by A. O. Peart
Of course Ali wouldn’t be Ali if she didn’t seize the opportunity to turn the discussion into something to laugh about. She makes her fingers into straight horns by her temples, forces the air three times through her nose, and pretends to paw the dirt with her foot just like the bulls do. Then she pokes Caroline with her fingers still poised as horns.
Caroline shrieks. The piece of her pizza ends up on the side of Ali’s head. It slides down, leaving pieces of goat cheese, basil, and diced tomato stuck to her hair. Jena and I gasp, and then burst out laughing. Ali’s not happy, and Caroline tries to clean up the mess off Ali’s hair with a napkin.
“Oh, stop it. I need to wash my hair now. This is yucky,” Ali huffs. She marches out of the room and into the bathroom. Soon we hear the shower going.
Caroline puts her beer down. “I hope she’s not too pissed off at me.”
“She’ll be fine. Goat cheese can’t be that bad for the hair.” I wave my hand dismissively.
“So, Caroline.” Jena bites into her mushroom and Italian sausage pizza. “You’re totally sure you want to go under the knife? After all, it’s a major surgery.”
Caroline rests her head in her hands, elbows on her knees. She sighs loudly and whispers something under her breath. I suspect a string of profanities.
I scoot closer to her on the sofa and put my arms around her. “Let’s just say you go ahead and do it. What if you’re not happy with your new image?”
Jena jumps in, taking another humongous bite of her pizza, “You might start feeling conscientious about the way your boobs stick out all of a sudden.”
Caroline gives a bitter laugh. “Like I’m not conscientious about how my boobs cave in now? I mean, look at me,” she dramatically points with both hands to her chest, “see? This is what I deal with every day. I can’t even get a half-decent guy, because all of them want at least a B cup.”
“That’s a bunch of crap,” Jena comments. “There are plenty of guys that will like you without Dolly Parton’s signature chest.”
“Not every guy on the planet looks for busty girls. They enjoy other body parts,” I add. Erm, that sounded… well, not very helpful.
Caroline snorts. “My between-the-legs landscape could get me some brownie points for sure. Come on, that’s not what they see first. Geez.”
Jena giggles. “No, wait. This is what Nat meant: ‘Hi, it’s nice to meet you too. Oh, my clothes are too revealing, you say? That’s because my hoo-ha must compete with the other women’s half-exposed boobs, since my own wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Jena puts her hand on Caroline’s knee. “Sweetie, you’re pretty, smart, educated, gainfully employed. You’re funny, and awesome to be around. Okay, so you need a different look. Fine. Get a perm, or—better yet—a wig. A few wigs—”
“Seriously, Jena?” Caroline snaps, sitting up straight. “Don’t you think this is just… just… bad advice?”
I groan. “We are not helping much. She has her mind set, and nothing is going to knock her off track.” I look at my bestie and consider raising the subject again another day.
Caroline has a stern expression on her face. I know that look—there is no way in hell we are going to change her mind; not even if we manage to permanently freeze hell over.
Jena looks concerned but she thinks better of continuing our lost battle and remains silent. Did we fail? Will we have to let our friend go under the knife? I shudder, thinking of it.
Ali comes out from the bathroom, rubbing her wet hair with a towel. Water makes her jet-black hair look even darker than normal.
Jena says, “Okay, Caroline. Let’s go get wasted. It’s Friday night after all.”
“Some of us work tomorrow. But I feel like going out,” I comment.
Ali grins at me.
Caroline shakes her head, “You two are freakin’ workaholics. Can’t you take a day off for a change?”
“We take days off,” Ali protests.
Jena stands up and collects our empty bottles. “I’ve never known anyone who worked so much.”
“When you have your own business, you better work or get your ass kicked by competitors.” I yawn and stretch. “Not a big deal. Ali and I rarely work past five p.m. We keep regular office hours.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Jena returns from the kitchen. “Where are we going? Blue Fin?”
“Blue Fin it is!” Ali is first to the door.
I have a pretty good idea behind Ali’s reason. The reason is in the shape of the cute bartender.
