“He just thinks I’m spoiled.” I try to pick clean the back of an acrylic nail. “Being dramatic.”
“Well, that you are,” she says with a laugh.
“Spoiled or dramatic?”
“Both.”
“Ha, ha.” I pick at another nail. “I’m being serious.”
“Being a pampered princess is besides the point, Jack. Your marriage is obviously bothering you a great deal, and things aren’t going to look up if you keep complaining, keep hiding your feelings. You’re a frank woman. Be open!”
“I think Lara should dump Nathan,” I cut in acutely.
“And Andrew?” Her tone, and question, is direct.
“Ugh!” I begin picking at the back of another nail. “You know what happens if I say we need to talk! We’ll just wind up in the same position we always wind up in. Apologies, a flood of gifts, saying we’ll work through it, empty promises, and after a while the charm wears off. Back to square one.”
“You make amends and effort sound so horrible,” Emily says, her sarcasm not lost on me. “Apologies and gifts…”
“Well,” I say with a whine, “I do like the gifts, I guess. But enough’s enough at some point, you know? Nothing’s improving in the end. I just wind up unhappy all over again…the distance grows.”
“Look, hon,” Emily says. She suddenly sounds rushed, distracted. “I’m going to give you the same advice as always: Talk with Andrew. And before you can say you already have and it doesn’t work, talk some more. If you feel his promises are empty and you’re unhappy, you have to talk.”
I heave a heavy sigh into the phone.
“And as for Lara,” she says.
“Yeah, what do you think Lara should do? Have a pointless talk with Nathan?” I suppress a playful roll of the eyes.
Emily says in a slightly higher tone, “I think Lara needs to make her own decision, just like you do. I know she and Nathan have talked about things—their distance—and I know things aren’t getting better.” She pauses. “Maybe breaking up with Nathan is the best thing for her…”
“Same story over here, Em,” I point out. “I’ve talked before; things aren’t getting better.”
“Yes, but you made a promise to Andrew,” she says in a soft voice. “You’re married. You can’t just give up on that like—like—nothing.”
“What’s with the sudden March for Marriage attitude?” I say with a laugh. “You couldn’t care less about the tradition.”
“But you do care, Jackie,” she quickly counters. “I’m not married, Lara’s not married, but you did make that choice. And you did it because you love Andrew. I don’t want to tell you what to do or judge, and I’m not saying that just because you’re married you have to stay married forever. It’s not so cut and dry. But I don’t think there’s any harm in fighting to keep something you have, something that I know deep down you want.”
I pull out of my relaxed position on the sofa and snatch up the clicker. “You’re probably right,” I say. “I do want my marriage to work.”
“You just don’t want to have to do the work, right?”
I can picture the understanding and playful smile that I know is on Emily’s lips right now. “Probably,” I mutter through my own crooked grin. “It shouldn’t be so impossible, you know? Love…relationships…”
“Love’s not an easy thing,” she says, “and relationships are far from easy. But when you have the right one, it’s worth the work.”
“God, gettin’ all mushy on me.”
“I’m serious.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Actually, I’ve been reading this book about finding your inner Zen. It’s really enlightening.”
This time I do roll my eyes. I love Emily, but could she get anymore Kumbaya?
“Well, I’m gonna give Lara a call in a bit,” I say without much resolve. Not that I have any wise words to help, I think glumly.
“I think that’s exactly what you should do,” Emily says. “Maybe you two can share your troubles with relationships. You can help each other out. You’re both going through the same thing, sort of—feeling unsure and all…”
“I guess.” I rub roughly at the side of my face.
“One step at a time.” Her voice is soothing and encouraging. Classic Emily. “Take my advice. Oh, and check your horoscope, babe! You could totally be missing out on very informative and helpful advice, you know?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say with a chuckle, actually making a mental note to consider this tip. Like Emily, I’m a believer in peeking at the writing in the stars from time to time.
“Okay,” I say at last. “I’m gonna go; call Lara eventually.”
