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“Well?” Scott asks.
“It’s dreadful,” I sputter. “Like drinking broken glass.”
“For the next hour, if you want a drink, promise me you won’t drink overly sweet girlie drinks that will get you drunk, make you cry, and make you long for weddings, true love, or Fred. Drink a man’s drink— a hideous drink, if you will. Use it to get angry.”
He scribbles Why Fred is a Chode on the top of the note pad, then underlines it. “Okay, what’s your number one?”
I suddenly feel put on the spot. I have spent the last six years cultivating an image of Fred for all of the world to see. A happy image. A loving image.
An image that might not necessarily have been completely 100 percent true.
I mean, it was true when we met. Fred really was amazing. He was still in law school, and I had just started teaching, and we were both wildly in love, and absolutely sure about what we wanted in life.
Then, somehow, life got in the way.
It wasn’t just his high salary and seventy-hour workweeks crashing against my small salary and wanting to keep my summers off. Although certainly not agreeing on how much money and free time you can live with is big. It was sex that slowly got routine, and less and less frequent. And not being able to agree on a place to live together for so long that I finally had to move into his place, which I hated every day. Or not agreeing on a place to go on vacation, which led to not going on vacation together at all.
Sometimes, a relationship withers, and by the time you realize how close it is to death, you don’t know what to do to save it.
I desperately want the guy who brought silver roses to me on our second date back. I miss the man who lay in bed with me all day every Sunday, equipped with a Sunday Times, a few rented Blu-rays, and breakfast delivered to our door. I want my buddy back who watched BBC America with me every Thursday night.
I miss him, and I know he’s still lurking somewhere inside the too-sleek yuppie who crawls into bed with me every night. I know he’s still there.
Or, at least until tonight, I thought he was still there.
As I stare at the blank sheet of lined paper, I am at a total loss as to what to write.
1. Nagel.
Scott reads my number one upside down. “That’s cheating,” he says. “I totally served that one up for you. Show some originality.”
“But I can’t stand Nagel,” I point out.
“And I don’t like wet socks. Who does? Movin’ on to number two.”
I’m not really comfortable telling my friends the real reasons my relationship isn’t working. So I start by writing down some of my minor grievances:
2. Works too much.
Scott smiles. “Good.”
3. Cannot see a dish in the sink to save his life.
4. Will not shop for Christmas presents until December 24th.
Seema reads that one. “Hmmm . . . so basically number four just makes him male.”
Scott turns to Seema. “You loved your gift card.” Then he turns to me, “Keep going, sweetheart.”
5. Blares U2 at 8:00 A.M. on Saturday morning while getting ready for his softball game.
6. Accidentally deletes my DVRed Monday-night sitcoms every time a game is on that night.
Then I brace myself, take a deep breath, and write down the really painful ones.
The ones that sometimes do make me hate him.
7. Wouldn’t let me move in.
Seema’s eyes widen. I never let on to anyone that he didn’t want me to move in. Never admitted to her (back when she, Nic, and I were roommates) that I gave him an ultimatum one night: let me move in, or we’re over. He did— eventually. But he kept all of his furniture exactly where it was. All of my stuff went into storage. So I always felt like a guest in my own home.
8. Wasted six years of my life.
I scribble angrily.
“Great start,” Scott says. Then he puts out his hand. “House keys.”
I am confused for a moment. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re moving out,” Scott says matter-of-factly. “What do you need most between now and Monday?”
Seema sighs again, then says to Scott, “Um . . . honey? With all due respect, you’re pushing too hard here—”
“No, no,” I interrupt quickly, giving him my keys. “I either need a pair of Banana Republic blue jeans or the ones I bought from Target. My fat jeans, not my thin ones. And my flat Steve Maddens, my gray Ann Taylor long-sleeve T-shirt, a long T-shirt to sleep in, preferably the one with the Grinch and Max the dog on it, a toothbrush, and my Kiehl’s moisturizing lotion.”
Scott looks at me blankly.
I clarify, “I need pants, shirts, shoes, and a toothbrush.”
Scott smiles at me. “I’m proud of you. Most women would be curled up in a ball right now.”
He gives me a kiss on the forehead, kisses Seema good-bye, then takes his leave.
The moment the door closes behind him, Seema warns me, “Just so you know: he might very well come back with a pair of Gap blue jeans from 1993, tennis shoes, and your beat-up old Spice Girls T-shirt. I’ve gone on weekend trips with him: there is no rhyme or reason to what he packs.”
“I don’t care,” I say, feeling myself smile. “He could come back with a box of Tampax, a pair of pantyhose, and a flashlight. Tonight, I have a hero taking care of me.”
And as awful as this night has been, how Politically incorrect and wonderful is it to be able to say that?
Chapter Seven
Nicole
“And chances are,” I gleefully read to Malika, my soon-to-be step-daughter, “if she asks for some syyrruup . . .” I drag the word syrup out five syllables to wait for Malika to finish the sentence.
Malika looks up at me, her face brightening as she squeals, “She’ll want a pancake to go with it!”
“Yes, she will! Won’t she?!” I say, tickling Malika, who giggles as she squirms her little body beneath me.