FOUR
“There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.”
William Shakespeare.
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I just woke up from a nap. I look at Colin’s business card in my hand, deep in thought, contemplating the possibilities. Not really the good possibilities, but mostly the crazy-ass ones. I feel the weight of my past relationships, and all the baggage I’ve been left with. The guys I’d dated were mostly weird like Lee, who failed to mention that he preferred men, but wanted to experiment, as he admitted after the fact. That experiment left me puzzled, especially when he decided (and said so) that I was worthless in bed. Yeah, well, forgive me for not growing a dick on demand.
A few had a mean streak like Ray The Asshole or Marc The Nutcase Banker; some of the guys only wanted to have a one-nighter. Maybe that wouldn’t be too bad under the circumstances. But they made me feel used and discarded by not being honest up front, like Let’s-Screw-Fast-And-Move-On Ted. And then there was Rich. Ah, yes, the guy I fell for head over heels. Rich actually was married but never admitted it until I ran into him and his wife at the Flying Fish restaurant on Lake Union. Am I a total jerk magnet? So far I’ve been exclusively the asshats’ playground.
Ugh, have I ever dated a normal, nice guy? I don’t expect a lot. I just want someone who’s genuinely interested in me; someone who wants to hang out without the drama, lies, and deceit. Is that too much to ask? Or maybe I live in the wrong city—maybe Seattle is full of dickheads? Nah. Statistically speaking, that’s not possible. You can’t generalize the whole freakin’city.
The reality is ridiculous. I co-own executive dating company. A successful executive dating company. I match tons of professionals every month. I get thank-you cards and even gifts from the happy couples who would never have met if it wasn’t for me or my business partner Ali. But my private dating life totally sucks.
So now what? Should I call Colin? I don’t want to deal with yet another disappointment though. What if he’s just like the guys from my past? Is Ali onto something when she suggests that I find a sex buddy? As much as that idea makes sense, I’m not the right material. I’m not like Ali or Jena. No, I’m more like Caroline—romantic and sentimental. Or am I?
I put the card down, look at the phone, open my laptop, close it, and pick up the card again. “Ugh. Effin’ shit!” I slam my hand on the kitchen counter. That hurts. I slump down, resting my head over my fists, elbows propped on the counter.
“But what if I fall for this one too?” I ask my mom’s picture stuck to the refrigerator door in the middle of many other snapshots. “I don’t want to go through this again. I don’t want to be a mess.”
Mom just keeps grinning at me from the photograph, a glass of red wine in hand. A man’s arm wraps around her shoulders, and although the rest of his body isn’t visible, I know it’s my dad. We rarely spend any time together, since they travel excessively, always flying somewhere, or going on a cruise. I wish I could call them right now and see what they say. But they’re somewhere on the coast of Costa Rica, so I don’t even want to bother. If I only had a sibling—a sister—maybe things would be easier to manage.
My parents’ words of wisdom are just what I would welcome now, because I already know my girlfriends’ advice. It’s always pretty much the same—Ali and Jena: what are you obsessing over? Go for it, girl. Have fun. Caroline: I don’t know, maybe you should think about what you really want first. Remember last time?
&nbs
p; Yeah, there are too many last times in my past. All of them suck ass.
I know what I want. I want to be happy for a change, and not burdened with heartbreaks or disappointments. Just for once, I need a break. All those losers I’ve crossed paths with have drained me clean from my positive energy. They took all the upbeat goodness right out of me and left me overanalyzing the possibility of dating ever again. Am I really such a screw-up? Or maybe I simply don’t belong in the same world with all those guys. So where do I belong?
I exhale a long sigh that ends with something like a growl. I rest my forehead on the cool kitchen counter and put Colin’s business card flat on top of my head. Okay, if it falls with his name and phone number facing up, I will call. If it doesn’t, well, then not. I decide. I think about our first encounter—him, dressed with that nonchalant coolness, and me, in my teensy bra and a sorry excuse for a mini skirt. I groan inwardly. Okay, concentrate on his card.
