The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs

by Dana Bate

  “No answer? That’s a first,” she says. She surveys the crowd, half of whom have started dancing again. The rest are either talking or swaying drunkenly from side to side. “Way to ruin everyone’s good time, Hannah.”

  “I—I didn’t ruin anything. Everyone is having a great time.” Under the spell of far too many glasses of wine, my lips feel fat and numb, providing a substantial challenge to my attempts at proper diction, and so what I say sounds more like “Ereewon is-saaaving a graytime.”

  But everyone is having a great time, aren’t they? Everyone except me. I scan the room and spot Sarah a few feet away, rocking back and forth to the music as she grabs a snack off the table. “Look at Sarah getting her groove on,” I shout in Sarah’s direction. “You’re still having a good time, aren’t you, Sarah?”

  Sarah looks up from the table and frowns. “My name is Danielle,” she says.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Fantastic.

  I look for Adam’s face in the crowd, but I cannot find him anywhere, and so my only option is to retreat gracefully into the bathroom.

  Or not so gracefully. Millie’s floor tilts from side to side like the deck of a ship, a circumstance under which grace eludes me. I stagger drunkenly toward the bathroom and slam the door shut behind me, but when I try to fasten the lock, my hands won’t let me. They’re slippery with sweat and tremble uncontrollably. What have I done? Reassuring Adam was my only goal for the evening, and I’ve already blown it.

  I reach for Millie’s medicine cabinet, in search of Tums or Maalox to quell the fire burning in my stomach, and catch a glimpse of myself in her mirror. My hair is wet and dark along my hairline, with tiny wisps stuck to my forehead. Red blotches cover my face, and my mascara and eyeliner have leached from my lids and settled along my lower eye sockets, resembling small patches of bicycle grease. I look—and feel—as if I’ve been punched in the face.

  Millie’s cabinet is organized alphabetically and by function, and in the antacids section, I have my choice of Gas-X (G), Maalox (M), Rolaids (R), or Tums (T), in various strengths and flavors. I pop four lemon cream Extra Strength Maalox in my mouth, wipe the makeup from under my eyes, and splash some cold water on my face. I close my eyes, take two deep breaths, and put my hand on the door handle, hoping that when I open it I will be transported like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz to a magical, happy place. Everyone will smile when I return, welcoming me like the Lollipop Guild with smiles and treats.

  But we are not in Oz, and so instead I am forced to push my way through the crowd, withstanding the occasional raised eyebrow, while everyone bumps and grinds to the music blasting through Millie’s speakers. When I get to the other side of the room, I find Millie and Adam talking in the corner, next to the cup of masticated beef.

  As I approach, Millie narrows her dark brown eyes into tiny slits, anger oozing from every pore. Even her hair looks angry, as if a steamy inner rage is unraveling each coil into a frizzled mass.

  “What do you want?” she asks.

  What I want is for her to disappear—to evaporate into thin air—but since that isn’t going to happen, and since I’m stuck at this damn party, I might as well smooth things over until Adam and I can leave.

  “I …” I take a deep breath and force the words to come out. “I’m … sorry.”

  My gaze shifts between Millie and Adam, but Adam stares into the distance, his almond-shaped eyes focused on the dancing crowd. He tucks his hands into his pockets, the sleeves of his blue-and-white-striped button-down rolled up around his elbows. No matter what I do to grab his attention, he won’t look at me.

  Millie crosses her arms over her chest. “Apology denied,” she says. “We can talk about this Monday. Until then, please leave before you ruin the rest of my party.”

  I wait for her to say something more, but she doesn’t and glares at me with her flinty eyes. Normally I would balk at Millie’s histrionics. I would mirror her haughty stance, slowly and dramatically crossing my arms over my chest, and stare at her in silence until she turned fuchsia and stomped off like a three-year-old. Tonight, however, I will gladly accept her invitation to get the hell out of here.

  I grab my purse off one of the dining room chairs, but when I turn to walk toward the door, Adam doesn’t move. He remains by Millie’s side, hands tucked into his khakis, staring at the floor.

