Good Luck with That

by Kristan Higgins

  “Small world,” I said, my voice quiet.

  “Yes. How have you been, Georgia?”

  “Great. Fine. I’m a preschool teacher now.”

  “So I heard.” A dark eyebrow lifted.

  “I heard you have a new restaurant. Um . . . Cherish told me. My stepmother? Remember her?”

  “Of course I remember her.”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t you? I mean, how many people are named Cherish, right? Let alone exotic dancer stepmoms, right? Anyway, she said that . . . that she went to your restaurant. And it was good.”

  Rafe didn’t answer for a minute. Why would he? I was babbling like an idiot. I tried to look at him and failed.

  “Silvi says she loves school,” he said finally. “Thank you for that. The move, it was a little difficult for her.”

  “She’s doing great here.” I drew in a shaky breath. “How are you, Rafael?” Forced myself to look at him.

  His expression was neutral. I had no idea what mine was. “I’m doing very well, thank you,” he said. “I hope it will not be too awkward, us seeing each other from time to time.”

  Awkward? Not at all. Agonizing, that was a better word.

  “No. It’s fine. Don’t worry about me! I’m . . . I’m great. With this, I mean. It’s lovely to see you again. Lovely to have Silvi. That’s what I meant.”

  He just kept looking at me.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” I asked, then jerked back a little because I hadn’t meant to ask.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  Of course he was. “And is she . . . is she nice?” Is she beautiful? Is she kind? Is she thin? Do you love her?

  My ex-husband didn’t answer immediately. The silence swelled. Then he said, “I would rather not discuss her. But yes. She is nice.”

  I nodded, my face burning. “Well. Congratulations on the new restaurant.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Uncle Rafe?”

  This time, the voice was deeper. We both turned, and there was Mason.

  “No,” Rafe said, his eyes widening in surprise. “It cannot be. Mason? Oh, madre de Dios, Mason! Where is the boy? You are a young man now! Come! Give me a hug!”

  There it was, that magical ease and warmth he had with people. Mason obeyed happily, and I swallowed against the wedge in my throat.

  Mason had been our ring bearer.

  The two of them were chatting away like long-lost friends, which I guessed they were.

  That was the shitty thing about divorce. You lost that whole other family, that whole world. Rafe had been so good for Mason, his gentle brand of masculinity a much better role model than Hunter’s seething, omnipresent hostility.

  Maybe if Rafe had been in the picture, Mason wouldn’t have done what he did this past April.

  “Mason, please, come meet my niece, Silvi. She is a student here.”

  “Cool. Hey, little kid. I’m Mason.”

  “I’m not little. I’m almost a big sister,” Silvi said.

  “Oh, gotcha. Sorry.” Mason grinned at us.

  “I forgive you,” she said sweetly.

  “Silvi, we should go,” Rafe said. “I have to work tonight, and I want to take you to the park and perhaps for some ice cream, what do you say?”

  “I say yes!” Silvi got up, hugged my legs, then grabbed her uncle’s hand. “Bye, Miss Georgia,” she sang out.

  “It was good to see you,” Rafe said. Probably a lie.

  Then they were gone.

  “Man, that was awesome!” Mason said. “I loved that guy! I mean, except for the divorce and all.” He paused, his smile dropping. “Should I have punched him or something?”

  “No, no. He’s wonderful. We just . . . we weren’t right for each other.”

  My nephew flopped on the beanbag chair. “Good. I’ve never punched anyone. Dad says getting in a fistfight is part of being a man. I’m gonna try to skip that one.”

  Ah, Hunter and his Hemingwayesque benchmarks of manhood. And look what happened to Hemingway.

  “So what brings you here?” I said. “Were we meeting today?”

  “Nope! But I did text you. Guess you didn’t check your phone. G, I did something on the list!”

  “You did? Hooray! What did you do?”

  “I signed up for cross-country, like, yesterday at the last possible second, and today classes let out early, so we just finished our first practice.”

