How to Change a Life

by Stacey Ballis

  “Wow. That sounds so cool. What is the event next week?”

  “Thursday night. It’s a spirits-and-chocolate-pairing thing hosted by Vosges and Mammoth Distilling.”

  “You had me at chocolate and booze.”

  “I really think you’ll have fun.”

  “Why haven’t I ever heard of them?”

  Marcy pauses. “I never really wanted to mention. I mean, on paper, perfect fit for you, but . . .”

  “But my antisocial nature?”

  “I love you, honey, but these are super bright, fun women, and they have amazing big personalities. Yes, this is a way for them to give back, but it is also most importantly a way for them to network and connect. You really don’t bring someone into the circle unless there is a part of you that thinks she might be a good fit for something bigger; after all, we are a charitable organization, and I never wanted to make you uncomfortable. I feel like last year, if I had taken you to something, I would have felt the need to really stick to you like glue, and that you would really mostly have just talked to me, if you had agreed to come with me at all. I don’t get to go to as many meetings and events as I would like, so when I go I want to flit around and see all my girls.”

  “Didn’t want the old ball and chain dragging you down.” I hate how right she is, that in her position I would have probably done the same.

  “Hey. I love you, you ridiculous giantess. You know that. And I’m super proud of how much you’ve changed in the past months. I never wanted to put you in an uncomfortable situation, but now I feel like you can come to this event and have a good time and meet some new people that might actually stick. I mean, wasn’t the whole socializing-with-strangers thing supposed to be about broadening your group of friends? Meeting new people?”

  “It was.”

  “Have you stayed in touch with any of the people you’ve met at any of these classes or tastings or events at all? Even taken someone’s card?”

  I think back to the things I’ve done and realize that, while I’ve had some good conversations and fun, I haven’t really connected with anyone and, no, I haven’t stayed in touch. “Nope.”

  “Okay, so here is a group of women you already have a lot in common with. That’s a pretty good foundation. Why not make your last bet item one that might actually fulfill the idea behind the bet, instead of just checking something off the list? After all, you thought you were just dating for the bet to put a toe back into the water of a possible romantic life and you met your soul mate, for chrissakes!”

  “I give! You’re right, evil pixie. I’m in. Bring me to meet the Dahms. Is there hazing? Blood ritual?”

  She winks. “You’ll have to get nominated to find out.”

  “What the hell. It’s the new me.”

  “Nope, it’s just a slightly improved version of you, with all of the awesomeness that you’ve always been, just a bit shinier.”

  She raises her pint glass to me, and I clink it with my own, thinking that for the first time since the bet started, I’m actually looking forward to a social event, without a moment’s uncertainty or the tiniest wish for a quiet night at home. This seems at once completely natural and totally monumental.

  “So then you just have to mail out your cookbook things and you are all good!”

  My heart sinks a bit, thinking about the dreaded tub, untouched for the past two weeks. Well, I am still a work in progress. I put on a big smile. “Yep!”

  We finish our burgers and beers; she fills me in on the café opening plans, moved to the first week of June due to some unexpected construction delays. Her phone pings just as we’re paying the bill.

  “Hot date?” I ask.

  “Nope, just Sophie and a bunch of people are meeting up with the Girl and the Goat gang at the Paramount Room for cocktails.” She pauses. Then puts on a sly smirk. “Wanna come?”

  I look her dead in the eye. “You bet.”

  • • •

  I snuggle back into Shawn’s chest, and he kisses the top of my head. “How are you feeling about it?”

  I’ve just gotten back from the meet-and-greet dinner at Spiaggia with Lynne and Gabriel, and I’m mentally worn out. “I feel like they are weirdly a really good match, for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Okay, so is that good or is that bad?”

  “Are you okay with talking about this? I mean, I really want to talk to you about this, but I can completely understand if you don’t want to.”

  “Lynne and I are ancient history, and whatever sadness I had about that failing has long been replaced with relief that I got out before I lost more time. Especially in the last seven months.” He pulls me in tightly. “Yeah, do I wish she wasn’t your friend? Of course. It’s fucking weird, not gonna lie. But I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to edit yourself or not talk to me about things because of our past. None of it is changing. So lay it on me.”

  “Okay, so he’s one of those guys that you sort of know aren’t really listening, they’re just sort of waiting for their turn to talk?”

  “Yeah, like you could be anyone, as long as you are a receptacle for their stories?”

  “Exactly. And sometimes I feel like Lynne does that, so maybe neither one of them would care. He definitely wants you to know that he has a lot of money; it was all about the fancy dinner and expensive bottles of wine, and the truffle addition upcharge. And he made a very strong point at the beginning that he was treating, as if the rest of us would have been concerned about the cost.”

  “Ugh, that sounds shitty.”

  “I don’t know, I mean, he did it in that blithe way like he really thought he was being a nice guy and a thoughtful host, but it just landed wrong. But the weird thing is, they really do seem to genuinely like each other, Lynne and him; they laughed a lot, and told us all about their trip to L.A.”

  “With an emphasis on famous people they rubbed elbows with?”

