The Do-Over

by Julie A. Richman

  Making her way across the kitchen to the built-in desk, she asked, “Do you need these drawers packed up, too.”

  “Yup. All files go into that box in the corner.” I pointed at a carton.

  “You are definitely a hoarder,” Laynie was shaking her head as she made her way through the desk’s center drawer. “Or you have some weird keychain fetish.”

  Laughing, “Don’t throw them away. Scarlett collects keychains on all our trips.” And we had traveled a lot.

  “Oh great, you’re turning her into a Hoarder-in-Training,” she muttered, begrudgingly loading the keychains into a small box, before beginning on one of the desk’s side drawers. “What the fuck are these, Tara?”

  Looking up to see what she was talking about, I was surprised to see the horrified look on Laynie’s pretty face. With wide eyes and a look of confusion pressing her brows into near straight lines, she repeated the question, “What the fuck are these, Tara?”

  “They’re poppets.”

  “Poppets? What the heck are poppets?” She dropped them on the desk as if they were scorching her fingers.

  I laughed at her reaction.

  “Please don’t tell me when I go back into that drawer that I’m going to find a box of pins.”

  Without looking up from the cabinet I was clearing, “Then you probably don’t want to go back in there.”

  “You’re just screwing with me.” Laynie went back into the drawer. “Son of a bitch. Tara, what the hell are you doing, you sicko?”

  “Ooooo oooo,” I began to make spooky sounds.

  “Where did you get those things?” As usual, Laynie wasn’t going to let it go.

  “I got them years and years ago when I was in the Caribbean. Remember when I did that windjammer vacation?”

  “Wow. Why did you get them and do you use them?”

  Closing the cabinet, I walked over to the desk and looked down at the colorful dolls. Dominica. I had gotten them on Dominica. I remembered the old, toothless woman insisting I take them.

  “No, I don’t use them. But I could.” I smiled. “This one could be Frank.” I picked up the male doll. It did kind of resemble the ex, with its light brown hair. “And this,” I picked up the baby poppet, “this could be CB.”

  We both laughed. CB was the nickname I’d given to the ex’s new wife, Crystal. It stood for Child Bride, as she had recently turned twenty-five, nineteen years younger than the ex and less than eleven years older than our daughter, Scarlett.

  Laynie picked up the doll, “CB, I like it.” She opened the plastic container with the pins.

  “Oh no, what are you going to do?” The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  Laughing, “Relax Tara, I’m not going to mortally wound her or that idiot ex will be back here in a heartbeat crying on your shoulder and wanting you to make him feel better.” With an evil grin, Laynie stuck the pin into the front edge of the baby doll’s left foot.

  “Ouch,” I winced. “I think she just fell off her four-inch wedge boots.” Shaking my head, I laughed and said, “And you called me a sicko.”

  “So, who’s the third doll?” She picked up the female doll with the dark hair.

  “I don’t know yet.” I shrugged my shoulders. “You’re lucky your hair is red.” She sneered at me. “Okay, back to packing. Movers will be here in a week. And if you think this is bad, wait until you see my bedroom. I swear I still have that outfit in my closet that I wore to the Green Day concert at the Garden.”

  Laynie “I travel light” Caldwell looked at me with pure disgust. “That was 1994, Tara.” I swear I could smell the acrid taste in her mouth as she verbalized that. “If I find that in your closet, I’m taking it out to the backyard and burning it.”

  And she did.

  “Hi Mom.” Scarlett bounded into the house. “Wow, you and Aunt Laynie got a lot done today.” She looked at the boxes lining the dining room wall.

  “No teenage distractions,” I kidded my way-too-wise for her years fourteen-year-old. “Where’s your father?” My ex, Frank, usually came in so we could at least discuss Scarlett’s schedule.

  “Oh, he wants you to come out to the car.” She was already checking her phone for messages that might have arrived in the last nanosecond while she walked from the car to the house.

  “He wants me to go out there?” I asked questioningly.

