“Let’s talk about the book, girls. Don’t put her on the spot like that,” Ruth says. She knows most of the Andrew story and that it’s still a sore subject. Sore, of course, being the understatement of the century. My seams have come undone and my guts have been spilled out onto the highway. I am still collecting my parts, putting myself back together again.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I had a boyfriend, but we broke up a few months ago. So I guess what I have now is an ex-boyfriend. It’s been hard. But it’s my fault. I ended it, so I shouldn’t really complain.”
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pried,” Maryann says, and folds her napkin primly in her lap. “So what happened?”
“Maryann!” Ruth says.
“Was he ‘the One’?” Shirley asks, leaning forward in the booth.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Do you guys even believe in the One?”
“I don’t,” Ruth says.
“You were married for over fifty years!” Maryann says.
“True, but that’s ex post facto. I know Irving was my One now, because we shared fifty-three years together. But he wasn’t some sort of preordained One. And I can’t tell you when he stopped being Irving—lovable, reliable Irving, my pharmacist husband from Bensonhurst—and became my One. It didn’t happen neatly like that.”
“Sure,” Shirley says. “My Stan, I loved him more than I ever imagined loving another human being, but it’s not like it was clear from the beginning. I mean, I almost left him a few times. Once I put the kids and all of my stuff into the back of the station wagon and was going to drive to Florida. I made it as far as the Jersey Turnpike and called Stan from a pay phone at a rest stop. I didn’t have my Razr back then. Funny, I couldn’t even tell you what we were fighting about. The point is, anyone who tells you it’s easy is lying through their teeth.”
“I haven’t found a One for me yet,” Maryann says, and her deliberate tone makes me wonder if this is the first time she has said these words out loud.
“But what about what’s his name? Your husband,” Shirley asks, not in the least bit concerned that she can’t remember her best friend’s dead husband’s name.
“Definitely not. I married him because I was getting older and he asked, and my mother told me I should. He was a decent man, but—” Maryann stops and breaks into a stage whisper. “Not too bright. But don’t you worry, I haven’t stopped looking. So what if we have a two-to-one female-to-male ratio here. I’m still hot stuff.”
We all laugh with Maryann, but approvingly, because why should she stop looking? Maybe for her, a happy ending will actually come at the right time, at the end.
“I am my One,” says Betty, a woman who has mostly stayed out of the discussion, unwilling to skewer or embrace Bridget as the rest of us have done. “Always have been, always will be. I like it that way.”
“I had a couple of Ones,” Shirley says, and laughs. “I think anyone who makes you happy counts. A few have made me happy in my day.” She closes her eyes again, and I imagine that she is now picturing more than one backseat. After a moment, Shirley opens her eyes and sighs. Her memories bring a rush of pleasure, and her face flushes a deep red.
“I don’t know about you,” Shirley says. “But I could definitely use a fag.”
Thirty
Though we have spoken almost every day, I have not seen Kate for a couple of weeks, not since she showed up at my door without shoes. Today, in her office, she has shiny hair and matte skin. Her clothes are crisp and tailored and monochromatic. No stains, no wrinkles, no crumbs. She is not a woman who has just called off her engagement. She is not a woman who has been working eighty-hour weeks to forget a man named Daniel. She looks like someone to envy, someone whom you might pass on the street and think to yourself, I wouldn’t mind being her.
“You are not going to believe this,” Kate says, and talks as if we are already mid-conversation. She doesn’t seem to notice that I no longer work just down the hall.
“What’s going on?”
“Wait a minute. What are you doing here?” she asks, and then stands up to greet me properly. I sneak a closer look at her to see whether this new and improved Kate is just an illusion.
“I’m meeting Mason for drinks tonight, so I thought I’d stop by and make sure you’re okay and see if you wanted to come.” I try to catch her eye. I hope she’s all right. I hope she does not keel over behind closed doors.
“No thanks, I have work to do. But I’m good, really. Not fantastic, but getting there. When you know you’ve made the right decision, it makes things easier to deal with. And I think Daniel may be relieved too.” She looks thoughtful and sad for a minute, and I can see she is telling the truth. Her outside packaging is part real, part aspirational.
“So what will I not believe?” I ask.
“Carl got fired.”
“Really?”
“The partnership announced it about an hour ago. I was going to call you but got stuck at a meeting. Anyhow, they didn’t say he was fired, exactly. They said that he is leaving the firm, but everyone knows what that means. I am so happy that I never have to work with him ever again,” she says, and sits down behind her desk, like now she means business. “So thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?” I ask, and she gives me a look that says, Come on, which I return with a half smile.
“So what happens to Synergon? Is Carl taking them as a client?” I remember that it was not so long ago I was taking Mr. Jones’s deposition, asking him about his deceased wife’s diet. The thought shames me now.
“Nope. Miranda took it over. She convinced Synergon that since they have had such bad P.R. lately, it would look good for them to be represented by a black lesbian. Shows they support diversity. Anyhow, the best part is she forced them to settle and take a gigantic hit. Somewhere in the high eight figures.”
“I can’t tell you how happy that makes me. So something good actually came of my leaving? Carl’s actually gone? For real?”