“And until then?” Emily asks. “Right now?” Her voice sounds distant, then I hear her shout out to someone in the background, “I’ll be up there in a sec.”
“Today?” I flip the TV on. “Right now?”
“Yeah. What are you up to today?” she presses.
“Probably smoke a joint and stare out the window, watch the seagulls fly across the Bay.” I select HBO and turn down the volume as soon as the program comes on, blasting at full volume.
“Jackie,” she says in a low voice I find comical.
“Kidding! You know I quit ages ago.”
“Hey, I’m not one to turn up a nose at sparking up, but you can really do something more productive with your day.”
“Then ditch work and come rescue me from boredom.” I pick behind another nail. “Puh-lease!”
“I wish I could, but I can’t.” She sighs. “In fact, I’ve really got to run. Sophie needs help up front, and Gatz has class this morning, so he’s not in yet.” She sighs again, but this time it somehow rings with optimism. That’s Emily for you: ever the optimist, no matter the stress or situation. “Think we’re headed for Monday madness over here, so I’ve got to hunker down.”
Emily has been helping Sophie at her café for a while since Sophie needs it and can’t quite yet afford hiring anyone in addition to Gatz. Emily dabbles in part-time freelance photography for a local Seattle magazine, and since she’s loaded thanks to a trust fund, she spends a lot of her time at The Cup and the Cake, lending her baking hand for free.
All that will change, however, when Emily zips off to Zambia in March—I am so not looking forward to that! But, in the meantime, I’m sure the perks of Emily working at the café now go beyond the routine taste-tests and getting to hang out with one of your best friends. Gatz is there.
Gatsby Carter is the jack-of-all-trades, barista/baker/student/I-don’t-know-what, who apparently aspires to be a writer or a poet or something literary-like. He and Emily have been dating for a couple weeks. She invited him to her book club, and I guess the two had more in common than literary preferences. Go figure.
Of course, how long she’ll keep this guy is a mystery to all. I’m betting Gatz’ll be around for the long haul, because they really do seem perfect for each other, but with Em we never really know.
Emily has a long dating record, and I can totally see why. She’s free-spirited, accepting, understanding, super fun, and pretty—like in that all-natural way. She has that perfectly sun-kissed skin and those let-your-hair-fly-about-in-the-breeze locks that are long and fresh-earth-brown (unless she’s in a mood and goes for Corvette Red or Alien Green or winds up in dreads). She wears gobs of jewelry, usually of the wooden and shell families, and thinks tattoos and multiple belly button-rings and earrings are more necessary than much (or any) makeup when considering a day’s ensemble. She sees nothing wrong with simply smacking on some lip balm, shampooing her hair, throwing on a hand-knit scarf with a down to earth outfit, and considering herself ready for a date. With her simple beauty and free spirit, it’s no wonder she doesn’t really have to try. She just glows.
I think Em’s open mind and heart are big reasons why she’s found it difficult to really get serious with one guy. I guess if I were traveling all over the globe and liable to meet a hottie around any corner, alway
s open and eager to meeting anyone new, I’d probably have a tough time making a commitment, too.
But Gatsby. Gatz seems to have caught Emily’s eye, and I think there’s some serious potential with this one. Lord hope there’s potential, seeing how the girls and I all created this giant Operation Blind Date game last year where we tried to get Emily into a serious relaysh. That was an adventure!
“Have a fab day, Em,” I say, slowly beginning to feel chipper as I think about how I’m going to take Emily’s sober advice and talk to Lara. I turn up the volume of the TV. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full, so I’ll let you go.”
“Do something productive,” Emily says, that warning and “big girl” tone of hers ringing through thickly.
“Yes, Mommy.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Jackie,” she says as I pick up on Sophie’s garbled voice in the background. “Be smart, be safe,” Emily adds.
“Yeah, yeah. Love-ya-mean-it. Bye, girl.” I make a kissing noise before clicking off.
“Goodness.” I toss my phone aside.
