The Perfect Find

by Tia Williams

  “We just broke the ‘no personal info’ rule. And we’re still speaking to each other. Progress, no?”

  “Truly. This was the coolest, most honest conversation I’ve had in forever,” he said, almost disbelievingly.

  Jenna nodded in agreement, but couldn’t say what she really thought—which was that she could’ve sat there and talked to him for another two hours.

  The bartender slid two drinks their way, and they both picked them up.

  “To disappearing dads,” said Eric. “And secrets,” said Jenna.

  “And Nina Mae McKinney.”

  “And a far superior web series idea that we’ll come up with asap.”

  “Definitely that.”

  “And to speaking without trying to kill each other.”

  “And to friendship,” said Eric.

  “Are we really friends?” Jenna took this in.

  “We just spilled our guts to each other. Can’t do anything about it now.”

  “True,” she said. “To friendship.”

  They drank, sliding into contemplative silence. They were both a little shaken by the confidences they’d revealed. It was out-of-character for either of them to truly show their cards to anyone. But now, they’d each exposed some of their most intimate memories to a person they’d known a week. In the middle of an East Village dive bar, at a twenty-fifth birthday party.

  Just then, an obliterated Terry stumbled over. Every fifteen minutes, it seemed that her outfit was evolving into a more ridiculous place. Now, she was wearing kitten ears, a tutu, and three rapper-circa-1988 gold chains.

  “What did you think of Jeanine? She’s fly, right?”

  “Terry. Can’t you just let me not wanna be in a relationship in peace?”

  “She’s so hot! What’s the problem?”

  “I mean yeah, she’s bad, but have you had a conversation with her? She’s on Sherri Shepard levels of dumbness.”

  “Jenna, what did you think?”

  “Cute, I guess. If thirst-buckets are your thing,” she said, with a dismissive shrug. “Happy Birthday, Terry. I’m heading out.”

  “Bye babe!” yodeled Terry, grasping Eric’s arm for balance. “You don’t want another drink?” asked Eric.

  “I really need to get home. But I’ll see you bright and early for more brainstorming. Don’t get into too much trouble, you guys.”

  Jenna grabbed her purse and headed up the spiral staircase. Friends. With Eric. This was a development she didn’t see coming. All she’d wanted was a functioning, non-abusive working relationship, but now it was blossoming into something else. Which was definitely a surprise. A nice one.

  CHAPTER 12

  “I know, Auntie Jenna, but what really happens when you die?” “Well, your body stops working and you…you know, you stop living. It’s like you’re asleep. But forever.”

  After work the next day, Jenna was walking hand-in-hand with Billie’s charmingly morbid, cheerfully death-obsessed five-year-old, May, through the Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket in Park Slope. Jenna was hanging with May while Billie and Elodie perused the tomato section. Right outside of Prospect Park, the rustic wooden stands of farm-fresh, locally grown produce selection always drew a huge crowd of nutritionally conscious, community-focused Brooklynites. Jenna, Billie, Elodie, and May were the only black people in the vicinity.

  “Asleep?” May, a perky-looking moppet with doe eyes and an 80s-style side ponytail, eyed Jenna with skepticism. “Does that mean dead people can dream?”

  “Some philosophers believe that death itself is a dream. Or that life is a dream.” Jenna caught herself, realizing that she was getting too existential for a five-year-old. May was so intense, so composed, that she sometimes came across like a thirty-five-year-old tax attorney.

  “No, sweetie, dead people don’t dream,” said Jenna. “They just rest quietly. And forever.”

  “So after I’m dead, what happens to my…thoughts?”

  “You mean your spirit? That’s a good one, May-May. Theologians and scientists have been trying to figure that out for centuries. No one really knows. But it’s highly likely that your beautiful spirit will go to heaven.” Jenna had once heard John Lennon or someone say that if you felt in over your head in a conversation, ask the other person to define their terms. “What do you believe, honey?”

  “I don’t believe in heaven. Or God. I believe in Mother Nature, and oceans, and trees, and the moon. Also wood fairies. I think they live in Cancun. Or the Atlantis Resort in the Bahamas.”