“Yup. For real. Carl has left the building. Adiós, amigo.” Kate stands up again, brushes her hands together in a good-riddance gesture, and then kisses me good-bye on the cheek. “I would love to stay and celebrate, but I’ve got a conference call in Forty-six F. See you soon?”
“Of course.”
“Love you, Em,” Kate calls over her shoulder on her way out the door, rushing out of her office, onward and upward, leaving me behind to sit comfortably in her standard-issue APT guest chair.
I have a few minutes to kill before meeting Mason, so I take the long way to his office and let my fingers trail along the walls as I walk. The place seems exactly the same—the smell of burned popcorn wafting from the coffee room, the hum and tick of the copy machines, partners asking their secretaries to make/cancel/confirm reservations, and the associates, heads bent over endless paper, refusing to look up as the world goes by.
Being here feels good, if only because it reminds me of why I left.
I stop in the women’s room, just for old times’ sake. A woman in black loafers is using my favorite stall, so I wait and loiter by the sink until she comes out.
“Emily.”
“Carisse?” Without heels, and wearing a black long prairie skirt, Carisse looks tiny. Almost meek. “What’s up with the shoes? I almost didn’t recognize you in flats.”
She looks up at me, and I see that her face has the bloated blotchiness of someone who has spent the past hour crying in a bathroom stall. It is a look all APT associates are familiar with.
“Oh, sorry. I mean, are you okay?” I ask.
“I bet now you’re happy.”
“What?”
“Are you here to gloat about Carl? Looking for a bravo, a job-well-done?” Her matter-of-fact tone suggests she is not being rhetorical.
“No, I just stopped by to say hello to some people.”
“You should gloat. Enjoy it.”
“I’m not gloating.”
“Go ahead. I won’t blam
e you. Just say it.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But you were thinking it. How could I be so stupid? That’s what you were thinking, right? I mean, seriously, what could I have possibly been thinking?”
“I don’t know what—”
“How stupid could Carisse possibly be?”
“You’re not stupid.”
“Oh, but I am. Want to hear the most ridiculous part? I actually fell for him. I fell for the whole thing. He left me a voice mail last night telling me it was over. Who gets dumped by voice mail? And then today he leaves without even saying good-bye. The jerk. What did I expect from a guy who cheats on his pregnant wife?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Such an embarrassing cliché. Take a look at me. This is what a cliché looks like, ladies and gentlemen.” She curtsies, and the vulnerability in the gesture, in the pleading in her eyes, makes me pity her.
“You made a bad choice, that’s all.”
“A clichéd response. How appropriate.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Don’t say anything.”
“Okay, I won’t say anything.”
“I didn’t sleep with Andrew. Just so you know. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Okay. I mean, that’s good. I mean, thank you for telling me.”
“Yeah.” Her tears have stopped now, and she cleans off her face with a wet paper towel.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll get over it.”
“I’m sorry, Carisse. Really, I am.”
“Yeah, well, you’re right. I made bad choices.”
“We all do.”
“By the way, I know I should have said this a long time ago, but I’m sorry about you and Andrew. It’s too bad. You guys seemed good together.”
“Yeah, well, thanks, I guess.”
“You know, I think this may be the longest conversation we’ve ever had.”
“Maybe we should do it again sometime,” I say.
Carisse’s face is wiped free of all defensiveness and sarcasm.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Me too.” Though I’m not sure I mean it.
“Emily! My long-lost love,” Mason says, after I almost topple him over with a running hug. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“I’m so happy to see you too, Mace.” I grin up at him.
“Yeah, right. I bet you’re just smiling ’cause you heard about Carl.” Mason kisses my cheek and steers me toward the elevators. As we are walking, I get a sideways view of him. As usual, he looks scrubbed, shaven, and freshly showered, even though it’s the end of the workday. Somehow, the hair at the nape of his neck is wet and his collar dry.
When we get downstairs, I see Marge at the security turnstile, standing guard in front of her wooden stool. My heart beats a little bit faster because I know she won’t acknowledge me. Her last-day wink seemed like a good ending point, and I wish I could have just left it at that.
“Hello,” I say.
“Thank you,” Marge says, apropos of nothing, and makes me wonder if I am hearing things. But I am not, because she takes out a metal wand to stop me from going through the exit. Does she think I am a security risk?
“What?”
“I want to say thank you for getting that bloke Carl fired.” I am left speechless. Who is this woman? FBI? CIA? MI5?
“What?”
“That bastard pinched my bum every day for ten years,” she says, and lets me pass through. “Two thousand four hundred and thirty-two times in all. I know, because I counted.”
“You counted?”
“Yes, I counted.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I am putting two kids through college.”
“Two thousand four hundred and thirty-two times is a lot. That’s a lot of pinching.”
“Yes, it is quite a bit. So thank you. And my bum sincerely thanks you as well.”
“Well, Marge and Marge’s bum,” I say, and smile, “it was my pleasure.” I walk through the gate, but then I change my mind. I realize I need only one more thing from her. Turns out she is ready for it too, her arm already in the air.
My hand stings for the next hour from her high-five.
