by Lisa Daily
The group cheers, digs into the cake, and resumes drinking and dancing. I make the rounds a few times, freshening up the drinks and hors d’oeuvres. People kept asking how I am, and even though I know most of them want me to be okay, I feel like a few of our so-called friends are just looking for the dirty details, the plot twists of a real-life soap opera, and I’m wobbly on who to trust anymore. Maybe I’m just being paranoid. I end up telling everyone that I’m perfectly fine, even though I’m not, exactly. I’m trying to have a good time, really I am. I’ve never seen Michael happier or lighter. I’ve never felt lonelier, or more out of place.
“Alex. Stop moping. This place is crawling with hot men,” says Darcy.
“They’re all gay.” I sulk. “I’m swearing off men. If I put half the energy into my business the last several months that I’ve spent wishfully planning Michael’s untimely demise, and fantasizing that somehow Michael was straight and that all of this … never happened, I’d have doubled my bottom line for the quarter. If I can’t be happy, I should at least be rich.”
“True. Whatever,” she snorts. “You don’t have to sleep with them. I just thought you might like to have a look.”
“Oh sure,” I say. “A roomful of people my husband does want to have sex with. That will cheer me up.”
“He’s not your husband anymore,” she says sternly. “I’m getting you a drink.”
As she heads toward the bar, I sneak quietly into the pantry. It’s quiet and dark, and for the first time all night I feel like I can relax. I’m digging around on the back shelf, searching for my secret stash of Trader Joe’s sea salt caramels. They only sell them during the holidays, and I usually buy a dozen boxes to last me all year. But it’s only February and I’m already on my last box. Stress eater. I slide the box open, and pop one of the two remaining candies in my mouth. And then the other one. Which is just where I am, face full of sea salt caramel, when the pantry door opens and a very tall man I’ve never seen before steps quickly inside. Okay, this is awkward. He shuts the door behind him, and in the dim light coming from the kitchen under the door, I watch him start feeling along the wall. Chewing as quietly and speedily as I can, I’m racing to finish or at least digest some of the caramels stuffed in my cheeks before he finds the light or realizes I’m there.
I probably look like a squirrel, a shame-eating squirrel.
The light flips on, and I rapidly swallow a hunk of the candy, which gets caught in my throat. I start coughing and hacking, and my eyes begin to water.
He looks startled to have company in the pantry.
“Are you okay?” he asks. There’s still a lot of caramel stuffed in my mouth, so I just nod yes. I really hope I don’t have chocolate smeared all over my lips. But I can’t guarantee anything.
He’s tall, at least six-one, casually gorgeous with broad shoulders and ocean-blue eyes, appealing in that I just rolled out of bed like this way. His brown hair is cropped close, making his eyes all the more startling. Midthirties, I’d guess.
I stare at him and keep chewing my cud. When it’s too humiliating to continue, I swallow the big hunk of caramel and chocolate, which moves slowly down my throat in a cohesive lump.
“Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” I choke out, once the caramel clears my windpipe. “You must be a friend of Michael’s?”
“Carter’s, thanks. Your chafing fuel is out,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes as he pretends not to notice my choking. Very gentlemanly. “Do you have any Sterno?”
I try hard not to gawk at the little cleft in his chin. God, there’s nothing sexier than a nice strong jawline and a movie-star-quality chin dimple. It’s my own personal kryptonite. Well, that and my gay husband.
“Thanks for noticing,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”
He squints at me, with those mesmerizing, deeply blue eyes, like he’s trying to place me or something. With this crowd at this party, he probably thinks I’m a drag queen with a candy addiction. But then I start to panic: Do I have artichoke dip or hunks of sea salt in my teeth or something?
Darcy casually opens the door to the pantry and hands me a glass of wine without batting an eyelash at the strange scene. Music pours in from the kitchen. She steps inside, and closes the door firmly behind her. He squeezes a little closer to me, to make room for Darcy. It’s getting a bit crowded in here.
“I’m the wife,” I say quickly to the stranger. “So nice to meet you.”