  “Yeah, Crystal hurt her foot and he didn’t want to leave her alone in the car.” She didn’t look up from her phone.

  “Afraid she might get kidnapped,” I muttered, the emphasis on the kid in kidnapped.

  Walking out to the curb, the darkened front passenger window of Frank’s S500e Mercedes slowly rolled down.

  “You were hurt?” I asked his twenty-five-and-a-half-year old wife. Yes, she was still counting the halves that those of us out of our twenties strive to consciously forget. “What happened?”

  “My foot just slipped out from under me and I stubbed my big toe. It was bleeding and everything.” CB’s dramatic delivery was almost cute. Almost. But I was too freaked out to enjoy it, thinking about Laynie stabbing the baby poppet’s foot.

  We’d been called bitches before, but witches would be a new one.

  “Frank, don’t forget you have the father/daughter dance at her school on June 16th,” I reminded him yet again. I didn’t feel like I could remind him enough after he blew her off on the father/daughter holiday dance, ending up with CB in Aspen and an “Oh sweetie, I totally forgot. I’ll make it up to you” excuse.

  We were still waiting for that make-it-up-to-you and although she tried to act like it was ‘no big deal’, I could tell that Scarlett was already preparing herself for the disappointment of Frank standing her up on an event that was still months away.

  “Geez Tara, that’s months and months away. Are you going to bring it up every single time I see you?” He had the nerve to act annoyed.

  “Yes, Frank. Every single time. So, get used to it.” Smiling I turned to CB, my curiosity had gotten the best of me, “So Crystal, what kind of shoes were you wearing when you stubbed your toe?”

  “My new wedge boots, the ones with the open toes.”

  Oh my God. I hoped she hadn’t heard my gasp. We really couldn’t have done that, could we? Not for real, right?

  Yes, witches we were.

  Chapter 5

  At home in my new living room, even more so than I was, Laynie stretched out her long legs on the new chaise couch and took a sip of her rosé. “Are you ever going to start dating again?”

  “I haven’t really thought much about it,” I lied. Actually, I thought about it every night when I went to bed, alone.

  “Well, you should start. You are through with the move. Unpacked. There’s no big stress things looming before you to stop you.”

  “Come on, Laynie, you, of all people, know how much I hated it and how bad I was at it in my twenties.” I shuddered remembering how shy I was with guys I was attracted to. I was terrible at flirting. And if a guy I was attracted to flirted with me, I would totally clam up. “I can’t even imagine it now. The available pool is smaller and sure to be even creepier.”

  For fifteen years, Laynie had been involved with Nils, a man twenty years older than her who lived in San Francisco. They saw one another twice a month, like clockwork, and it worked for them. Skype was their friend. “It’s like he’s here, except I don’t have to clean up after him. There’s no pee on the bathroom floor, the toilet seat is never up and he doesn’t make me go to sushi restaurants I hate, three nights a week.” She referenced my ex-Frank’s near obsession with being seen at trendy sushi joints. “Tara, it’s time. You’re still young and really attractive. The younger ones are going to love you.”

  I had to laugh, “Yeah, that’s good because the ones my age want trophy wives.”

  “Well fuck those Viagra-popping fools. You need a man who can satisfy you and go all night without chemicals.” Pouring herself another glass of wine, she looked around my new livi
ng room, “I really like this place. These are awesome divorce-settlement digs.”

  And that, they were. In a new construction high-rise building in our north shore town, I was able to downsize to a beautiful condo. This new home would not be stealing any of my weekend time with yard work and Scarlett could stay in the same school, which for a fourteen-year-old girl, was the only thing that mattered. The building, one of two towers within the complex, had a full gym and a pool on the twenty-first floor and a restaurant, gourmet grocery and a liquor store located at street level. What else could anyone need?

  As with many new buildings, the management company regularly hosted themed get-togethers so that residents could mingle and meet their new neighbors. It was one of many nice perks. The social aspects of the complex were really a bonus when beginning a new life.

