by Claire Adams
“I’m sure it’s meant something to you,” she said, “just not what it did to me. I know that you enjoyed it. But I felt like . . . I just thought . . .” She trailed off. “Never mind. It sounds stupid. I’m not trying to be a bitch to you; I just don’t know how else to handle it. Having to come into the office and see you every day.” She gave me what seemed to be a brave smile. “I’m glad we’re talking about it, though. I mean, it’s uncomfortable and everything, and I’m embarrassed to admit it, but it’s good to get it out there. Good that I realized this stuff now and not later.”
“You’re making it sound like I’ve done something terrible to you,” I said. I must’ve had a rather distressed look on my face, because she came over and touched my cheek, a sympathetic expression in her eyes.
“I know you’re not,” she said. “It just seems like it would be better if things didn’t go any further between us. I don’t think I can do a casual relationship. I don’t have that much experience with these sorts of things, but I do know enough to know that I couldn’t do a casual relationship with you.”
In a way, she was saying everything that I wanted to hear, which surprised me, because up until this point, I’d never wanted a woman to utter anything other than, “Why yes, no strings attached sex is absolutely all I want from you.” That had been before; this was now. And with Daisy, for some reason that I still couldn’t quite understand, I wanted things to be different.
“Look, Daisy,” I said, “I’m certainly not perfect, but the last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you. I’m sorry that you had to find things out this way. About Annie and everything. I didn’t bring it up because I thought it was over; I didn’t think that I’d ever have to see her again. You have to understand, she and I were never a couple. It was just a fun thing that I thought we both understood would never get serious. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. Letting her go was the best for both of us.”
The sympathetic look in her eyes wavered. “Best for both of you? Or you?”
“Both of us. I wanted her to move on, to be able to get on with her life without having to see me every day as a reminder of what she thought she wanted. But the thing is, Daisy, she barely even knew me. There’s a difference between being intimate with someone and knowing them intimately.”
She tilted her head to the side, frowning at me. “That sounds good and all,” she said, “but maybe she felt like there wasn’t? Maybe she felt like she did know you? And how well do we know each other?”
“We’re still getting to know each other. But I like what I know about you so far—more so than anyone else, actually. And I’m not just saying it because I think that’s what you want to hear. This is actually a rather difficult conversation for me to be having right now.” And that wasn’t bullshit—I was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, but I knew I needed to be upfront with her if I wanted any chance of getting in her good graces again.
“There is another part that I need to tell you,” I said. “About Annie.”
There was a part of me that was screaming this wasn’t the right time to do it—that I should wait, break the news to her another time—but I knew if I did that, it’d be harder and harder to come clean about it.
“Annie recently called to inform me that she’s pregnant,” I said. “And that it’s mine.”
There was a long pause. Daisy’s face remained expressionless, but after a few moments, she nodded slowly. “I see.”
“Which I know is probably not what you want to hear.”
She was silent. I didn’t know if she was about to burst into tears and slap me, but she did neither; she just stood there, her arms now folded across her chest.
“I’m sorry, Daisy,” I said. “I wish I could take it all back, what happened with Annie. The idea that this is going to jeopardize what I could have had with you is killing me, it really is. But I can’t change the past. So I’ve got to do what I can with what I’ve got to work with. I’ve been in worst situations before—believe me—and come out of those okay, so I’m not too worried. Well, maybe I’m a little worried, because some of this is completely new, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.”
“Wow. I think I need some time to think about all of this,” she said slowly. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say to you right now, other than I am glad that you were honest with me. I do appreciate that. But . . . I’ve got to think about things, okay? I just . . . I need some time.”
“Sure,” I said. “Absolutely. Whatever you need. If you want to take a couple days off, you can. I’ll still pay you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but I want to.”
She nodded, considering my offer. “Well, maybe I’ll take you up on that. I’m not sure. But for now, I just need some time to think about all of this. Because I am more confused now than I think I’ve ever been. Thank you for talking to me, but I think it’d be best for me to go now.”
I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “I’m really sorry, Daisy.”
She didn’t say anything else, and I watched her walk away. And it was true—I couldn’t remember ever feeling sorrier about a situation than I did right now.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Daisy
I didn’t know what I was supposed to think.
I went for a walk, hoping that some exercise would help, or at least clear my brain from thinking any thoughts. Really, that should’ve made everything clear. It should’ve put everything in a crystalline perspective: No way was I going to get involved with a guy who was going to have a baby with someone else! That was too much. I didn’t want to be a stepmom. I didn’t want to be with someone who was going to have the responsibility of a child with another woman.
But there was another part of me that was trying to argue it wasn’t such a big deal; people did it all the time. I myself had a stepmother, technically, even though we didn’t really have any sort of relationship.
