“I can figure it out. And ewww…”
“We treat it like a speed dating job interview. Remember years ago when you interviewed with eight firms in the same week and told them all to make an offer and you’d decide by Monday morning? Well, in this case, we tell them we want to decide midweek for the following weekend. By the time the kids are home, I will have had my first kiss, and you’d’ve had whatever the hell the woman lets you do. We have this out of our system, and we never have to talk of it again.”
Carlos looks at the next couple. “She’s pretty," he announces, with no emotion behind the comment at all. Like it’s just a fact everyone agrees on: like saying Tyra Banks looked great on the cover of Sports Illustrated back in the 90s.
Then he hands the phone back to me. “No.”
And he starts to walk out of the kitchen. “Wait. No. Like that’s the decree, and I have no say in it.”
Carlos turns around. “Uh… yeah.”
I shake my head back and forth quickly, as though I’m shaking water out of my ears. “I’m sorry, when did the decisions in this marriage become unilateral?”
“When one person in the marriage is living in a fantasy world, and it’s up to the other one to bring them down to Earth.”
Wow. Harsh. Where did that You are nothing more than a bit of gum on my shoe to be dealt with tone of voice come from?
Carlos walks up to me and pulls me into a gentle hug. “I’m sorry," he says softly and sweetly. “I know the kids are leaving soon, and you’ve got some weird midlife crisis thing going on in your head. But this is over. I hated dating. I got married so I never had to do it again. You’re asking too much. You’ll find that thing that makes you whole again. But this isn’t it.”
As I hug my husband, I don’t know what I’m feeling. Disappointment? Nausea? The first crack in a marriage on its way to tumbling down?
“I love you," Carlos says.
“I love you, too," I tell him, hoping I have adequately covered up the sadness in my voice.
“I think Two Dope Queens has a new special. You want to watch it?”
“Sure," I say, knowing he’s trying. I’m sure he’d prefer to watch the Manchester match he recorded. But Jessica Williams and Phoebe Robinson are my spirit animals, so he’ll watch for me.
I grab my wine, he gets a new IPA from the fridge, and we head to the living room.
Within twenty minutes, Carlos is snoring.
I listen to a stand up talk about parenthood for a few extra minutes, then grab the remote to turn off the TV.
I look over at Carlos, out cold by 10:30 on a Saturday night, and sigh.
With his decree, once again I have nothing to look forward to. No first kiss, no new guy thinking I’m funny and trying to find a way to kiss me. No London. No toddlers running around and giving me hugs. If I’m going to snowball: no new job, no new house, no new kitchen, no new tiles in the bathroom. Just… Nothing. A sea of nothing.
I pick up my phone from the coffee table, and debate.
Finally, I text Tom.
You up?
Ah… to be in my 20s again and have you ask me that. ;-)
And my body electrifies a little.
What is that? A spark? Fear? I realize my privates are hurting ever so slightly. Or tingling? It feels like the feeling I had when Carlos and I walked over the Golden Gate bridge. The animal part of my lower brain is suddenly on high alert, making my body all jittery, even though my cortex logically knows everything is fine and I’m safe.
Huh. That’s weird.
And delicious.
We talk until the kids get home.
And suddenly I have something to look forward to.
Twenty-five
Alexis
We got home very late, with three brand new, bright white toilets neatly packed in John’s pickup truck.
The original plan was to just install one toilet that night, then do the rest the next day. But once John taught me how simple it was to take out the old toilets and install the new ones, I felt empowered and quickly decided to get all three done.
We sent Kris home around midnight, but before she left, I extended an invitation for brunch the next day at my favorite oceanside restaurant. My treat for all of her hard work.
She excitedly said, “Yes.”
Which was good, because I had a plan. A devious plan. Watch me wickedly tap my fingers together.
After I watch her drive away, I walk back into the house and happily bounce up the stairs, Tunny racing up with me. We’re getting better at going up the stairs as a team. Thanks to Kris’s training, he now runs next to my left side, rather than between my feet.
