by Theresa Alan
“Boys are so weird,” I say. “Sienna, would you ever think, hmm, I wonder what would happen if I just launched this weapon of mass destruction in my dorm room?”
“That would be a negative. A big N-O.”
“It’s in our blood since we were wee lads,” Mark says, this time adopting a Scottish accent. “To fight the good fight. To defend our bonnie lasses on pain of death!”
“Yeah, you two are total warriors. Just need a little war paint,” I say. Mark is scrawny and Will has the athletic prowess of a KitKat bar. I’m not convinced they could protect us from an enraged butterfly.
“Well, my gracious, I do believe our manhoods have been insulted,” Mark says to Will.
“You know I think you’re a manly man,” I say to Will, sidling up to him, fluttering my eyelashes coquettishly. He gives me a long, deep kiss.
“Get a room!” Mark and Sienna start heckling.
“All right, all right,” I say, pulling away from him. “Let’s go find someplace where there’s music.”
They take us to a jazz club several blocks away. We dance for maybe half an hour, though really Will and I just kind of make out in a swaying sort of way to the music. Sienna and Mark start teasing us again. We smile sheepishly. Really, we can’t seem to resist each other. Although in truth, we don’t try very hard.
“Come on, Sienna, let’s go get the next round,” I say.
Sienna follows me up to the bar where we order four more beers.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“I approve. He’s cute and funny and kind.”
“I told you.”
“I’m so happy for you. You two seem really happy together. I’m jealous of how you can’t keep your hands off each other.”
“Well, we’ve only been dating for seven months. Give us time.” Really though, I think Will and I are both just snuggly, hand-holding type people.
It’s late when we finally decide to head home. Will springs for a taxi so we don’t have to walk eighty-six blocks, switch buses fourteen times, and take the subway to get home. It’s nice that you don’t need a car in Manhattan, but if you don’t live in Manhattan yourself, getting around is a complicated public-transportation relay race.
We sleep in late the next morning, and the four of us meet up over bagels and coffee for breakfast before heading to MoMA for the day. Naturally, Mark and Will make smart-alecky remarks about the art work they don’t approve of. And they’re right, there are some paintings that I just don’t get why they are considered “art” and not “dreck.” Is it the-emperor-is-wearing-no-clothes situation or am I just an ignoramus? I don’t know. But other paintings make me want to get down on my knees and bow down in supplication to the artist, they are that good.
When our feet are museumed out and pleading for mercy we grab some dinner and then head over to the club where Sienna is going to perform that night.
The club is tiny and tables are packed so tightly together that I can tell what brand of hair products and skin cream the woman sitting next to me uses because my nostrils are essentially squashed against her lightly scented flesh. I tell Sienna to break a leg and she leaves us in the audience and heads backstage. Mark, Will, and I order drinks. The opening act is blessedly hilarious—there is nothing more painful than a bad opening act, whether it’s comedy, music, or whatever—so I’m relieved.
Just before Sienna is supposed to come on, Will says, “I’ll be right back.”
“But Sienna is about to come on.”
“I just need to use the bathroom real quick. I’ll be right back, I promise.”
When Sienna is introduced moments later and comes out on stage, I’m thoroughly annoyed with him for not using the bathroom earlier. Half the reason we came to New York was to see her perform!
When the applause dies down, Sienna begins, “So, my sister is in town with her boyfriend. Now, usually I don’t like to travel down the blue road of comedy…” Sienna sighs deeply and hangs her head in mock shame. “But my sister reminded me of a trip we took together, and it’s going to require me to talk about the important issue of male crotch-thrusting.” Naturally, the crowds whoops and hollers at the word “crotch.” And by the way, I have no idea what Sienna is talking about regarding me reminding her of a trip we took. Comedians make stuff up, but sound like they are telling a true story. Comedians never let the truth get in the way of a funny story. “Since I’m doing stand-up comedy, well, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m actually required to use the word ‘penis.’ If I don’t say ‘penis’ twice within the first two minutes of my routine, I get kicked out of the union. There, I’ve met my quota! Phew! Anyway, my sister and I went to Cancun during spring-break vacation one year. Cancun connotes a tropical getaway, but really you’re just visiting a frat house near a beach. The bars in Cancun are just a sea of drunk, horny Americans. My sister and I were trying to dance in our own little space, but the boys were attaching themselves to us like barnacles. We’d be dancing to techno music,” Sienna starts making techno music noises with her mouth pressed up close to the microphone. “Because it’s all bad early eighties American techno music down there. Apparently, they don’t have any music in Cancun since CDs were invented. So these guys would just attach themselves to your leg, thrusting their pelvis into you like some horny dog that just found a spare pillow on the living room floor.” Sienna begins thrusting her crotch and makes a funny face as she does it. The audience loves it. I love seeing her make people laugh.