My phone started to ring, and I pulled it out, telling myself that if it was Ian, I wasn’t going to answer it. Hadn’t he just said that he’d give me time to think about everything? But it wasn’t him; or at least, it wasn’t a number that I recognized. Normally I would’ve ignored it, but I decided to pick it up.
It turned out to be Carl, my mother’s colleague. He thanked me for getting in touch with him and asked if I wanted to get together on Saturday morning, if I was still interested in being part of the project.
“I do have plans Saturday afternoon,” I said, “but I could do Saturday morning.”
“That would be great,” he said. He had a very calm, mild voice that made me feel at ease, even though we’d only been on the phone for about a minute. “I’ve done a number of interviews already, and some have been fairly quick. Others have been longer, but we can make sure that you’re done in time to get to your next engagement.”
He told me where his office was located, and I agreed to meet him there at ten o’clock. When we got off the phone, I circled back toward the office, hoping that Ian would have left by then, or at the very least, I wouldn’t run into him when I was getting into my car.
Of course, at the very moment I was pulling my keys out of my purse, the door to the office building swung open, and he strode out. I could tell he wasn’t expecting to see me right there, and that it had actually taken him by surprise. He started to smile and say something, but then he stopped, as though remembering the last conversation that we’d had. There were about twenty feet between us, and we both just stood there, looking at each other, neither one saying anything. That’s when I realized he was going to wait for me to say something first, but I didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so I just got into my car and drove away.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Carl said. I was sitting on the couch in his office, which was a big, bright room lined with bookshelves. He was seated in an armchair that was next to the couch, and he turned the voice memo on his iPhone on and placed it on t
he coffee table, so the microphone was facing me. “Has your mother told you anything about the project?”
“Not really,” I said. “Just that you were writing a book about the quarter-life crisis.”
He smiled and nodded. He reminded me of a teddy bear, or one of those animal characters in a children’s fiction book, with a light sweater vest pulled on over a collared short-sleeve shirt with light blue checkers. He had a sandy colored beard and slightly disheveled hair. He was also wearing Birkenstocks. “Correct. And that’s good she didn’t give you too many details; I think that’s better for the subjects that I’m interviewing. Though ‘interviewing’ is perhaps too rigid of a term—this is really more of a conversation. I’d like to hear about your experience so far. I’ll ask you a few basic questions to get us started.”
“Okay,” I said. “Sounds good.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“And did you graduate from college?”
“Yes, with a B.A. in creative writing.”
“And what has your experience been like since you graduated?”
“My experience . . .” I paused and took a deep breath. “My experience has honestly been nothing like what I thought it would be. I can remember being a teenager and being so excited to get to graduate high school and go off to college because I was certain that was when my ‘real life’ was going to start. And I spent a good part of my teenage years just waiting for this real life to start, thinking that I’d know when it happened because I’d feel like an adult. I would know that I had arrived because I would feel different. But I don’t feel different. I feel exactly the same—only maybe worse, because now it seems like something is wrong with me. It seems like I somehow missed the turnoff for the road to adulthood, because I feel like I’m just playing pretend.”
Carl nodded. “What sorts of things have happened that made you feel this way?”
“The jobs I’ve had since graduating have nothing to do with what I went to school for. Though I realize that a creative writing major might not have been the most practical thing—my mother was always very fond of telling me that. But I thought she, of all people, would have encouraged me to pursue my passion, not just what might have made sense financially. So I haven’t had much success with my writing, but that’s really because I haven’t been doing any writing.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I have a lot of other stuff going on that’s distracting me from it. I know that’s no excuse. But I have a stalker and—”
“You have a stalker?”
“Yes. My mother doesn’t seem to think it’s anything, but there’s this guy that I met at the gym and he randomly shows up at my apartment and thinks that we’re meant to be.”
“I’m sure that’s rather distressing.”
“It is! But he hasn’t done anything yet that would warrant calling the police. And then I got fired from my other job because I found out the manager was embezzling money, and then the next job, this guy I knew from the gym basically got for me, but . . . I ended up sleeping with the boss there. That wasn’t my plan, but I just felt this attraction toward him that I’d never felt with anyone else before. It was unreal, almost, and then the fact that he seemed to feel the same way. These sorts of things never happen to me. Life felt really exciting for a little while, like I was excited for it to be Monday, the start of the work week, so I could see him, because all I wanted was to just be around him. I didn’t care what we were doing. I felt like I was in high school again. And then I found out that’s basically what he does with all his secretaries. I know how that sounds. I’m not really like that at all, either. I was actually a virgin until I met him. I felt like we had this connection, and to be honest, I think we still do, but he recently told me the girl he slept with before me is pregnant.”
“That must’ve been quite the shock.”
