Stepping into the main foyer of the frat house, Clara needed a spotlight. Full of rage and indignation, she screeched, “We were going to change the world together! And now you’re just gonna sell out to the man! Fine! Sell your soul! Go make rich people richer! But not me!”
They now had a small crowd of spectators gathered around them. Bemused frat brothers held their cups of beer while their drunk dates gazed on glassy-eyed. “I’m going to do something with my life!” Clara declared with grand ferocity. “But I’m not going to do it with you as my boyfriend!”
Brad looked at her, tall, built and incredulous. “You’re breaking up with me?”
“I’m breaking up with you, Brad.” She really wished she had something she could fling at him with zeal—an engagement ring or perhaps his school pin though boyfriends didn’t really do that anymore, it not being the 1950’s. In lieu of that, she went in for a zinger. Stepping in closer to him, but still speaking loud enough for everyone to hear, she added, “You are going to regret this moment for the rest of your life!”
With the dramatic flair only a spin on a high heel can provide, Clara was outta there.
“Embarcadero.” The muffled announcement came over the BART train’s loudspeaker. Clara blinked open her eyes. She had to get out at the next stop.
Up on the street as she headed toward the restaurant, her cell phone rang. Checking the screen, she sighed. Her sister. Clara figured she might as well answer it; she already had a couple of unanswered emails and a voicemail from her.
“So are you coming?” Shelly asked in greeting. “You haven’t even replied to my evite.”
Clara sighed again. Her sister was having a backyard barbeque next weekend and, as usual, treating it like the president’s inaugural ball. “I don’t know.”
“I’m trying to get a head count.”
“It’s just a barbeque.”
“Well, since you never host anything yourself you don’t understand how stressful it is.”
And there it was, the first dig of the phone call.
“I think I’ll be there,” Clara relented. “But I can’t say for sure. I have a deadline at work.” No, she didn’t, but she did have a vivid image of that backyard barbeque filled with happily married couples and cute little kids. She’d fit right in.
“Emma would love to see you.”
And there came the two in the one-two punch. Guilt. “I’d love to see her, too,” Clara agreed. And she would love to see her sweet, beautiful 14-month old niece. Even if it inevitably gave her a pit in her stomach, making her feel all over again how badly she wanted a child of her own. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride.
“OK, I’ll put you down as a yes. Will you be bringing anyone?”
Clara exhaled with frustration. If she could just get through one conversation with her sister, or her mother for that matter, without being asked ‘are you still alone?’ ‘Still a failure?’ ‘Still doomed to live out the rest of eternity a spinster?’
“I’ll be alone,” Clara confirmed.
“I figured, but thought I’d check anyway.” Silence. Even the offers to set Clara up with Shelly’s husband’s friends had dried up. “OK, well if you wouldn’t mind stopping on your way and picking up some cold beers and ice. And popsicles.”
“Sure. See you then.”
On a corner up ahead, Clara spotted the chic bistro Cat had chosen. Leave it to Cat to know the new hot spot in the city where Clara actually lived.
Fashion icon, former college roommate, globe-trotting consultant Catherine Giordano—known to all as Cat—sat at the bar sipping a cocktail. Her all-black outfit was punctuated with a flash of bright red lipstick, a giant glossy red handbag and sleek red heels.
“Hey, you.” Cat jumped down and gave Clara a vigorous hug, then tugged her ponytail playfully. “Bringing back the scrunchie? Brave of you!”
“Oh.” Clara shrugged, patting the frizzy, blonde tangle of hair she’d smucked back into a scrunchie. “Well, you know. So easy.”
Cat waggled her finger, adopting the tone of an Italian grandmother. “You never know when you’re going to meet someone.” With a gleam in her eye, she added, “I met Giovanni on a flight from Paris to London.”
“Yeah, well, I guess if I was flying from Paris to London.” Clara slung her backpack over her shoulder and tried to remember if she’d already heard about Cat’s latest boyfriend. They tended to rotate with the frequency of a Ferris wheel on high speed.