“So, we came up with a move to defend ourselves.” She does a little side shuffle and then does a karate chop with her hands across her leg. “It’s called ‘the Erection Dodge.’ Use it. It works. But now…” Sienna takes a dramatic inhale, smiling solemnly and looking heavenward. “My sister doesn’t need the Erection Dodge to defend herself from drunk men in bars anymore because she has her own, nonscary man at her side. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take just a couple minutes out of my regularly scheduled routine…” My heart stops as I see Will walking out onto the stage, guitar in hand. “And give the mic to my sister’s boyfriend, Will Cummings.”
Will clears his throat and gives a little wave to the audience. “Hi, everybody.”
“Hi!” the audience calls back.
“Leave it to a guy in love to make an ass of himself in a public place,” he says. The audience laughs. “I’ll try to make it quick.”
He begins strumming his guitar and sings into the microphone:
I met a girl who has captured my heart.
She’s kind, and funny, and smart.
When I’m with her, I always have a great time.
I met a girl, and I want to make her mine.
She means everything to me…
At this point, Will stops singing, gets down on one knee, pulls a ring box from his pants pocket, opens it, and says, “Eva Lockhart, will you marry me?”
I needn’t have worried about getting teary-eyed when the marriage proposal came. Tears are running down my face and I can barely breathe.
I can’t move or think or do a thing until Mark nudges me. I begin nodding and don’t stop. Finally, a distant part of me remembers how to speak and the words form on my lips, “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.” As I walk toward the stage, the audience erupts in thunderous applause. Will helps me climb the couple of feet to the stage and slides the ring onto my trembling finger.
Chapter 11
N aturally, as soon as we get home, I have to run around telling everyone I know that it’s official, we’re getting hitched.
I call Mom and after she congratulates me, she orders me to take a digital picture of the ring and email it to her. I call Gabrielle and ask her if she can meet me for lunch. She seems kind of distant and out of it, but she says she’ll meet me at noon. I’m bursting to tell her my news, but I force myself to wait until I can tell her in person. Then I run over to Rachel’s shop. Well, not literally run, of course. The last time I ran was when they forced me to in gym class when I was in gr
ade school. But I do amble over at a speedier-than-normal pace.
She’s sitting on her barstool behind the counter reading a newspaper when I get there. There aren’t any customers in the store. I sit beside her, say “Hi,” and try to act natural, but she gives me this odd look.
“What is wrong with you?” she says. “You’ve got the stupid smile of a baby who’s just farted.”
“Will asked me to marry him this weekend.”
She drops her newspaper and snatches my left hand so hard I nearly fall off my stool. “It’s beautiful!”
“It’s antique platinum. Sienna helped him pick it out. She insisted that he buy antique so he wouldn’t be raping the earth for precious metals and contributing to the whole diamond trade business…”
“With the African children losing their limbs in the mines…”
“Yep, all the cheery things you normally associate with marital bliss. But I think she made a good consultant. Apparently, they’ve been emailing each other for the last month, plotting the whole thing.”
I tell her exactly how he proposed, about how he got up on stage and sang me a song, and she clutches her heart and deems it all “so romantic.”
“Why do you think he asked you up on stage?”
“Well, early in our relationship I’d told him this story of one of Sienna’s comedy friends being proposed to by another comedian at the end of one of their shows and how romantic I thought that was, so maybe that’s what gave him the idea. He definitely surprised me anyway, that’s for sure.”
“What date are you thinking of?”
“I was thinking May. May is usually a pretty nice month weatherwise in Colorado. But Will and I haven’t really talked about details yet.”
I go on and on about my blissful, happy, perfect life, and every detail of how my weekend went, then I finally get around to asking Rachel how things are going in her life.
“Well, Jon and I are fighting…”
“Is this still the garage shelves’ fight or is this a new one?”
“It’s a new one. Apparently, he gave Sandy the keys to our place—”
“No way!” When Jon’s sister Sandy had been in the deepest depths of her heroin addiction, she’d stolen a bunch of Jon and Rachel’s stuff (their TV, stereo, and computer to name a few) to sell for money for drugs. Personally, that would have been enough for me to cut off ties with her forever, but Jon and Rachel are better people than I am, and they forgave her. However, to forgive her and to give her the keys to their place are two different things entirely.
“Yes, way. He is just so gullible when it comes to his sisters. He thinks that because she’s been clean for six months, she’ll be clean forever.”
“How did you find out about it?”
“I’ll tell you how I found out about it. First, on Monday I came home and the half gallon of milk I had in the fridge was gone, and there were all these dishes in the sink, as if someone had cooked lunch there. When Jon got home I asked him if he’d come home for lunch, which is not something he usually does, and he just kind of looked sheepish and changed the subject. I wished I’d pressed him then, but I didn’t. Then yesterday I was at home with the kids making dinner, and I saw her in the window at our backdoor, so I was going to walk over to the door to let her in, but my hands were wet from rinsing the lettuce, and in the few seconds it took me to dry my hands, I just watched her unlock the door, open it, and march right in.”
“No way!”
