by Penny Reid
“Next week is Christmas,” George noted absentmindedly. “Did you mail your packages yet? Do you need me to send you a shipping label?”
“I’ll mail everything on Tuesday, before I head to New York. A label would be nice,” I answered distractedly, trying to imagine myself playing one of my own compositions in front of industry professionals. I grimaced, feeling slightly sick. It’s not that I lacked confidence. It’s that I disliked people. I especially disliked people looking at me with expectations and judgment. I just wanted to play music.
“Sounds good. I have the address of where you’ll be staying next week in Brooklyn while you’re up there playing shows. According to our last call, you are planning to stay with your bandmate, Janet Deloach, and her two friends, the Mr. Bergmans. Is that still correct?” George asked, obviously running down his list of questions.
“Yes.”
“Your father will be calling you this week just to talk. He expressed his extreme disappointment that he had to be absent from today’s call and wished me to tell you that he loves you and misses you very much. Is the calendar you send for this week still valid?”
I smiled at my dad’s words—as read by George—and answered his question, “Yes. There haven’t been any changes to my calendar.”
“Okay, then I think we’re finished.” He glanced up and gave me his trademark, flat and friendly George smile. “Merry Christmas, Kaitlyn.”
I mustered up enough wherewithal to return his smile with one of my own. “Merry Christmas, George.”
Then we ended the call.
***
“Sam, can I ask you a question?”
“Do it.” She was studying her menu. We’d opted for Italian tonight; she could never decide between the lasagna and the chicken carbonara.
I put my menu down and folded my hands, readying myself to ask a question that had been forming in my mind for the last several months.
“When did you feel like it was okay—like, it was appropriate—for you as a girl or a woman or whatever, at what age was it that you felt comfortable, or wanted to dress and act, and I guess be perceived as—”
“Spit it out already. Just ask the question.”
“Fine. At what age did you feel like you wanted to be sexy?”
Her eyes darted to mine, grew wide, and she stared at me from across the table.
“Is sexy a difficult word for you to say out loud?”
I shook my head. “No. But it’s a difficult concept for me to contemplate and not be confused. I don’t think I fully understand sexy.”
She nodded thoughtfully, her eyes drifting back to her menu.
We were on our Monday night date…with each other. We’d started doing this after we both secured employment over the summer. It was an excuse to get dressed up because otherwise I would spend all my time in either a tuxedo uniform, or baggy jeans and a men’s concert T-shirt.
I was trying to explore the concept of traditional femininity—perfume, makeup, matching lacey undergarments, dresses, jewelry, pretty shoes—because I didn’t want to dismiss dressing up having never given it a real chance.
Yes, I recognized that “traditional femininity” was historically steeped in misogyny. However, I also recognized deciding to eschew traditional femininity because of chauvinism was just as flawed as subscribing to lace underwear just because men seemed to like it.
I wanted to explore this part of myself for me, not in spite of or because of another person. If I was going to change my style or add to it, I wanted to do it because of how it made me feel. Not because I wanted to make someone else feel better or view me differently.
At least, that’s how it had started. But after seeing Martin last Sunday, and realizing how hurt I’d been by the fact he now viewed me as a platonic friend, I was starting to wonder if I had deeper, subconscious motives for exploring my femininity.
An example of one of my less than healthy thoughts: Maybe if I’d been sexier and more traditionally girly, Martin wouldn’t have been able to get over me so fast.
So…yeah. Not healthy. Which was why I still hadn’t looked up or read any of Martin’s interviews. I didn’t want him to be the motivation for my decisions.
Of note, I still hadn’t decided what to think about Martin’s offer of friendship or about wearing makeup and frilly garments.
Regarding the clothes, at first everything itched and I felt like my movement was restricted. After a while though, after four girl-dates, I began looking forward to glamming it up, and found myself noticing other peoples’ makeup and clothes with appreciation.
“Hmm,” she said at last, still studying her menu. “That’s a really interesting question.”
I took a sip of my water and waited for her to answer.
“Do I want the lasagna or the carbonara?”
“The carbonara.”
“Okay. Decision made.” She placed the menu on the table and closed it, giving me a searching stare. “So you want to know when I started to feel sexy or when I started wanting to feel sexy?”
“Were they different ages?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me when you started wanting to feel sexy.”
“I guess I was fourteen.”
My mouth fell open. “Fourteen?”
“Yes. Or maybe thirteen, or twelve. I remember wanting to be sexy like the girls in the magazines.”
“What magazines?”
“Vogue, Glamour, Cosmo.”
“You read Cosmo at twelve?”
“Yes. When did you start reading Cosmo?”
I sputtered for a moment, then admitted, “Never. I’ve never read Cosmo.”
“Most of it is garbage, meaningless fluff, stupid stuff. But they sometimes have brilliant articles and short stories. Also, it’s how I learned to do the cat-eye.”
“You mean that black eyeliner thing?”
“Yeah. They had step-by-step instructions with pictures.”
I thought about this, the fact she’d been twelve when she’d first wanted to be sexy. Meanwhile I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be sexy, even now.
“Do you feel like twelve was too early? Too young?”
