40
Nate
I
t’s been a long time since I’ve had sex with another person and Nate looks as likely a candidate as anyone. I have absolutely no qualms with the idea, and eventual reality, of having sex with my ex-husband, whom I have spent the last year in therapy getting over. Technically my marriage and divorce were the catalysts that drove me to therapy. Nate was incidental yet essential.
The next morning, while Vivian enjoys a half day spa retreat I scored last night, I unfold the list of spots I want to check out in my miniquest to find my ex-husband while making it seem like it is pure chance that has thrown us together once more. From his blog I know he gets his caffeine at the Olympic and Bundy Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
Nate cannot function in the morning without his jumbo mug of coffee. And even though I don’t drink it, somehow it became my responsibility to keep the supply of Pete’s Viennese blend ground for a gold filter in ready supply. I figure in my absence he’s grown too lazy to stock his own coffee and he should stop by between 8:30 and 9:45. No later because he never liked sleeping in, even on a Sunday, something that I considered my right as a tax-paying American citizen.
With my pot of green tea, I’m about to start highlighting stories I’ve downloaded from
The New York Times, The Los Angeles Times, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal,
etc., when Nate walks in. I grip my chubby fluorescent highlighter in my hand and almost cough up a mouthful of lukewarm green tea.
Suddenly, the desperation and idiocy of what I’m doing hits me. My heart pounds as I debate making a dash for the door, sliding under my table or holding an
Atlantic Monthly
up to my face and peering around it so I can watch him.
I do nothing and just sit there and stare. Totally out in the open, just begging to be caught.
“Hey,” I want to whisper to the woman sitting at the table closest to mine, “that’s my ex-husband. We’ve seen each other naked. (It bends slightly to the left, by the way.) I got to keep our two-bedroom flat in San Francisco and he took possession of my mucho-expensive engagement-slash-wedding ring. (An almost-2-carat diamond with a platinum band from Tiffany’s.) I’m here spying on him to make sure he’s getting coffee
alone
.”
And if I whisper this to her, I know she’ll nod, provide some cover and even offer up some info on him if she knows anything. It’s a universal need to know what happens to the person whom you once loved with all your heart but let go for your own good, only to wonder what he’s having for breakfast every morning.
As I expected he orders the largest size of coffee they have, and then leans groggily against the counter, staring off into space. From my profile view of him, I can see that his six-months’-pregnant man belly is gone. He’s not overly muscled but not scrawny either. His hair is short, too short, I always preferred longer.
He’s wearing a shirt I forced him to buy in the early days of our marriage. It looks like it’s gone through too many washings. Should I take this as a sign that he’s clinging to this shirt because of its connection to me? Or should I just assume that, like any guy, Nate wakes up, sees shirt, smells shirt, puts on shirt, comes home, takes off shirt, gathers up all shirts and drops off at laundry service?
Nate shifts and catches sight of me. I freeze. He squints. I shrink into my seat. Recognition floods his face. So now the moment of truth has arrived and I’m so ill-prepared for the real thing, even though I’ve acted it out in my mind countless times.
I’m caught, but no way am I going to let him get the upper hand so quickly. I straighten up, lean forward and try to make my face look attractively befuddled and my voice unsure but welcoming. “Nate? Is that you?”
“Jacqs? Jacqs! Jesus Christ! What are you doing here?” He looks surprised, happy and really confused. I get up and rush over to him and give him a friendly hug. He squeezes me tight and then holds me at arm’s length. “It is you! This is unbelievable. What are you doing here, Jacqs? Are you here with your parents?”
Here come the questions. Here come the lies.
“I’m in town for work and got the day off and decided to come see a friend of mine for coffee.” A friend of mine should tell him it’s not a mutual friend so there is no way he can check out my story.
“Wow. She show up yet?” Nate runs his hands up and down my arms. I knew I should have gotten an arm wax, but it’s been so chilly in San Francisco that I haven’t needed to bare my arms. I’m the only woman in my family whose forearms are (usually) hair-free and though they comment on how nice my arms look, no one has been bold enough to ask me how I’ve suddenly become selectively bald. Just another thing for them to whisper about when I’m not there.
“He.” So
like Nate to assume I’m meeting a female friend.
“Oh, he show up yet?” The slight hiccup in Nate’s voice tells me he’s registered the fact (or the fiction) that my friend is a man and this bothers him for reasons he’ll never understand without tons of therapy.
“As a matter of fact, he just called and canceled on me. A raging case of strep throat.” I know how Nate feels about strep throat. He doesn’t fear anything more than strep throat except sharks. I once teased him that with his luck he’d run into a shark with strep. He didn’t think it was funny.
“That sucks.” He guides me back to my table and takes a seat across from me. “God, it’s great to see you. How are your parents? How is Noel?”
“Fine, fine, everyone is fine.” They have no idea I’m this close to them because I haven’t told them. “This is so weird. Small world, huh?” Thanks to the Internet!