“Those look… comfortable.” Cat gestured to Clara’s mud-stained, years-old black clogs and arched an eyebrow. Clara shrugged, wishing she’d stopped home to… change into what? Her closet wasn’t exactly bursting with fruit flavor.
After they were seated, Cat turned to her as if she’d been keeping a big secret. “Now you, mystery woman! Where have you been hiding?”
Clara looked at her in confusion.
“You don’t respond to my text messages? Your Facebook profile photo is of a cat on your head?”
“Yeah. That.” Clara felt heat creep into her cheeks.
“And it’s not the first time you’ve had a cat in your profile pic.”
“Oh, right.” Clara recalled she’d posted a photo of Jedi a few months ago. He was evil, but so cute when he slept.
“What is up?” Cat fixed her piercing brown stare on Clara. Sometimes volumizing mascara made eyes so scary.
“I’ve been busy with work.” Clara glanced nervously around the bustling restaurant. Why did it have to be so small? And so packed? She tugged at the collar of her sweatshirt. She’d known that there was likely to be an awkward moment or two during this dinner with her old friend, she just hadn’t known it would happen within the first three minutes.
“You’ve told me you do nothing at your job.”
Clara wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Or Cat hadn’t listened.
The soaring notes of an Italian tenor rose out of Cat’s handbag. Dropping her line of questioning, Cat pulled out her phone. With an amused eyeroll, she explained, “Giovanni. So Italian.” Then she clicked onto her call with a, “Ciao!”
Relieved at the interruption, Clara turned her attention to the menu. A glass of wine was in order; that much was clear. Happily, the wine list looked extensive.
“Gotta go.” Cat clicked onto another call and seamlessly transitioned into an all-business, “No. No, that’s not going to work.”
Clara gave the waitress her order for pasta and a glass of wine; Cat paused her call to order salmon and change the glass to a bottle. She then finished her phone conversation by eviscerating someone, offering clear yet crushing advice to another, and then dictating a to do list which included scheduling a salon appointment.
With a snap, Cat clicked her phone closed. “Sorry about that.” Running a hand through her glossy black hair, she added, “I should warn you, I’m on London time so I don’t know if I’m up for a super late night. But if we feel like it, after dinner a friend of mine is going to check out this new club.”
Clara had to laugh. Like she went out raging much these days. “An early night should be fine. I don’t even have the time zone excuse and I’m already ready for bed.”
Cat’s eyes narrowed as she gave Clara an assessing look. Nervously, Clara cleared her throat and quickly asked, “How are you liking London?”
“It’s amazing,” Cat said. “But I’ve been working out of the London office for four years now—”
“Four years?” Could it have been that long? Clara tried to do the mental math, remembering Cat had gotten the job not long after she and Gil had moved in together. She guessed that was ancient history by now.
“Four years of grey skies,” Cat confirmed. “I’m hoping to get transferred to LA. I want some sunshine.” As she said the last word, she opened up her hands, extending each glossy red-tipped finger like a ray of sun.
“LA.” Clara barely suppressed a shudder. Like a Red Sox fan to the Yankees, true Bay Area natives harbored a deep aversion to the southern city
.
Cat laughed. “All those celebrities, the glamour, the night life. I’m sure I’d hate it.”
“Does your firm have a big office there?”
“Big enough. But, I’ve been thinking of making a change. My plans are half-baked right now. Not even half-baked. If I were a client of mine I’d poke holes through my whole concept.” Her words came out in a rush and she took a quick, almost nervous sip of her wine. “I’m not exactly sure what I’m talking about yet, but I want to try to do something in fashion.”
“You’ve always loved fashion,” Clara agreed, gesturing to Cat’s giant red handbag. “Just look at that bag.”
“Ooh! That reminds me!” Cat’s eyes lit up and she turned, digging deep into her bag. “I brought this to show you! Have you seen it?” She pulled out a glossy magazine. And there he looked out at Clara from the cover, dark and handsome as ever and now apparently saving the world: Aleksander Novak.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” Clara grudgingly mumbled.
“This is the man you ignored in college!” Cat smacked the cover with the back of her hand. “The one you mercilessly took advantage of, going to every office hour, extra sessions. But you never once gave him the time of day!”