“Former wife,” says Darcy, sizing up the man. “And she’s a doctor.”
“Not that kind of doctor,” I add.
“It’s busy in here,” he says to no one in particular.
“It’s the VIP room,” cracks Darcy. “Don’t tell anybody.”
He nods politely, pauses awkwardly as though he doesn’t quite know what to do next, and then exits the pantry as I start rummaging around on a low shelf, looking for another can of Sterno.
“Why do you always do that?” asks Darcy. “‘Not that kind of doctor’ … you should stop selling yourself short.”
“I’m not selling myself short. But if I don’t clarify right off the bat then people start telling me about their gallbladder surgery, or their erection issues, or the most recent color of their snot. I’m an environmental psychologist. The closest I come to medical advice is to say, ‘And how do you feel about that?’”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing about his erection issues,” says Darcy, peeking out of the pantry to catch the rear view. “Although I’d be shocked if he had any. That guy is pure testosterone.” She sighs dramatically.
“Sterno Man is gay,” I say. “What straight man knows about chafing dishes?”
“Sterno Man is yummy.” She sighs, and nonchalantly hikes up her strapless bra. “A girl can dream.”
18
“You did good tonight, kid. I know this had to be tough on you,” whispers Michael’s father, Fred, as he ties up the trash bags in the kitchen to take out to the curb.
“Thanks, Fred, that means a lot,” I say, hugging him tightly. You have to love Fred. Here he is trying to be supportive of Michael but he’s still looking out for me. Fred has been like a second dad to me from the time Michael and I first met. Would that go away too? I wonder how he’s dealing with everything. We haven’t talked much. It’s not personal, I’ve barely talked to or seen anyone other than clients. I’ve just been trying to figure out how to get my life back together.
Fred’s a retired accountant. He’s a simple guy who never remarried after Michael’s mom passed away, and spends his every waking hour watching sports. The fact that his only son is an announcer for ESPN is without a doubt the greatest point of pride in his entire life. At Thanksgiving he always jokes that he wants “Father of Michael Miller, ESPN Commentator” engraved on his headstone.
Michael joins us in the kitchen. “Nice shirt, Dad.”
Fred smiles. “Son. Do you kids need anything else before I go?”
“We’re good, Dad. And thanks again for everything,” says Michael, giving his dad a long hug and walking him to the back door.
“Night, Fred!” yells Darcy, as she appears in the kitchen entry carrying a tray loaded with seven or eight drink glasses. She sets them on a tiny space of vacant countertop next to the sink, and throws herself onto a bar stool. Samantha trails behind with a couple of empty serving plates, which she sets precariously on top of a large pile of dishes in the sink.
“Are you staying in the guest room tonight?” I ask Darcy and Sam.
“Maybe,” says Darcy. Sam shrugs.
Michael returns to the kitchen and Darcy howls. “Oh my gawd, you were totally flirting with that hot Cuban guy in front of your dad.”
“I couldn’t help myself.” Michael laughs, downing what’s left of his drink. “Don’t be obnoxious,” he says. “That hot Cuban guy has a name.”
“My apologies,” says Darcy. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know!” Michael roars with laughter. “But I’m almost positive he had one.”
Sam cracks up too, and the three of them sit there, laughing hysterically.
“You’re not just out, you’re all the way out.” Sam laughs. “And your wife! You flirted with another guy in front of your wife!”
“Thanks for reminding me,” I say, rummaging around for my wineglass. There is not enough alcohol in the world to make this less obnoxious.
“Somebody has to,” Sam says, nodding toward Michael. “You need the practice. Watch and learn, baby.”
“No thanks,” I say.
“You might feel that way now,” insists Darcy, “but you’re probably going to want to have sex again before you die.” She takes a gulp of a nearby drink, and then looks at Michael, and starts laughing again, practically snorting the drink right out of her nose.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
Darcy howls with laughter. “You’ve only ever had sex with a gay man,” she says. “You’re a thirty-one-year-old virgin!” She roars and downs the rest of her drink. Michael and Sam start cracking up too.