Mason and I have drinks at the Royalton Hotel, since it is in walking distance of the APT offices. Though we are smack in the middle of Midtown, the place has a minimalist meets Old Hollywood feel, and it is glamorous to be sitting here, sipping from a wide-mouthed glass in a flirty dress. Every chair in the place is upholstered in white, which adds a hint of danger to the experience; my drink, in contrast, is blood red.
We toast the departure of Carl and my encounter with Marge, and though Mason doesn’t ask the specifics about what happened, he says, “You did good.” I’m relieved that he’s not interested in the details; the truth feels less like a coup and more like the easy way out. We toast ourselves, and then I toast Mason’s suit, which is navy, pin-striped, and perfect, and before I know it we are on to our second round and I feel the tingles in my arms telling me I am starting to get tipsy.
“I broke up with Laurel,” he says a few minutes later, and I am not particularly surprised. Mason has relationship ADD.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I told her I didn’t want to see her anymore. She was nice and all, but she just didn’t have that fire, you know?” Mason stares at me now, really looks at me, and for the first time this evening I wonder if I am on an accidental date here. We have grabbed drinks before, just the two of us, but it has always been clear that we are just friends. Tonight feels different somehow. We are both single, and dressed up, and flirting. Somehow, sex always works its way into that equation.
“Yeah, I know.” I look into my drink. I feel nervous and wonder if I am blushing. It’s just Mason, I tell myself. Relax.
“So what did she say?”
“Put it this way, I don’t think I’m gonna get a Christmas card from her this year.” The waitress comes over and asks if we want another round.
“A cosmopolitan for me and a martini for him. But please give him extra olives, because he needs ’em,” I say in my best Southern drawl. “He’s just gone and broke some poor girl’s heart.”
“See, that’s what I need. A bit more fire.” He leans in a little closer. I feel my stomach drop out in that way it does when a handsome man is looking at you like he wants to eat you for dinner.
“Yeah?” I say, somewhat stupidly. Do I want this to be a date? Mason’s not the type you have to worry about “ruining the friendship.” And he’s definitely sexy, with that overt masculinity—broad chest and hairy knuckles and mediocre manners—that makes me imagine he screws like a cowboy. I get wet at the thought.
I force myself to make eye contact with Mason and continue this game he has begun. Maybe this is what I need to forget Andrew. Wipe him away and fill myself up with someone else. Maybe if I listen and smell and absorb the Mason specifics, I’ll forget about the Andrew ones. Do the old bait and switch.
My body will never know the difference.
Mason leans forward a little more, as if to emphasize his intentions. And I lean in too, as if to say You might be on to something here. I take a sip of my drink. Mason takes a sip of his. Our eyes stay locked, and I am enjoying being this girl for a change. Someone who lets go every once in a while. Someone who makes unexpected choices. Just go with it, I tell myself. Live a little.
Mason’s knees accidentally brush mine under the table, but he doesn’t say sorry. We talk about what I might do next, and how I need to get a job, though the conversation isn’t serious. We come up with dream careers: Ben & Jerry’s ice-cream taster, luxury travel writer, and Mason keeps bringing the conversation back to stripper.
“It would be in a high-class joint, of course,” he says, and I trace my fingers along the top of my glass.
“You’d like having an excuse to put on high leather boots and fishnets every day,”
he says, watching my fingers move around the circle.
“Those are clothes that breathe,” he says, and closes his eyes for a moment and pretends like he is imagining it. I laugh and swat him on the arm. He takes my hand, holds it with both of his for a second too long, then puts it back down.
Mason orders us another round, and I don’t stop him. One more drink will bring me over the line from tipsy to drunk. I look forward to crossing.
“Are you trying to get me hammered, Mason Shaw?” I ask, in a voice that I hope is cute and not silly.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “You know, I’ve missed you at work lately. It hasn’t been the same without you.”
“Thanks. I’ve missed you too. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks.”
“What have you been up to?” he asks. And I think for a moment before answering. Absolutely nothing and everything. My couch and Thanksgiving. Dr. Lerner and Grandpa Jack. Missing Andrew. The feeling that I might implode at any moment, like my insides will give out and cave in. The grand finale of years of erosion. But, of course, I don’t say any of this to Mason. He’s not the kind of guy who would understand emotional implosion. He’s the kind of guy, though, who would understand having sex to forget somebody else. In fact, he’s the kind of guy who would encourage it.
“Nothing much,” I say. “Been watching too much television.”
After another hour or two, we are both drunk and laughing and making up excuses to touch each other. Mason touches my hair, my fingers, my knee. I touch his shoulder when I leave to go to the ladies’ room and again when I come back. I feel both blurry and hyperaware. Like Mason’s body is part of the conversation, the punctuation marks adding the beat to our seated dance.
The bill comes and I offer up my half, but Mason brushes my money away, while lightly touching the inside of my wrists. He reminds me that I am unemployed, and we laugh at that, because for some reason it’s funny. We leave the Royalton behind, giggling in amazement that we didn’t spill on the white chairs. We assume everyone else is sharing in our intoxication, and we smile at people when we leave the bar. I don’t look to see whether they smile back.
The Opposite of Love Page 20
