Five Things I Can't Live Without (8 page)

Debbie was Larissa’s therapist. “Meaning you don’t believe he’s gone?”

“Most of the time, I know he’s never coming back and that there are a million reasons why I don’t want him back anyway, but I’ve still got moments where I’m sure he was the one for me and that one of these days he’ll realize it.”

“What does Debbie make of that?”

“She says it’s part of the grieving process.” Larissa counted off on her fingers: “Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. She even gave me an acronym to remember them. DABDA.”

“Catchy.” I held up a belt I hadn’t worn in three years and squinted at it critically before throwing it into the suitcase. “I’m so jealous that you can afford therapy.”

“I’m so jealous that you never started it. I mean, every week I go in and I discover some new subpar aspect of myself. I sometimes think I should stop while I’m ahead, before I find out anything else.”

“But you’ve already opened Pandora’s box. There’s no going back.” I zipped up the suitcase. “Every time I move, I swear this will be the time that I do it right. I’m going to get organized, I’m going to go through everything and throw out the crap I’ve been hauling with me from apartment to apartment, and every time I leave it all to the last minute and just throw it into boxes. And some of it’s never actually come out of boxes since the last move.”

“You could go through everything when you’re moved in and make a donation.”

I shook my head. “No one does that. You either donate before you move, or it stays yours until the next time.”

“So lately,” Larissa said, “what Debbie and I have been working on is goal setting.”

I groaned. “What is it with that horrible word right now? That’s what Dan wants me to do, too.”

“Therapy goals are different. They’re like, How will you know when you’re done with therapy? How will you know when you’ve fully evolved?” She placed a self-deprecating emphasis on the “fully evolved.”

“And?”

“Goal setting has taken up three sessions!” She actually threw her hands up to indicate her frustration with herself. I couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone do that outside of a bad sitcom. “That’s three hundred dollars. And Debbie’s like, ‘Well, there’s your problem. You don’t know what you want.’”

“Maybe Debbie’s your problem. If you don’t develop any goals, you’re never getting out. It’s sort of a fantastic scam, isn’t it?” Seeing the anxiety on Larissa’s face, I added hastily, “I don’t really mean that. You’ve gotten a lot of good things out of therapy.”

“I thought I had, because I was so much happier for a while there. But then I realized: I was happier when I was with Dustin. I was just all-around happier. So I went to therapy every week and we talked about my father and I felt proud of myself for staying committed to the process. That’s another thing Debbie talks about: my commitment to the process, so that if I leave, I’m someone who can’t commit. Now, I know I have a lot of shortcomings, but that is not one of them. I’ve broken up with two men in my life. Two! And I’ve been in, like, five hundred relationships. I am not afraid of commitment.”

“So if you quit therapy, it would actually be progress. You’d break up with her instead of waiting for her to do it first.” I was only half-joking.

“Sonya thinks I should quit, too.”

We exchanged a look that said, “Well, obviously.” Sonya was our self-possessed friend. That’s actually how we thought of her. She was also our successful corporate friend, our new mother friend, and our able-to-do-math-and-her-own-taxes friend. Even if we occasionally got frustrated with her pragmatism, we could never end our friendship with her because she occupied so many important niches.

“Have you seen her recently?” I asked.

“Last week. She’s doing great.”

“Of course she is,” I said. Sonya was always doing great. She needed Larissa and me to balance out her charmed life. I didn’t want Sonya’s life; I just wanted her certainty about it. Larissa, on the other hand, pretty much wanted Sonya’s actual life.

“So that’s it.” Larissa taped up the top of her box and stood up. “You’re pretty much packed.”

“I know.” I gave a nervous smile. “This could be bad, you know? This could be a hideous mistake.”

“Dan’s great.”

“I know
he’s
great. You do realize that if something goes wrong with this, it’s going to be my fault.”

“That’s just garden-variety self-doubt.”

“It’s happening so fast. I mean, don’t you think it’s entirely too soon for us to live together?”

She walked over, put her arm around me, and gave me a squeeze. “When’s Dan getting here?”

“I’m going to call him when I’m ready.”

“Are you ready?”

Just once, I wanted to answer yes and mean it. But this wouldn’t be that time.

Later that day, I was unpacking, alone, in Dan’s bedroom—our bedroom, now—but I didn’t feel like I was really alone. The wraiths of my past relationships were right there with me: the six-weekers that had never grown into anything; the three-monthers that seemed to hold so much promise; the four that had each lasted a year, two where we lived together; relationships that had exploded; relationships that had imploded. This time around, I didn’t want to stay too long, or leave too early.

That’s when it hit me. This whole move was motivated by fear. I’d thought it was money, which wasn’t good, either, but the truth was worse. I’d rushed into this because I wanted to know whether Dan and I were going to last, and the quickest way to find out was to live together. That’s the perverse logic of fear: if it’s going to blow up, might as well blow it up fast.

“You’re so quiet,” Dan said from the doorway.

I looked up, startled. I should have been finished with this room an hour ago. It was like unpacking while suspended in maple syrup.

“There’s a lot to get done,” I said.

“There’s time.”

I sat down on the bed, facing away from him. “I’m thinking that maybe this was a mistake.”

Long pause, then Dan came and sat beside me. “Why do you think that?” he asked evenly.

“Just knowing me.” I was suddenly on the verge of tears.

“I know you,” he said, “and I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m crying. It’s the first day we’re living together and I’m crying. Doesn’t that freak you out?”

He shook his head.

“Is this going to work?” I asked urgently.

His eyes were trained on mine. “If we want it to.”

“You’re right,” I said finally. I stood up. “We should get some dinner.”

“My treat,” he said, smiling.

