Emily's Reasons Why Not (13 page)

“I know, me, too,” I sigh and think this is what heaven must feel like before falling back to sleep.

Walking on the beach in La Jolla with Reese, we stop at a
cute Italian restaurant and have lunch. It’s nice to relax. It’s his off day, so we get to play without him hurrying to the field. We order a bottle of wine and hold hands in silence as little kids build sand castles. After a bowl of cream-filled fettuccine alfredo pasta with garlic bread and polishing off the bottle, we walk along the water’s edge, letting the cool, salty water hit our toes and sober our thoughts. I sit down in front of him on the sand, in between his legs, and he wraps his entire body around me as we watch the sunset.

The next days are equally blissful. I usually drive him to the stadium in his Range Rover, drop him off, and return later for the game.

Tonight as we pull into the player’s parking lot he makes me stop an extra second at the security booth. An old black man emerges.

“Hey Earl, I want you to meet someone.”

Earl leans into the driver’s side and looks at me in the passenger’s seat.

“This is Emily. Can you keep an extra-special eye on her? She’s my girl.”

Earl stutters, “Weeeeeellll, Re, Ree, Reeesse, anan anny girl of of of yours, is pp pp pprecci prreicous precious cargo.” “Thanks, Earl. All my best to your kids.” “Nice meeting you,” I say.

“Y, y, you, too.” He smiles a big, honest good-bye.

Being at the games is amazing. It is a different perspective than just being a fan. There is a desire to cheer just slightly louder. Sitting in the “family seats” isn’t as bad as I thought it
would be. Mainly I just go alone and keep to myself. After listening to the wives talk about vacations to Bora Bora and Rolex watches, well, I don’t seem to have much in common with them. Mainly, I have a job. Which after this two-week break is over I will need to get back to. For now I just sit in the stands watching Reese make play after play, feeling lucky and proud. He’s a good man.

End of week two. Things I have noticed:

1. Woman’s hair clip in bathroom drawer. Which, okay, he could have had a girlfriend before me. Completely normal.
   

2. One thank-you card inside drawer from someone named Molly. Mollycouldbeafan, afriend, orasister-in-law.
   

3. Two cell phones. I only have the number for one.
   

Reese has two cell phones. Why? Why two? I mean, who the hell needs two cell phones? Why is the one that I don’t have the number to ringing all the time? Why doesn’t he answer it? Is that my fear? My innate womanly instinct, insecurity, or is it real?

More important, my nausea is back. Maybe Reese isn’t doing anything and I am just a paranoid freak judging a guy who has been nothing but loving to me. Yet something is eating at me.

I drop Reese at the ballpark, arrive back at his apartment, and call Reilly, who can at the very least sympathize with me for my obsessive suspicion or, well, inability to feel
good enough
.

“He has two cell phones and it’s making me crazy,” I say, digging into his drawers.

“Lemme call you back. I am on with the stupid cable company. Two minutes. I’ll call you right back. Gimme the number at Reese’s,” Reilly says.

“Call me back!? I am having a situation here!”

I give her the number and proceed to go off the deep end. I start looking, digging, really. Inspecting. I have been longdistance-dating him for one month, in San Diego thirteen days, and I am now acting like a jealous wife. This is how the terminology “acting like a woman” became negative.

Seriously, someone help me. I rationalize looking at the return addresses on his mail by thinking that everyone has, at one time, felt the madness I am feeling. Fucking condoms in the bag. Searching the drawer in the nightstand I find books. Books I sent him … inscribed and signed, xo, can’t wait to see you. Emily.

Why are they hidden under the pillowcases in the night-stand?

KY JELLY!!!

Where’s his overnight bag? I rummage through the closet.

Ahh, relief, pictures of me on the movie set, in the hotel, pictures I gave him of Sam and I … WAIT. An envelope. A card. More pictures … the card reads …

As the sun sets I am reminded it will be another day without you. Maybe I’ll see you in Houston. Love, Molly
. It’s fucking dated two fucking weeks ago! And if that is not enough, there are
pictures of MOLLY at her house, at her work, and with her dog. SICK! I am going to throw up!

Where’s Reilly? RRREEEIIILLLLLYYYYYY! I sit, shaking on his bed. I call Reilly back and start to pace.

“Piccturress. He has picturreees.”

“What? What pictures? Calm down. Breathe. Breathe,” she says.