“What are you laughing at?” I ask him. “This is your fault. Besides, you’re in the same boat.”
And then it hits me. No, he isn’t.
“Well, it’s looking good for tonight.” He grins.
“Hot Cuban guy?” asks Darcy.
“That’s not our business,” I say quickly. I’m standing too close to the kitchen knives to endure this conversation.
“He told me to call him after we were all done here. I just didn’t want to leave Alex with all the cleanup.” Michael would not stop smiling. My heart is flopping around somewhere in my lower intestines.
“You made a date at our divorce party?” I ask incredulously. Un-fucking-believable.
“Chill out,” says Darcy. “You’re divorced. This is what happens when you get divorced. You start having sex with other people.”
“It’s not just sex,” says Michael defensively.
“Right,” says Sam. “Sometimes you have coffee.”
“Or pancakes.”
“This brings up a really important point,” says Darcy. “There’s no way for you to go out into the world and date as a normal human woman if you haven’t had sex with at least one straight guy. You’re a psychologist and you’ve managed to miss out on a pretty major part of the human experience.”
“Thanks,” says Michael.
“Don’t take it personally,” says Darcy dryly. “Between the two of you, you have no idea whether or not she even knows what she’s doing in bed.”
See, I knew that was what everyone was thinking. Leave it to Darcy to confirm it.
“What happens if she meets a nice guy she likes and they end up breaking up because the sex is so terrible? Or if she freaks out because she’s so far out of her comfort zone—because we all know that Alex is not exactly enthusiastic with trying anything before she’s positive she’ll be great at it.” Darcy sighs and puts down her drink. “Obviously, we have to find someone to have sex with her.”
“Hello,” I say. “I’m right here. In the room. Listening to this.”
“She’s got a lot of catching up to do,” adds Sam.
“I think I can manage that on my own,” I say. “When I’m ready.” Like, never.
“Ready, schmeady,” Darcy says. “If you wait it will just be weirder. You need to get out there right away and just do it before you start thinking about it too much.”
“That’s what I did,” offers Michael. I glare at him and silently will him to shut up. The last person in the world I want sex advice from is Michael.
Jesus, she’s probably right. I can’t even imagine having sex with someone besides Michael. Except maybe Henry Cavill, but he probably isn’t available. I should google him tomorrow and find out. I wonder if there’s some Make-a-Wish Foundation for the former wives of gay sportscasters that arranges clandestine hookups—matching handsome, straight, and kindhearted movie stars to sleep with duped ex-wives. Someone should start that organization.
“It’s official,” announces Darcy. “You need sex and pronto.”
“Really, I’m fine,” I say. I just need to exorcise my gay ex. And get the degenerates out of my kitchen.
Darcy continues on brainstorming about my sex life with Michael and Sam as though I’m not in the room. But I am, I am in the room, and this is probably the most awkward, humiliating discussion I’ve ever heard. Or maybe not. I’ve had a busy couple of months. The glasses littering the countertops and sink full of dishes from the party are starting to weigh on me. I won’t be able to sleep until I’ve cleaned up all this party mess. I pick up a stack of plates and head toward the sink.
“The magic number is three,” says Darcy. “All men, regardless of their level of education, are hardwired to believe that three times is the exact number of times their future wives should have had sex prior to meeting them.”
“I shouldn’t have to go out and have sex just so some guy can feel better about himself,” I say.
“True,” says Darcy, “but trust me, you’ll feel a lot better about yourself.”
“Three?” says Michael incredulously. “That can’t be true.”
“First of all, you’re gay. So your opinions on the inner workings of straight men aren’t exactly on point. Second, no thirty-five-year-old man wants to deflower a virgin unless he’s a pervert. Third, it doesn’t matter if you’ve had sex with two men, or forty-seven, which is a bit closer to my number—the number they’re looking for is three. Which means we need to get you laid at least twice before you start dating.”
“Well, that’s easy,” I say. “If you can turn forty-seven into three, I can certainly boost my number up by a couple.”
