Who You Know (29 page)

AVERY

I
looked through the phone book for a psychic. I needed guidance to help me figure out what to do about Les, my job, and my life.

Les's absence left a huge void in my life. I'd gotten so used to talking to him about what was bothering me that now that he wasn't around, the stress built up until the negative energy seemed palpable, metallic and sharp to the touch like rusty barbed wire scraping my insides, stopping all the positive energy flow.

I tried talking to Martha about my feelings about Pam getting fired, but all she said was
“Mrow?”
She looked at me as if she were genuinely trying to understand what I was saying.

“What would we do if I got laid off? I only have two weeks of savings in the bank. I'd have to start eating your kitty food.”

I don't think she got the joke.

I
missed the way I laughed when Les was around. He got me so much better than Gideon ever did. So why wasn't I rushing into Les's arms? Because he wasn't as pretty as Marcos or Gideon? Surely I wasn't that superficial, was I? In any case, where had pretty ever gotten me?

Everything happened for a purpose. People came into your life for a reason, to teach you something. Maybe Les had come into my life to teach me not to judge a book by its cover. But I'd spent my life appreciating things that looked good on the outside, like the ballet dancer on
pointe,
looking lovely and lithe while beneath the beautiful costume, her toes bled, her tendons ached, her stomach rumbled with perpetual hunger. Maybe it was about time I stopped caring so much about appearances and started caring about what was going on beneath the superficial facade.

 

 

I
t seemed so sad to have Christmas with just my mother. I wanted spouses and grandparents and sugar-saturated nieces and nephews bouncing off the walls.

Mom and I made coffee and sat beside the Christmas tree. Since there were only two of us, unwrapping presents didn't take long. Mom bought me a sweater, some handmade pottery, an abstract watercolor of a dancer.

“This is beautiful,” I said.

“It is pretty, isn't it? I got it at the People's Fair last summer and thought of you.” Mom gathered up the wrapping paper and ribbons. “Well, should we make breakfast?”

“Sounds good.” I stood and followed her to the kitchen, shuffling along in my wool socks and flannel pajamas.

“So I rented a couple of videos—tearjerkers of course,” Mom continued. “Then we have dinner reservations at the Q and tickets to the Nutcracker tonight.”

“Sounds great.” Mom held out the pot of coffee. I held my cup out so she could fill it.

“Would you peel the potatoes?” Mom asked, handing me the peeler. “So I finally met a man through my dating service. He's good-looking and has a good job. We went on four dates and I had a lot of fun. I broke it off with him last week.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I think it's because he doesn't get me, and he's never going to. He was disappointed, but I had to do it. We just didn't feel right. When I was with him, I didn't feel like I could really be myself. Like he didn't get my jokes, so I stopped telling them. With your father, bless his heart, with him, we laughed all the time. Your father really brought out my sense of humor.”

“That's so weird. Les said almost the same thing to me back when he was speaking to me. He said you need to find someone who brings out your best self. It's not so much the person you're with as the person you become when you're with him.”

“Why isn't Les talking to you?”

“He told me that he's in love with me. I told him I care about him, but I'm not attracted to him. He said it was too painful to talk to me or be around me right now.”

“Are you sure you don't love him? I saw you two at Thanksgiving. The way you laughed with him, the way the two of you talk and joke with each other, I really thought something was going on. He certainly couldn't take his eyes off you. The way he looked at you . . .”

“Mom, I'm not sure about anything. I miss him so much, it's ridiculous.”

“Avery, maybe you need a little space from him so when you see him next time, you'll have a little distance—it'll give you a better perspective. I'm going to tell you a story.”

“Somehow I don't think I'm going to like this.”

She stopped making the eggs and looked at me. I put the potato down and returned her gaze. “When I was fifteen years old, this boy had a crush on me. He was a good friend of mine, really kind and funny. He was a great artist. One of the girls at school told me he had a crush on me. At the time, I had a crush on the best-looking guy in the class, Fred.”

“Fred? Fred is not the name of a romantic love interest.”

“Shh, dear, this is my story. Anyway, even if it weren't for Fred, I just thought of the other guy as my friend. So one day, he walks me home from class, and he's kind of nervous, kicking around the stones in the driveway, and I think, uh-oh, he's going to ask me out. So I say real fast that I just think of him as a friend and it will never be anything more and I'd better go inside now and then I run inside. Shortly after that, he went away to prep school, and I dated Fred—for about three weeks. The first time Fred and I kissed, it was all over. It was . . . how do I describe it? It was like kissing a rabid dog whose mouth was filled with foaming slobber. It was like he hocked a loogie in my mouth.”

“Ah!”

“I know. And when the other boy came home from school, he was dating this girl, and I was crushed. I wanted so badly to tell him that I regretted what I'd said, that I wanted to take it back.”

“Was he better looking? Had he changed?”

“No, he hadn't changed at all.
I
had changed. I wasn't scared anymore. I realized that being friends first wasn't a bad thing. Who wants to have a relationship with someone who
isn't
your best friend? Why did I think that because we were friends, we couldn't explore being something more?”

“So what happened, did he end up marrying the other girl?”