“I found pictures of another girl, a card, and condoms in his … his … his fucking overnight bag.” I take a deep breath.

“Is that why you didn’t answer the phone? I’ve been calling every five minutes for the past half-hour,” Reilly says.

“What?” I sit down, thoroughly confused. “The phone didn’t even ring.”

We both sit silent for a second, then Reilly blurts out in a low tone, “Check the ringer on the side of the phone.”

I roll the phone on its side, and the ringer is turned OFF. “Em, Emily, are you there?”

“Hold on.”

I run through the apartment checking each phone, and ALL of the ringers are turned OFF!

“They’re all off. Every fucking last fucking one of them.”

My tears are turning to anger.

“Fucking cheating, lying piece of shit!”

“Ballplayer,” Reilly says. “Get out of there. Call a cab. Go to the airport in San Diego and fly home. Call me back. I’ll pick you up.”

I sit there silent. Maybe he is trying to protect me. Maybe
there aren’t other women. Maybe I misread him. Maybe I don’t have the right to be jealous. But what he said about holding me, protecting me … confusing. I am scared. I am angry. Heartbroken.

“Emily, GO!” Reilly yells at me.

I am now officially awake from the dream. My fight-or-flight instinct just kicked in and I am all out of fighting. It was a dream I so wanted to be true. I pack my bags and call a cab. Am I wrong? Am I running? Am I just afraid? Am I giving Reese a fair shake to explain himself?

As I hang up with the cab company, the phone rings … as the fucking ringers are now turned on!

“Hello,” I say tentatively

A woman’s voice timidly responds, “Is Reese there?”

“No. Lemme guess. This is Molly,” I say with disdain.

“No, it’s Hillary. Tell him to call me on my cell.”

I do not leave an explanation. I simply leave Molly’s card and pictures out, scattered on the living room floor, with a Post-it that says,
Call Hillary on her cell
. I think he’ll get the point.

He doesn’t deserve to see my puffy, red eyes.

I step off the Southwest shuttle and the sight of Reilly and Grace standing there is overwhelming. Tears burst from my eyes. Grace wraps her arms around me. Reilly takes my bag, wraps her arm around my other shoulder, and together the girls walk me through the airport like security guards flanking their fragile bundle.

That night I rub Sam’s furry muzzle, resting on the side of
my bed, and look over at the phone, secretly waiting for Reese’s call, his apology, his explanation.

I make Sam climb up on the bed so I can spoon him. I run my hand over his barrel chest and find a lump underneath his thick coat. I sit up and examine him. He looks me in the eye with an “I’m okay mom” look. I study my pup for a minute. There is something perfect between people and their dogs. He licks my face and rolls into his spot next to me. The phone rings. Once, twice … Sam and I stare at it.

I hesitantly reach to pick it up, and it stops in mid-ring.

I lay there motionless, staring at the phone.

Sam runs his snout under my hand to pet him. I give him a scratch on each side of the muzzle and click off the light.

In the darkness I wonder if it was him, I wonder if I didn’t give it enough time, an explanation, or an ending. I mean, there is something about him.

I guess a better question is, I wonder why I still care and how long that’s going to last?

Chapter five

Gay/Straight

I
pull into the parking structure beneath Dr. D.’s office, multitasking on the cell phone with Reilly, discussing final preparations for Grace’s Halloween-themed bridal shower while applying lip liner. This is the moment of truth. We know that Grace will either think we are incredibly clever or in horrifically bad taste to have orange-and-black invitations that will ultimately land in some wedding scrap-book to forever torture her.

Walking into the office, I am sort of giddy at the thought of Grace’s reaction.

“Where’s your list?” Dr. D. asks.

“That’s it. No more lists. That’s how I got here, a guy in the office, a guy on vacation, and a baseball player (my soul mate whom I ran away from having no idea if it’s his fault or
mine, but then again, does it ever really matter?). Can we talk about my new guy?”

“How’s work?”

“Good. I had my review last week. They made me a vice president. I got a raise, gave JJ a promotion, and have what may be a potential new boyfriend,” I ponder out loud. “There’s only one reason I can think of right now that it may not work with Stan.”

“What’s that?” he asks, as flat and clinical as a cold stethoscope on my warm chest.

“Can I start at the beginning?”

“All right, fine.”

“I’ve given you tidbits, so you already know a little, but let me start from the first time I saw him again after the fundraiser …” I lean back on the couch.