I shake my head and peak through my hair. The card lies, staring me in the eye with its black lettering. Destiny has spoken. I hope I won’t regret it.
I take my cell phone out of my purse and dial. The ring tone is almost intimidating. The call goes into voicemail. I hang up. Leaving a message would seem too desperate. It wasn’t meant to be after all. Destiny is chortling behind my back now. Whatever. I dial Caroline’s number. She picks up on the second ring.
“Hey, Natalie,” she says in hushed voice.
“Where are you? Can you talk?”
“Uhm… not really. I’m… well, I’m in church,” she whispers.
“Church? What’s going on?” Caroline is Catholic but not really a practicing one. She goes to mass twice a year—for Christmas and Easter. That’s it. Neither of these holidays is approaching anytime soon.
“Hold on. Let me walk outside,” she whispers again.
“O-kay. I’m starting to get worried. Should I?”
“Shhh.” A few moments later I hear the thud of a heavy door closing, and Caroline comes on the line, “It’s about Mallory’s wedding. You know that she wants to get married in the church.”
Mallory is Caroline’s younger sister. She got accepted to Columbia University in NYC a few years earlier, and that’s when she moved from Seattle to New Jersey with their parents. Mallory is planning her wedding in New York, and Caroline is going to be her maid of honor. Which is against Caroline’s own wishes. But she couldn’t refuse. I suspect that she blackmailed Mallory into inviting me (her bestie) and Ali (the sidekick) to the wedding. Why? Because Caroline is way too stressed out about Mallory’s egoistic ways. I know she needs her best friends with her or she’ll have a meltdown in the middle of the ceremony.
“Oh, crap. I totally forgot. Do I need to go to confession or something?”
“No, you moron. You’re not the one getting married, remember?” I can just see her shake her head and roll her eyes.
“So why are you in the church? You’re not getting hitched either.” I still don’t get it.
“Because. Mallory wants to have that full-blown Catholic wedding. I’m her maid of honor, but I have no idea what to do and how to act during the wedding. So I went to talk to a priest and see if there are any freakin’ classes for us, the uninformed.”
“Can’t you just Google it? What did you find out?”
“He explained to me a bit how this works and what’s needed from me. Like I don’t have enough to do.” She huffs, angrily.
“Hey, why don’t you come over? I will make you a mean margarita. We can watch some sappy movie too.” I know she needs to vent, and I’m just the person to listen. But I also have my own motives for Caroline’s company—I can’t get Colin out of my head and I want to get her opinion on what to do.
FIVE
“The great question… which I have never been able to answer, despite my 30 years of research into the feminine soul, is ‘What does a woman want?’”
Sigmund Freud
I’m in my office, talking on the phone with one of our long-term customers when my cell phone chimes. I glance at the screen. The number seems familiar, but I can’t place it. A moment later the voicemail ding announces a new message.
Ali sticks her head in my office and mouths to me, “Are you about done?”
I nod, pointing to the phone and mouth back, “Esther Bosarge.”
Ali rolls her eyes. Esther is one of our first members. She is still a member. We’ve carefully matched her six different times, but Esther is never satisfied.
I scribble on my notepad, ‘Let’s grab something to eat’ and show it to Ali.
She gives me two thumbs up.
Esther continues to complain in my ear in her strong French accent. I assure her that her latest match, which she is very unhappy with for God knows what reason, does in fact have a Master’s Degree in Economics, and that we always verify all the information provided by our members. So no, his education isn’t something he just made up. I tell her that our program will search through the profiles once again and we might find a good match this or next week, since we have new gentlemen signing up daily. She’s my personal client—oh, fucking joy—and so I go through all the profiles matched to hers, choosing the best possible ones.
When Esther finally lets me go, I holler to Ali, “I don’t know what to do with Esther. She’s way too picky.”
Ali walks into my office, purse in hand, shaking her head. “We might need to put her on the ‘A List’.
