art. Except he never let me see the end result of all these evenings he spent alone “working.” One night when we were docked and he said he was working I went off the ship and was wandering down the beach when I saw him dancing with another woman on the deck of an outdoor bar. That’s when I finally figured out he wasn’t spending all those nights slaving over his piano. He cheated on me several more times before I realized his cheating wasn’t a challenge our relationship needed to overcome, it was bullshit. Even then, he was such an addiction, the only way I could give him up was to quit my job and move back to Colorado.
I dated a few guys over the next year, but it never got serious with any of them. Not until Gideon. Both Marcos and Gideon had a kind of music pulsing through them, making them seem more alive, more vital than most people I knew.
Maybe there’s no such thing as romance. Maybe it’s just a concept created by marketing executives to sell perfume and candles and novels and expensive dinners and weekend getaways.
Somehow though, despite all the pain, I still believed in love and happily ever after. But I also knew that there was something worse than being alone, and that was settling for less than you deserved. It’s funny though, how the two men I’d loved had been so full of themselves they had no room left for me.
Every relationship called for some sort of compromise. The challenge was knowing when you were giving so much you were compromising yourself. It was a challenge I had yet to overcome.
Kodak Moment
I fell asleep on the couch early; it must have been before ten o’clock. Another exciting Saturday night.
I woke up Sunday morning at 6 A.M., feeling well rested and full of energy. I began cleaning the house, starting with cleaning out Martha’s litter box.
I was wearing my flannel pajama bottoms and a stained sweatshirt. I pulled my hair back into a greasy ponytail. I wasn’t wearing any makeup, and two large pimples on my chin foretold that my period was right around the corner. Ordinarily, I would never leave the house looking so bad—Gideon lived just a few buildings down from me. But Gideon would never get up before noon on a Sunday morning, so I knew I was safe.
I brought the litter box out to the Dumpster and heaved the litter into it just as a gust of wind rushed by, causing the litter to whirl back into my face in a vile dust storm. I was half blinded by the litter and coughing up the ammonia-filled dust I’d inhaled when I turned to see Gideon in the leather coat and tight black jeans he only wore when he went dancing at the clubs. Beside him was a tall, thin woman wearing a black patent leather cat suit and platform shoes. She had blond hair—blond-blond, not dishwater blond like mine but an unlikely cascading platinum sheen—to her waist. It was obvious they were just getting back from the clubs while I, with such an exciting social life I’d gone to bed at ten the night before, was cleaning out the cat litter box at 6 A.M. on a Sunday.
Gideon nodded his head almost imperceptibly by way of greeting. I waved feebly in return.
JEN
As You Climb the Ladder of Success, Only Let the Right Boys Look Up Your Dress
I peeked out from my office door and looked down the hallway first right, then left. There was no sign of Les. I took a deep breath and hastened down the hall to Sharon’s office door. Ordinarily I would rather poke my eye out than go to lunch with Sharon, but if I wanted a chance to take over for Sharon while she was on maternity leave, I needed to market myself.
“Ready for lunch?” I asked.
“Are we ever. Boy, get pregnant and you just can’t stop yourself. You’re hungry all the time.”
Whatever, Sharon, you were a lard ass well before you were pregnant, don’t blame the kid. I smiled understandingly.
“I invited Lydia along, is that okay?” Sharon asked.
“Great!” Oh, dear god. Could my day get worse?
I left Sharon’s office and immediately my question was answered. Yes, my day could get worse. There stood Les in the hallway, with a smile as moony and enthusiastic as a puppy wagging its tail.
“Hi, Jen,” he said.
“Hey, Les,” I said, avoiding his gaze. It looked like he wanted to talk, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lydia coming down the hall. For once, I was happy to see her because she gave me a good excuse to ignore Les.
“Happy Monday!” Lydia said.
“Ready?” Sharon was standing at the doorway of her office, slipping her enormous, duffle bag-size purse on her shoulder.
“I told my husband we’d meet him at the Sink for lunch,” Lydia said. “Is that okay? Me and the kid are craving pizza like crazy!”
How was I supposed to kiss up to Sharon with Lydia and her husband in my way?
Two pregnant ladies and an accountant as lunch companions and a lovelorn fat boy named Lester lusting after me. What had I done to deserve this?
“Great!” I said.
The only good thing about going to lunch with two pregnant women was that it made me feel very skinny. Watching them hoover up their pizza made me totally lose my appetite.
Sharon spent the entire meal complaining about the shiftless teleresearchers in her employ and about how she had eight million and one ways to single-handedly turn McKenna Marketing into a Fortune 100 company but the villainous Morgan McKenna thwarted her every innovation due to his ignorance and lack of forward thinking.
“And my back is absolutely killing me. My doctor gave me this special pillow to sleep with between my legs—”
I suppressed a shudder.
“—but it’s just not helping. I know I’m not the first pregnant woman to suffer from back pain. You’d think they could do something. I mean, they can sew limbs on people and grow hearts from pigs for human use, don’t you think they could do something to help my back? I mean the pain is unbearable. Sometimes I don’t know how I get through the day.”
