“Brad!” she squeaked.
He turned his head, or, rather, his giant helmet around to see what was the matter.
Holy beer belly! Clearly in shock, the only thought Clara could fully process had to do with his surprisingly fat middle. Anyone have a spare tire? She felt a hysterical laugh burble up from deep within.
“You’re home early.” Brad’s expression was unreadable, mostly because his face lay behind a gridwork of metal.
Spinning around, Clara made a hasty exit. Hustling down the hallway heading she didn’t know where, her breaths came quick and shallow and she felt like she couldn’t get enough air. Her head felt light, her vision dizzy and after a turn and a turn she nearly crashed into a wall. Sinking down to the floor, she dropped her head between her knees.
And again felt that bubbling up of uncontrollable laughter. Clearly she was losing it. With a shake of her head, she tried to get serious and take inventory of the situation. She needed to analyze and solve the problems at hand.
Problem Number One: Brad was cheating on her. Too, she felt compelled to add. It wasn’t just her sleeping around. Solution: she’d promise to stop, he’d promise to stop and—badda bing, badda boom—marriage back on the rails.
Problem Number Two: Her husband apparently had a lacrosse fetish. He liked narrating sex as if re-living a college lax game. But that was totally cool, right? Nothing broken here that couldn’t be fixed. Solution: work a little “he shoots, he scores!” into their lovemaking, maybe try to work with the helmet...
Nope. She could hear the loud buzzer of a game show rejecting a contestant’s answer. Nothing could save this marriage, or this version of reality. She needed out of this fun house. She’d had enough of turning corners into dead ends and old-school carnival trick mirrors that made you fat then skinny, all the while with that tinny clown music playing eerily in the background.
“There you are.” Brad showed up in the doorway, tucking his still-crisp button down shirt into his unwrinkled dress pants. A flash of Roger’s suit folded neatly along a chair came to Clara’s mind. These guys had the whole afternoon delight routine down to a T. He’d also taken the time to fix himself a drink. Before speaking, he took a sip of what looked like bourbon on the rocks. “What are you doing on the floor?”
Clara peeked up at him through her fingers. His face looked bloated, jowly, years older than the Facebook Brad she’d been coveting all these months.
“Don’t have a hissy fit.” He sighed and offered her his hand. Clara stared at it. “Fine, sit on the floor.” His hand went petulantly up to his hip. “I don’t know why you’re acting so upset. It’s not like you’re not doing the exact same thing. Why’d you get home so early?”
Clara’s mouth felt dry, her tongue stuck. He knew about Roger?
“Don’t act like you didn’t know about this. Don’t play the wounded wife card now.”
“What, do we have, like…?” She searched for the right words. What did they call it in that Ang Lee movie from the late nineties, the one where the parents all went to the key party and switched partners? “Is this an open marriage?”
Brad burst out laughing, a hearty, real laugh that nearly made Clara laugh along with him. “You’re amazing. I don’t know how you do it, looking like you just stumbled into all this. As if you don’t know exactly what’s going on.”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Clara answered with complete honesty.
Brad exhaled, annoyed. “What exactly do you want? Some Harlequin romance novel? Happy endings only happen in books, babe. This is real life.”
Clara winced.
“Look.” Brad softened his tone. “Take an Ativan. Fix yourself a G and T. Take a long soak in the tub.”
Sounded like the perfect recipe for an obituary. Brad glanced at his watch. “Listen, I gotta go. You’re probably meeting with your decorator this afternoon. Why don’t you go ahead and order that Italian tile you really want. Wait—?” He brought his hands to his hips again and began to smirk. “Is that why you did this? Got home early?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It is, isn’t it? Listen, if it means that much to you, order the tile. You didn’t have to cause a scene over it.”
Clara’s eyes widened. He thought she’d pretended to discover him having sex with the au pair so she could use it as a bribe to buy the expensive tile? They really had an awesome relationship.
“Fine.” He exhaled again. “I’m not going to stand here trying to convince you how good you have it.” He pointed down at her, crouching close with his bloodshot eyes and hot, alcohol-laden breath. “And you know you have it good, Clara.”