“Reading much?” He gestures to my stack of magazines and newspaper printouts.
“Oh, you know me. How about you? What are you doing lately?” Like I don’t already know.
“Working and working. The usual. Man, this is so surreal.” Nate is satisfactorily knocked off balance, giving me the advantage.
“What? Are you going to tell me you were just thinking of me the other day and now here I am?” I ask coyly.
“No, no,” he says offhandedly, not realizing the impact of his words. I try not to let my face look as crushed as I feel inside.
“That’s good. Well ...” I look at my watch. I can’t let him think that I find him appealing enough to spend any more time catching up with him. “I’ve got a busy day today.”
“Maybe we can get together before you go back to San Francisco and catch up?” Nate offers.
“Well, maybe ...” I’m sweating from the effort to let him believe this is his own original, spur-of-the-moment idea.
“Come on, it’ll be fun! Just like old times.”
I don’t want to seem too eager, after all, eagerness is what got me into our relationship in the first place. “I’m really booked. What about lunch on Monday?”
“Fuck! I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow night.” Nate runs his hand through his hair.
Crap! My plan has backfired. By seeming to be too busy I might have talked myself out of a lunch date and a trip to check out his apartment. Only to look for more clues into his life post-me, of course.
“Well, wait, um, I was supposed to have dinner with my friend, but since he’s really, really sick ...” Get the hint, Nate. Don’t make me ask.
“That sucks.” Nate is the kind of man whom you have to spell things out for. Nuances of human behavior throw him for a loop. This is why he is so great with computers. You push a series of keys and get a predetermined response. With some time and effort I could coax the correct response out of him, but why bother? I’m here, he’s here (alone) and he’s leaving town tomorrow.
“Nate, would you like to get some dinner with me tonight?” I feel that familiar annoyance creep into my voice. Nate doesn’t pick up on it. Some things never change.
41
Vivian
A
fter a few pots of tea for me—and some double-strength Tylenol for Vivian and some more bitching and moaning about Curtis, marriage and life—Vivian feels up for some shopping. As we head out in a cab she starts to get excited for me and insists we look for the perfect dress for my “date.”
“There is nothing more satisfying than looking drop-dead gorgeous for your ex-husband,” Vivian says as we crawl through traffic in the back of a taxi.
“I looked pretty good this morning,” I say defensively.
“That doesn’t count,” Vivian says with a dismissive wave of her hand.
“It doesn’t? Why not?” I put a lot of effort into that look. More than I’d ever admit to.
“Because no matter how much you try, having coffee in the morning is a sporty, casual affair. Even in LA.” Vivian, like Mrs. Mayor, does only high-drama casual. “Men say they like natural sporty girls, but they’re lying.”
“True.” After a year of waiting for this sexual showdown, I should go all-out. “I guess I’ll go for the jugular.”
“Or the zipper,” Vivian adds sagely.
“What’s the difference?” We laugh in an evil, throaty way that causes the driver to turn around and give us a worried look.
“Anyways, who knows what could happen? You guys might get back together!” Vivian gushes with more enthusiasm than she’s been able to dredge up in a while.
I give Vivian a doubtful look, then I remember the vicarious pleasure I’ve taken in another person’s blooming romance when my chances were in the toilet. And what could be more romantic than a tightly engineered encounter between a woman and her ex-husband who currently reside in different cities? But since I’m trying to be neutral I think it’s best if I inject a little reality into our excursion.
“Are you going to call Curtis?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want her to jump down my throat.
“No. Maybe. Yes. I am not sure. What would you do?” Vivian bites her slightly chapped lip.
“I’d call him or not. It depends what
you
want. He might not have even noticed you haven’t called. You know how guys are.” I reach into her bag and hand her a tube of lip balm.
“I hate that about men. Just, ugh, makes me so mad!”
“Yeah, that’s why I got divorced. And that’s why I’m going shopping for a new dress I don’t need that I’ll wear at dinner with my ex. It’s a vicious cycle.”
The driver leaves us off in front of Maxine on Montana. Suddenly I feel unsure of myself and my motives. Plus, I haven’t exactly explained to Vivian why we’re at this specific store.
“I don’t know, Vivian. I was just going to browse, not exactly buy.” That’s sort of the truth. Well, isn’t it?
“Oh, come on! Live a little. You deserve it—a night out in a gorgeous dress to cock tease your ex-husband is the least you deserve.”
“I guess so.” The taxi is only a few feet away ...
This could all end tomorrow if Mrs. Mayor decides to give me the (Manolo) boot. The free clothes and accessories, the travel, the discounts on haircuts and bikini waxes—poof! I’d be back to working for some dead-end company and having only an entrée and splitting dessert with friends. Plus, I’d have no choice but to get a real life again and that costs money, too.
Vivian links her arm through mine and we stride in. “So what kind of look are you going for? Ice queen? Sophisticated? Unavailable but approachable?”
“How about ‘Out of your league, but willing to consider it’?” I want to look great but I don’t want to look so good that I’ll totally intimidate him out of trying to have ex-sex with me.
