Point, Click, Love (6 page)

Annie grew up in New York City, went to a fancy prep school, and studied comparative literature at Yale and business management at Wharton. Along the way, she played hopscotch with a future clothing designer, cheated off the math test of a future filmmaker, smoked her first joint with a future congressman, and made out with a future Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist. But that was just the beginning.

It seemed to Annie that every time she read
The New York Times
she came across at least one name she knew. Once it was a lengthy
profile of a guy from her study group at Wharton who’d moved to San Francisco, started an online stock-trading company, sold it for $50 million, then opened a four-star restaurant in Napa, where he was the chef and the entire staff was made up of former drug addicts. Another time she read in the “Vows” section about a girl from her high school who married the son of the ambassador to France, lived in Paris, and wrote a bestselling novel that was about to be made into a major motion picture. One classmate from Yale got written up for potty training her child at only nine months. It seemed that even the stay-at-home moms on the East Coast were overachievers.

At first, Annie found it amusing to be sitting at her kitchen table in the middle of Overland Park, Kansas, getting these glimpses into her past life, but soon the newspaper that she had once admired and treasured for keeping her abreast of all the latest thoughts and trends and discoveries that would have otherwise passed her by became the bane of her existence.

Annie had always been one of those people who was destined for great things. She went to the best schools, excelled at everything she did, even made a name for herself on the junior table-tennis circuit. When she graduated from Wharton, she was recruited by Sprint, and while she was hesitant to come to the Midwest, she felt like she was pioneering terrain that she and her fellow easterners knew nothing about. But after a few years, the charms of being a New Yorker in the heartland wore off, and she became just another marketing director at a massive telecommunications company, sitting in a landlocked state far from the city she once loved.

Meanwhile, everyone else she knew was making millions, creating important works of art, or contributing to the betterment of society—all within a short driving distance of a great beach and a scenic mountain range.

Once she made the mistake of bemoaning her predicament to her mother, who had been against Annie’s move to Kansas City from the start.

“Today’s paper was the worst,” said Annie to her mother one Sunday morning after spending three hours reading an especially hefty issue of the
Times
. “Ron Goldfarb was on page one for discovering a new planet, there was a review of Christine Hepner’s new movie in the ‘Arts’ section, and Scott Anderson wrote an oped about spending a year in Spain eating paella. One more story about a former classmate and I was gonna heave my Honey Bunches of Oats.”

“So why don’t you move back here?” asked her mother.

Annie should have known that would be her mother’s response, but she had hoped for some sympathy instead. “Oh, yeah? So they’ll put me in the
Times
just for moving back home?”

“You know what I mean. If you’d stayed here maybe you’d be making movies …”

“Or discovering planets? Doubt it. I might be eating more paella though. The restaurants here suck.”

“I think you’re wasting your potential there, Annie.”

There were others like Annie all over town, other young talented women from major cities and prestigious colleges who had dreams of making it big in a strange new land. But once they settled in, they began to lose their edge. At first, Annie and these women lived in downtown lofts and trolled the bars and galleries and got tickets to see hip bands, trying to make the city into a place that resembled where they had come from. But, gradually, each one of them married a nice midwestern guy, bought a house in the suburbs, started having babies, and quit their job. All except Annie.

Annie would have liked to say that she consciously chose not to go down that road, that she had no desire to pursue such a traditional
lifestyle, but she would have been lying. In fact, she tried hard to find the nice midwestern boy, but in the process kept running into the not-so-nice boys.

She wasted time with a hipster she met at a gallery opening who wanted to get out of town as soon as he could. Later, she graduated to a corporate lawyer she could never seem to lure off the golf course. But the biggest waste of time was Ben Weiner, whom she dated for six years. She met Ben while he was in dental school and they were both twenty-nine years old—ripe for a serious relationship. They immediately hit it off, spending all their time together, saying “I love you,” and even hanging out with his family. That’s what really did Annie in—the family.

Ben was Jewish, and every Friday night he would go to dinner at his parents’ house. Not wanting to exclude Annie from this regular part of his life, Ben always invited her to come along, and she usually did. Ben had four older siblings—two brothers and two sisters—and there were nine nieces and nephews among them. Every week it was a loud, raucous event, but Annie loved it because it reminded her of the large, boisterous Jewish families she knew back in New York.

The best part was how nice Ben’s family was to her. Being the only nonrelative at the table, she was always given special attention, but she was never made to feel like an outsider. And because she was so familiar with Jewish customs, the family never had to explain the prayers they said in Hebrew or the traditional foods they ate. Unlike Ben’s past girlfriends, Annie always ate the chopped liver and the matzo ball soup and told Ben’s mom she made the best stuffed cabbage she’d ever had.

Everything about Ben pointed to a marriage proposal. The only thing that caused Annie concern was the possibility that he wouldn’t want to marry a non-Jew, but with his family being so welcoming, Annie figured it must not be an issue. Besides, one of
Ben’s brothers was married to a woman named Brittany, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a ski-slope nose, so clearly there was a precedent.

Annie kept waiting for Ben to bring up the subject of their future together, not wanting to be one of those women who had to give an ultimatum. But on her thirty-fifth birthday, she could hold out no longer.

“So I think I’m having a midlife crisis,” Annie told Ben over a glass of champagne at their favorite French restaurant.

“Unless you’re planning on dying young, I don’t think it’s a midlife crisis,” said Ben, taking a bite of his tuna tartare.