“I don’t screw around with that crap, because I’m in politics, where everybody sleeps with everybody, and since I work seventy hours a week, everyone I sleep with is in politics. Plus, I don’t give a fuck.”
“So to speak.” Sam laughs.
“Padding your résumé isn’t going to help you here,” Darcy says. “Not if your number is thirteen years of sex with one gay man. Right now you’re clammy with the stench of desperation. You need to get out there. Have sex with someone who likes women for a change. Get under somebody, get over it, move on with your life.”
“Ugh,” I say, exasperated. “I don’t want to date. I mean, sure, I want to meet someone, fall in love, get married—preferably in the next six months, so I can have a baby and get my life back on schedule. I don’t want to date.”
“I hate to burst your bubble here,” says Sam. “But unless you want your great-uncle Ferdinand to arrange a marriage with someone from the Old Country, dating is how that whole love/marriage/babies thing is accomplished.”
“So you’re saying that I have to have sex with two men, and then I’ll meet someone and fall in love, get married, cut to babies and happily ever after.”
“Yes,” says Michael.
“No,” say Sam and Darcy in unison.
“That’s only part of it,” adds Sam. “Everybody knows there are nine men you have to date before you meet the One.”
“Nine?” I ask. “I thought it was two. How did it just go to nine? I need to date eleven men? That’s insane!”
Michael checks his phone for the third time in the last minute and a half.
“Just go,” I say to him. “I’ll take care of the cleanup.”
Michael looks elated, but demurs, “No, that’s not fair. I’ll stay and help.”
“We’ll do cleanup duty,” says Sam. “That hot Cuban guy may not wait all night.”
“Thanks,” says Michael, off his bar stool in a flash. He gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “You’re a trouper, I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” he says, and then he’s out the door.
“There are nine guys you have to date before you meet the one you actually fall in love with. Just sleep with two of them and you’ll be all set,” says Darcy. “It’s mandatory, like leveling up in a video game … The bad boy, the quarterback…”
“… the fo
reign guy, the tantric sex guy, the sensitive artist…,” adds Sam.
“Don’t forget the lead guitarist, the Master of the Universe, the fireman, the guy who’s so pretty but dumb as a brick, with a body that’s just so unreal it makes you cry—he’s generally a male model, or maybe a personal trainer,” says Darcy.
“It took me ten years to get my nine,” says Sam. “You’re thirty-one, so it might take you a little longer.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I say, tossing a cocktail napkin in her direction.
“For a second, I almost forgot that I’m old and practically undateable and that my eggs are all dried up.” I turn to Darcy. “How long did it take you?”
“Hmmm, it took almost my entire sophomore year at college,” Darcy says. “About seven and a half months.” Sam stares at Darcy with her mouth open. “You know me,” Darcy laughs, “I’ve always been a bit of an overachiever.”
“The fish,” adds Sam
“What the hell is a fish?” I ask.
“The fish is that perfect, amazing guy it can never work out with—you know, a bird and a fish may fall in love—but where would they live?… So the fish is your total dream guy, he’s smart, he’s handsome, he gets all your jokes, he loves to talk, he gives you a nine-hour orgasm and then makes you homemade chocolate chip pancakes and serves you breakfast in bed—but he lives all the way across the country and neither of you can move, or he’s married, or next in line for the throne, or he has a terminal disease or something … the fish.”
“I need to meet someone right away, if I’m going to have enough time to date the guy, plan a wedding, get married, and have a baby before I hit thirty-five. I don’t have time to date nine inappropriate guys.”
“Sure you do,” says Darcy. “Otherwise, how else will you know exactly what you want when you find it? Besides, the Universe doesn’t just drop the perfect person in your lap, it makes you work for it a little.”
“The Universe dropped Michael in my lap, and he was the perfect guy.” I realize what I just said the second it comes out of my mouth, and Sam, Darcy, and I start cracking up.
“Yes, he was perfect except for the fact that he’s gay. But other than that…” Darcy roars. She picks up the bottle of wine on the counter and refills all our glasses.