  Wow. Jay and Billie book too many all-inclusive Caribbean family vacations.

  Just then, Billie and Elodie appeared with bags of tomatoes, asparagus and corn on the cob.

  “Babe,” whispered Jenna to Billie, “are you aware that your daughter’s a wiccan?”

  “That Mother Nature stuff? Baffling! And the death thing? I don’t know whether to be disturbed or thrilled that she’s asking the Big Questions before she can properly tie her shoes.”

  “Be thrilled,” said Elodie. “Maybe she’ll become an upscale mortician, like Phaedra Parks.”

  “Mommy, I see Arabella and Waylon from school! Can I go say hi?”

  Billie turned around and saw the twins with their mother, Chrissie Proctor, a supporting actress on a ten-year-old network forensics drama. She waved and Chrissie gestured for May to come over. And then, despite her excitement, May cooly walked over to her friends, with the faintest of smiles. It wasn’t in her nature to broadcast too much joy.

  “This is so good,” said Billie, talking mostly to herself. “Chrissie’s completely obnoxious—she’s a North Slope hippie, she doesn’t wear deodorant and pretends she doesn’t plop her kids in a corner with Rio on the iPad for hours, like the rest of us. But her oldest son goes to Poly Prep, and she’s on the board there. If I get in good with her, maybe May will have a spot for middle school.”

  “Everything you just said is completely soul-killing,” said Elodie.

  “Billie, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you selling your soul to Chrissie Proctor to get May into private school,” Jenna said, who’d been sneaking voyeuristic glances at the TV star. “The New York private school application process is worse than college. I’ve done the research. I have a whole file, if you need it.”

  Billie’s eyes softened, and she gently grabbed Jenna’s hand. Often, she got so involved in the demands and details of raising May, that she’d forget she had everything her friend wanted and didn’t have.

  Jenna smiled at her, squeezed her hand, and then dropped it.

  “Thanks, hon,” said Billie. “I might have to take a look at the file. Enough mommy talk, though. While May’s schmoozing with Detective Jacinda Brown’s offspring, should we catch up on grown-up stuff?”

  “I’ll go first,” said Elodie, sipping on her fresh-squeezed, vegan-organic green tea lemonade. “I feel like I’ve slept with everyone I’d want to sleep with from our various overlapping social circles, so now I’m online dating.”

  Billie laughed. “You?”

  “Me. And you should see these fools. It’s like, you know within five minutes of meeting them why they’re forty-five and still single. There’s the dude that stalks you on social media prior to meeting you, and shows up for drinks quoting Facebook status updates from 2009. The guy who lives in a penthouse duplex at 70 Pine, but has me meet him at his place for tea for our first date. Cheap bastard. You live in a 3.5 million dollar apartment; I can’t even get a Starbucks latte? Or the man who doesn’t believe in ‘gender roles,’ and when you fake-offer to pay for dinner he’s like, ‘Cool!’ Or the Anthony Weiner disciple who, after one date, texts you unsolicited dick pics.”

  “No woman in the history of nudity,” said Jenna, “has ever been sexually aroused by a picture of male genitalia.”

  “Context-free, too! Just a shot of a hard, disembodied penis.”

  “I can’t believe you’re making the effort to go relationship shopping.” Billie was baffled. “Didn’
t they teach you on the commune that monogamy was religious trickery and propaganda?”

  Elodie nodded. “Yes, but this is insurance. Turning Forty made me feel a way. I might not be relationship-oriented now, but I’m terrified of waking up at fifty, deciding I’m ready, and realizing that I now look like Sojourner Truth and can no longer get a quality man.”

  “Sojourner Truth was a handsome woman,” said Billie. “Leave her alone.”

  “Maybe I should consider dating girls.”

  Billie made a face. “Don’t do it to yourself; we’re assholes, too.”

  “Okay, Jenna,” said Elodie. “Your turn.”

  “I’m just counting the days until I’m unemployed again. This video is just not happening. Me and Eric have filmed three different specs and, at best, they’re remedial. At worst, they’re unintentionally comedic.”

  “What do you expect?” asked Elodie. “You two treat each other like shit. How do you expect to accomplish anything?”