Emily worries about me. Okay, okay, all the girls tend to worry about me. Sophie and Claire worry that I’m a bit reckless. I just like to have a good time and go to clubs and party, that’s all.
Robin worries about the same, and Lara’s always afraid I’ll fall off the wagon and need help. To be fair, she has all the right in the world to fear that, because, well, she’s picked my ass up somewhere in the ballpark of a million times. I can’t even begin to tell you how often Lara’s paid an outstanding bill of mine or made that emergency counseling appointment for me or stocked my kitchen cupboards. What can I say? I like to live life with abandon.
Emily worries that my mind will dull. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop and she’s probably right on that one, come to think of it. When I’m bored or lonely, I do stupid shit. The last thing I did that really pissed Em off was falling into a drunken sleep with a lit cigar and kind of burning a hole in her futon.
She’s such a doll, though, that Em. She wasn’t the least bit P-Oed about the ruined futon (which I replaced, by the way, with a really swanky European piece). She was worried to death over the fact that I fell asleep with a smoldering cigg, endangering my life. God, I love that girl. She’s always thinking of me, looking out for me.
So it’s a real bummer that she’s not around more often. Emily Saunders has a permanent case of wanderlust. She’s really well off thanks to her dad inventing something (or was it investing in something?), and her parents have always encouraged her to see the world and make something of her photography hobby. That means she’s always wandering from place to place, and this spring she’s going to Zambia! Africa!
She’s going to help build wells or water pipes or something, and will do a smashing job at it, because Emily always does. She’s a do-gooder with a solid heart of gold, and sometimes I envy her. But not like I used to envy Robin's close relationship with Lara, the friend who’s always been able to take care of me and put me up.
When single and pregnant Robin found herself in a bit of trouble, Lara rushed to the rescue, and I sort of felt like I was playing second fiddle. But I’m over that now. Lara can be just as good a friend to me as she can to Robin, no matter the circumstance; and I was super immature back then, anyhow.
No, I envy Emily’s upbringing. I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to have loving parents who actually care about you and your future, encouraging you and making it possible for you to be the very best you can be. My parents always told me that they just hoped I wouldn’t become a crack whore, and if I did that I’d find someone who could put me up in a rehab facility, because they sure as hell weren’t going to foot the bill. Charming, eh?
I also envy Emily’s penchant for doing good and being so selfless. I’ve tried to be selfless like her. (No, not in the feeding-starving-African-babies way.) I tried to volunteer down at the women’s Y a couple years ago. The second day I was volunteering to help the nutritionist educate elementary school girls on healthy eating, there was an outbreak of lice. After some days I was told it was contained and I could return, but I kind of lost interest after that. Besides, I had no business helping teach young girls healthy eating habits. My idea of staying trim for bikini season is to live off Bloody Marys and Ritz crackers.
“Hmph,” I sound. I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to abate the sudden case of goosebumps. I wrap a chenille throw around my shoulders and will myself to stand.
I have no idea what I’ll do today, but I’m sure there’s a sale on something somewhere. Or maybe Robin will be free to hang out. Or maybe Andrew will get home from work early and have a fancy dinner date planned. Hah! Aren’t I the comedian?
I crank up the volume on the television for audible comfort and saunter towards the bedroom.
“Not likely,” I grumble to myself, nudging aside a throw pillow with one foot.
My Teacup Yorkie named Bella, another one of those “sorry you’re lonely when I travel often” presents from Andrew, stirs from sleep at the foot of the unmade California king-sized bed.
“Not likely, huh, Bella?” I say sweetly. I throw open the door to my walk-in closet, and the automatic lights come to life.
“Guess we better hit the town before the housekeeper gets here.”
Chapter Four
I kill the engine of my Mercedes and wait patiently in the darkness of the car.
Lara told me to come meet her at her office in Downtown once I got around to calling her earlier during lunch. “I’m too swamped to chat,” was her reply when I rang. “We need to do drinks after work.”