“Sounds good to me.”
“But nothing black. He’ll expect me to wear black and I want him to know that I’m a much more confident and daring person since we got divorced.” My hands are sweaty and my heart is palpitating as I catch the eye of the woman who offered the dress last night. She waves and indicates that she’ll be off the phone in a minute.
“Relax, Jacqs. Who cares if it costs hundreds of dollars? It’s just money.” Vivian sniffs as she goes through the racks of silky dresses in a riot of jewel tones.
“Yeah, just money.” And my soul, which I’ve practically sold. “OK. I’ll do it and I won’t regret it. Right?”
“Darling, we all deserve something special. At least once in our lives,” Vivian says, doing a perfect imitation of Natasha.
I try not to look at the prices as we go through the carefully tended racks. I feel a rush of euphoria when I glance at myself in a mirror holding a dazzling dress in front of myself. I have that rosy look Mrs. Mayor gets when she goes shopping. So this is what it feels like to put oneself above all others, starving illiterate children included. Damn, it feels good.
“Jacquelyn! You look beautiful, I love those jeans. Juicy?” Andie is just as hopped up as she was last night. In fact I think she’s wearing last night’s mascara. It looks rock ’n’ roll chic.
“This is my friend Vivian,” I say as I extract myself from Andie’s anorexic bear hug.
“I love your hair. Natural?” She embraces Vivian and presses her cheek to hers, both sides.
“Natural,” Vivian says, looking totally off balance. This much affection from a stranger has to be a little shocking from someone who, despite five years on the West Coast, is still solidly Midwestern.
“Love, love, love it. I was thinking of going red.” Andie fingers Vivian’s hair. Vivian cowers next to me. “OK! Jacquelyn. Myles just called and he told me you were being shy! You’re so cute!”
“I, uh ...” I look over at Vivian, who is looking at me intensely, and smile feebly at her.
“Jacquelyn is having dinner with her ex tonight so we have to make sure he regrets every shitty thing he ever did to her while they were together.” Vivian chooses to take the ‘what-I-don’t-know-won’t-lower-my opinion-of-you’ route. Bless her.
“I love, love, love it! You came to the right place.
InStyle
just rated us the sexist dress shop on the West Coast. Let’s get this party started!”
“Let’s,” Vivian and I say at the same time. Andie doesn’t notice we are making fun of her.
I retreat to a dressing room, gently holding two skirts and two dresses. I figure I can pair either of the skirts with my cashmere mock turtle I have back at the hotel. It is black but the skirts are otherworldly shades: one a soft, shiny steel lilac, the other a gunmetal blue. I slip on the blue skirt first and step out to show Vivian.
“What do you think?” The material feels better than sex against my skin. I’m on the verge of happy tears just wearing it in the dressing room.
“Oh, nice. Very nice, but I thought you really wanted to knock his socks off!” Vivian says as she struggles to pull a complicated halter top over her head.
“True ...”
“Honey, go all out.” She points with her free elbow. “Try one of those dresses on.”
I pull the curtain shut and shed my top and carefully hang up the skirt. I slip on a champagne-colored dress with skinny straps. I could die in this dress. I stand there for a moment feeling weak and I haven’t even seen the price yet. I step outside and wait to be admired.
“Holy crap, Jacquelyn. That dress looks ...”
“I love it!” Andie gushes. “Love it!”
“Thanks.” I run my hand down and smooth the hips. It skims my body wonderfully, like water. When I move the hem floats around my knees, tickling me.
“How much is it?” I ask but I really don’t want to know.
“You’re so funny! Myles was right!” Andie laughs loudly. Vivian joins in for a second. I almost pass out when I check out the price tag: $987.
“Try the other one on before you pass out. Remember, no regret,” Vivian, my enabler, says.
I sleepwalk back into the dressing room and shake my head to wake myself up. I slip the other dress off the padded hanger. From the instant I saw it I knew it was the dress I was always meant to have. That’s why I saved it for last.
It’s a luminescent, whipped-cream silk with slightly thicker straps, a simple V-neckline and delicate darts down the sides to give it some shape before it falls into petals of material that sensuously undulate below my knees.
I could get married in this dress. I should have gotten married in this dress! Instead I wore my best Bebe interview skirt and Banana Republic sweater set. But then again, all those (couple of) years ago, I could never have imagined even considering trying on such a dress, let alone buying it just because I wanted it.
Back then, my life would have dictated my most expensive and special dress to be the dress I got married in, once. Not a dress that is so beautiful and perfect that it is wasted on not only me but on my ex-husband, who will probably comment that I’m wearing a nightgown to dinner. This is a dress that shows just how far I’ve really come yet how closely I’m still living in my past. I’m living in a fantasyland, but now fully prepared to pretend that I’m going to put it on my American Express card.
“I think this is it,” I say as I step out. Vivian and Andie gasp. “Yup, I think it is.”