  “No, we’re nice to each other now,” said Jenna. “It’s like, suddenly, we realized how to speak to each other. And it’s such a relief. Always being on edge in his presence was exhausting.”

  “This is great news!” said Billie. “We’ve secretly been so worried.”

  “Just be careful,” Elodie continued. “Office buddies can turn into office affairs. You’re vulnerable, the last thing you need is to trip and fall on the D.”

  “She’d never,” said Billie. “Jenna has more sense than that.”

  “You feel nothing when you’re around him?”

  “God no. A world of nos,” said Jenna with a boisterous laugh. “We’re beyond platonic. We’re like Michael Strahan and Kelly Ripa. Two amiable co-workers whom no one on Earth could imagine intercourse-ing.”

  “Eww, you painted the picture,” said Elodie. “I believe you.”

  “I like the girls in the office, too. Socially, things are finally good—but aside from my column, I’m bombing. I spend all day and night researching fashion stuff on YouTube, trying to come up with something fresh, and it never happens.”

  “What you need is a distraction, to reset your brain,” said Billie. “And I know how you’ll get it. There’s a guy I want to set you up with. It has to happen soon, because he’s leaving for Prague in two days. But he owns that upscale spirits shop on Gates, Bubbles and Brew? I don’t know-him-know-him, but he seems fantastic. I’ve been watching him, trying to figure out if I should set him up with you or Elodie. I’ve come to the conclusion that she’ll eat him alive, so he’s all yours.”

  Jenna rolled her eyes skyward. “I can’t handle a set-up right now. The anticipation, the let-down, the Junior Mints-binge afterwards…”

  “How else do you meet men, at our age?” asked Elodie. “We’re not out at the clubs. We only work with women and exquisite gays. Our choices are online dating or set-ups.”

  “But my last set-up was monstrous. Remember YSL slippers?”

  “Your mistake was trusting Elodie to identify a dateable man,” said Billie. “Her one relationship goal is to find a husband before she starts resembling an abolitionist.”

  “Fine,” said Jenna, “what do you know about this guy?”

  “He’s fifty. Never been married, no children, but every time I bring May in, he says he’s always wanted a daughter as poised as her. So he wants kids. He’s super-cultured, but down-to-earth, and he’s got a full head of hair.”

  “I’ll take him.”

  “There’s one thing. He’s a tad New Brooklyn. He wears converse with Salvation Army high school football tees, and talks about how well his mint and thyme are growing in his community garden. He’s on the board of the Brooklyn Bicycle Club. And he lives in Williamsburg. I know, stop looking at me like that. Also, I think I saw him teaching a Tai Chi class in Fort Greene Park.”

  “Check, please,” said Elodie.

  “No, he’s fantastic! It’s just…well, he’s nothing like Brian.”

  Jenna opened her mouth to protest meeting this guy, but then changed her mind. “You know what? I’m going to keep an open mind. I’m in no position to turn down dates.”

  “You should have one of your famous dinner parties,” said Elodie. “But an intimate one. Just us, and maybe a few of your new work people. And Billie can bring your Bubbles and Brew boo!”

  “A dinner party? Should I?” Jenna asked the question, but had already decided. Throwing dinner parties used to be her thing. Her cardio, her catharsis, her creative outlet. Maybe it would help clear her head, throwing herself into something besides work. It might be inspiring. She’d only have a day to pull it together, but in her heyday, she’d achieved dinner party brilliance in less time than that. Without giving it a second thought, she was all-in.

  Jenna was already mentally planning the seating arrangement when she asked Billie, “Can you find out if he’s free tomorrow night?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Jenna was sitting in her office the next morning, researching her latest post (and also where to cheaply rent upscale-looking serving trays), when Cam from the mailroom knocked on her open door. He was clutching an oversized stunning bouquet of gardenias, calla lilies and tulips.

  “These are for you,” he said, shoving the arrangement rather gruffly into her hands. Walking away, he mumbled, “Now I’m gonna be smelling like a dryer sheet all day.”

  She opened the card.