  “Adam?” I lay my hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m not leaving yet,” he says, shrugging my hand off his shoulder without looking at me.

  For a moment I think he’s sticking up for me—Ha! Take that! We’re not leaving!—but then I realize he said “I” not “we,” and when he moves closer to Millie, I understand. The key, however, is pretending that I don’t.

  I scrunch my eyebrows together and play dumb. “So … we’re staying, then.”

  “No, I’m staying,” he says.

  “Well, if you’re staying, I’m staying.”

  “Except Millie asked you to leave.”

  “So, what, Millie is the boss of you now?”

  The two of them exchange a glance, and then Adam looks back at me. “Don’t make this uglier than it already is.”

  I’ve never seen him like this—his voice and demeanor like ice—and even in my drunken state, I know he is angrier with me now than he has ever been. And as much as I want to fight him on this, to make him choose me over Millie, I know there’s no point. He has made up his mind. He wants me to leave.

  “Fine,” I say, trying to keep my lip from quivering. “I’ll see you at home.”

  I clutch my purse in my hand and walk with purpose toward Millie’s entryway, holding myself together until I’m out of their sight. But when I look over my shoulder, I see it doesn’t matter. Adam isn’t watching. He is staring at the ground, his hands tucked into his pockets, and he doesn’t look up as I walk out the door.

  CHAPTER

  five

  The light from the TV bounces off the cement walls of our living room, and I look at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time: 2:01 A.M. I left Millie’s apartment more than two hours ago, and still no sign of Adam.

  I get out my phone and start to call him but hang up before his phone starts ringing. I shouldn’t call. He’ll be home any minute.

  I shiver in the chilled apartment air, which feels colder than usual, probably because I am sitting alone in the dark watching reruns of Will & Grace while I wait for my boyfriend to come home and yell at me. Adam likes to keep the temperature somewhere between that of a meat locker and the grocery freezer aisle, but I waved the white flag in our thermostat war months ago. When we first moved in together, the battle was silent but constant. I’d raise the temperature three degrees when he was out; he’d lower it four degrees when he returned and I wasn’t looking. Back and forth, back and forth. But one day, I didn’t have the energy for it anymore. My resignation came as a surprise, but the battle felt more like an eternal stalemate, and for what? I told myself love is all about compromise, though I wondered if love is also supposed to feel like defeat.

  “The chicken’s great,” says Grace on the TV screen as she gnaws on a chicken bone, much to Will’s disgust. I’ve always felt a kinship with Grace Adler’s character. Maybe it’s the red hair, or the fact that she’s Jewish, or the way in one episode she pretended to be an alcoholic so that she could get free Krispy Kreme doughnuts and hot cocoa at AA meetings. I can relate to all of those things. There’s very little I wouldn’t do for a free Krispy Kreme doughnut.

  But I can also empathize with her incompetence when it comes to relationships. Before Adam, my longest relationship lasted two months. His name was Edwin Michaels, and we met junior year of college at the annual Apple Harvest Festival in Ithaca. He asked if I wanted to share a pumpkin funnel cake, a query that, to me, seemed like a trick question. Of course I wanted a pumpkin funnel cake; who wouldn’t want a pumpkin funnel cake? A crazy person, that’s who. But did I want to share? Not really. I wanted my own. But he was adorable—all li
mbs and freckles, topped off with a froth of brown curls that seemed to defy the laws of gravity—and I couldn’t turn him down. We shared one funnel cake, and then another, and by the end of the day we were sharing a bed in his off-campus apartment. All told, the day was a raging success.

  I quickly discovered Edwin loved to cook and eat, and we proceeded to go on a series of dates that consisted of trips to Wegmans followed by a home-cooked meal at his apartment, followed by some quality schtupping. Looking back on it, I see that he was almost perfect: smart, funny, interested in food, attentive in the bedroom. But I didn’t want to rush into anything serious, and I didn’t want to seem too eager. My male friends hated the constant texts and calls from their girlfriends, so I tried to seem mysterious and aloof. I ignored some of Edwin’s calls, pretended to have other plans when I didn’t, acted as if I had a very busy and productive life that had nothing to do with him. I played it cool—a little too cool, as it turns out, because after two months of me canceling dates and acting busy all the time, Edwin broke up with me.