“But just knowing you’re carrying a child makes the discomfort bearable, don’t you think?” Lydia gushed. “And I’ve been getting so many back rubs and foot massages, I’m thinking about being pregnant all the time!” Lydia rubbed Dan’s shoulder. He wasn’t bad-looking; he had a good job. Why could Lydia land a good man but I couldn’t even score a date? I was way prettier than her. It just didn’t make sense.
“I just feel guilty; I was the one who knocked you up.” The three of them laughed. It took me a moment to remember to laugh too.
I strangled a lemon over my glass of water. It was infuriating. It was almost time to go back to the office, and we’d spent the whole hour talking about pregnancy when what we were supposed to be doing was discussing my ample credentials for advancement.
“I can’t wait to have kids,” I said. “Sharon, I just don’t know how you do it all, managing so many projects and such a large staff while you’re pregnant. If you ever need any help, I’d be glad to assist. I’ve been looking for some more challenges.” There, I’d finally said it.
“I’d love some help. Thanks for offering.”
“You’re in for it now,” Lydia joked. This time, I didn’t forget to laugh with everyone else.
When I got back to my desk, I felt a little better about my job, but I was feeling worse about my boyfriend status. There was nothing like a happily married pregnant couple to make you reflect on just what a sad and pathetic life you led.
After a couple of hours of work, I was dying for some water, but I was afraid to leave my desk lest I run into Les. On the other hand, Tom was a huge caffeine addict, so the chances of running into him in the kitchen were good.
Eventually, my bladder insisted I depart from the safety of my desk. Warily, I snuck down the hall to the bathroom. Victory! I made it without Les seeing me.
I returned from the bathroom using similarly diversionary tactics. This time, they were unsuccessful.
“Hey, Jen.”
My heart seized as I turned to face him. “Les!”
“I was wondering, can I take you to lunch tomorrow?”
“Shhh!” I said in a loud whisper. “I can’t. I’ve got plans.”
“How about Wednesday?”
“No, I can’t go to lunch with you Wednesday, not Thursday, not Friday, not ever. Do you want people to think we’re a couple? Do you want me to be the butt of office gossip and destroy my career?”
“Of course not. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Of course, you’re right.”
“You haven’t said anything to anyone, have you?”
“No, of course not.”
Thus assured, I relaxed a little. “Look, Les, you’re a great guy, but we can’t be seen talking to each other or going to lunch. We can say hi in the hallways, but that’s it.”
“Can we get together after work? I’d love to take you to dinner. I . . .”
How many drugs was this man on? What was it with the egos of men that a guy like Les actually thought he deserved a woman like me? “Look Les, I’m getting over a serious relationship.” I was whispering so softly, Les pulled in closer to hear me. I pulled back and indicated with a pointed sweep of my eyes that we were not alone and he had to be more discreet. “It’s been hard, and I’ve been drinking a little too much. I haven’t been making the best decisions lately. What happened the other night happened because I’d had too much to drink; I was lonely. It’s too soon for me to think about getting into another relationship, but even if it weren’t, there is no way I’d date a co-worker.” If, that is, he looks like you.
“I can quit my job.”
“No!” I yelled, then quickly remembered myself and returned to a whisper. I was trying to be nice and let him off easy, but he was just not getting a clue. “Les, you�
��re a great guy, but there is no possibility of us being a couple. Ever. Under any circumstances whatsoever.”
“Oh,” he said.
“I’ll see you around.” I didn’t want to hurt him, but there was obviously just no other way.
I nearly jumped when I stepped into my office. Tom was standing there, talking to Avery.
“I was just telling Tom about the Halloween party I’m having next Saturday night. He said he didn’t have anything to wear, but I said you were thinking of going as Scully from The X-Files and he could easily pass as Mulder. All he’d need to do was wear a suit and you’d give him a badge that said FBI.”
I stared at Avery. This was the first I’d heard of a Halloween party. “Yeah, I mean that was just one idea I had. So Tom, what do you think?”
“Sure. That sounds cool. I’ll pick you up, say around eight?”
“Perfect,” I said.
“Saturday,” he said, pointing to me just as he left our office.
It took me a moment to remember to breathe after he left. I turned to Avery. “What Halloween party?”
“I’ve been thinking about having one, and when Tom came in here to check out what was wrong with my e-mail, I figured what better way to get you together?”
“Scully? That is so unsexy.”
“I had to think quick of something you two could go as together. I said you were thinking of going as Scully but needed a Mulder. I believe some thank-yous are in order.”
“You’re right. Of course. Thanks, Avery. You’re the best.” I smiled, feeling practically human for the first time all day.
The prospect of seeing Tom at the party cheered me, but only a little. Why had I slept with his overweight coworker? What if he found out? What if anyone found out? Why was I behaving so stupidly? I was glad Dave was out of my life. I just needed to be in a good relationship to ground me, a relationship with a guy like Tom.
