Lara scribbles on her pad. “Whenever anyone’s got themselves a man in mind,” she says, “then pose the idea, and if he’s game, then, well, bring on the blind date!”
“So,” Robin says, biting into a chewy chocolate chip cookie, “who’s first? I mean, I’ll really think about this guy Bobby and I’ve had in mind—”
“I think the question is not who’s first,” Claire says with a sneaky grin, “but who’s going to win? Bets on who picks Emily’s dream man?”
I laugh as I reach for a cookie. “You girls bet however you like,” I say, “but let’s get through the first dates first. That is the challenge.”
***
I’m totally up for the challenge. Well, I’m lying if I say I’m totally up for it. Getting to meet and know some new guys should be nice, and hey, maybe I will find my match. Finding him via a blind dating scheme, though… I certainly wouldn’t have come up with Operation Blind Date on my own!
What could I do, though? My best friends only want to see me happy, and they (and I) know that at some point it’d be great to have that special man to love, to love me, to always rely on, to come home to (wherever home is at the time).
Part of the reason I agreed to the little game is because I really do enjoy getting to know new people, and I’m still somewhat firmly planted in Seattle.
Over the weekend, I checked out the NGO that put together my Ghana volunteer trip last year, United Care Initiative, curious to see if they had any openings for more volunteer opportunities in Africa. I would love to return to the continent!
Turns out I’m three weeks too late to apply for this well-repair project they’re commissioning in Kenya; and their next opportunity for application is a project in Zambia, also for well-repair, but that’s not planned to begin until next spring, so the application process has not yet begun.
I considered scoping out other travel and volunteer opportunities over the weekend, but with each ecstatic text from Claire or Jackie (the enthusiasts among the agents of Operation Blind Date), I thought better of it. Surely I can tamp down my travel itch—my thirst for adventure, for change—for a few more months…can’t I?
It’s already September, and autumn is slowly creeping towards the Pacific Northwest. It’s one of the most picturesque times of the year here. Time sure is flying; Robin’s February due date will be here before we know it! February nineteenth is still a good three weeks before United Care Initiative sends its group to Zambia, so I won’t have to worry about the possibility of that kind of a conflict. Of course, if I don’t end up finding my dreamy hunk of man by then, or even if I do and I’m ready for a change of scenery (he’ll obviously have to be someone who understands my inclination for travel), then it’ll be nice to have Zambia waiting for me next spring.
The thing is, though, what are the chances that I’ll really find that ideal man in a measly five attempts? I’ve been dating all types of men for well over a decade, and I’ve never found the perfect man who makes me all tingly, my heart all pitter-pattery, and my soul swell up with joy.
All right, I’d be remiss if I said I’d never found someone who made me feel that way. I’ve found someone special…a few times, actually. Inevitably, though, something stands in the way of true love flowering to its absolute fullest; something keeps us apart—some strange timing issue, or maybe the communication lines aren’t as open as they could or should be.
That’s really neither here nor there, though. I’m single now, I’m always open and looking when I’m single, and, I suppose, if anything, this Operation Blind Date will be a fun twist. It has been a while since I’ve been in a relationship that I—not the girls, but I—consider serious, or lengthy, or “real.”
Sure, dating, flings, and short-term relationships provide their own doses of fun. Long-term relationships can be really beautiful, too, but what is long term? Forever kind of stuff like Claire and Conner or Jackie and Andrew? Finding that man you want to tie the knot with? That’s the forever kind of stuff, I suppose.
But then look at Jack! God save her marriage, judging by the way she’s so fickle about it. I mean, you shouldn’t be fickle when you’re with your true soulmate, right? And, really, can you ever really truly know someone’s “the One?”
Nathan and Lara are really happy together right now, and look at Robin and Bobby! They’re making a family together, so you’d assume they’re each others’ only and true “One.” But are they?
What makes a forever match forever when there’s no way of predicting what tomorrow will bring, what the future holds, what or who may change as time passes on?