  “Naturally. And his huge sailboat, and his enormous house in the hills, and his place at the beach . . .”

  “Great.”

  “I mean, it’s weird, it feels like they like each other and are happy together, but that part of it is because she sees herself living that life with that kind of man, and that he is the kind of guy who wants someone who is beautiful and accomplished, like he is disdainful of the guys who get the traditional younger, stupid-blond-bimbo trophy wives, so he is going to get someone smart and elegant; but she’s still sort of a trophy, just a different type of trophy.”

  “But if that is what they both want, maybe that is part of the attraction?”

  “Maybe. I mean, don’t get me wrong—he seems genuinely nice, if a little self-important.”

  “Much like Lynne, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I don’t. You’re right. I just wish that it felt like more of a love match than a business arrangement. They’re certainly affectionate, but there’s no real electricity, you know? They seem comfortable, but not sparkly.”

  “Not like us!” he says, nuzzling into my neck.

  “Nope, we got all kinds of sparkle.” I turn to kiss him, noting that the feel of his lips on mine are still on the super-insane-wow part of the electricity scale. I pull back, and shift so that I’m sitting facing him, and Simca takes the opening to jump up and snuggle into the warmth of the space I’ve left behind in his lap.

  “But you don’t think he’s a bad guy? You didn’t see some sort of red flag to cause you to want to warn her or not be supportive?”

  “No, I didn’t, which weirdly, is maybe worse? Because I think Lynne just checks off a lot of boxes for him—he looks at her like he has finally found the kind of person he deserves, instead of looking at her like he can’t believe his great good fortune in finding Lynne specifically, and everything that means about her and who she is. And I can’t say that it is any different on her side, so I can
’t really be anything but supportive, you know?”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad. I don’t really know if it is in Lynne to just go from the gut, from the heart, and leap into genuine love with someone. It sounds like she has found a decent guy who is everything she wants and needs, and has the same sort of attitude, so maybe they are truly perfect for each other. Ultimately, everyone has their own idea of happy, and if this is theirs, I think that’s great. Maybe if she has what she believes she needs, she can fully open up to our love.”

  “That is a nice way to look at it. I’ll try and adopt it.”

  “Despite your deep-down disapproval.” He tilts his head at me.

  “Argh, I know, I’m very judgmental.” I keep trying to work on that, but it is a process, and some days are better than others.

  “No, you just want more for her than she wants for herself.”

  “I think maybe because that was always her role for me, and over the last few months I’ve finally started to want for myself some of what she always wanted for me, and so now I wish I could do the same for her a little bit.”

  “You’re a good soul, my love.”

  “I’m trying to be.”

  “How are you feeling about the party coming up?”

  “Pretty good, I think. It should be a nice event, and I’m looking forward to your folks meeting Mom and Claire. I hope your superfan Geneva doesn’t stick her foot in it with them!”

  “Oh, I already told them about all my new nieces and nephews!”

  “Oy, what did they say?”

  “My mom said she couldn’t wait to meet them, and that we should bring them all to the Memorial Day family barbecue.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Mom doesn’t play about the barbecue.”

  “Lord, can you imagine?”

  “Oh, I can more than imagine—I can’t wait!”

  I laugh, thinking about the whirling dervish that is Geneva Farber and Shawn’s family. We’re going to have to take video.

  “Well, I’ll let them know the details. I think they’re in town that weekend.”

  “What about the bet?”

  “I’m good on everything . . .”

  “Except the cookbook proposal,” he says matter-of-factly. “I noticed the tub in the kitchen corner is getting dusty.”

  “Yeah, except that.” I fessed up to him about the cookbook proposal problem when I recognized that I was really not just procrastinating but genuinely stuck.

  “What do you think is the block?”

  “The whole idea of having a story to tell with my food, I don’t know how to pull that together.”

  “What about the Love Plates idea? I thought you had settled on that.”

  “Yeah, for a title, but what does it mean, really?”

  “Baby, you have spent your life doing what you love, with love, for people you love. Didn’t you always say that the thing that keeps you out of a restaurant is the need for the personal connection? That’s what the title means to me when you say it. Loving the process, loving the product, and loving the recipient, even when the recipient is yourself. A celebration of how cooking is a pure act of love, and one of the most generous gifts you can give to someone. Right?”

  “Sure, it sounds easy when you say it.”

  “Well, let me ask you this. Do you care at all about winning this bet?”

  I think about this. “I did, sort of, in the beginning. But now I feel like I already did the most important part, you know? My body is a little healthier. My mind is a little clearer. My life is a little wider and more interesting. And most importantly, I found you, so I’ve already won so big.”

  “Well, thank you. So what if you thought of this cookbook thing as not part of the bet, but just part of this bigger, more open life you’ve embraced? Forget the deadline looming; forget needing to prove something to Lynne and Teresa, you’ve already proven it to yourself. Give up on using it to win the bet, but don’t give up on the dream of it. I think you can’t do the proposal because you haven’t done the book. So forget about agents and publishers, and just do the book. The whole book. Delve into the joy of figuring out the chapters and culling the recipes and drawing your amazing sketches. Let it come to you the way it wants to, and once it’s finished, then look at what you have and see how you want to handle it. Maybe you’ll want to self-publish, and not go the traditional route at all. Who knows? But don’t force it to try and win the bet, and don’t let it go just because of losing the bet. Let Lynne and Teresa win the bet, and you win at life.”