  Laynie, being Laynie, wasn’t going to let it go. “Have you thought about checking out one of the singles’ nights they have here? I saw a flyer posted near the elevator bank. That might be a good way to start checking out the dating scene. If they can afford to live here, then you know they at least make a good living and can keep you satiated with sushi.” I smiled at her free ping at my sushi-loving ex.

  “Yeah, but it’s a little close for comfort,” I protested. “If it doesn’t work out you still have to see that person at the mailboxes and in the pool and on really slow, torturous elevator rides.”

  “I’ll go to the mixer with you,” she offered. “If it’s horrible and the men are hideous, we’ll just leave and go out someplace fabulous for dinner. C’mon, Tara,” she pleaded, “you really need to get back out there. You deserve a life. A happy life. And a big quaking orgasm.” She smirked at her afterthought, “You know, one where there’s actually someone else in the room with you.”

  Bitch. While I knew she was right, the thought of dating in my late thirties made me sick to my stomach. I could already feel the rejection and I had yet to put myself out there to be rejected. It was like bad high school fears surfacing, and at this point in my life, I really didn’t want to deal with it. But Laynie was not going to let up and on some level, I knew she was right. I wanted someone in my life. Someone who gave me everything Frank never could.

  A week later, with plans to meet Laynie at the Friday night aptly named Social Singles Social, I stood before my bedroom mirror, my seventh outfit of the night on par with one through six. Nothing looked good. My butt looked huge in all seven outfits. Size 10 was becoming snug. That’s what a divorce will do to you, I rationalized. Fuck you, Frank. I was getting crabbier with each outfit change and the ex was as good a person as any to blame for my surly mood as my anxiety about going to the social escalated.

  Going back into my beautiful new closet with the built-in dressers, my new favorite room in the house, I had the epiphany I should have had before I’d even tried on outfit #1. Wear black. Black skirt, black blouse, black pumps – the perfect uniform for New York chic, mourning or hiding ten pounds.

  The entertainment facilities in the condo complex was the perfect space to host a small-intimate get-together in the pub rooms or a full-scale affair in the 300-person capacity ballroom. Taking over the pub and several of the salon rooms, I was shocked to see the number of singles attending the event; many of whom were new faces I hadn’t previously seen on the elevators or in the gym. As the social was for residents from both towers that made up the complex, I realized the pickings might not be as slim as I had originally anticipated.

  What was quite surprising was running into people I actually did know. “I had no clue you lived here.” It had been a while since I had seen Scarlett’s third grade teacher, Jill Presley.

  “Part of my divorce settlement,” she confided and I wondered how many of us there were in that very same boat.

  The group’s demographics were all over the place. There was a significant sixty-plus population, both male and female, who I suspected were retirees and then there was a surprisingly large group of twenty-somethings who must’ve had parents with big wallets or were tech industry wizards. The thirty-to-forty age group was a little sparser, but consisted of mostly females, and I felt a flash of fear as I silently prayed that this was not the place divorcees were sent to wither into sex-starved spinsters. Standing back, I assessed the room, and immediately I felt more hopeless than ever. These women were gorgeous with their perfect long tresses and trainer sculpted size 4 bodies. They all looked airbrushed, like retouched photos, with plump lips, perky boobs, spray tans and perfect, straight noses.

  Yes, I was intimidated. I didn’t want to be dating again and I didn’t look like these women. What was wrong with just focusing on raising my wonderful teenage daughter and concentrating on a career I loved? Did I really need a man to make my life complete? No. But truth be told, in my most honest moments, when I actually let myself dream, I wanted to share my life with someone who just got me, someone who I could laugh with, someone who would hold me when I cried, someone who would show up with a bunch of blue hydrangeas just because, someone who making love with was hot, passionate and yes, meaningful. Someone who knew how to get me off.

  But as I looked around this room at the retouched beauties, the chances of ever finding someone seemed more and more like a distant little girl fantasy. And I wanted to run from this room that was feeling increasingly claustrophobic. I just wanted to run.