Official date number one: We meet outside of Rebecca’s for lunch, an upscale Mexican restaurant on the beach in Santa Monica. He’s wearing khaki shorts hanging low on his hips, a blue T-shirt, and flip-flops, beachy, cute. My favorite white sundress flutters in the breeze, conforming to the curves of my body. It’s that rare moment when I believe I look good, instead of weighty at 133 pounds, and he is missing the moment.

We eat fish tacos wrapped in corn tortillas, salty chips, and salsa with green chili peppers. My mouth is on fire, but I wash it down with Coronas and limes. Which of course reminds me of Reese. Ugh! I love Mexican food; must be the Arizona girl in me.

After lunch we walk across Ocean Boulevard and head toward the Santa Monica Pier. The lights of the rickety wooden Ferris wheel sparkle and reflect off the dark blue ocean, adding a magical contrast to the orange and purple sunset. Pine, tar, and salt water are in the air. We play skee-ball and shoot water guns at balloons in carnival booths. It’s a date, straight out of
Happy Days
. But is he the Fonz, or Potsie? Not that Potsie wasn’t cool, because he had that whole singer gig going, but he was always just a little soft compared to the Fonz. Maybe that is what is wrong with me. I am attracted to the Fonzes of the world instead of Potsie or Richie.

Am I silly by still having the faintest hope that I could find a man to love who is both kind and cool? That the connection I felt with Reese can happen again? Are there loving yet cool guys out there? Could Stan be that guy?

A cool breeze blows off the shore as he walks me back to my car. The valet revs up in the Mustang and I feel like Sam must when he watches me pack for a trip. As if the lights are going down and my longing is just beginning. I don’t want the day to be over.

I thump the door lock to the Mustang. Up, down. Deciding. There is a moment of awkward silence and I can’t help but blurt out, “Do you want to, maybe, come over for dinner tonight? It’s already six-thirty and you did, well …”

I search for a reason.

“Buy me lunch.”

My God, I sound needy. Let him go. Play hard to get. Let him call. Don’t be so available. Be patient. Play the waiting
game. Let him seek me out. Men are hunters, cavemen. They want to work for the kill. They want to feel like they properly brought down their meal. They want to earn it and here I am lying down in the tall African grass like a horny lioness.

“Sure. I’ll follow you.”

Holy shit!

In the kitchen I add spices to my marinara sauce and pasta while tossing in the scallops and shrimp. Heat from the wet, boiling penne fogs the window above the sink. I breathe in the steam. I set the Caesar salad down as Stan lights the candles on my old, barn-style dining table.

“I lovethis table,” hesays, blowing out a match and uncorking a bottle of wine. He pours me a glass with flawless style.

I am traipsing around on clouds; harp music surrounds me in my head. I look to my back for the wings. Yep, there they are. My feet dance above the ground.

Built-in, well-mannered boyfriend, already at the house having dinner.

Around 11:00 P.M. I am sleepy and cuddled on the couch, watching Stan watch the highlights on ESPN. Jeter hits another home run. Ho-hum. Then wait. Reese, at the plate. The pitch. He swings. Misses. He never swings at the first pitch. I subtly ease up a little and watch the second pitch. Low and fast. Crack! The ball SAILS into deep, deep, deep center field. It could be. The outfielder runs to the warning track. It might be. The outfielder goes up for it, but the ball sails over the fence. Home run. Reese pumps a fist as he rounds first. Padres win by one and I am flutter-flutter-flutta-flutta-fluttering!!!

I shoot my gaze back to Stan. “You need to go,” I say.

He looks at his watch. “Emily, it’s eleven thirty-five. We’ve had three margaritas, two Coronas, and a bottle of Pinot. I live an hour south on the 405. Driving isn’t wise.”

He wants sex, wants to strip off my 501s like Reese should be doing right now, like he
is
most definitely doing with some baseball bimbette as I think about it. He is throwing her on the bed and …

What am I thinking about? Stan doesn’t sound so bad. Why not? Go for it, a perfect distraction.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’ll sleep on the couch.” Stan looks down at me with his big, gray-blue eyes.

Too late. The thought of having a body to spoon me when my head is spinning around with thoughts of Reese sounds like a great way to forget the highlights. No couch! It would be nice, even for just one night, to have him hold me. Besides, I can use some hot kisses, maybe an hour of over-the-clothes groping.