She shrugged, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t know. I got my period at ten. Five hundred years ago women were getting married at fourteen or fifteen. In some parts of the world they still do.”
“But in modern times and western culture, our context being the here and now, do you think it’s too early?”
Sam squinted at me. “Yes and no. On one hand, I think it’s natural to be curious about sexuality. But on the other hand, I think girls are caught in this terrible net of perpetual disappointment. We’re not really allowed to talk about sex, or ask questions about it, or be interested in it. If we are interested and if we like it, then we’re labeled as easy or sluts. If we’re not interested, then we’re frigid and repressed…we’re prudes. It’s like, we see images of women being objectified everywhere. And then we’re told to act and dress like a man at work and school, or else no one will take us seriously—even other women won’t take us seriously. Basically, women are fucked.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Yes. Yes it is. How about you? When did you first think about being sexy?”
I gathered a large breath and shook my head slightly. “I guess the first time I thought about being sexy was when I was seventeen.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. So that makes me a frigid, repressed prude?”
“Yes. Absolutely. And I’m a whorey slut. Why seventeen?”
“Honestly, it was only because I could never get Carter—”
“Your gay boyfriend.”
“Yes, my gay boyfriend who I didn’t know was gay. I could never get him to do anything but kiss me, and only in front of other people. He never wanted to do anything when we were alone together. I thought maybe it was because I wasn’t sexy.”
Sam watched me for a bit, considering this, then asked, “But…didn’t you ever want
to be sexy for yourself? Just to feel good?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, put on a new outfit or eye shadow? Not because someone was going to see you, but just because you wanted to dress up and feel pretty?”
I began shaking my head halfway through her second question. “No. Never.”
“Hmm…” she sat back in her chair and inspected me, then pressed, “And you’re sure you like guys?”
My mouth fell open in startled outrage and I leaned forward to loudly whisper, “Sam, just because I’m not a girly-girl doesn’t mean that I…that I’m—”
“That you prefer mares to stallions, I get it. I just don’t understand it. I always thought you wanted to dress that way because you didn’t like attention.”
“What way?”
“You know, frumpy.”
“I dress frumpy?”
“Kind of, actually, yes. Yes, you dress frumpy… frumpily… whatever.”
“Because I don’t wear form-fitting clothing or clothes that bare my skin and highlight my body?”
“Kaitlyn,” she gave me an oh, come on look, then continued, “baggy, shapeless clothes that cover your body is the definition of dressing frumpish. Hell, your tuxedo for work makes you look hot in comparison, as at least it shows off your ass.”
I opened my mouth to protest but then realized she was right. Baggy T-shirts, oversized jeans with the cuff cut off…on most days I dressed frumpily.
Do I want to dress frumpily? Should I even care? What is wrong with me that I never realized I dress like a frump?
As if seeing my internal struggle, Sam quickly added, “If you want to dress in baggy clothes then dress in baggy clothes. If you like it, then to hell with what everyone else thinks, including me.”
“But, I don’t… I mean…I—”
“Ladies? Are you ready to order?” Our waitress chose that moment to return to the table, giving me a brief reprieve from trying to verbally untangle my thoughts.
“I’ll have the lasagna and she’ll have the lobster ravioli.” Sam picked up both of our menus and handed them to the server. I usually didn’t mind that she ordered for me, because I always ordered the same thing.
But for some reason, this time I was incredibly irritated by her assumption I would order the ravioli. What if I wanted the steak? Or a salad?
“Actually,” I interjected, giving the waitress an apologetic smile, “I’ll have the duck ziti.”
Our server nodded, like it was no big deal, then left us to our discussion.
Sam lifted an eyebrow at me as she raised her water glass to her lips, saying before sipping, “The duck ziti, eh?”
I nodded firmly. “That’s right. The duck ziti.”
“Not the lobster ravioli?”
“No. I’m tired of lobster ravioli.”
She studied me for a long moment, replacing her glass, crossing her arms, and narrowing her eyes. I mimicked her stance and her glare.
“That’s fine. Don’t get the lobster ravioli if you don’t want it. Try duck ziti, try the steak.”
“I will.”
“But just know, no matter what you order and no matter what you eat, it’s your decision. If you want the lobster ravioli every day for the rest of your life, there is nothing wrong with that. Don’t change your order just because you think you’re supposed to, because society tells you it’s weird to order the same thing every time. You have to live with your entrée, not society, not me. You.”
“But how will I know whether I like the duck ziti if I don’t try it?”
She paused, considering me, her mouth a flat, thoughtful line. Then she sighed, saying, “I guess you won’t. I guess you do have to try the ziti. I just don’t want you feeling pressure to change, because you’re pretty awesome just how you are. It would make me sad if you started ordering steak when you really want ravioli.”
“This analogy has officially gone too far. We both know we’re talking about my tendency to hide. It doesn’t matter if it’s a closet or it’s baggy clothes. I can’t keep hiding from new things.”
“But, you’re not. Look at you, you’re all dressed up. You have your eyebrows professionally waxed and shaped. You’re in a band. You’re a singing barista. You try new things.”