“That is not how it was,” Clara began to protest.
“And now he’s Dr. Hottie!”
“I don’t think he’s a doctor.”
“PhD, doctor, whatever. Look at him in that lab coat.” Cat held up the picture of Alek looking steamy and dreamy on the cover. “I know how to call them. I always knew he was a hottie.”
“You sure were convinced back in college.” Clara recalled the number of times Cat had just happened to swing by at the end of office hours to meet up with Clara. She’d had all the subtlety of a Mac truck plowing through a plate glass window. But, then, that was Cat’s signature style.
“I know it when I see it.” Cat gazed at the photo. She licked her lips and Clara almost wondered if Alek’s image was about to get treated to a makeout session. With vigorous intensity, Cat declared, “I could seriously lick his face.”
Clara laughed nervously.
“But you never tapped that!” Cat abruptly rolled up the magazine and whacked Clara over the head. “How did you miss out on that?”
Hands up with more nervous laughter, Clara protested, “He hated me! Don’t you remember? He hated me so much!”
“I skimmed the article yesterday while I was on the plane,” Cat continued, paying no attention. “Sounds like he’s right on the verge of making some amazing breakthrough. And he lives out near here. He’s at UC Berkeley. You should look him up.”
Frustrated, Clara rubbed her face. “I cannot stress enough how much this guy did not like me in college.”
“So much chemistry, when you two used to bicker.” Cat forged on with her one-sided conversation. “You used to pretend you couldn’t remember his name and called him Vlad.”
Clara had to laugh at bit at the memory. But she also had to protest. “We were no Katherine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy.”
Not a classic movie aficionado, Cat shrugged. “I don’t know. Was Spencer Tracy hot?” Looking at the photo again, she tilted her head in contemplation. “He kind-of looks like James Franco.”
“OK, drop it. Seriously.” Clara wished her annoyance hadn’t crept into her voice. But, there it rang out, crisp and clear.
Cat looked up at Clara, annoyance flaring up in her as well. “Hey, I have a question for you. How long have you been clinically depressed?” Clara cringed and sank back into the chair, but Cat kept on going. “Honey, I will love you no matter what. But you are wearing a gray sweatsuit two sizes too big.” With drama, she brought her hand to her chest. “And it has a shiny, iron-on cat head on it!”
Looking down, Clara noticed her clothes for the first time. “It’s casual Friday,” she mumbled.
“Where did you even buy that?” Cat gestured again, widely.
“I don’t know. Walmart?”
“Walmart!” Cat drew back as if she’d been slapped.
“What’s the big deal?” Clara grumbled. “It’s just a sweatshirt.”
Cat’s hand sprang over the table and came to rest on Clara’s wrist. “Oh, sweetie.” She adopted the softer, even sympathetic tone of someone delivering news of a terminal illness. “You’re not just wearing a sweatshirt. You’re wearing a sweatsuit. And your hair is pulled back in a scrunchie!”
Clara withdrew her wrist, reaching up to feel her hair again self-consciously.
“A scrunchie!” With all of Cat’s pathos and drama she may as well have been yelling ‘Oh, the humanity!”
“I don’t know.” Clara fidgeted. Looking down again at her sweatshirt she said, “I like cats.”
“Look, no one loves a cat more than me.” Cat smirked. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. But, speaking about cats, can we talk about your Facebook profile photo? Really? A cat on your head? It should be a hot, flirty pic of gorgeous, single you!”
“I don’t want to put up a photo of me.” Clara’s voice sounded dangerously like a 13-year-old whining about putting on her headgear.
“Seriously, Clara? You look pretty lumpy. Have you stopped running? You used to love it.”
Clara started looking around the room for the emergency exit. She took a big swig of her wine, feeling much like a bug whose rock had been taken away. Now she stood unprotected and blinking in the blindingly-bright midday sun.
“Everyone gains weight as they age,” Clara mumbled. She knew she’d put on weight, but not every college athlete stayed in fighting shape.
“You look like you’ve given up.”
“I’m going on 40,” Clara whined.