  “That’s great!” I said. I was honestly stunned. We’d had join a club on the list, but a sport? I hoped Mason wasn’t just trying to please my brother instead of himself, but he seemed so happy I pushed the thought aside.

  “Yeah, it’s supposedly a good bunch of kids. You know. Not like football or soccer, where everyone hates you if you suck.” Mason had been forced to play both of those sports in middle school. Broke his leg getting tackled, as the kid who’d taken him down was a giant. Hunter had been furious, but not with the boy who’d crushed his son. With his son for getting crushed.

  “So, tell me about it,” I said. “Want to go home and we’ll take Admiral out?”

  “I can barely stand. I’m, like, close to death here. But if you feed me, I’ll come to your place. Or I should say, if Marley will feed me. You never have food.”

  “I do so have food,” I said. “Most of it made by Marley.”

  On the short drive home, Mason told me with great relish about the horrors of running. “Everything is hurting. My shins, my knees, my, I don’t know, my pelvis? My pelvis. My head, my shoulders, my neck. Even my teeth hurt, G.”

  “It sounds great.” I smiled.

  “It is! In a freakish way, it’s kind of fun. Minus the agonizing pain. I even added something to my list. Finish the course without stopping, which seems crazy impossible right now.”

  “You’ll get there, honey. Good for you.”

  We pulled up to my house, and he stiff-legged it up the stairs to the door and unlocked it with his key. I was slower, grabbing my bag from the backseat. I had two grants to fill out for my pro bono clients. One of them, Gwen, was opening a textile company. The first time I’d met her, she’d had two black eyes, because her husband had violated the restraining order and come after her.

  There was that poker in the stomach again. Why couldn’t all women have a man like Rafe?

  Hi, my brain said. I’m with stupid. The one who divorced the world’s kindest man.

  Gwen’s husband was in jail now. The judge, a friend of mine, had given him a sentence of thirty-five years without parole for attempted murder, the beating had been so bad.

  “I have cookies!” Marley said, appearing in the courtyard with a plate. “Can I come up and say hi to Mason?”

  “You are always welcome with cookies,” I said. Maybe a cookie would ease my stomach. I hadn’t been able to eat lunch today because I’d ordered salad with a vinaigrette dressing that had given me heartburn after the first bite.

  I should get to the doctor one of these days. The not-insane part of me knew something was going on that needed a doctor’s attention. But the other part of me couldn’t resist how the weight was still falling off. For a woman who supposedly was so smart, I really seemed to enjoy being deliberately obtuse where my weight was concerned.

  Admiral was waiting patiently for his dose of adoration. “Hello, handsome,” I said, kneeling down to pet him. “Were you a good dog today? How’s that novel coming? Hm?” He wagged, pushing his head against me.

  Mason was in the kitchen, chugging a glass of water. “Hi, gorgeous,” Marley said, hugging him tight. “Should I not hug you?” She didn’t release him. “Are you too old for that now?” She grinned and stepped back.

  “Nah. Still good for hugs.” He took a cookie and put the whole thing in his mouth.

  “Marley,” I said, “ask Mason why he’s sweaty.”
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  “Why are you gross and sweaty, hon?”

  “I joined the cross-country team,” he said.

  “Holy shit! Good for you, Mase. Tell me everything.”

  “It’s horrible,” he said proudly. “I was whipped before we even started.” He bent stiffly to pet Admiral, who was waiting. “I mean, I thought the warm-up was the whole workout, and I was like, okay, I’m still alive, at least there’s that, right? And then the captain, this kid named Christian? He says, ‘Okay, let’s go,’ and we’re supposed to run for three miles! The whole way! I had to walk most of it. But not one person made of fun of me!”

  His words—his disbelief—made my heart ache. “That’s fantastic, honey,” I said, my voice husky.

  “Everyone is so nice,” he continued. “It’s all about your own time, Christian says. And he’s the fastest kid—I mean, he’s so fast, G. He said I’ll get better every week, and I actually have a lot of potential, and by the time the season really starts, I’ll be able to run three miles without even stopping!” He beamed and took another cookie.