Lara and I haven’t been out for drinks in a while. She’s got this really difficult client who’s been zapping all her energy, and she’s got the stress of dumping Nathan (or not dumping Nathan) hanging over her head. This is one of many reasons why I don’t have a job. What would be left of me if I had to work like Lara? That’d be the end of my social life! My shopping! My ability to strike up even an infinitesimal relationship with my husband! All that, plus I’m the world’s worst employee.
“Let’s get our drink on!” I exclaim the instant Lara opens the passenger door.
“Hey,” she groans, heaving her attaché and handbag onto the car floor. She tucks a piece of short, brunette, gently highlighted hair behind her pearl-clad ear. “Thanks so much for doing this with me.”
“Thank you for suggesting,” I say, starting the engine.
Lara fastens her belt in an exhausted fashion, pulling the belt far from her chest. “Finally. I’m out of there!” She opens her black suit jacket and undoes the top pearlescent button of her dress shirt.
“You work much too hard, sister,” I say.
“It’s this effing client.” She snaps the belt across her chest. She scoots her seat back farther to accommodate her lengthy legs—legs that she could really use to her advantage if she wanted. She could really get some hot action at one of the bars the girls and I hit up if she tried. Lara has beautiful cobalt eyes, a soft and creamy complexion, has great manicure and hair salon habits, a healthy body—she jogs and actually has a treadmill in her apartment! More than I can say about my gym habits (of which there are none to speak). Lara says her ass is growing wider with every year she falls further and further away from what was once the daunting 3-0 but is now the “oh, back when I was thirty” (which was only last year). So melodramatic for no reason. If I were a dude, I’d do her.
But Lara doesn’t like to get too wild and crazy, even though she’s got somethin’ to shake. Sure, we can go out and have fun, but she’s pretty reserved. Show her a spreadsheet and I’m sure she’d get all hot and sweaty; tell her to dress up in a mini and stilettos and try to get lucky she’d turn beet-red and say I’m off my rocker.
Sometimes I’ve been able to coerce her into a tight little skirt, a pair of high heels, some vibrant eyeshadow or lipstick, and some jewelry that isn’t of the Julia Child collection. Those are the nights Lara gets hit on and I just say
, “Duh!” She rolls her eyes and says it’s too much. And she wonders why she thinks she has no luck when it comes to relationships?!
“So, where to?” I ask excitedly.
“Anywhere,” Lara answers with a sigh, sinking down into her seat. “Anywhere that’ll help me fight the pain I’m feeling.”
“This career of yours sounds like it’s killing you.”
“It’s not the client,” she says. “It’s Nathan.”
I come to a stop at the light, grip the wheel firmly, and look at her. “You’re breaking up with him, aren’t you? You’ve decided?”
She shuts her eyes. “He’s cheating on me, Jackie.”
***
“Uh, we’re going to need another one of these, please,” I say to the bartender. “And make it double.” I motion to Lara, who’s sitting next to me on the barstool at a place that makes a mean cosmopolitan. “Need to get her tanked.”
The bartender winks and says, “I’ll take care of her.”
I’m about to say that I’m sure he could, seeing how things with that loser of a boyfriend of Lara’s have ended up, and how this bartender has ripped biceps that look like they could sustain hours and hours of lifting and swinging and positioning and—
“Can you believe him?” Lara says, snapping me back to.
“Nathan?” I take a sip of my cosmo.
She brings her head up from the depressing position on the bar, nods, then drops her head back down, her hair spilling around like a wide-open fan.
“I try not to make much sense of anything guys do,” I say in all honesty. “Good or bad.”
Throughout the rest of the ride to the bar, I sat in almost complete silence, mouth hanging open like a doped up patient, totally bowled over by Lara’s news. Sure, anyone’s capable of cheating. But Lara’s boyfriend? Can’t she catch a break? She’s been so down and out on love for so long, and Nathan came along and seemed like a catch. Then he goes and does something stupid like this and—
When Girlfriends Let Go Page 3
