I suddenly feel a rush of hatred for him flood over me. How is it that he can be the one to fuck up yet still make everything seem like my fault? “Everything is fine,” I assure him coolly. “You chose not to make a decision, and that was your decision. So then I chose to make a decision—which was not to make any more decisions about my life based on how you felt about them. I love you. I want to marry you. But I am not spending my life waiting around for you to decide when the life I want gets to start.”
Kevin inhales a deep breath. “You know, you may think you’re being quiet and controlled here, but all I’m hearing is anger. Anger and an ultimatum.”
I’m so angry that I begin laughing. “I assure you—there is no ultimatum.”
I turn my back to him and quickly walk out of his bedroom, knowing that if I stay in there, I will say something I can’t take back.
Unfortunately, Kevin follows me out to the living room. His living room. “Of course there is,” he bellows. “And it’s the worst kind of ultimatum, because I have to guess what you’re going to do next. ‘Yeah, Kevin, I’m gonna say, “Take your time,” but then I’m going to blow our down payment and quit my job.’”
I whip around to correct him. “Not our down payment—mine. You’re not married to me yet—nothing is ours yet. And I didn’t blow anything. I chose to make an investment. A really solid investment.”
“That’s not an investment. It’s a rash decision based on having a good time drinking with your girlfriends one night—”
I put up my index finger and point to him. “Okay, I’m going to stop you right there,” I tell him warningly. “What about me … what in the last three years you’ve been with me makes you think you ever get to talk to me like that?”
To his credit, Kevin does stop talking.
I inhale a deep, cleansing breath, then finish the fight as calmly as I can. “There is no ultimatum, there’s nothing to second-guess. I wanted you to buy a house with me because you wanted to, not because I guilted you into it. I want you to propose because you want to spend the rest of your life with me, and have kids with me, not because I’m pressuring you into it. But I’ve waited three years. If you need more time at this point, that’s on you. And you’re taking it at your own risk. Now, do you want me to stay and help you pack, or do you want me to go?”
Kevin sighs loudly, then shrugs. Simmering in anger, he says, “I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t,” I agree. “Call me tomorrow.”
I grab my keys and head out before he can convince me to stay.
It’s not until I get to my car that I realize he isn’t going to. Not tonight, at least. Was that his version of a counter ultimatum? I drive home miserable and second-guessing myself. After about ten minutes of silence in my car, I speed-dial Holly on my Bluetooth.
She answers on the first ring. “Didn’t go well, I take it?”
“When did dating become like a chess match?” I ask her sadly.
“I don’t know,” she answers sympathetically. “But maybe that’s why the word ‘mate’ is part of the winning phrase. Did you knock off his queen, at least?”
“Not sure. Think I may have gotten a bishop. I suppose I’ll know more soon.”
“Want to come over? We’re making pizza.”
“Be there in twenty minutes.”
Six weeks later …
Chapter Fourteen
NAT
Remember a few years back, when the NSA was in trouble for “spying” on American civilians by listening in on their phone calls and reading their Facebook posts? I remember thinking at the time, Well, maybe that means that at least one man is listening to me. But based on my rounds of texts with Marc since I quit, I suspect it’s mostly women listening. Women are just better at getting the subtle nuances of both oral and written conversation.
For example, they might know what I meant from my answers to an assortment of his texts during the past few weeks.
Work isn’t the same without you. The caterer made your favorite chocolate chip red velvet cupcakes, and he was brokenhearted not to see you here to enjoy them.
Drop dead.
I’m truly sorry. I was terribly out of line. Not to mention inexcusably belligerent and defensive.
What can I do for us to be friends again?
Drop dead.
Did you get the flowers I sent?
Dude, I will cut you.
Now see, while I think a woman might pick up on my diplomatic hints and understated subtext, clearly what a man hears is, “Oh, my God, I love you soooooo much! Please don’t call me or show up in person while your wife is visiting—just start to text me a million times a day the moment she leaves town.”