  Whoever Christian was, I blessed him. I loved him. I wanted to thank his mother and father for raising him right. Instead, I said, “That’s amazing. I’m so excited to come to a meet.” I hesitated. “What does your dad think?”

  His smile faltered. “Uh, well, he gave me a list of his times when he was my age. Also, I’m not supposed to be eating sugar or refined flour. Microbiotics, you know?”

  Marley and I exchanged looks. A new generation worried about food.

  “Well,” I murmured, “like Christian said, it’s about your own times.”

  “Dad ran varsity when he was a freshman,” Mason said, his voice considerably less enthusiastic than a minute ago. “He said he’d train me.”

  I well remembered my brother’s meets. If Hunter didn’t come in first, he’d be furious. And even though he’d been very good, he didn’t always come in first. Prep schools tended to breed cross-country runners, and the competition was tough.

  Thus, I got to witness a lot of my brother’s tantrums—Hunter punching a tree and breaking two fingers, Hunter kicking a window of our car and cracking the glass, Hunter shaking off the congratulations of his teammates, Hunter cutting hateful looks at the parents who dared to tell him how well he’d done.

  I was a little scared of how he’d react to his son not being able to finish the course.

  “Oh, guess what?” Mason said, eating another cookie. His fourth, I thought, which was good, because it seemed to me like he hadn’t been eating too well since April. “Georgia’s ex was at nursery school today.”

  Marley’s eyes widened. “A tale perhaps best told over a bottle of wine tonight?” she suggested to me.

  “Nothing to tell,” I said. “He looks great. His hair is short now.”

  She waited for more. I raised an eyebrow, indicating that yes, probably best told over wine.

  She got the hint. “Speaking of running, Georgia, I’m going to cross something else off our list a week from Saturday. And I’m dragging you with me. Mason, you should come, too.”

  “I have math tutoring on Saturdays. And my dad takes me to CrossFit.”

  “Those people are freaks,” Marley said.

  “I know. I wish I could go with you guys.” His face, so happy a minute ago, looked crestfallen now. “What’s the thing?”

  “Well,” Marley said, “this is a very civilized fun run in Central Park. My brother and his husband will be there, and half of FDNY, so in addition to running, we could totally get someone to give us a piggyback ride.”

  The stupidest thing on the list. “I don’t see that happening. I’m very busy.” Also, I hated running. All of mankind hated running until they brainwashed themselves otherwise. But I especially hated it, because it was Hunter’s religion.

  “Still, you’re coming,” Marley said. “Not only can you get a guy to give you a piggyback ride, you can also run in the appropriate clothing from our list.”

  “I think I’m having a very serious surgery that weekend,” I said. “Or performing one. Either way, I can’t make it.”

  Mason’s face fell.

  Sigh. “Fine,” I said. “Let me talk to your dad, Mason, and see if we can spring you. If you can go, I’ll go, too.”

  “Really?” Mason said, taking another cookie.

  “If,” I cautioned.

  “Super!” Marley said. “We can go shopping for workout clothes. Emerson will be watching from heaven, judging you if you don’t.”

  “Love seeing that Catholic guilt-tripping in action,” I said.

  “I learned from the best,” she said happily. “Let’s hit the mall tonight. I’ll take you to Ikea as a reward.”

  “I can’t. I have lawyerly things to do.”

  “Afterward, then.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So it’s a yes.”

  I looked at my nephew. “Try to make friends with people who aren’t so bossy,” I said.

  “I would love a friend like Marley,” he said, blushing.

  “Oh, baby! You are my friend! Want another hug?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “Oh, come on. At least let me pat you on the head.”

  He laughed, and the sound made my heart swell with love. I went into the kitchen for some water and picked up my phone. Took a deep breath and texted Hunter.

  Hey, Hunter, I was hoping I could steal Mason for a few hours next weekend. Charity fun run in the city next Saturday.

  I always had to be cool yet cheerful yet not too cheerful in my texts with my brother, lest I irritate him. Still had to walk on eggshells if I wanted any Mason time. The three dots began to wave almost immediately. Oh, God, what if he wanted to come? Granted, he avoided doing things with me, but the chance to show off in front of other runners . . .