“Yes. At a snail’s pace I try new things. When I feel completely safe, I try new things. When I’m with you, I try new things.” I gave her a small smile, leaned forward, and put my hand on the table, palm up. She fit hers inside mine and returned my grin.
“Sam, you’re a good friend. I want to try new things, even when those things don’t feel entirely safe. I want to try new things before I’m even certain I want to try those new things. It’s time for me to take some risks.”
“You’re not talking about drugs, are you? Because, smack is whack.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes. “No. I’m talking about buying a T-shirt that fits. Maybe a new dress, so I don’t have to keep borrowing yours.”
What I didn’t add, because I hadn’t yet told her about seeing Martin at the coffee shop, was that trying new things also included agreeing to a friendship with Martin Sandeke.
***
The next morning Sam was out of the apartment.
Even so, I shut the door to my room in order to achieve maximum privacy. I was going to call Martin.
I’d thought about making the call from the bathroom, just in case Sam came home unexpectedly, but I decided that was taking things a bit too far.
I gathered several deep breaths as I psyched myself up. Then, feeling an odd surge of courage, I grabbed my phone, tapped in his number, and lifted the cell to my ear.
It rang three times.
I was trying to figure out whether or not I should leave a voicemail—should it come to that—when it was answered.
“Hello?” asked a female voice on the other end.
I frowned, glancing at the card he’d given me, wondering if I had the wrong number or if I’d been given his PA’s phone number instead.
“Hi. Hello, um—I’m sorry. I think I might have the wrong number. I’m calling for Martin Sandeke.”
“No. You have the right number.” Her accent was British.
“Oh. Okay. Is this his PA?”
“No. This is Emma Cromwell, his partner. Who is this?”
Partner. Partner? Oh! …partner. Well, barnacles.
I closed my eyes and released a silent sigh, felt my stomach fall painfully to my feet. I sat on my bed and cleared my throat before responding, “I’m…Parker.”
“Kaitlyn Parker?” It might have been my imagination, but she sounded a little irritated by this news.
Which meant she knew who I was. That was just lovely. Now I felt like an evil usurper. Here I was, the ex-girlfriend, calling her Martin. I was pretty sure that if I were in a committed relationship, I wouldn’t want my boyfriend’s ex calling him.
How did I even get here?
I nodded, then realized she couldn’t see me, so I said, “Yes. Kaitlyn Parker. If now is a bad time, you can just have him call me later. But no rush.”
“He’s just getting out of the shower, so I’ll have him call you back when he’s not busy.”
I nodded again, my heart joining my stomach, beyond my feet, falling down to the center of the earth. “Sure. Like I said, no rush.”
“Mmm-hmm. Goodbye.”
“Good—” I didn’t get to say ’bye, because she’d already ended the call.
***
I was coming to recognize I was probably still very much in love with Martin. Maybe I always would be. This thought made me want to cry, but I didn’t.
Instead I decided to go shopping because I had Christmas presents to buy. If there was one thing I’d learned over the last nine months it was the importance of going through the motions. Sam called this: Fake it ’til you make it.
This last week leading up to the big holiday was going to be crazy busy. We had two or three gigs a day, starting tomorrow. Last minute office parties,
hotel feature events, themed weddings, and holiday brunches. As they were in New York, I was planning to stay in the city for the week with Janet (my bandmate) and two of her friends.
I was an efficient shopper, mostly because I’d always been ambivalent to shopping. I quickly grabbed the items on my list and was finished, ready to head back to the apartment after two short hours. But for the first time in perhaps my entire life, I didn’t want to go back to the apartment and be alone. So I window-shopped for a bit.
Strangely, window shopping turned into store buying, and after another two hours I was back at the apartment with three new pairs of women’s jeans, several fitted but delightfully nerdy tops, four matching bra and panty sets—because they were on super sale—and two new pairs of shoes. I also bought myself some cozy socks with Abraham Lincoln on the calves, because he was my second favorite president.
Once home, I unpacked then repacked my bag, deciding to take some of my new stuff with me, then went to the kitchen in search of hot chocolate.
That’s when my phone rang. I didn’t look at the number before answering because I was still thinking about how much I’d enjoyed my morning. I was floating in my new-clothes-euphoria.
“Hello?”
“Kaitlyn?”
Aaaand…now I was crashing back down to earth.
“Hi, Martin.” I endeavored to ignore the familiar ache in my chest.
“I hoped this might be your number. You called earlier? You should have left a message.”
This gave me pause, but then I started speaking and thinking at the same time. “I did leave a message.”
“Really? I didn’t get a voicemail.”
“No, I left a message with your…” I tripped over the word, but then forced myself to say it. I knew it was better to rip the bandage off than to try to peel it back slowly. “I left a message with your girlfriend.”
He was silent for a beat, then asked, “My girlfriend?”
“Emma.”
“Emma? No. No, no, no. Emma is not my girlfriend. She’s my partner.”
“Partner, girlfriend, significant other, sensei—whatever.”
“No, Kaitlyn.” I heard him laugh lightly, like he was both relieved and anxious. “Emma is my business partner. We’ve never…we’re not like that.”