“No, he ended up breaking up with the other girl—and marrying me.”

“Dad?”

“Yes, of course, Dad.”

 

 

T
he office was deserted that week after Christmas. Everyone had finished their part of the Expert project except us (IT had nothing to do since that part of the project had been pulled from them). The researchers were only halfway done with their surveys on dishwashers. Jen and I decided we had no choice; we had to fill in the rest of the surveys ourselves. I filled out several myself, I sent some to my mom, some to my friends. I looked at the surveys that had been completed and repeated trends consumers had mentioned. We worked late every night that week. We did, however, manage to get the project done by the deadline.

I began my report with the suggestion that Expert target its message to the busy working mother, who probably didn't have time to cook and clean like her mother had, but still wanted to show her love to her family through wholesome domesticity. This woman was probably better educated than women of previous generations, and might be a whiz in the boardroom, but felt like a klutz in the kitchen. This upper-middle-class mom was Expert's ideal demographic, because she was the one who could afford Expert's steep prices. Thus, the Expert campaign should communicate that its products would make anyone an expert in the kitchen and a dazzling washer of clothes. Plus, these appliances were easy to use and did all the work for you, but you got all the credit.

 

 

L
es and I hadn't spoken for nearly two weeks. I couldn't take it anymore. I called him, and this time, he wasn't screening his calls. As soon as he answered the phone, I felt better.

“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing for New Year's?”

“Tom invited me to a party, but I think I'm going to stay home and watch a video. Maybe order a pizza.”

“Jen and Mike are going to a club for drinks and dancing. I'd really like it if you came.”

“Avery, I . . .”

“Les, this is the only end of the millennium we're ever going to see. Don't stay home with a video.”

He didn't say anything, so I went on.

“Les, I don't know exactly how I feel about you or what I'd like to happen between us. I just know I really miss you and I really want to see you. I think we need to talk. And you never know. We may even have some fun.”

He considered this. “Okay.”

I exhaled, relieved. “Great. We're meeting at my place at nine.”

 

 

L
es was a little late arriving, and by then Jen, Mike, Rette, Greg, and I had already had a couple of glasses of champagne each. Jen, in that way she did, kept everyone laughing riotously with her silly antics and funny comments. The mood around her was festive, and as soon as Les arrived, he was swept into it too.

We piled in Mike's Mercedes. It was way too small for six people, but we decided to rough it to minimize the number of designated drivers. I sat in Les's lap and Rette sat in Greg's lap and Jen took off the panel of the sunroof so she could shout “Happy New Year!” at the top of her lungs to whoever was listening.

“Jen is such a riot,” I said, “I think I'm going to pee in my pants.”

“Please don't,” Les said dryly, which cracked me up all over again.

It only took a few minutes to get to the bar. I'd expected it to be standing room only, but it wasn't nearly as packed as I thought it would be, and we had no trouble finding a table. Rette and Greg sat across from Les and me, and Jen and Mike took off to get drinks for us all.

“Come on, Les, let's hit the dance floor, show them what we've learned,” I said.

“There's hardly anybody out there.”

“Don't be chicken. Come on!”

As soon as we got out there, Les lost his inhibitions. We'd only taken a few lessons, but we'd learned a few spins and dips that looked harder than they actually were, and I thought we looked pretty good together.

After several songs, Les suggested we go to the balcony to cool off. We had the balcony to ourselves.

“You're looking great,” I said.

“I feel good. I'm working out regularly, and I've lost some weight.”

“You seem lighter, but I don't mean pound-wise. Your spirit seems lighter than it was when we first met, like you're carrying less emotional weight. Go over there, in the light. I'll read your aura.”

“Read my aura?”

“Don't make fun. You can't say anything. I have to just look at you for a minute.”

I looked at him, trying not to focus on any one part of him, to let him blur so I could see the colors surrounding him. But instead I focused on his kind eyes, his small dimples, his grin. That grin said so much. It wasn't like Gideon's I-know-I'm-a-totally-sexy-hunk smile; it was not at all arrogant, but it was self-assured. There was something so sexy about someone who was self-assured.

“So what do you see?”

“Nothing. I'm not doing it right. I'm supposed to let your features blur.” I continued looking at him, at his features bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight. “Instead, I think I'm actually just getting a clearer view.”

Neither of us said anything for a long moment.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“Lots of different things. I was thinking about how I always fall for guys with dark eyes and dark hair. I like the contrast of my light to his dark.”

“You can totally use me for my looks. I completely support that.”

I laughed and looked away, glancing at the bodies dancing inside beneath the lights that flashed off and on, off and on, darkness then light.

“What else were you thinking?” he asked.

I looked at him again. I paused, considering my words. “I was thinking that I wonder what it would be like to kiss you.”

“You can find out.”

“What if it turns out I don't feel about you the way you feel about me? I don't want to hurt you.”

“I'd rather get hurt than never give you and me a try.”

“What if it doesn't work out and we're not friends anymore? I don't want to ruin our friendship.”

“We can never go back to being just friends. It's already too late. I already love you.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe I really didn't have anything to lose.

“Don't you think it's a bad idea to date a coworker?”