We’re both in our pajamas, lying in her bed, and I have just finished reading her Laura Numeroff’s If You Give a Pig a Pancake while Jason reads Harry Potter to her nine-year-old sister Megan in the other room. On alternate nights, Jason reads to Malika, and I get to read Harry Potter.
“Switch!” Jason, clad in his nighttime ensemble of his team T-shirt and gray shorts, yells happily from the doorway.
I rapidly kiss Malika on the cheek five times. “I love you,” I tell her.
“I love you too.”
“I love you more. Who’s the cutest five-year-old?”
“Me!”
I smile, stand up, and walk past Jason. “Tagging out!” I say, making a show of high-fiving him.
“Tagging in!” Jason says.
I head to Megan’s room and catch her reading the next chapter of Harry Potter.
“Hey, that’s cheating.” I pretend to lecture. “I just have to know how it ends,” Megan says, as I walk over and sit on her bed. She looks up at me and whispers, “Do you think I could use my flashlight? Just for a little bit?”
How can I resist that angelic smile and those pleading eyes? I lean in and whisper, “Okay, but just one chapter.”
Megan smiles and pulls a flashlight from under her pillow. “Don’t tell Dad.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured her conspiratorially. I give her a kiss on the forehead and say, “I love you.”
“Me too.”
I take my leave and watch Megan throw the covers over her head, turn on her flashlight, and begin reading again as I turn out the light and close the door.
Jason closes Malika’s door and meets me in the hallway. “Did she have the flashlight?” he asks me under his breath, amused.
“Of course,” I say, my heart melting at how cute she is. “So, you mentioned something about wine?”
“Indeed I did,” Jason says, taking my hand and walking down the hallway, toward the stairs. “I want to hear about all those wedding gifts we got today.”
Our home phone rings as I joke with him. “Well, I know you had your heart set on a traif dish.”
We ignore the phone as Jason continues with the joke. “Not nearly as much as the fingertip towels.”
“We didn’t register for fingertip towels,” I tell him.
“Yes, we did,” Jason insists.
“No, we didn’t,” I assure him.
He actually looks confused by this. “Yes, we did,” he insists.
“That must have been for your first wedding,” I joke.
Jason mock glares at me for my joke as our answering machine picks up.
“Well, then, what were those tiny purple towels in the linen department if not fingertip towels?” Jason asks me.
“Those were washcloths.”
“No. I called them washcloths and was strongly chastised by the woman at Bloomingdale’s.”
“That was because you were looking at fingertip towels at the time— the ones in tea rose. We went with another manufacturer, so that we could get them in aubergine. But the other manufacturer didn’t make fingertip towels, they made washcloths.”
“Okay, you know the next time I talk about the differences between a zone trap and a pressing man to man, you are allowed to say nothing.”
“Hi Jason and Nicole, it’s Jacquie,” we hear Jason’s ex-wife say happily on the machine. “Listen, I know it’s getting kind of late, but I have some stuff I want to run by you both when the girls aren’t around. I was hoping I could just drop by tonight for ten minutes.”
Jason and I share an inquisitive glance.
“You know what?” Jacquie continues. “You might still be out with the girls. I’ll try you on your cell. But call me back the second you get this. Or Nic, call me back the second you get this. Whoever. Just someone please call me back.”
The machine beeps. About thirty seconds later, Jason’s cell phone begins ringing in our bedroom.
“What’s that about?” Jason asks me.
I shrug. “I have no idea.”
Jason makes a detour to our bedroom. “Are you sure she was okay being at your shower today? Did she seem weirded out at all?”
“No,” I say. “She seemed cheerful. As a matter of fact, she . . .”
I stop talking.
The charm. She got the typewriter.
Jason picks up his cell. “Hey, Jacquie,” he says into the phone. “What’s up?”
Jason looks at me in confusion as he talks to her. “No, Nic didn’t mention anything. . . . Yeah, I guess so. Is everything okay?”
I watch Jason as he listens to the voice on the other end of the phone. He occasionally looks in my direction in total confusion. I try to stare blankly back at him, like I don’t know any more than he does. Which, really, I don’t. But I have a nagging suspicion Charm #2 is about to come true.
“No, come on over,” Jason says tentatively. “Okay, we’ll see you in a few minutes. Yeah, bye.” Jason hangs up the phone. “Did Jacquie mention a job offer to you today?”
Shit! I knew it! I just knew it. Seema may think I’m half cocked, but I’m onto something here. “She said something about being up for a speechwriting job,” I tell Jason. “But she said it was a long shot, so I didn’t think too much about it.”
“Huh,” Jason says. “Well, she got the job. And she told me to tell you not to say anything until she came over. What doesn’t she want you to tell me?”
I open my mouth to answer him. But before I can say, “Your ex-wife wants to move your girls five hundred miles away,” the doorbell rings.
Jason quickly heads downstairs and over to the front door, with me half a step behind him. He opens the door to his beautiful ex-wife, Jacquie, who is beaming. “I got it!” she screams, then slips past her ex to pull me into a hug.
I look over Jacquie’s shoulder to watch my confused fiancé widen his eyes (couple shorthand for “What the hell is going on?”). Before I can answer him, Jacquie pulls away from me, then excitedly grabs Jason. “I start Monday!”