He turned to go. “Book something at the spa tomorrow. You’ll feel better in no time.”
She heard the door close behind him. And still she sat there, on the floor.
What. Was. Happening? Their time in college together had been one, long montage of perfect moments. Like a gum commercial, all smiles and good times.
But it had become this? Brad looked like he’d maintained a steady diet of highballs and donuts for the past decade. Facebook Brad glowed in his photos, radiating all the confidence and charisma of a wildly successful man in his prime living the good life. This Brad needed to relive his glory days on the lacrosse field.
Had it just been that morning that she’d woken up thinking all her dreams had come true? The palatial sparkling white bedroom, the walk-in closet.
She figured if her life were a Hollywood movie, a big sack of gold coins would drop from the ceiling now, hit her on the head and give her a nasty gash. Just to really drive home the point: money didn’t buy happiness.
“I get it,” Clara said, not exactly sure to whom she was talking but feeling the need to assert her understanding nonetheless. She had to admit, all that time in her cube had, perhaps, made her a bit covetous. But she was only human. Didn’t everyone dream of a life of ease, cavorting in Majorca (where was that, exactly?) instead of barely making enough money to cover rent, heat, food and car payments?
But she got the message: all that glittered was not gold. Their life together might look amazing from the outside with their two gorgeous kids, her tanned and toned bod, and their House Beautiful mansion. But inside—there was nothing there! Like an empty burrito. Sure, it looked tantalizing when you saw it, all fat and juicy and promising to burst with yumminess. But when you took a bite: hollow.
Suddenly hungry, she could vividly picture the burrito place near her apartment in Rockridge, the one where you could choose between not one, not two but three chicken options for your burrito. Pollo Asado for those days when you wanted the old stand-by; Mole Rojo with tomatoes, roasted chiles, and a hint of Mexican chocolate when you wanted to spice things up; and Mole Verde in a green sauce with tomatillos and roasted pumpkin-seeds when you really needed to go all out. What she wouldn’t give right now for a major, the largest burrito they made with chicken mole verde, black beans, rice, cheese, lettuce, salsa fresca and Mexican crema plus thick, crispy, salty, warm chips. Oh, California.
Wait! Clara sat up straight, a shot of energy coursing through her body. Could it be that simple? She leapt to her feet. She’d gotten it all wrong! When she went back in time to college she wasn’t supposed to agree to move to New York City! The investment banker lifestyle, all the gobs of money, it had corrupted their true love!
She needed to go back and convince Brad to stick with Plan A. They needed to move out to San Francisco together. There they’d make a good life, one with meaning and purpose. Suddenly giddy, she clapped her hands. She had to tell Jeanie!
“Hellooo!” A bright, cheery voice floated through the house. “The door was open so I let myself in!”
Clara looked around and noticed for the first time that she stood in a smallish, torn-apart room. Cabinets had clearly been taken off the walls, shelving removed. In one corner a hole punctured right through the plaster.
“Hello?” she called.
“Are you in the kitchen? Or should I s
ay the butler’s pantry? I’ve got the tile samples!” Round the bend, a perky, bright blonde head emerged. With a pink scarf and pink flats to bracket her neat, tidy outfit of slim, navy pants and a crisp white blouse, the interior decorator had arrived.
“Jeanie!” Clara gasped with surprise and relief.
“Clara, great to see you.” Jeanie slung a bag onto a kitchen chair. “I have my favorites in here.” She patted the bag. “But there’s a slew more tiles in my car.”
“I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Can you believe this house?” Jeanie gestured around the kitchen as if modeling a designer showroom. “Are you loving it or are you loving it!?!”
“I have to get out of here.” Clara stepped forward with urgency. “Everything’s wrong, all of it.”
“I know the butler’s pantry is a mess right now, but it’s going to look amazing. These Italian tiles—”
“No!” Clara’s shout nearly echoed off the kitchen walls. Jeanie brought her hand to her chest. “This life? I got it all wrong! We’re not supposed to be here.”