“We are on for brunch tomorrow!” I gleefully announce to John as I text a friend. “My treat to thank you for letting me ruin your Saturday night. Noon at Geoffrey’s. I know you’re a beer guy, but promise me you’ll try one of their Mimosas.”
“That’s sweet. But I have church until 12:30,” John says from the bathroom floor as he puts the bolts into the bottom of toilet #2, which is in my guest bedroom.
“Right. Of course," I announce, still happy. I quickly grab my phone, and about thirty seconds later, correct myself, “We have brunch tomorrow at one!” I announce cheerfully.
John looks at me in amusement. “Well okay, then. Hard to say ‘no’ to a beautiful woman who’s offering me bacon.”
“Oh, not just bacon. The best eggs benedict this side of New York. And all the mimosas you can drink. Make sure Kris drives home!” I exclaim. Then I take a moment to revel in the words, beautiful woman. “Can I finish tightening the bolts, then do the bolt caps?”
“Look at you, suddenly knowing the words ‘bolt cap’,” John jokes.
I put up my index finger. “Wait. Now I’m really going to knock your socks off. For the final toilet, I have already shut off the water at the shutoff valve in my bathroom, drained the tank by holding the flush valve open, and sponged out the remaining water.”
His face lights up, impressed. “Again, look at you.”
I shrug, and can feel myself glowing with pride.
And as we look at each other, we have this… moment. It’s not a super romantic, we’ll talk about it at our wedding moment. It’s just a moment, but it feels… perfect.
I haven’t had a moment feel perfect with a guy in a long time.
John stands up. “You’re getting good at this. Meet me in the final bathroom?”
“Absolutely," I tell him as I kneel to tighten the bolts.
Tunny puts his nose up to the bolt, getting in my way as I tighten it. I push him off.
Undeterred, he comes right back. I pick him up, plop him on the floor outside the bathroom, then shut the door.
I can hear the dog scratching at the door. “I don’t need your help," I yell through the door. “Go help John.”
And then the whining starts. I raise my eyes to the ceiling, and let the dog back in. “Let me guess,” I say in irritation, “You were bred for companionship.”
Tunny wags his tail and nudges me.
“Maybe we could train you as a hunting dog, but for chocolate bunnies. Or to whip up a batch of martinis.”
Less than an hour later, John and I are all done with the toilets, and have lugged the old ones into John’s pickup for disposal the next day. Somehow, I have convinced him to have a drink with me before he goes home.
Success!
While John sits outside on the beach porch, I happily grab two wine glasses and a bottle of Mourvedre I opened an hour ago from the kitchen. I practically trot up to my sliding doors, I am so unexpectedly happy. Sometimes life goes completely not the way you planned, and it’s better.
But then reality sets in: I see John lounging on my outdoor couch, furrowing his brow as he reads a text message.
It’s clearly from a woman. And he’s clearly cares about her.
We now return to my regularly scheduled, lonely life.
“Is that Kris?” I ask, trying to sound casual and upbeat as
I place the bottle and glasses on the table. (Upbeat even though, let’s face it, we all know who texts a man at one in the morning.)
“No,” John says, quickly typing, and hitting Send. “It’s her sister. She had a rough night.”
“So rough that she’s texting her Dad?”
John laughs. “Well, money is involved, so yeah. Some paperwork got messed up, and a loan was delayed, but then as long as she was on with me, she had to get my take on why are men such assholes. You know how it is," he tosses down his phone on the table, screen up. I see the name Greta, but try not to read what they wrote to each other. “I told her to only write back if it was an emergency.” He gives me a huge grin. “So, what do we have?”
“You said you liked bold reds, so this is a five-year-old Mourvedre," I begin, pouring the first glass using an aerator I’ve attached to the top. “It’s a little off the beaten path. I like it a lot, but if you hate it, I can find something a little softer.”