  Marley will be there, I typed quickly. He’d never liked Marley. We’re on her brother’s team. FDNY.

  Just in case my brother’s competitive spirit was a little insecure.

  The answer came.

  He has other plans.

  No niceties, no thanks, anyway or sorry. Of course not.

  Any chance he could get out of them? I texted. Might be good for him to be around other runners, get some tips.

  As soon as I hit send, I knew it was a mistake.

  He IS around another runner. His FATHER. I can teach him ANYTHING he needs to know a lot better than some musclehead firemen living off the taxpayer tit.

  Such a charmer. Too bad I couldn’t fix him up with, oh, Stalin.

  I know, I typed hastily. Just thought it might be good for him. I hesitated, then lied. I think some of the other kids from the team are going, too.

  Mason being popular was important to my brother. There was no response for a minute. Admiral nudged my hand with his cold nose, and I sat in the chair and gazed into his eyes. My dog could be rented out for meditational purposes, I swore. He had such a calming effect.

  The phone chirped. One word.

  Fine.

  Success! “You’re in, Mason!” I said. “New York City, here we come!”

  “Yes!” he crowed from the living room.

  And we could see my father and Cherish, who both adored Mason, and Mason could see Paris and Milan (freakishly, his aunts).

  It would be the best day ever.

  I even forgot it meant I would be running, too.

  CHAPTER 16

  Dear Other Emerson,

  Today, I had lunch in the employee cafeteria, because . . . I got a job, bitch! That’s right! A real job with coworkers and everything. The last time I had that was right out of college, before Mama died. Since then, I’ve picked up a freelance job here and there from Craigslist, writing marketing content or proofreading, But those were more to fill the time than anything.

 
Anyway, last month I decided that I needed a job that would get me out of the house, let me meet people and not be at home eating all the time. And boom! Three weeks later, I was hired.

  I’m totally stoked, obviously. I even like the work—I’m a representative at a call center. My job is to soothe disgruntled cable customers. Hey, I get it. TV is my life. Also, they can’t see me; it’s all phone, all the time.

  I showed up fifteen minutes earlier than the fifteen minutes early suggested. That’s because I knew the walk from the parking lot to the office would require some rest first. I took it slow and easy, but my knee burned, and my thighs and stomach were wobbling like Jell-O. When I got to the building, I so wanted to sit down on the steps and rest, but I made myself stand. Standing burns calories. Besides, what if I had trouble getting up? So, anyway, I waited for the sweat on my face to dry, though I’d have to stop in the ladies’ room to mop certain places and apply the baby powder I always carry. Then I took a deep breath and went inside. Missy, my supervisor, isn’t real friendly, but I can’t tell if she’s just that way, or if it’s me being fat. She could lose a few pounds herself, Other E. Not that I’m judging.

  The call center is basically a huge room filled with rows of workstations—the typical gray fabric cubicles. People of every size, shape and color were there, which reassured me. And guess what, Other Emerson? Three people said hi as Missy walked me to my desk. One of those was a MAN, and he didn’t even say it in the disgusted way. Sure, this happens to you all the time, Other Emerson, but please! This is on par with me being courted for a cover shoot by Glamour, okay?

  I was out of breath by the time I got to my desk, but I tried not to let it show. Luckily, the AC was freezing, so my sweat dried; at work, you can’t just hike up your shirt and mop under your boobs and stomach like you can when you’re at home, Other Emerson. You’re welcome for the insider intel on being fat. And thank God, the chair was big enough. I counted eight other fat people; I’m not the only one who needs a sturdy chair.

  Funny thing about Fat People—we discriminate. Hell’s yes, we do. Our first thought upon seeing a fellow fatty is, Thank God I’m not the only one. Second thought in my case is, Crap. I’m fatter than she is. And then we think—at least, I think—Are you going to be nice to me, or are you going to compete with me, and if you compete with me, are you going to win? Can I lose more weight than you? Can I be the skinnier one?