Out to Lunch (8 page)

7

A
nd how did it make you feel, to hear that he wanted to pursue a relationship?” Nancy asks, all judgment and opinion carefully stripped from her voice.

“Annoyed. Worried. Confused.”

“I see. Not at all happy or excited.” It’s a statement more than a question.

“Look, I know it should have made me all wiggly and giddy and wanting to call all my girlfriends and summon them to cocktails to dissect it or something.”

“Sex and the City Syndrome,” Nancy says, almost parenthetically. But it makes me laugh.

“Exactly!”

“But you did call Andrea.”

“Yeah, but that was more because hearing that message on Aimee’s voice mail freaked me out, and the Brian thing seemed like a better excuse to ask her to come over than I accidentally called Aimee and she answered and I lost my shit.”

“I see. But her thoughts about Brian didn’t reassure you.”

“Not really. I mean, I keep thinking the whole thing over. I had a long night. It’s exhausting trying to stay upbeat when hanging out with Wayne. I had some drinks to numb it a little, and a good-looking guy kissed me. I’m single, and it had been a very long time since I had sex, and I went to bed with him. All of that was fine. It didn’t need to become a whole, you know,
thing
. I didn’t need him to become my boyfriend or something. And he probably just said it because he wanted me to feel okay about it, like a grown woman doesn’t get the whole one-night-stand thing.”

“What about the possibility that he just likes you and is attracted to you and wants to spend time with you, get to know you.”

That idea just floats in the room. Because not for one minute did it ever occur to me.

The pause is not lost on Nancy. “Jenna, you’ve said that you find this man attractive. That you have always thought him smart and competent. That last night you found him to be charming and funny, and you enjoyed his company, especially since he shares your opinions of Wayne, which made him feel like an ally. And you enjoyed your intimate time with him. Why is that not someone you think might be worth dating? He didn’t propose marriage, he asked you to have dinner with him.”

I have to think about this. “I haven’t dated anyone since Jack.”

“Why do you suppose that is?”

“Aimee was sick.”

“Aimee was pretty good for almost a whole year, by your account, and over two years is a very long time.”

“I just wasn’t up for it. The breakup with Jack was difficult. I wasn’t ready. My focus was elsewhere. Aimee was sick. I know that isn’t an excuse, but it is what it is. I’m in my forties, I don’t want kids, I have plenty of money . . .”

“So for you, a man in your life needs to be about either fathering children or supporting you financially.” Again, a statement, not a question, and devoid of editorializing.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What about love and support and companionship.”

“I have . . .” Crap.

“You had Aimee for that,” she finishes for me.

“Guess I’m pretty fucked up, huh?” I laugh.

“You’re human. And I think we are getting at some of the root of your grieving, the magnitude of your loss. You don’t have to go out with Brian if you don’t want to. But I want you to make that decision for yourself thoughtfully. Would it be so bad to just have dinner with him and see how you feel, about him, about you with him.”

“Maybe not.” I do hate that she keeps making points about the “magnitude of my loss.” It feels a little judgey, like I should be in bed twenty hours a day staring at Aimee’s picture and wailing.

“Oh come off it. No one thinks that. Besides, being strong for everyone is what you do. What you always did. You wouldn’t have the first clue how to fall apart.”

Nancy breaks through Aimee’s lecture. “This seems like a good place to stop. I’ll see you next week.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Jenna, if you don’t like him or don’t think you could like him, there is no shame in a grown single woman getting her physical needs addressed and leaving it at that. Your friend Andrea is right on the money about that. But be sure that is all you wanted, all you needed, before you completely dismiss the idea out of hand.”

“Okay. I will.”

* * *

I
head home, determined to take Volnay for a long walk and to stop by the Library. But the long day, the lack of sleep, and the slight hangover interfere. I sit down on the couch for just a moment, and fall into the sleep of the dead. When the doorbell wakes me, the sky is already just starting to darken.

I drag myself up off the couch and head for the door. Peeking through the window, I see a short man nearly obscured by a large floral arrangement. Maybe this Brian thing isn’t so bad . . .

“Hi, I’m from Fleur. Delivery for Jenna Stewart?”

“That’s me.” I sign the clipboard and receive the flowers, a gorgeous antique silver champagne bucket filled with deep pink roses, accented with pink and white sweet peas, Mexican tuberoses, and pink calla lilies. Not a stargazer in the bunch.

I stick my nose in the fragrant blooms, and smile to myself. Maybe Nancy is right. Maybe I do need to give Brian a chance. Last night was fun, before I got all in my head about it. And this morning was kind of nice, if slightly awkward. I just need to get out of my dark thoughts and go with the flow. He is a smart, kind, very attractive man, and I’m frankly shocked he is remotely interested in me. But so what? Why shouldn’t I just let it go and see what happens? It doesn’t have to be a big deal; I could just date him and see how it goes. Andrea’s right, he can’t make me be more involved than I want to be, I should just go with the flipping flow. Resigned, I pluck the card from the bouquet, and open the little envelope. Wayne’s weirdly tiny handwriting stares back at me.

Hey Jenny, just wanted to say sorry for all the klutziness and thanks for a great night. It was really nice to be with you and talk. I’ll call you later. Wayne.

Oy.

“I did give him SOME training, you know.”

“Seriously, Aimee. Not fair.”

“Hey. That man just spent about a quarter of his monthly allowance to apologize and do something to make you smile. And you and I never subscribed to the whole
Rules
bullshit about sex and flowers anyway.”

“I know.”

Volnay looks up at me from the couch, cocking her head to the side, wondering what I am doing speaking to a bunch of flowers. I sort of wonder the same thing. I pick up my phone.

“A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I stepped away from my phone . . . so leave me a message!” Good grief, he doesn’t make it easy.