  Dear JJ,

  I’m still hoping you change your mind about coffee. I need to speak to you. Urgently. It’s a matter I can only discuss with you. And for what it’s worth, I never wanted you to dress like Chrissie Tiegan. I don’t even know who that is. Please call me.

  Congrats again,

  Brian

  Jenna closed the card. She was furious. Her anger overrode her low-grade curiosity about whatever this “matter” was. How dare he? Brian had to be in control of every situation—she wasn’t surprised that he’d try to insinuate himself into her life, because it was clear that she was fine without him. It must be driving him crazy, knowing that she was in the city and, for the first time in their lives, not needing or wanting him in the slightest.

  I’m the only person you can talk to? Talk to Celeste Lily L’Amour Wexler, you manipulative shit.

  Disgustedly, she threw the card away. And then, unable to resist and hating herself for it, she pulled it out of the trash and read it again. Then, she dumped the bouquet into the trash, and tore the card into tiny shreds, cursing under her breath with each rip. This is how Eric found her when he knocked on her open door.

  “Whoa. What’s up?”

  Jenna looked up, and quickly swept all the tiny pieces into her trashcan. They fluttered like snow on top of her gorgeous bouquet. “Hello,” she said tensely. “Have a seat. I was just going to call you in for our meeting.”

  “You seem a little…upset.” He sat down, gesturing at the trash. “You okay?”

  “Not worth discussing,” she said, with a dismissive gesture. Jenna was trying to look steely and disconnected, but when she saw Eric’s face, which radiated real concern, she softened. How could she pretend in front of him, after everything they’d shared at Terry’s party?

  “Pretty flowers. Wrong man. Too late.”

  “Say no more.”

  “Thank you,” she said, with relief. She scooped a handful of Skittles out of the candy dish on her desk and shoveled it into her mouth. Eric had reminded her how much she loved them.

  “So,” she chewed, going into businesswoman mode. “Shall we go over our seventeenth terrible idea? I was thinking about what you said about on-screen interviews being static. So, I researched…” She cocked her head, distracted by the busy sleeve of tattoos swirling down his left arm. “Anyway, I researched…”

  “You’re openly reading my arm?”

  “Well, no, I…”

  He lifted it up so she could see more clearly.

  “Wow. ‘Stanley Kubrik is a god.’ I like that one. Brilliant director.”

 
“What’s your favorite film of his?”

  The conversation started spilling out of them. The flowers were forgotten; the series was forgotten. Both Jenna and Eric knew they needed to focus on work, but they’d discovered that they had a real camaraderie. And it was too fun not to indulge in it.

  “The Shining,” said Jenna. “So creepy.”

  “One of my professors wrote an essay about what makes something creepy versus scary,” said Eric. “The brain is wired to understand what’s scary so you can protect yourself. A tiger charging at you. Fire. Sharp things. We know not to fuck with that stuff. Creepy is vague. Our brains can’t process it as a threat or as something normal. Like that Twilight Zone episode where we see the girl watching TV from the back, then she turns around and has no mouth.”

  “Or the video in The Ring,” said Jenna. “I have a real-life example! When I was twenty-four, I wrote my first big piece for Harper’s Bazaar and they ran my picture on the Contributors page. A Patrick Demarchelier photo. Epic.”

  Eric watched her with a half-smile. He had no idea who Patrick Demarchelier was, but he was thoroughly entertained. Jenna gestured so broadly when she was telling a story. Like she was working it for the seats all the way in the back.

  “…and I got an email from a reader, years later. She’d been on vacation in Panama and saw that picture on a billboard.”

  “The one from Harper’s Bazaar?”

  “Yes. But it was on an ad for a special clip you put on your nose at night to make it smaller! It was a before/after picture, and they’d photoshopped the ‘before’ pic to make my nose look bigger. She emailed it to me. Seeing my face with the wrong nose? Now, that’s creepy.”

  Eric threw his head back and laughed a deep “ha-ha-ha” that was neither self-conscious nor dialed-down for the office.

  “A gang of Panamanian bandits hijacked your picture for a plastic surgery ad? Is that legal?”

  “Hell no!” Jenna shrugged. “But I let it go. Truth be told, I was a little bit proud.”

  “You still are. I can tell by your delivery.”