  That was pretty much the pinnacle of my dating career until I met Adam. Along the way, I told myself my repeated failures with men weren’t my fault; it was all these losers I kept meeting. I was too much woman for them to handle, clearly. But in moments of complete honesty, I worried I was defective in some way—undateable, even. And then I met Adam, who shockingly didn’t tire of me after two weeks, or even two months. He actually seemed to like me—and not simply because I had big boobs and curvy hips. He liked my attitude. He found me refreshing.

  In the beginning, dating Adam felt like a dream. He was sexy and intelligent and wanted by half the young women in Washington, and yet he had chosen me—me!—over everyone else. After we had been dating for a month or so, Adam invited me to a Harvard young alumni event he was cohosting, which featured speeches by two former solicitors general. Adam gave the opening remarks, and from the moment he started speaking, it was as if Cupid had shot me through the heart. His gift for oratory, his palpable brilliance, his ability to captivate an entire room with his sheer charisma—I was smitten. I’d never met someone as intellectually gifted as Adam, and I haven’t since. I was in awe of him.

  The first three months of our relationship flew by, and on our three-month anniversary, as we walked along the Tidal Basin, he told me he loved me. I turned and kissed him and collapsed in his arms and told him I felt the same. I’d never said that to anyone before, but it felt true. Isn’t that what love is? That feeling of being swept away? It’s not that I’d never loved anyone before, but I’d always been too afraid to give myself over to someone who might reciprocate the feeling. That felt too dangerous, like walking through a bad neighborhood with your wallet wide open. But being with Adam, that felt safe.

  Or at least it used to …

  I hear footsteps in the hall. I sit up straight as the steps get louder and closer, but they soon pass and enter the apartment next to ours. I look at the clock: 2:40.

  Where is he?

  I look down at the blanket, a gift from my parents from one of their many trips to Asia, and notice I’ve been pulling at the fringe around the edge, fraying it. I can’t shake the feeling from earlier, when Adam wouldn’t even look at me—when he asked me to leave.

  I hear a sound at our door, followed by the jingle of keys. Someone fumbles with the lock, and the door opens with a snap. Adam stumbles in, slamming the door behind him, and flicks on the light.

  “Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asks as he throws his keys on the counter.

  “I was waiting up for you. Are you … okay?”

  “Fucking great.” He pours a glass of water and sips it slowly. He hasn’t looked at me since entering the apartment.

  “It’s pretty late,” I say. Silence. My fingers continue to pick at the blanket fringe. “Listen, about earlier—”

  “Stop,” Adam snaps, looking me in the eye. “Don’t.”

  “But—”

  “No, I don’t care what excuse you give. You’re out of control. It’s like you’re physically incapable of keeping your mouth shut.”

  “Adam, come on, I had no idea Sarah—”

  “Danielle,” he corrects me.

  “Danielle, sorry. I had no idea she was going to mess with Millie’s playlist.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  I know that’s not the point. The point is I told an entire room full of people that Millie’s food tasted like rancid possum. I also ruined an opportunity to show Adam I can be the woman he wants me to be. And now I’m wondering if I ever could be that woman. Do I want to be?

  “I messed up. I’m sorry. But this isn’t worth fighting over. I’ve done worse.”

  “Yeah—exactly.”

  “My unpredictability is part of my charm, right?”

  I’m clutching at straws here, grasping for something, anything, that will inject levity into the conversation, but Adam ignores my pathetic attempts at humor.

  “Not anymore,” he says. He lays his glass on the counter and wipes his brow with the palm of his hand. “You know I want a career in politics. And things at the office have been going really well lately. The partners have started talking promotions. I have more important things to worry about when I socialize than your big mouth.”

  “Adam, I told you. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Is that what tonight was? Me not having to worry about you?”