Jeanie cocked her head slightly as if sensing a change in the wind. Not sure whether she liked it, but keeping calm. “You’re not happy?”
“This is a nightmare!” Clara windmilled her arms as if she could gesture to all of it. “I need to go back. Right away! I have to go back to college and convince Brad to move to San Francisco with me!”
“You need a do-over?”
“I have to go back and change this.”
“I didn’t see this coming.” Jeanie brought a manicured nail up to her forehead and displayed an emotion that might be construed as bordering on perturbed. “A do-over.”
“Remember? You said in the bathroom how I could have three chances?”
“Yes, well.” Jeanie collected herself. “It’s only supposed to be for extreme situations.”
“I just found my husband having sex with the au pair in a lacrosse helmet.”
“They were having sex in a lacrosse helmet?”
“No, he was wearing a lacrosse helmet.”
“Wearing it? While…?”
Clara nodded in confirmation. Jeanie’s nose crinkled as if she’d bit into a spoiled piece of fruit. The two women paused, silent in the kitchen, bearing the heavy weight of the image.
“I need to go back.” Clara looked at her, not quite pleading so much as stating the obvious.
“You need to go back.” All business, Jeanie glanced around the kitchen. “Where’s your iPhone?”
Clara hustled over to the mudroom/entryway where she’d stowed her Hermes bag, wallet and phone. An hour ago when she’d shoved it all into a cubby she’d had the distinct impression that she shouldn’t do that to a bag that probably cost more than a couple month’s rent back in Oakland. But now—how handy to have it so close.
Handing her phone over, Clara asked, “Can you re-install the app?”
“I can. Technically you have three tries; they built that into the app. But—”
“This next time is all I’ll need.”
“You think?” Jeanie looked up, pausing a moment in her tap-tap-tapping.
“I know.”
“So, he was wearing the helmet while—?”
“Can I just go back in time, Jeanie? Back to college?”
“Sure, of course.” Jeanie took another moment to shake her head. Looking down, she murmured, “This job is full of surprises.”
A few taps more and she handed the phone back to Clara. On her front screen, the blue and white f icon appeared with the word beneath: RESET. It blinked.
Clara gave a tremendous sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.” Looking up she asked, “Can I press it? Now?”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll be back?”
“Same day back in college.” Gesturing at the sparkling kitchen, Jeanie asked, “But are you sure you don’t want to stay here? Even a few more hours? These Italian tiles I have to show you are gorgeous. And look at that Viking range! I popped by a farmer’s market before I came over—”
“’Course you did,” Clara remarked, not slowing Jeanie’s train in the least.
“I got the season’s first asparagus and some amazing fava beans. We could make a frittata! Or a ragout.” She said ‘ragout’ as if divulging a naughty secret.
“Nope.”
Jeanie looked at her. “Lacrosse guys are pretty hot, Clara. Are you sure you couldn’t get into the game day spirit?”
“Nope.”
Jeanie sighed. “OK then.”
Clara held her phone in her left hand, looking at the blinking button. This time, she’d set things right.
She reached out and pressed RESET.
CHAPTER 11
BURN PROTOCOL
“Na na na na na na na.” From somewhere nearby, Clara could hear a woman singing along with Will Smith. Back when he was more Fresh Prince than father to recording artist Willow. Cracking open an eye, she could make out her friend, her partner in crime, her college roommate Cat singing into the blow dryer.
A smile spread out over Clara’s hung-over face. No all white mausoleum, no broken marriage. She’d escaped!
In time for the next chorus, she croaked out, “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It!”
“She lives!” Cat laughed. Clara groaned but brought her fingers to her forehead in a salute.
How had she drunk like such a fish back in college? Too bad she couldn’t re-live a day after a sober night. Not that that had happened all that often during her senior spring. But if it had—she could have bounced up at the crack of dawn and who knows what she might have accomplished with all that youthful vim and verve? Perhaps she’d have become an aerospace engineer who cured cancer and medaled in synchronized swimming? Instead, here she remained: Clara Taylor, steady B student majoring in communications. Hung over. But with a wicked hot boyfriend, y’all!