  Where was Laynie? It had to already be time to leave for dinner. Shit. Jill was deep in a conversation with a woman she knew from yoga and I just stood there, red wine in hand, in a room full of hot cougars sipping white wine.

  “Hello, Tara. Good to see you.” I jumped as I hadn’t seen the man approaching from behind. He looked vaguely familiar and clearly I knew him, since he knew my name.

  “Hi.” I smiled brightly, trying desperately to hide my who the fuck are you look. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

  “I’m over in the other tower.” He too was drinking white wine.

  Who the heck is he? An inch or so shorter than me with a receding hairline and glasses, I would describe the man as being non-descript. The only thing that stood out was that he was very well-dressed. I recognized the shirt, having bought the same one for Frank for his birthday prior to the divorce. It was an Armani and this guy did not buy it from TJ Maxx. And he was wearing a gold Tag Heuer watch. Okay, so who was he? I culled my brain. It was right there, on the tip of my tongue, like trying to place an actor, when you know they’ve been on another show you’ve watched, but you can’t figure out what character it is. I knew this guy, but I couldn’t place him. Who was he?

  Sensing my inability to recognize him, he leaned in, his Armani Gio cologne making my nose tingle with its mild and pleasant scent. “Dr. Rentsler,” he whispered in my ear.

  “Dr. Rentsler!” That’s who he was! My dentist! “I didn’t recognize you when you’re not in my mouth.” Oh God, I didn’t just say that to the man, did I?

  His smile was slow and predatory. “Well, we can fix that.”

  Sputtering, I choked on my wine. Make a joke, I screamed at myself. But my mind drew a blank.

  Her bright red hair caught my eye and I waved, praying her long legs would lead her across the room quickly.

  “Finally,” she sighed. “Crosstown traffic was hideous tonight.”

  Saved! Dr. Rentsler’s height was perfectly synchronized for him to have a direct eye-view of Laynie’s braless breasts on full display under a colorful sheer blouse. And like a puppy easily distracted, the man moved on to the next possibility.

  “Tara, are you not going to introduce me to your beautiful friend?”

  No, pervert, I’m not was my first thought. “Laynie, meet my dentist, Dr. Rentsler.”

  “Phillip, call me Phillip,” he warmly addressed her breasts.

  Smiling, what I know is her fake closed-mouth smile, I couldn’t tell if she was just grossed out by this boob talker or merely didn’t want him to see her teeth for fear that he’d try to persuade her to let him into her mouth.


  “I need a drink,” she announced, leaving me alone with my lecherous dentist.

  “And I need to find the ladies’ room, excuse me.” I turned from Dr. Rentsler before he could start talking to my chest, too.

  The first restroom I reached was the private one designated for families. Finding it unlocked, I slipped inside. Turning to lock the door behind me, I let out a surprised and alarmed, “Ahhh,” that wasn’t loud enough to be a scream. Dr. Rentsler was in there with me and he was locking the door.

  “What are you doing in here?” My anger overtook my fear, mainly because I was probably stronger than him.

  “I’ve come to show you my favorite probe,” he offered with a smug smirk.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?”

  His hand was on his zipper, “It’s not like I haven’t been in your mouth before, Tara.”

  That was it. The jerk may have thought he was being amusing, or even sexy, but I was beyond pissed. He had crossed a boundary. With my face just inches from his, I let loose. “Pull that zipper down and you’ll be singing in the Vienna Boys’ Choir, doc.”

  His eyes widened and his pupils dilated. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or if he was turned on by my full-blown rant. I prayed it wasn’t the latter.

  I wasn’t done with him. “And to top that off, now I have to find a new dentist and you know, I have extreme dental phobia from being drilled without Novocain as a child.” I was more pissed about that than anything else. “Now move out of my way.”

  He stepped away from the door without uttering another word.

  As I was walking through the door, I stopped, then turned around. Pointing a finger at the man, I hissed, “And don’t you come walking out of here in two seconds to make it look like we had sex in the bathroom. You stay in there for ten minutes.” I had just put my former dentist in timeout.