He’s been texting me, e-mailing me, and then calling my cell off and on for over a month, and I’ve surprised myself by managing to stay strong and (mostly) ignoring him. So I know what I should have answered when I saw this text yesterday:
Can I take you to dinner? Just friends.
But after a “streamlined” escrow that cost us each an extra five thousand dollars in bank fees … (Seriously, how do banks get away with so many extra fees? We paid a fee to the bank just to give us a lower mortgage rate. Paid them money we were borrowing from them five minutes later. I was never great at economics, but by the third time Jessie explained to me how the process worked, I had a bottle of aspirin in one hand and a bottle of ibuprofen in the other.) … not to mention having to cash in my last IRA to pay for unplanned extra expenses for renovating the bar (Let’s see: Spend my last few thousand dollars on a trip to Maui or on an ungraded sewer line? I’m such a clichéd romantic. What girl wouldn’t choose the sewer line?), I felt like I was hemorrhaging money, and frankly a free gourmet meal in a posh restaurant with a remorseful hunk was not the worst way to spend an evening.
I vowed that I was not going to have sex with him. I was not even going to kiss him hello. I was just going to have dinner with an old friend and coworker.
A really expensive dinner. I’m thinking about ordering the veal.
Holly was out seeing a play, and Jessie was spending her night going over the bar’s balance sheets, so sneaking out was not a problem.
But seeing Marc now, in his navy blue Prada suit, as he waits in front of my favorite high-end French restaurant? Huge problem.
“You look bewitching,” Marc says seductively before kissing me lightly on my cheek.
At that moment I realize that I’m not just flirting with danger—I’m grabbing it, pushing it up against a wall, and jamming my tongue down its throat. This is a bad idea. What could I have possibly hoped to accomplish by coming? He isn’t going to leave his wife just because I got decked out in his favorite bright red dress and sky-high sparkly red heels. And I cannot let myself slip back into pathetic mistress mode and sleep with him.
Soon we are seated and begin a two-hour, seven-course prix fixe tasting menu, with wine pairings.
During the first course, Golden Imperial caviar paired with Dom Pérignon, he is a perfect gentleman.
Which is making me uneasy. Why am I here? If he’s not hitting on me, what are we doing?
“What’s wrong?” Marc asks me as he scoops up and eats his last bite from the small porcelain plate. “Is caviar too traditional for a first course? Should we have gone somewhere else?”
“Are you kidding? No,” I exclaim, scraping the small white plate with my mother-of-pearl spoon and downing the rest of my dish in one nervous bite. “It’s fantastic.”
“Do you think Dom Pérignon is too cliché for a wine pairing?” he asks, noting my flute has barely been touched.
“Dom Pérignon is perfect,” I say, taking a healthy swig. “And clichés usually exist for a reason. Speaking of, how’s your wife?”
Well, that came out wrong.
“You’re being generous about the wine,” Marc concludes, ignoring my jab completely. “What would you have paired this with?”
I shrug. “Honestly, I might have paired it wit
h a sparkling from California, but that’s probably just me overthinking it.”
“So will your new venture be focused mostly on California wines?” Marc asks.
Ugh. Holly and Jess would kill me if they knew that I had told him all about our wine bar. But in the past few weeks, we might have talked a little more often than I cared to admit.
“No,” I say, then finish the rest of the half glass of champagne. “I mean, I love California wines, particularly lesser-known ones from the Central Coast. But you can find a hidden gem from any country. You just need to know what you like.”
Marc smiles. “You have always been a woman who knows exactly what she likes. I admire that about you: You never dither. You want something, you go after it. But perhaps even more important, once you’re done with something, you’re done. I’ve never seen you invest good time after bad. If you had a piece of writing that didn’t work, rather than pore over it, racking your brain to try to make it palatable, you knew to throw it out and start fresh. It’s a great quality in a person. Very rare.”
Huh?