Two days later, at 4:57 pm, I sat staring at my computer screen in the animal rescue, terribly conscious that in three minutes, it would no longer be my computer screen. There it was, the draft of my ad. Once I clicked on the “post” icon, it would be out there.
I
would be out there, an Internet profile consultant, open for business. All I had to do was click on the “post” icon.

My finger trembled on the mouse.
Just click. All you have to do is click.

But I couldn’t. I was leaving the only job I’d ever really done well. I was leaving the best coworkers I’d ever had, and the kindest boss. I was leaving the only job I’d ever held down for more than a year. Though ironically, I couldn’t even say I’d stayed so long because of my boss, or my coworkers, or the good work I’d done. I’d stayed because the older I got, the more times I performed this dance, the less sure I was that something great was waiting for me on the other side. I definitely wasn’t sure now. Just click this button—and then what?

Full minutes passed. It was now after five o’clock. I’d cleared out my desk the day before, had my good-bye lunch with everyone, and now all I needed was to post my ad, get my purse, and walk out the front door.

You can’t sit here all night.

It was starting to look like maybe I could, when I heard footsteps. I hurriedly clicked, turned off the computer, and looked to see who it was. Oh. The one coworker it wasn’t hard to leave behind.

“Hey, Nora,” Estella said. “I guess this is it, huh?”

“I guess it is.”

“Denise told me you’re going to do something on the Internet … ?” she asked, pushing back her hair and resettling her bag on her shoulder.

Just to clarify: I didn’t hate Estella for being gorgeous. I didn’t hate her at all, in fact. I simply didn’t care for her, because her every gesture seemed calculated to underscore just how good-looking she is, and that’s just annoying.

“I am,” I said. I didn’t want to say more, especially since I was still feeling raw about the ad I’d just sent into cyberspace, but she kept looking at me expectantly. I gave in, and went on. See, she always got what she wanted. “I’m going to help people work on their Internet dating profiles.”

“Huh.” She nodded, considering.

“Yep.” I wondered if I had to wait for her to walk away, or if I could just announce that I was leaving.

“So you’re going to help people write their profiles?”

“I can help with writing, editing, whatever they need.” I sped up as I spoke, hoping to give the impression that I needed to get going.

“What if they need a makeover? Then what will you do?”

“Nothing. That’s not my job.”

“Because some people, it doesn’t matter what they write, they’re going to have problems.” She bobbed her head solemnly, as if in sympathy for those less fortunate.

I shrugged. I hadn’t had many nonwork conversations with Estella, and hadn’t seen her elitism on display before. It wasn’t pretty.

“I mean, men only care about the pictures.” She leaned in like she was going to reveal a secret. “A ton of guys write to me, and it’s so obvious they didn’t even read what I wrote. I’d say men are dogs, but that’s just an insult to dogs, you know?”

I was assimilating the fact that Estella needed an ad, just like the rest of the proletariat, when Maggie came down the hall. My anxiety about the ad momentarily abated, replaced by sadness that I wouldn’t be seeing Maggie five days a week anymore.

She was holding a small pastry box, which she set on my desk. “Open it,” she said, smiling.

“Oh, Maggie!” I lifted the lid, prepared to coo. Inside was a cupcake, with its icing shaped into the figure of—a Dalmatian. Maggie had brought me a dog cupcake. Well, no one at any other job had ever brought me baked goods on my last day. I stanched my disappointment. “That’s so sweet, Maggie. Thank you.”

I stood up and hugged her.

“You’ve meant a lot to us,” Maggie said. “I wanted to do something—”

Estella cut in, “You got that at Gorman’s, right?” She glanced at me. “That’s where she gets all of them.”

I wasn’t really surprised by that. Everyone sensed that Estella was Maggie’s least favorite staff person; she had to feel at least a little slighted. Maggie would never be rude or mean; she just wasn’t as warm toward Estella as she was toward the rest of us. Which was strange, since Estella was phenomenally gifted with animals and I was someone who ran away at the first sight of drool.

“I did get it at Gorman’s,” Maggie said, not looking at Estella. “So what will you be doing now, Nora?”

“She’s going to write Internet porn,” Estella said. She waited for Maggie’s reaction, which was minimal, then laughed loudly. If Estella couldn’t be the favored child, she’d be the rebel.

“What are you actually doing, Nora?” Maggie asked, giving Estella no reinforcement.

“I’m going to be freelancing,” I said. My nervousness returned just saying it, though luckily, with much less intensity than earlier.

“That sounds exciting.” Maggie flashed a maternal smile at me, and it seemed like we were going to leave it at that, which was how I wanted it.

Maybe sensing that, and still in bratty-sister mode, Estella said, “She’s going to help people find dates. You should tell her about it, Nora.”

Maggie waited politely. I was annoyed that Estella had forced us into this and I fought the urge to glare at her. “Well,” I said, “people are going to hire me to help fix up their Internet dating profiles.”

“You’ve just got to wonder why people can’t do it for themselves. I mean, what’s going on there?” Estella said.

“That’s not a very charitable thought, Estella,” Maggie chided. She turned back to me, her face serious. “That’s going to be very delicate work. These are people who are probably already feeling insecure about themselves. You’ll have to tread lightly.”

“I know,” I said. But honestly, I hadn’t thought much about that part of it. I’d thought more about the writing, the part I knew I could do well.

“Nora, I think your job is to meet people and instill confidence. It’s about meeting these wounded souls and mending their bruised egos. You need to help them access the best in themselves, and that’s what you write about.”

I wilted before her. I wanted to protest,
I’m not a healer, I’m just an amateur writer who doesn’t need any more pressure
.

She must have seen it in my face, because she said quickly, “I’m sure this is going to be just the thing for you, Nora.”

I looked up at her, eyes shining, not above digging for reassurance. “You really think so?”