“Yeah, it was. And it’s made me question everything that I was feeling before—like, can I even trust my own feelings? Which seems to go hand-in-hand with the fact that I have no clue what I’m doing with my life. Maybe that’s the whole reason why I don’t to begin with—I can’t trust my feelings.”
“What is it that your feelings are telling you?”
“That he and I have this connection. That we’re—” this was going to sound so stupid—“meant to be together.” I looked down at my hands.
“Granted, I don’t know all the details of your particular situation, but perhaps your feelings aren’t wrong. You did say the person he got pregnant is someone he was with before the two of you first got together, correct?”
“Yes,” I said slowly.
“And from what you’ve told me so far, that sounds like it’s the major reason why you’re suddenly questioning your feelings to begin with.”
“Well, that and the fact that this person also used to be on his secretaries. So I sort of feel like I’m just another in this line of secretaries that he’s slept with.”
“That’s a valid point,” Carl said. “But it’s rooted in fear and projection. Has he been with anyone else since the two of you got together?”
“Not that I know of.”
“But you fear that he might discard you like he did this previous secretary after he’s gotten tired of you.”
“Something like that.”
“That’s totally normal,” Carl said. “Whether you’re twenty-five or forty-five. That part of your problem isn’t so much unique to the quarter-life crisis as it is to simply being human.”
“Oh, okay,” I said. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore then; my mom said that you just wanted to talk about the quarter-life stuff.”
Carl waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re here now, and I think talking about this is helping you to work through it.”
“I just feel like nothing is in my control. You know, when you’re growing up, you’re fed this idea that if you do the right things—if you get good grades in school, if you go to college—that life is going to work out, that you’ll have some clear direction and know what to do. But that seems like it’s one big lie, because I did all that and I don’t have any clue what I’m doing, and I’m even more confused than when I was younger. So for maybe a small percentage of the population, when it comes to people my age, maybe for them, it has worked out just how we’re led to believe it’s supposed to, but for the rest of us, we’re just kind of floundering around, feeling like we were duped.”
“You are certainly not alone in feeling that way.”
“And that’s what makes it even harder—when you feel like you can’t trust your feelings.”
“When you think you can’t trust your feelings,” he corrected me. “It is true that sometimes our initial feelings toward something might simply be a reaction, and that after we’ve had time to process it, we can see that there is a better choice to be made.”
“What do you think I should do?”
He smiled gently. “I can’t tell you what to do, Daisy.”
“You’re the professional, though, aren’t you? Isn’t that what people pay you for? Isn’t that why you’re writing this book?”
“I’m writing this book because this is a phenomenon that interests me. This is the first time this sort of thing is happening, in this magnitude, and I admit, I find it fascinating. But so far as telling people what to do—I think the best I can do is to say keep a clear head, listen to your thoughts and feelings, and don’t lose hope.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“I can tell you’re a smart girl. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. That doesn’t mean you’re not going to make mistakes, or things won’t be difficult for you sometimes, but I think you will ultimately find what it is that you’re looking for, even if you yourself don’t know exactly what it is at this moment.”
“Well, I appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you for letting me talk about all of this.”
“Of course.”
&
nbsp; “I’ll leave my address,” I continued. “Or do you just want to use my email?”
“For what?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Um, for the bill. You know, for talking to me.”
“Daisy,” he said, smiling. “I’m not going to bill you. If this helped you, then I’m thrilled to hear it. You also helped me. I’d very much like to include significant portions of what we’ve talked about in the section of my book that goes over feelings, and how learning to trust our feelings is a crucial part of overcoming the quarter-life crisis. Any crisis, really.”
“Of course,” I said, feeling silly. “And . . . thank you. For talking to me. It really did help.”
I left his office, went home to change, and then headed down to the gym to meet Jonathan, feeling as though maybe I should just trust my feelings after all.
Jonathan had a big smile on his face when I showed up at the gym. I felt a little intimidated, as most of the people there were guys and they were all in stunningly good physical shape. “Hey,” he said with a smile. “Glad you could make it.”
I tried to ignore the looks of the other guys as I followed him through the gym, which was located in a converted warehouse, with an exposed ceiling. We went into a room near the back, which had a mirrored wall and a floor covered in green mats.
“I think it’s great that you’re interested in learning some self-defense techniques,” he said. “I think it’s a good thing for any woman to learn. But are you interested in it because of that guy? Is he bothering you?”
“He’s . . . been around. He hasn’t done anything yet, but it’s getting pretty creepy. I mean, I would’ve thought that he’d get it through his head by now that nothing was going to happen, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. So I was thinking that it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I learned how to protect myself.”
“Absolutely,” Jonathan said. “And you’re right—it has been a pretty long time for him to be dogging you like that. You know, I’m thinking . . . maybe we should have a few guys watch out for you.”