Soon, the waiter clears our first-course plates and glasses and brings each of us a large scallop doused in brown butter, paired with a Bourgogne Blanc. I take a bite of the scallop, which melts in my mouth. Then I sip the wine, which tastes decadently rich. While I would normally lean more toward a Sauvignon Blanc, this is lovely.
As is the company—I just won’t let him know that.
Marc looks very pensive as he watches me eat. He doesn’t touch his food. Just stares at me. “What?” I ask.
“I don’t like scallops,” he reminds me.
I reach over, pluck the scallop from his plate with my fork, and plop it into my mouth in one giant bite.
Marc chuckles at that. “Would you like to steal my wine as well?”
“Well, I did Uber. But, no. I think I may need to keep my wits about me this evening.”
Okay, did I just tell him I Ubered to hint that I want a ride home, or did the last half of my sentence prove that nothing was going to happen? Wow, I can’t even read myself, much less this evening.
Marc tilts his head and gives me that sexy look he knows makes me melt inside. “Really?” he asks flirtatiously. “Do I seem scary to you?”
“Scary? No. Dangerous maybe…”
“Oh, I’m not so bad once you get to know me,” he says playfully.
“As opposed to me, who’s only bad once you get to know me,” I joke, wiggling my eyebrows up and down in an exaggerated Groucho Marx move.
“I very much liked getting to know you,” Marc tells me, suddenly serious.
For a moment, we stare into each other’s eyes, and I’m all jelly inside again. Is he going to kiss me? He looks like he’s going to lean in and kiss me. Do I really want him to kiss me? I spent six weeks getting over him. Do I want to start that process all over again?
But Marc surprises me and, rather than make a move, breaks eye contact. “I almost forgot,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket and handing it to me.
I look down at the envelope to see the familiar studio address in the top left corner. The clear plastic window with the recipient’s name and address shows the familiar shade of light blue I associate with my paycheck. Confused, I open the envelope and pull out a check for eight weeks’ worth of work. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Your last paycheck,” he answers. “You still had eight weeks left on your contract, so I decided to pay you in full for the season.”
I hand him the check back. “I can’t accept this…”
Marc puts out the palms of his hands in a show of no contest. “Legal says you can, after a rather lengthy conversation with the Writers Guild.”
“But I quit,” I say, confused.
“They didn’t see it that way,” he tells me, quickly adding, “You had a contract for a specific project that was supposed to take thirty-nine weeks. You finished it in thirty-one. Lots of writers finish jobs early.”
Despite myself, I examine the check and debate accepting it. As I said, since the day I committed to this bar, I have been hemorrhaging money, and I’m sure it will only get worse. Between bank fees, building permits, liquor permits, contractors, and trips to Home Depot and furniture stores, I wonder how anyone who opens a bar makes money. So far, it has just been a very expensive hobby.
“I can’t accept—”
“You can. You must. You shall. If you don’t take it, the studio keeps the money. Haven’t you made enough for them?”
He’s right. I did have a contract. My boss has decided to pay it off, with the studio fully supporting him. Why am I fighting this?
I slip the check in my purse. “I’m not sleeping with you,” I tell him sternly.
“I didn’t offer,” he reminds me.
And yet, clearly we’re both thinking about it.
The next few courses are spectacular. With a seared wagyu beef filet, we sample a Barolo from Italy that makes me want to grab my passport and fly to Piedmont.
During that course, Marc tells a gregarious story that makes me burst out laughing, and the tension between us instantly dissolves.
The mushroom course features chanterelles, an earthy Burgundy, and a compliment on my dress, followed by a sexy, lingering gaze from Marc.
As we finish the lamb course, which includes a cru Beaujolais that is so tasty, it is making me rethink that I hate Beaujolais, he leans over and kisses me on the cheek. It’s very sweet and innocent. There is nothing sexual about the gesture. But, oh, my God, I missed that kiss. It made me feel loved and accepted. Not necessarily hot and bothered, but cared for.