“I know. I was like, ‘where did you get a key?’, thinking maybe Jon had lent her his as a one-off or something, but she said he had made her a set. I was so pissed at Jon. We had this big fight. He said she could be trusted now. I said even if she could be trusted, that didn’t mean she needed a key to our house. Then he said that sometimes she watches the kids, which is true, but they always go over to her and Jon’s mother’s place, specifically because I don’t want her in my house. I mean, I’m not even worried about her stealing our stuff…well, maybe I am. But I think what I’m really mad about is her audacity to come over whenever she feels like it and clean us out of milk and eat whatever she wants,” she sighs. “Although, I mean she has been helping us out with the kids, so maybe I was too hard on Jon. But even if I was, he should have told me he gave her the key, he shouldn’t have just given it to her.”
“I think you have a right to be pissed.”
“You do? Thank you for saying that. I’m always worried that I’m being a crazy bitch.”
A female customer enters the store, and then moments later two teenage girls come in. The three of them orbit the store, running their fingers over the clothes, and then taking the folded sweaters, unfolding them, and then doing a half-assed job of refolding them and putting them back all lopsided, a particular pet peeve of Rachel’s.
Rachel and I talk a little more and then I tell her I have to go because I have a lunch date with Gabrielle.
When I get to the restaurant where Gabrielle and I always go for lunch, Gabrielle is already there and sitting at the table with a beer in front of her. It’s not like Gabrielle to drink before five, so as soon I sit across from her I ask her what’s wrong.
“I’m that transparent, am I?”
“Kind of.”
“Jeremy went back to his ex.”
“What do you mean? He and his ex-wife are back together?”
“Not his ex-wife. His ex-girlfriend.”
“Transition woman?”
“Transition woman.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nods glumly.
“What happened?”
“I don’t think he ever really stopped seeing her.”
“Why do you think that? What did he say?”
“Last night he called me and said he wanted to give it another chance with Susan and that he didn’t think things were working out between us. I wish he could have figured this out before we slept together. God! I feel so stupid!”
“But…how…did he say when he decided to get back together with her? Did you have any idea when they’d broken up?”
The waitress comes to take our orders. We each get the soup and the sandwich deal.
“When we were emailing each other, I asked him when he’d gotten divorced and if he’d dated anyone since then. He said it had been three years since they’d separated and that he’d dated one person seriously in that time. I didn’t ask for any more specifics than that.”
I think about how I grilled Will endlessly about his ex at the beginning of our relationship, and while I didn’t always like to hear his answers, I got a good sense that he was telling the truth. I’ve always made it a habit to do what journalists do—ask the same questions worded differently over and over again to see if I get the same answers. Guys who change their stories are lying about something. Maybe asking lots of questions at the beginning of a relationship isn’t such a bad thing after all.
“So, what did he say last night? Do you know how long they’d been broken up?”
“He didn’t say this outright, but from reading between the lines, I think what happened was that she was getting serious more quickly than he was ready for, so they fought and sort of broke up and about ten minutes later he was looking for somebody new to date, and that somebody new turned out to be me. But then they made up and got back together. I don’t think they’d really been apart at all. He didn’t say that, but that’s what I gather. And I know we only dated a few weeks, but…”
“A lot can happen in a short time,” I finish for her. “I was insane over Will after just two dates. If he’d abruptly dumped me to go back to his ex, I would have been crushed.”
“I was actually proud of letting myself really fall for Jeremy. With the two guys I dated after Dan and I split up, I worked really hard not to let them get too close because I was still in so much pain over the divorce. I don’t know how to strike a balance between being too cautious and opening up too much.”
“I know. It’s so hard.”
�
�I hate dating. I hate it. I hate Dan for making me go back out into the world and date.”
I keep mumbling useless “I’m sorries,” until the waitress brings our lunches. We eat several bites in silence and then Gabrielle says, “God, I’m so wrapped up in myself, I didn’t even ask you about your weekend in New York. Did you guys have fun?”
“We did, as a matter-of-fact.” This really doesn’t seem like the time to tell her about how Will asked me to marry him, but I feel like if I don’t tell her, I’ll be lying.
“Did you guys do anything interesting?”
“Ah, well, yeah, some interesting things happened. Will asked me to marry him and I said yes.”
She chokes on her bite of sandwich and then forces a smile. “Oh. Congratulations.”
“You don’t seem very excited.”
“No. I’m happy for you.”
I stare at her for a long moment until she continues.
“It’s just, you know, men tend to get more out of marriage then women do. All the surveys show that married men are happier than married women.”
This is really not the reaction I was hoping for. “Why is that? Because women tend to shoulder more of the domestic responsibilities?”
She nods ominously.
“You don’t believe in marriage anymore?” I ask.
“I believe in two people mutually supporting each other, but I don’t think I believe in marriage, no.”
Instead of trying to get her to feel my happiness, I immediately find the doubter in myself, as if I feel the need for the two of us to be in agreement on all that could go wrong.
“Part of me wants to elope secretly just so his friends won’t be able to throw him a bachelor party,” I admit.
“Have you talked to him about it?”