As I sit on the top of the grassy hill of Gas Works Park, overlooking Lake Union with its sailboats and yachts among the mesh of houseboats, bobbing and swaying with the gentle wind and slosh of water, I set my laptop off to the side and slowly take in my view.
Gas Works Park is a really neat public park at the north end of the lake. It’s pretty large and was the actual site of the former gas plant of Seattle ages ago. The old utility machinery is all coppery with rust and looms kind of hideously but also eclectically and somehow appealingly among the low roll of the green hills. It’s one of my favorite places to have a picnic, do a little work, maybe some thinking—and it’s a perfect spot to take photos of the expansive vistas of the city and Lake Union.
I take a quick look at my computer screen. It’s covered in dozens of thumbnail images of the shoot I did a few weeks back of Lake Washington. The magazine’s expecting my final edits tomorrow, so I know I need to get to work. I’ve only gone through half of them and made two final edit selections I’m sold on.
“Hmph,” I sigh, looking back out onto the lake. A large sailboat is just beginning to undock. Another one a few yards out of the docking arena is slowly beginning to raise its sails.
“Wow,” I whisper. I pick up my camera and focus in on the rising sail. “Awesome.”
Click.
I take a few more shots for fun before returning to my computer.
“Time to get down to business,” I tell myself. I glance up at the sailing vessel once more and smile. There really is something so unbelievably freeing about setting sail and embarking on new journeys. Of opening your sails and letting the wind whisk you away.
Well, I think as I select three photos to delete from the computer without a moment’s hesitation. Operation Blind Date will be its own kind of a journey.
Chapter Eight
“Is this a slutty color?” Jackie asks. She holds up an L.L.Bean catalogue. She taps her acrylic nail at the male model wearing a lightweight jacket.
“The hot pink of your nail or the jacket color?” I tease.
“Ha, ha!” She shoves the magazine closer. “The jacket, dummy. Slutty or not?”
“You’re serious?” I ask, looking from the catalogue to Jackie.
“That’s why I’m asking.” She purses her small, glittery, pink lips. “Slutty or not?”
“Jack,” I take the catalogue from her, “the jacket? This bright orange jacket?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“It’s a man’s jacket.” I shake my head. “I don’t get it. You want to wear men’s clothing now?”
She groans and snags back the catalogue. Bella scoots out of her lap as Jackie shifts her position on the futon.
Jackie’s staying the night here with me on account of Andrew still being off in Switzerland on business. Without warning, as she often does, she showed up on my doorstep, little Bella tucked into a giant Louis Vuitton dog carrier. She shoved a paper-bag-covered bottle into my arms, clicked on her crazy-tall heels, and said, “I’m crashin’ here. That good with you?”
I’d been busying myself with another round of edits for a shoot I did for a biology research team down in the Bay and was in need of a break. I had considered making some progress afterwards on Pride and Prejudice. I’m already a handful of chapters in. It’s not so bad. Not really my thing, but not bad.
Rummaging through a thick stack of catalogues showing p
ictures of things no one ever needs wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind for my quiet Thursday night. But when Jackie said that all she wanted to do was curl up with me on the futon and chat, peruse the catalogues, and watch on old black and white starring Carey Grant, I was all in.
“The jacket’s not for me, silly,” Jackie says. She licks her fingertip and flips the glossy page. “It’s for Andrew.”
“I didn’t know orange—or guys’ clothing, for that matter—could be slutty,” I say. I pick Bella up; she’s so light and fluffy and adorable. I rub her soft fur against my cheek, then tuck her in my arms.
“Oh, sure!” Jackie says with fervor. “I don’t want him wearing something that says he’s fruity candy or something that tells the ladies that he’s—that he’s—I don’t know. Available.”
I’m baffled. How can an orange-colored men’s jacket that looks like something he’d wear to go hiking look slutty?
“Well, if you have reservations, Jackie, then don’t get him the jacket.”
“You’re right.” She limply tosses the catalogue onto the floor. “He probably would never wear it, anyhow. Isn’t high-class enough for him. He’s so difficult to shop for.”