  I toss the blanket off my lap and walk hesitantly toward the opposite side of the kitchen counter. “In the scheme of things, it wasn’t a big deal. No one cared.”

  “Millie cared.”

  “Millie doesn’t count. She hates me.”

  Adam sighs. “Whatever—this isn’t even about tonight.”

  “Then what is this about?”

  “You.”

  I clear my throat. “Me?”

  “You’re never going to be The One, Hannah. I had fun for a while, but fun isn’t enough. I need someone more …” He trails off.

  “More what?”

  “Gracious. Subdued. Serious. Take your pick.”

  My vision blurs. I blink to fight back the tears. “Oh really?”

  He nods. “Yes, really.”

  “And you decided this, when? Tonight? Last week? Three months ago?” Adam doesn’t respond. “Because I haven’t changed. I’m the same person you met at Millie’s party fifteen months ago, and the same person you asked to move in with you. The same person you fell in love with. I’m your little firecracker, Adam.”

  “More like a bomb,” he mutters.

  “You want a bomb? I’ll give you a bomb.” I grab his water glass from across the counter and throw the water in his face. “Boom, motherfucker!”

  Adam stares at his soaked shirt. “What the fuck, Hannah?”

  “This is who I am, Adam. This is the full package right here. Take it or leave it.”

  Adam wipes the water off his face with a flick of his hand. “I’ll leave it.”

  His declaration—so firm and unequivocal—sucks the air out of the room, and whatever chutzpah I conjured up moments ago vanishes. The words rattle around my brain until they are drowned out by a hollow ringing in my ears.

  This is not how this was supposed to go. When I said Take it or leave it, I didn’t really mean Adam Prescott, you can either (a) Take it, or (b) Leave it. Takeitorleaveit. It’s an expression. The correct choice is implied, like in Eddie Izzard’s “Cake or Death?” routine.

  “Hang on a sec,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes you did. And you’re right—you are who you are, and I am who I am, and those are two very different people.”

  “But … I can change.” I realize I’m reversing myself on the principles of individuality and nonconformity I espoused moments ago, but apparently principles are for homeless, boyfriendless losers.

  “If you want to change, that’s your choice,” Adam says. “But you’re going to have to do it without me.”

  “I do
n’t understand. I thought you loved me. I thought we were in love.”

  But as I say the words, they don’t sound true even to me. We were in love, months ago, but at some point we fell out of love and neither of us bothered to notice. Or, more likely, we both noticed but were too afraid to do anything about it. And, what’s worse, it’s increasingly clear that what I’ve been clinging to these past few months isn’t a relationship; it’s an apartment and a lifestyle.

  I study Adam’s face: his square jawline, his soft eyes, his sharp cheekbones and perfectly plump lips. It’s a face that could make a woman do stupid, reckless things, a face I had called mine for more than a year. But now his face seems as distant and detached as the ones on the TV screen, as removed as Will or Grace, and I wonder if his face had ever been mine at all.

  “I can stay with Millie until you find a new place,” Adam says.

  “With Millie? Are you kidding me?”

  Adam shrugs. “She’s an old friend.”

  “Who wants to fuck you.”

  “Hannah, stop. We’re just good friends.”

  I roll my eyes. “Then why don’t you move in with her permanently? If you’re such good friends.”

  “We both know you can’t afford this place on your own.”

  He’s right, of course, the jerk. But his patronizing tone pisses me off. I hate that he gets to keep this apartment. I hate that he plans to stay with Millie. And, most of all, I hate that he is the one telling me the relationship is over, even though, deep down, we’ve both known that for a while.

  Adam makes his way into the bedroom, and I follow him like a puppy—more precisely, like a puppy dog-paddling through a river of shit. Just because I know we’re wrong for each other doesn’t mean the pain of rejection hurts any less. Yes, this relationship is ending because we aren’t compatible, but it is also ending because Adam doesn’t want me anymore.

  Adam throws some clothes and toiletries into a Kipling bag and gives one last look around the bedroom. “Let’s try to sort out your living situation in the next week or two. If I forgot anything, I’ll try to swing by while you’re at work—so it’s not awkward.”