Women aren’t supposed to want to feel cared for. We’re supposed to be independent: capable of changing our own tires, buying our own houses, zipping up our own dresses, and rubbing our own feet. But I think everyone—male, female, gay, straight, young, old—wants the luxury of just resting for a moment and letting someone else put in the effort.
I get hot and bothered during the cheese course, when we both flirt over the last bite of Camembert. Marc smiles, spreads the gooey ambrosia on a cracker, and feeds me.
By the time we finish with the chocolate mousse paired with Sauternes, we are all over each other.
I miss him so much, I ache. Logically, I know this is a bad idea. But I can’t remember the last time I felt this way when I was around a guy: that heightened feeling of not knowing if something will happen or not, and desperately wanting it to. Followed by the flood of relief from being truly wanted and cherished.
A few minutes later, with Marc wrapping his arms around my waist and nibbling my neck from behind, I text Holly to say I’ll be out all night, but I don’t tell her why.
I’m sure she knows why, and I’m sure I’ll be paying for it tomorrow. But right now, I don’t care. Right now, I’m with the guy I dream about at night. How many women can truly say that?
Chapter Fifteen
NAT
I lie in the king-size bed in Marc’s bedroom, post coitus, listening to him take a shower, and stare through his floor-to-ceiling windows at the city glowing pink with the sunrise.
How did I let myself fall back into this second ring of hell?
It’s a weird mind trick we women play on ourselves: How we are secretly convinced that a man must love us if he wants to sleep with us. We whip up dubiously plausible scenarios in our heads where the guy is just as tormented over the thought of being separated from us as we are from him. He must love me—how could he want to have sex with me so hungrily if he weren’t totally in love with me?
Now, of course, deep down we all know the answer: Uh, dork, because he’s a dude and dudes want to have sex. And since said dude is married, he has to work harder for sex than the single dudes. That doesn’t mean he loves you. If he loved you, he would have said it by now.
In Marc’s case, instead of those three words, he plied me with compliments, good food, and lots of booze, just like men have done for thousands of years. Plus he gave me a check.
Which technically makes me a …
I really should not be left alone with my thoughts. All I need is five minutes to myself, and the familiar gut-wrenching guilt rages back full force.
I hear Marc turn off the shower, and I debate what to do next. Should I call Lyft, or get him to drive me home? Should I put on last night’s dress and feel like Mata Hari as I make my way home, or steal a pair of his jeans, a belt, and a crisp white button-up shirt to go with my heels? (Okay, I’m not borrowing jeans. Fuck it, the Walk of Shame is an antiquated, not to mention ridiculous, notion: Yes, world, I had sex last night. For all we know, the president can say the same thing. For all we know, your mother can say the same thing. Bazinga!)
Should I stay in bed until tonight, bat my eyelashes, and talk Marc into a bed day one more time before I break up with him finally, once and for all?
Marc walks out of his bathroom wearing a fluffy white Pratesi robe that I gave him for his last birthday. As usual, he’s adorable, which is just making me a little sad. “What would you like to do today?” he asks me cheerfully.
“Do you love me?” I blurt out as I sit up in bed.
Marc looks surprised only for a moment, “Um … sure,” he says awkwardly to me as he sits on the bed.
Huh. He sure coughed up that word like it was a hairball.
Oh, shit. He’s lying. I don’t know how I know, but I can tell. He doesn’t love me—he’s fond of me. There’s a difference.
Marc leans in to give me a light kiss. “Do you love me?” he asks, and somehow when the words come out of his mouth, they sound dirty.
“Yeah. I do,” I tell him.
I don’t know if he hears the sadness in my words. Because I love him so much, I ache. This isn’t lust anymore, and it’s not fun anymore. It’s love, and it’s toxic, and it hurts all the time. I tilt my head a bit and make sure to make eye contact when I tell him calmly, “You know what? I gotta go.”
As I bolt off the bed, Marc turns to me, confused. “You’re leaving? Why? I just told you I love you. What more do you want from me?”
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