The ‘A List’ means the ‘Arduous List’. It’s our name for the members of a very particular taste that are extremely difficult to match. It’s as if, deep inside, they don’t really want to meet anyone who could sweep them off their feet, but rather prefer to be demanding and endlessly catered to.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” I say, bringing my cell phone up to my ear to listen to the voicemail from a few minutes earlier.
Ali drops down in the chair, legs stretched out. “Hurry up. I’m so hungry.”
“Oh, my.” I grin at the voicemail on my phone.
“What is it?” Ali perks up.
“Colin called. Hold on.” I raise my hand to stop her so I can listen to the end of his message.
Ali watches me as if trying to read my expression.
“Well?” she asks, anxiously, when I put the phone down and don’t comment.
“Well, he said he saw my number in his missed calls list and was sorry he wasn’t there to pick up.”
“That’s it?” Ali seems disappointed.
“He wants to take me out to dinner. So it worked quite nicely—just like Caroline suggested.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Not to call after that one time. She said he would see the missed call from me and if he’s really interested, he will call.”
“That girl is a genius.” Ali mocks.
I snort. “She was right though. I’ll call him back from the restaurant. This way we can just get together for a drink. More casual and less time invested in case he turns out not to be what I expect.”
“Good plan,” Ali agrees. “I have a feeling that he might be a keeper.”
I sigh. “Yeah, you said that about Rich too.” My voice carries an accusatory note, and I inwardly chastise myself. It’s not Ali’s fault that Rich turned out to be a liar and a cheat.
“I know, and I’m sorry. He’s a total douchebag.”
We decide on Rudolfo’s—a tiny Italian restaurant in downtown Bellevue, just a few minutes’ drive from our office. It’s the smallest restaurant that I’ve ever known, so we are taking our chances on grabbing a table without reservation during dinnertime. We get lucky and spot one empty table in the corner. It’s getting dark outside, and the heavy rain that had started about six days earlier continues its assault on the city.
“I hate this weather.” I pout, opening the menu.
“Yeah. Me too,” Ali murmurs, studying hers.
“Honestly, this kind of weather is only good for one thing—indoor sex.” I try to decid
e between linguini Alfredo and chicken lasagna.
“As opposed to an outdoor sex?” Ali asks, impassively.
“I doubt anyone in this boring city ever has outdoor sex. Speaking hypothetically, have you ever seen anyone doing it on Alki Beach or on the beach at Golden Gardens?”
Ali gives me a dubious look. “Well, for starters that would qualify as an illegal activity. Secondly—Seattle men in general would view such an idea as absurd. It’s just not done here. Even if you had a very private balcony or a terrace, I bet it would be close to impossible to find a guy who would actually enjoy something as crazy as outdoor sex. And I’m not talking about bums or teenagers, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I agree. “And you’ve got that right. This city is boring. Let’s move to L.A. or New York. You know, we could totally open another location somewhere else and have someone manage the Seattle office.”
“Maybe. If we find a solid person and train them to cover the Seattle market, it shouldn’t be too hard to run both locations.”
“I’m telling you—more and more of our clients are like that Esther woman: they don’t effing know what they really want. Their own insecurities prevent them from opening up to others.”
“She’s a nutcase. We can’t meet her needs. She doesn’t even know herself what those needs are.”
A twenty-two-year-old waiter, Giuseppe, walks over to our table. There is a sincere smile on his face. “Ali! Natalie! How wonderful to see you,” he exclaims. He’s not a super-big guy or particularly gorgeous. But his tight-across-chest-and-shoulders black t-shirt can’t disguise the fact that he has a lean, firm body. And there is something electrifying and undeniably sexy about him.
He pours water into our glasses from a huge glass pitcher. “I missed you, ladies. It’s been too long.” Giuseppe means he missed Ali.
Ali and Giuseppe have a past—a very steamy past. It ended a few months ago, after he wanted to spend more time with her and kept inviting her to his family gatherings. Ali wasn’t ready to settle down and didn’t care much for his loud, obnoxiously curious relatives. They parted ways in a civilized manner and remained something close to friends.