I hand him the glass. He doesn’t bother to swirl or anything, just takes a sniff then a sip. “Nice," he announces. “Kind of a punch in the mouth, but in a good way. What’s it called?”
“Mourvedre," I repeat.
He smiles. “Careful who you say that word around. You might get kissed.”
I giggle and blush. Swear to God – I giggled. I try to keep eye contact, but it’s too much, so I turn away to pour my glass.
As I do, his phone beeps another text. “Greta again?” I ask. “Or some woman asking ‘You up’?”
“It’s not my phone. It’s yours,” John says, leaning back and sipping his wine.
“Oh," I say, surprised. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans, and read.
I guess I should come get the dog.
Fuck.
I look up at John. “Would you like some cheese and crackers? You haven’t eaten in hours. And I have a Reblochon that is so creamy we could swim in it.”
I notice him glance at my phone, but not say anything. He shrugs. “That sounds wonderful.”
“Perfect. I’ll be right back.” I jump off the couch and race into the kitchen.
I quickly yank open my refrigerator door to take the Reblochon and a Camembert from the cheese drawer, careful to keep the fridge door open enough to block the sight of my texting back…
I’m not home and Tunny is in a kennel. Call me Monday. You can have him back then.
Then I hurriedly upwrap the cheeses, put them on a marble cheese board, then pull out crackers and knives. My phone beeps.
Wait. Where are you? You didn’t say you were going on vacation.
Just a quick thing for work. Call me Monday.
Then I switch my phone to vibrate and toss it into the junk drawer for good measure. I slam the junk drawer shut, grab the cheese board, and head back out to the beach area to see Tunny on the couch, his head in John’s lap. John smiles up at me while he pets the dog.
“Off!” I yell at the dog.
This startles John, but Tunny just looks at me with narrowed eyes, challenging me to be a bitch in front of my beautiful guest.
“Everything okay?” John asks.
“Oh, fine," I lie. I place the cheese board between the glasses on my outside table. “Just a work text I shouldn’t have bothered answering this late. I get texts 24/7. I have no boundaries.”
Now John narrows his eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“I guess I don’t know you very well. The way you reacted, I thought it was a guy.”
“Huh," I say, looking down and away.
And then I do something that is totally out of character for me when I’m with a man I like: I tell the truth.
I feel decidedly unsafe as I admit, “You’re right. I lied. It was Connor. He wanted to come pick up the dog.”
John cocks his head a bit, trying to read me.
“What?” I snap. (Shit – didn’t mean to snap.)
“Nothing. What did you tell him?”
“I told him to call me Monday.”
“Oh,” John says, sounding relieved. “Okay.”
John’s phone dings four times in succession. I try not to sound jealous as I ask him, “Your daughter again?”
“Sorry, may I?” he asks, pointing to his phone.
I nod. He picks up the phone to read, “Actually, all three of them. They don’t realize I’m on the thread. I’m reading all about how all men are scum.”
“Well, in fairness to your daughters, at that age they are.”
“Really? You didn’t have any nice boyfriends when you were young?”
“Of course I did. Two of them even ended up marrying each other.”
“Wait, you seriously had two exes marry each other?”
“Technically, yes. But the story isn’t as interesting as it sounds,” I watch him type to his daughters. “I’m telling them to get me off of this thread,” he says, then tosses his phone on the table, screen up again. I see a quick succession of texts pop up on his screen.
Greta: Sorry. Have fun with Alexis.
Nora: But not too much fun.
Kris: Nora’s wrong – have way too fun. Bring us home a stepmom.
I pretend not to see those as he flips his phone upside down. He turns to me and asks, “So where were we?”
I catch him up. “You were telling me about how not all men are scum.”
“Right. And you were telling me Connor wants to come pick up his dog.”
I want to crawl under a table in embarrassment. “You don’t like Connor, do you?”
“I do not like Connor, no. He’s a beta dog.”