“Hey Wayne, it’s Jenna. I just wanted to say thanks for the lovely flowers; it was very thoughtful and totally unnecessary. But it was nice to, um, see you last night, and we’ll have to do it again soon. Take care.”

I pause, and then dial a different number.

“Brian Casswood.”

“Hi, Brian.”

“Hello there.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Please don’t say you’re calling to cancel on me . . .”

“Nope, just wanted to confirm our timing.” Deep breath, Jenna, it’s just dinner.

“I’ll pick you up at seven thirty, does that work?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Me too.” And I almost am. I replace the phone and look at the dog. “C’mon girly girl. Let’s take a quick walk and then figure out what on earth I am going to wear on my date.”

I manage to take a power nap, shower, make up, and then I decide on an olive green dress that Aimee always said made my eyes the most extraordinary color. Brian is exactly on time, looking amazing in dark jeans, a V-neck sweater in heathered charcoal, with a white T-shirt underneath, a perfectly broken-in leather blazer. We head to Mythos, one of my favorite places, a BYOB Greek joint with amazing food.

Brian opens the first of the two bottles of rosé he brought, and once we decide to just order a meal of all appetizers and do a small-plates dinner instead of entrees, I find that the conversation is much less stilted than it was yesterday.

“So Aimee comes back from her spa afternoon and finds Wayne sitting in the middle of their huge suite on the floor . . . playing with Legos.”

“Wait, how old is this guy?”

“FORTY-FOUR!!! Of course, he was only thirty-nine at the time . . .” I’m going to have to figure out how they make these featherlight zucchini fritters. I wonder if they whip the egg whites?

“Seriously,” Brian says, refilling my wineglass, and placing another piece of house-made grilled loukaniko sausage on my plate. “He’s in Vegas, he has an afternoon to himself, and instead of hanging by the pool, or going to sit in the sports book, or hitting the tables . . .”

“He walked the strip till he found a toy store, bought himself some Star Wars Lego kits, and spread them out on the floor in a million tiny pieces.”

“I gotta ask, what the heck did she see in him? I mean, I don’t want to speak ill, but she always seemed so together and she was certainly gorgeous and smart, I just assumed she would have been with some elegant intellectual architect or venture capitalist or think-tank guy or something.”

“I know. I sort of don’t really know how it happened. She met him at a holiday party we did for a company he worked for. I was in the kitchen, so I missed the whole thing. When the party was over, Wayne saw her standing outside when he drove by, and he offered her a ride. They ended up going out for a drink and then they were just sort of inseparable.”

“And insufferable,” Brian pipes in around a mouthful of chewy bread spread with tzatziki.

“Yeah, that too.”

“Surely you have something else you can talk about besides Wayne. You are starting to go a little mean girl.”

My hand, halfway to the calamari, stops in midair. Damn you, Aimee. I realize that now that the floodgates have opened, between Nancy and Brian, eight years of pent-up complaining and poking fun have all come right to the surface and I’m very much in danger of becoming both boring and cruel. I don’t want to fall into that trap.

“So, enough about Wayne, what’s your story?” I ask.

“Um, what do you want to know?”

“I don’t know, you said last night you grew up out east, came here for school and liked it. Been with the firm since an internship in law school. But what about personal life? Who are you, what do you like, what do you do?”

“Ha. So, the whole thing, huh?” He smiles, one dimple popping out charmingly. “Okay, let’s see. I was married once, for seven years. Law school romance, didn’t survive our mutual ambition as associates. I bought my condo when I made partner, South Loop, love the area.”

He gestures to the last piece of house-made grilled loukaniko sausage, and I nod to let him know he can have it. He spears it with his fork and continues.

“I genuinely like my work, so I probably let it consume me more than I should. I like to ski and scuba, so I tend to split my vacations between Colorado and the Caribbean. I collect contemporary photography. Mostly interested in food and wine as a spectator, but always thought it would be fun to actually learn how to cook. Know anyone that would like to teach me?”

“I might be able to put you in touch with someone.”

“What about you? What is your story? Quid pro quo.”

“Not much to tell that you don’t know, I’m pretty sure.” It is a little weird that Brian already knows so much about my financial situation, my work history. It’s also refreshing that he is delighted to talk shit about Wayne and reference Aimee, but hasn’t asked me how I am “doing.”

“Well, I don’t know, how is it possible you are single?”

Do men truly have no idea how horrific a question that is? I know you think it makes you sound complimentary, like how did you get so lucky to catch me between suitors, but really? To women it just sounds like you are asking what sort of scary undateable shit we are hiding from you. What shall we say at this juncture? I’m emotionally unavailable? I bite my toenails? I’m a secret Satan worshipper who dabbles in blood sport? I’m a lousy lay? We say the stuff we have learned to say. Men are intimidated by my brains/financial success. I’m married to my work. I don’t want kids. I just haven’t found the right match, and I don’t want to settle.

We don’t say the stuff we fear is true, which is that there just isn’t a right match out there for us. That we aren’t young enough, pretty enough, thin enough, sexy enough. That we are too broken. That we blithely discarded half a dozen men in our youth that might indeed have been The One if we weren’t so focused on our careers, or if we hadn’t been so glib or superficial about what was important.

Instead I shrug and go with as much honesty as I can muster. “I was engaged a couple of years ago, but Aimee got sick, and when I decided to give her part of my liver, I didn’t talk with him about it; I just booked the surgery and told him later when it was already decided. And he said that he couldn’t spend his whole life competing with Aimee, and I realized he was a selfish douchewaffle, so we broke off the engagement.”

He nods. “And now?”

Oy. Isn’t it a little soon for this kind of deep? Technically we are on our first date.