At that thought, she swung her feet to the floor. A second chance to make things right! And then she rested her head on her knees. Such a flexible young thing. And so close to vomiting.
“Get in the shower.” Cat threw something at her; it landed next to her on the bed. “Try my new soap. Smells yummy.”
Clara held the cream colored block to her nose. It smelled like heaven, or at least a version of heaven that smelled like vanilla. When was the last time she’d bought anything as frou-frou and fun as a fancy cake of soap? And she was talking about CAHWCFC Clara, not psycho real housewife Clara. CAHWCFC Clara sometimes just bought generic gel body wash and used it head to toe. Things had gotten that bad.
“Cat, what am I going to do without you as a roommate?” Clara rose ever-so-slowly, feeling each step in the depths of her brain.
“You’re going to start dressing like a sad sack.” Cat informed her, matter-of-fact. “But I’ll come visit and hose you down. Throw out some things while you’re not looking. Make you buy a few things you don’t think you should. It’ll work out.” She fluffed her long, glossy black mane in the full-length mirror and blew herself a kiss. Sometimes vanity just made sense.
Back in the bathroom, Clara splashed cool water onto her face. Looking at herself in the mirror, she brought her hands to her cheeks and smiled. No spray tan in sight. Her face looked a bit round with the fullness of youth. Baby fat! She gave her cheek a playful pinch. She wondered if that’s what her mother could see whenever she looked at her—memories of the past blending seamlessly into the present, her fresh face at 22 echoing 12, echoing 2.
“I need to call Mom when I get back,” she murmured, then pat her face dry with a towel.
Right on cue, Jeanie made her chipper entrance. Toiletry caddy and matching towel, this time she looked ready-set-match for a game of tennis.
“Heading out to the courts?” Clara asked, wondering how she managed her ever-evolving, perfectly coordinated wardrobe with accents of pink. Today pink piping danced along her white tennis dress while pink logos swooshed down on her Nike sneakers and up on her visor.
“I just p
layed in a doubles tournament! What fun!”
“How did you…?” Find a tournament, join a doubles team, sign up, find the time…then again, how exactly were they traveling back and forth in time creating alternate realities?
“Are you ready for your big day back?” Jeanie asked, circling foaming cleanser into her flawless skin. “What’s the plan?”
“Oh, right.” Clara brought her hands to her hips. A plan. That seemed like a good idea.
“How are you going to convince him to move out to San Francisco with you?”
Clara felt a twinge of anxiety. Certainly it had to happen, but how? “I know he’ll be happier out there. I just have to convince him. I’ll talk to him, find a quiet place where we can really have a heart-to-heart.”
Jeanie pursed her lips and shook her face in disapproval.
“No?”
“Clara, it’s not my place to tell you how to do things. But I can say—well, Elvis said it best.” Hands up, she began swinging her hips to the beat. “A little less conversation, a little more action.”
Clara smiled; she remembered that song. Set to a dance track, it had become a hit a few years back. Or forward, depending on which way you looked at it.
Jeanie continued, giving her knees and pelvis some of that famous Elvis swagger and sway. “Come on baby I’m tired of talking. Grab your coat and let’s start walking.”
Clara had to join in. “A little less conversation, a little more action!” they sang together.
“Give him some sugar, Clara. Men are simple creatures.”
“No long, soul-searching dialogue to find common ground?” Clara made herself laugh.
“Not unless you want to send him running to New York.”
That gave Clara pause. Hand on the vanity, she took a deep, steadying breath. “So, how does this work? That whole New Jersey, lacrosse thing—?”
“Never happened.”
“Never happened,” Clara echoed. Amazing. How many times in life had she wished she could hear that? No, she hadn’t rear-ended the car in front of her, tripped and ripped her new skirt, had her credit card declined because she’d maxed it out. It never happened!
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