“Um… okay.” No clue what that means. “Could you be a little more specific?”
“Alpha dogs go after what they want. And yes, occasionally they bare their teeth. But you always know where you stand with them. And they’re loyal to a fault. They protect their pack. Not beta dogs. Betas slink around. True, they never show their teeth, but only because they’re too scared to take a stand on anything. They let other dogs take responsibility for what’s going on around them. They don’t put in much effort. And they never protect their pack. It’s all about what they need and want at that moment.”
“Connor knows damn well he doesn’t deserve you,” John continues. “So, rather than be with someone who will challenge him, make him want to do his best, and make him put some effort into his life beyond the bare minimum, he’d rather be with a girl who will never make him do anything. A doormat. Someone who will always bail him out and make excuses for him. Someone who requires little to no work on his part.”
“Huh," I say, visibly taken back by John’s bluntness.
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings…”
“Don’t be silly," I say quickly. Then I joke, "I’m an alpha. I can take it.”
“I know you can. Like I said, I don’t want hurt your feelings. I just want you to know you deserve better.” He points to Tunny. “To give another dog analogy: We alphas may be slobbering Saint Bernards, but at least we’re not timid little Chihuahuas staring bug eyed out at the world and forcing some woman to keep us in her purse.”
“Huh," I repeat. “That is an awesome analogy. So how do you not have a woman again?”
John looks a little pained by my question. “I didn’t have room for one for a long time. Losing a love of your life is painful and you’re never quite the same. Then when I did start dating, I made it clear from the beginning that my top priority was always going to be taking care of my girls, and that I wasn’t looking for marriage again. Women say they’re okay with that, but usually they’re not. Which has led to some unfortunate misunderstandings. That said, you will never see me not return a text for two weeks. Not my style. I have daughters. I know what kind of hurt that causes.”
“Huh," I repeat for a third time.
“All those ‘huh’s. I don’t know what they mean.”
This time, I won’t tell him the truth: which is that in one breath he told me I deserved better, but then in the nex
t told me he is dating other women and doesn’t ever want to get married again.
Yeah, middle age is fantastic.
But I have a new friend who I like, so I smile. “’Huh’ means you’re my favorite new friend, and you need to try this Reblochon.”
I scoop up a nice amount of Reblochon with my knife, pile it onto a cracker, and hand it to John. “Seriously, try this. This came in a gift basket, and I’ve been dying to share it with someone.”
He gives me this almost wicked look, then puts his mouth around the cheese and cracker while I’m still holding it. An unexpected move that has me all fluttery inside. I’m tempted to start feeding him. I’m tempted to… never mind. (He just said he’s not looking for permanent. Get your head back in the game, Alex.)
“So what do you think?” I ask. “Is it the best cheese you’ve ever tasted?”
“It’s really good,” John says, smiling at me as he takes a sip of wine. “Pairs well with the…”
As he searches for the word, I repeat, “Mourvedre .” With just a touch more French and a slightly more kissy face than before.
John smiles. “Oui.”
And my doorbell rings.
I freeze.
I can’t tell if John tenses up or not.
But Tunny barks like a crazed lunatic, running into the house and making a beeline for my front door.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I sigh. “What are the odds that we can pretend no one is home?” I ask John.
And bark, bark, bark. I take a deep breath, and point to John. “Stay there.”
I quickly walk through my house to the front door, where Tunny is sniffing, vigorously scratching his claws against the door, and madly wagging his tail.
I angrily open it, knowing who is on the other side.
Connor looks a little worse for wear. A bit ragged and disheveled.
Yet still sexy as hell to me. My God – those eyes. What is it about those blue eyes?
“I knew you were home,” he says, sounding genuinely puzzled. “How come you didn’t answer the rest of my texts?”
“Because I threw my phone into a drawer," I seethe. “How come you haven’t answered my texts for the last week, motherfucker?”
Hangovers & Hot Flashes Page 19