“You’re 32.”
“Actually, still 31 for another three weeks…”
“That’s my point! You should be hittin’ the gym and having hot sex! What’s it been, two years since Gil left?”
“It hasn’t even been a year yet.” But then she thought about it and realized it had, somehow, been a full year.
“Listen, to me. Good riddance!” Cat declared. “He was such an asshat. I never liked him. I don’t even think you liked him.”
“Well, now—”
“OK, sure, in the beginning.” Cat gave her that. “But remember how he used to leave his rock climbing gear all over the apartment? And his hang gliding stuff and his snowboarding crap? And how he TiVoed, like, 50 different shows and then had to have complete silence while he watched them all?”
Clara had to admit, the silent zone had been pretty annoying.
“You don’t miss him,” Cat declared. “You just miss having a boyfriend.”
Clara twirled a big forkful of buttered pasta and shoved it into her mouth for an angry chew. Nothing like having your former best friend swoop onto the scene and perform a quick post-mortem on you. Cause of death: excessive lameness.
After a swallow, she declared her own probable cause. “You know what I think is wrong? I think I really blew it with Brad. By breaking up with him.”
“Brad who?” Cat took a much less upset bite of her salmon.
“You know, Brad from college.”
“Brad? From college?”
“Brad Wilkins. I think we really had something,” Clara insisted.
Cat sat back in her chair, as if for once she was speechless. But, no, she came up with something to say. “That ship? It sailed. A long, long time ago.” She surveyed Clara, this time with more compassion. “What’s going on with you? Is it because you hate your job?”
“I do hate my job.”
Cat shrugged. “Everyone hates their job. That’s why they have to pay you to do it.”
“You don’t hate your job.”
“Oh, I hate it. Do you know why I’m here?”
Clara shook her head no.
“We’re auditing a semi-conductor company. I can’t tell you how boring it is. I mean, I like the travel and the money, but I’m constantly on a deadline, the emails and calls never stop. I have to dress l
ike a banker at a funeral. It’s not exactly the right fit with my passion for fashion.”
She looked off into the distance for a moment. If Clara didn’t know her better, she would have described the look as wistful. But Cat didn’t do wistful. And, indeed, within a few seconds she snapped right back. “But I’m having fun where I can find it. I take my weekends with Giovanni. We travel, we go out. You can’t sit around waiting for everything to be perfect in your life.”
Looking at Clara with laser-sharp eyes, Cat pressed on. “Is it because you feel all alone? No husband? Plus I know you’ve always wanted kids.”
Bathroom break! Clara hustled into the restroom, braced her two hands on the rim of the sink and looked at herself in the mirror. Red-rimmed, exhausted, washed-out blue eyes stared back at her. Her skin looked blotchy and pale and were those wrinkles starting around her mouth?
She couldn’t take any more. Back at their table, Clara complained of a stomach ache, an early morning appointment and a migraine. She’d never been a good liar. But she did get the point across: she wanted to go home. Cat looked incredulous and sad, but didn’t fight her. Holding her doggy bag full of pasta, Clara shuffled to the public transit station. Cat hailed a taxi to meet up with her cooler friends and hit the clubs.
Clara boarded the BART. The train lurched ahead. She held onto a metal pole like a boxer in the ring, swaying from a punch.
She realized that’s how she felt about life, like she’d gone a few rounds with a heavyweight. She’d entered into the ring all cocky and talking smack, the popular straight-A varsity athlete. Now with one eye swollen shut and her arms draped around the ropes, that old Popeye guy from Rocky might be yelling at her to stay up. But all she wanted to do was take a long, hot shower in the locker room and then crawl back home into bed for a long night’s sleep.
Soon enough, Clara arrived home again. Couch again.
Chirp! Clara unzipped her backpack and took out her iPhone. It made another loud, insistent chirp.
She unlocked it with a swipe and then saw only one thing on her screen: the funny icon that crazy volunteer had installed on her phone that morning. A blue square like the regular Facebook logo, only the white lettering in this one read RESET. And now it flashed at Clara, bright, then dim. Then bright again, as if beckoning her to press it.
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