“If he’s so difficult, why don’t you let him shop for himself? Or is it his birthday or some special date or something?”
“Nah.” She opens up another catalogue. “It’s a guilt gift, that’s all.”
“A guilt gift?” I make a prying face—eyebrows high, eyes wide. “What do you have to be guilty about, Jack?”
She blows out a loud puff of air and quickly flips through the pages. “The usual stuff. Spent a lot of money on five pairs of Balenciages.”
“Five?” I’m appalled.
“And two Chloés,” she continues.
“Also shoes, I take it?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
She nods and says, still skirting through the catalogue, “Some cute tops and a coral parka—it’s really dishy. Then I went out.” She looks up from a page filled with really lacy underwear. “Last night. Got totally tanked, and I feel bad.”
“No offense,” I say. I rest a hand on her bare shoulder. She’s wearing a pearlescent top I’ve never seen before, the left shoulder hanging open halfway down her arm—probably one of her new, cute buys. “But shopping sprees and hitting up the bars to get sloshed isn’t exactly new for you. Andrew’s loaded, and he’s always buying you expensive things. He knows you frequent the clubs and… Well, what’s the problem?”
Jackie rolls her eyes, then blinks hard and rapidly. I lean closer to her and can see her bright eyes glaze over with a well of tears.
“Jackie.” I pull her in for a hug. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
She blinks the large drops away and makes a loud sniffle. “It’s not that.”
“Not what?”
“Not the shopping and the bars.” Another sniffle, a limp wave of the hand. “He knows about all that. That’s fine, I guess. That’s not—not—that’s not…” Another sniffle.
“Jackie. Relax. Breathe.” I yank a tissue from the Kleenex box on the side table and hand it to her. “Here. Blow.”
“Thanks, but I don’t do that anymore,” she says with wet baby blues, her mascara turning them into raccoon’s eyes. It takes me a second to register her joke, then we share a mild laugh.
“Jackie, honey.” I rub her back as she blows her nose and tries to dry her tears, but it’s no use. Her eyes are already rimmed black, and the tears will not abate. “What’s wrong?”
“I feel guilty because—because—‘cause—” She balls up the tissue and looks into my eyes, dolefully. “—’Cause at the bar I kinda, sorta…” Her voice and eyes wander.
“Jackie.” My voice is steady; I’m trying my hardest to quash the quaking that I know it’s about to do. “You didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?”
“You didn’t…did you ch—” I can’t bring myself to ask the question.
I’ve seen where the cheating road can take someone, where it can take everyone! Robin’s slip up with Sophie’s boyfriend Brandon years ago; Jackie’s own parents; Lara with that Paul guy from work; Claire’s father; and even half a dozen loser guys I’ve dated! Infidelity is major voodoo. Besides, what’s the point of a monogamous relationship when monogamy takes a backseat?
“Jackie, did you cheat?” I finally just come right out and say it.
“Oh, no!” she exclaims, a look of repulsion coating her face. “God, no! That orange jacket may be slutty, but I’m not!”
Phew! My shoulders drop down in relief, and I roll my head dramatically. “Thank goodness.”
“Oh, no, Emily. You know me. I wouldn’t do that.” She pauses, biting down on her lower lip, the high sheen of her gloss now matt. “Okay, so I am a little flirty and all, but I wouldn’t do something like that.” She reaches over me for a tissue, and I hand her the box.
“Okay, okay,” she says through more sniffles. “So I’ve kind of made out with some not-so-great guys when I had a boyfriend, but that was way back in college.” She quickly blows her nose. “We all do slutty things in college. I’m a married woman now, Em. You know I would never!” She looks incredulous.
“All right, all right,” I soothe. “So what’s the guilt about?”
She heaves a loud sigh and sinks deeply back into the futon. She throws the tissue onto the floor, and it tumbles on top of the discarded L.L.Bean catalogue.
“I completely ragged on my marriage,” she huffs. She looks at me, deadpan. “To a bartender. A stranger! Another dude!”
“Ouch,” I wince.