  In one fell swoop, the tension in my shoulders releases, like a switch has been flipped. The idea of not worrying about how to describe the book and just delving into the actual making of the book, that seems freeing and like something that I could really do. “You are magic. Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

  “I do. Because it appears to be as much as I love you, which is enormously much.”

  I push Simca out of the way and get back into Shawn’s arms, knowing that for the first time in forever, I’m not just where I should be, but I’m who I should be. And while I’m no less content than I was last year at this time, I’m a whole lot happier. Which means that letting go of winning the bet?

  Actually means I win the bet.

  Twenty-four

  The place looks great, Teresa! Thank you for doing so much hard work,” I say, looking around the private room at Stella Barra. Teresa has put together beautiful flower arrangements on all the tables, from the walls she’s hung silver Mylar ballons with 40! on them in purple, and at each place is a cellophane-wrapped cookie with a photo of us from our eighteenth birthday party printed on it. There are bowls of retro candies on all the tables—our favorite stuff from our youth: Razzles and Nerds and Lik-m-aid packages and bowls of custom M&M’s also printed with 40! All around the room are photos of the three of us from high school printed on boards. She’s outdone herself.

  “It’s terrific, T, thanks,” Lynne says, winking at me. I know she thinks it’s over the top and sort of ghastly, but I will say that she seems these days to be a little lighter, a little looser, and dare I say, maybe even a little more tactful. Maybe Gabriel is making her truly happy, in a way that lets her be more relaxed about life.

  The waitress comes over with a tray of the official cocktail of the evening, the ELT French 40. It’s a riff on a French 75, adjusted to suit us, with bourbon instead of gin, champagne, lemon juice, and simple syrup, with a Luxardo cherry instead of a lemon twist. “Here you go, ladies. As soon as your guests are here we will start passing hors d’oeuvres, but I thought you might want a little sampler plate before they arrive.”

  “That is great, thanks so much!” I say, knowing that in a half hour when people start to come in, we’ll have a hard time eating and mingling. We accept the flutes and toast each other. The drink is warming and refreshing at the same time. The platter she has brought us contains three each of all the passed appetizers we chose: little lettuce cups with spicy beef, mini fish tacos, little pork-meatball crostini, fried calamari, and spoons with creamy burrata topped with grapes and a swirl of fig balsamic. There will also eventually be a few of their signature pizzas set up on the buffet, and then, for dinner, everyone has their choice of flat-iron steak, roasted chicken, or grilled vegetables, served with roasted fingerlings. For dessert, there is either a chocolate chunk or apple oatmeal cookie, served toasty warm with vanilla ice cream and either hot fudge or caramel on top, plus there will be their famous Rice Krispies Treats on the tables to share. We opted out of the huge-birthday-cake thing, since as usual, the three of us all prefer different flavors of cake. Growing up, we always did cupcakes for the birthday celebrations, and saved the big cakes for individual family events.

  “Damn, these are good,” Lynne says around a mouthful of fish taco.

  “I could eat this whole plate,” Te
resa says, popping a calamari tentacle in her mouth.

  “Well, I’m glad you approve of the choices.” Teresa was in charge of décor, I was in charge of menu planning, and Lynne was in charge of paying her third and trusting us.

  “So, enough chitchat. A little business before the festivities . . .” Lynne says. “And before either of you say anything, I have a confession.”

  “Yes?” Teresa says, raising an eyebrow.

  “I didn’t finish my list,” Lynne says. “Apparently the whole nomination process for the DuSable Museum board is both rigorous and endless, and I’m still being vetted, and have not actually even been nominated yet, so I failed.”

  Teresa and I look at each other, jaws agape. Lynne was the hands-down favorite to win, and we all knew it, especially her, which was why she agreed to it to begin with. Lynne subscribes to the philosophy that you never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to, and you never enter a competition you aren’t sure you’re going to win.

  “That’s okay, L, I didn’t finish my list either. I’ve been working on the cookbook, but it isn’t ready for me to send anything out that I’d be confident to share.”

  Teresa starts to laugh. “There is no way I won this thing!” She slaps her head. “I was just shooting for second place.”

  “Well, you totally won it, T, which is good since it was your idea anyway,” Lynne says. “Anyway, since Eloise and I kind of tied for losing, what should we do about the checks?”

  “I think all three of us do the same five grand,” Teresa says.

  “But you won—you’re off the hook!” Lynne says.

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t ever really about that, you know? We were back together again, the Three Witches. We all had shit we wanted to accomplish that needed a push or two, and we needed to be back in each other’s lives in a way that honored Mrs. O’Connor. She always taught us that we were stronger together. I think this was sort of her final gift to us, so our final thank-you should be even all around.”