“Yeah,” she says, running her tongue against her teeth. “Cosmo says that’s like basic never-do-when-in-a-relaysh stuff. When guys go ragging on their women to other women, and when we go and bash our husbands to other guys, you know what Cosmo says that is?”
I’m pretty sure I know the answer, though I’m not really one to read Cosmo. But I let Jackie regale me with the professional advice of the girly gossip columnists.
“They say it’s like an invitation to swoop on in.” She makes an exaggerated, swooping motion with her arm and shakes her head at her own negligence to heed the warnings of the nation’s leading relationship advisors. “By me opening up to this complete stranger—who was way hot by the way; a George Clooney doppelgänger—I was saying, ‘I’m unhappy in my marriage and hate my husband, so…wanna hook up?’ Ugh! I’m so stupid sometimes.” She covers her face with her hands.
“Well nothing happened as a result of your ragging,” I say optimistically. “Right?”
“Of course not! But I still feel guilty, Em!” She gruffly crosses her arms. “I still feel like total shit for that. I mean, where’s the limit? When do I stop myself? First it’s ragging, then it’s flirting—” She catches my appraising glance and quickly says, “Okay! Heavier flirting. Then what? I don’t give a second thought or care to ruining a perfect marriage?!”
“It’s a perfect marriage now?” I realize the import of my words and how teaming up against Andrew at this point is not in Jackie’s interest, so I hurriedly add in, “I’m glad to hear that things are going really well. You chose marriage, so you should choose to fight for it—through thick and thin kind of stuff.”
“Exactly,” she says exaggeratedly. “I’ll be honest, it’s not a perfect marriage, per se, really.”
“Really?” I want to say in a sarcastic tone, but this is not the time or place.
“But it’s our marriage,” she says. “We have rough patches like everyone, but I just cannot go around complaining about Andrew to bartenders who, let’s face it, Em, I so would have hooked up with in my single days. It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“Good idea,” I say with a pat on her thigh. “Feeling guilty is nature’s way of steering you back on your life’s path, you know?”
“Oh, God, you’re sounding like Andrew with his Scientology hogwash.”
“I’m serious. I don’t know anything about Scientology, but feeling guilty is no
rmal and healthy. It makes you feel like crap, but that’s the whole point!” I try to meet her eyes. “Don’t repeat what makes you feel bad. And,” I take her hands in mine, “don’t repeat things that will make others feel bad. Like Andrew. You know he’d die from this.”
“Oh, of course I know that,” she cries. “Of course I won’t do something crazy like that. Why do you think I want to buy him something?” She helplessly reaches down for the L.L.Bean catalogue. “That’s the whole point of a guilt gift, Emily.” She waves the catalogue at me. “You buy it to feel better about what you did wrong and show the person you love that you, well, love them! It totally wipes the slate; and it’s also how Andrew shows he loves me. He’s always buying me shit. So, I like to buy him things from time to time.”
I laugh. “If you say so…” I don’t know how that can work, or if it can, or how long it’ll work, but okay.
“You’re so funny,” she says, returning to her catalogue, skimming like no tears were shed or admissions of guilt laid out. “Have you seriously never bought a guilt gift in your life?”
“No,” I say, taking an undergarment catalogue from her lap. “Can’t say that I have.”
My eyes alight on a page with really beautiful black lace panties and matching bras. “I can’t say I’ve bought myself any nice underwear in a long time, either.”
“Oh!” Jackie shouts. “Then we’re definitely buying you some!”
She scoots closer and begins to pore over the glossy pages of really beautiful (and some rather risqué and expensive) pieces.
“Besides,” she adds over my shoulder, “I scoped out the bar last night—Delicious, the one over in Capitol Hill. There were a few dishy-delicious finds over there.”
I cast a quick “just what are you thinking?” look at her.
“For you,” she emphasizes. “I think your first blind date might not be too far off, and you’ll definitely want some yummy lingerie to wear.”
“Oh, God,” I groan as Jackie hungrily takes the catalogue from my hands.
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 7