“I guess I’m feeling kind of old. Don’t you ever feel that way?”

“Nope,” he said, reaching over and taking a spoonful of Annie’s French onion soup.

Annie was beginning to think that men in their thirties still believed that they would live forever and felt no rush to get married and start a family. The thirties were the new twenties.

“Okay. Then I guess it’s just me,” said Annie, thinking this conversation was not going the way she had hoped. She was starting to feel a distance from Ben that she’d never felt before.

“Don’t worry, Annie. You’re still young and beautiful, and have a long life ahead of you.”

“I know,” she said. “But, well, I hate to do this to you, and I hate to be this kind of woman, but I have to ask. What do you think about the whole marriage thing?”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” said Ben, trying to make light of it.

“No, I’m asking if you ever think about marriage.”

“Well, honestly, I don’t,” answered Ben. “I know I should, and I know that’s what people do, but I just don’t think about it much right now. I have time.”

He has time? thought Annie. “Really? I didn’t think at age thirty-five we were still thinking we had all the time in the world.”

“Listen, Annie,” said Ben, finally putting down his fork to give Annie his full attention. “The other thing is … Well, I thought you figured out that I can’t marry a non-Jew.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No.”

“But your family—they love me!”

“Yes, they do. They love you. But if they knew you weren’t Jewish …”

“What do you mean, ‘if they knew’?” asked Annie incredulously.

“I think they think you’re Jewish,” he mumbled, looking down at his plate.

“What?!”

“You know, you’re from New York, and you sort of have that accent, and your name is Sax,” said Ben, pleading his case.

“Sax with an ‘x.’ That’s different.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know that.”

“They don’t know because you never told them! Why, Ben? Why didn’t you tell them?”

“I guess it was easier to lie.”

“Easier? For whom? You?”

“I just didn’t want to go there with them.”

“I can’t believe this!” Annie looked at Ben as if she was looking at a stranger. “What about Brittany? She’s not Jewish.”

“She is, actually.”

“But I look more Jewish than Brittany! And she won’t even eat gefilte fish!”

“Annie, I’m sorry. I thought … You never talked about marriage before, never, and I figured that you weren’t interested.”

Annie broke up with Ben that night, but deep down she knew he was right. Maybe this
was
all her fault. In six years she had almost pathologically avoided the subject of marriage. Maybe she wasn’t interested in settling down with someone after all.

Annie wondered if what she really wanted were all the things that came with marriage. Like the house. When Annie moved from New York to Kansas City, one of the things she was most excited about was the prospect of owning a freestanding single-family home. Almost ten years later, with a good job and plenty of money, she decided it was finally time. So she bought a house in an upscale development near her office. With four bedrooms, three and a half baths, and a finished basement, it was much more than she needed, but she couldn’t get over the fact that she could have such a huge house for the same amount as a nice studio in New York would cost. Besides, she would be able to host her family and friends if they ever decided to visit her in Kansas City, something that still hadn’t happened in almost ten years.

Annie was also tired of hanging out with single people. She was tired of going to bars and clubs and cool new restaurants, tired of shopping for sexy clothes in expensive boutiques, and, most of all, tired of talking about men. It seemed to Annie that no matter the news of the day, whether it be a war, a mass shooting, a mishandled hurricane evacuation, or a significant election, all the single women around her preferred to talk about men. They talked about how to meet them, where to meet them, how wonderful they were, and how horrible they were. More often than not, they alternately characterized men as unevolved infantile bores or as sex objects. And yet it seemed to Annie that these bland pieces of meat took up most of their time and attention.

So she found herself gravitating toward married women. The married women, particularly those with children, had a kind of calm about them that Annie admired. Yes, they appeared frazzled and stressed on the outside as they juggled their jobs, husbands, and kids, but they were free from the inner turmoil that seemed to plague so many single women in their thirties, free from the question mark that constantly hung over their lives.

Her first married friend was Claudia, who worked for the
PR agency that Annie had hired. While Annie had adapted well to the nice, polite, middle-of-the-road midwestern way, she was thrilled to meet Claudia, who with her brash, confident, lefty sensibility seemed to have been flown in directly from New York City.

It wasn’t until their fifth meeting at the PR agency’s office that Annie finally worked up the nerve to ask Claudia to go out after work. “Would you like to go have a drink?” she asked shyly.

“Um, sure,” said Claudia, sounding a bit hesitant.

As they sat at the bar of a nearby restaurant in awkward silence, Annie realized: Claudia must think I’m interested in her. She decided to nip it in the bud right away. “I hope you don’t think I’m making a move on you or anything,” said Annie. When the words left her mouth she experienced a brief moment of mortification, but that quickly passed when she noticed Claudia’s entire body relax with relief.

“Well, yes. I did.”

“Oh, wow. Sorry about that.”

“No problem. I have to admit, I was a little excited, because I’ve never been hit on by a woman before. I guess I still haven’t.”

“So you thought I was a lesbian?” asked Annie.

“To be perfectly honest, I’ve thought you were a lesbian for a while now.”

“Really? Am I butch?” Annie asked, tugging on her long, straight brown hair as if to say: “This is not the hair of a lesbian!”

“No!” said Claudia. “I don’t know. There’s something different about you.”

“What is it?” asked Annie, clutching her face with both hands, turning from side to side so Claudia could see her from a variety of angles.

“Maybe you don’t seem to be interested in men.”

“It’s true, I’m not!” said Annie excitedly, impressed by Claudia’s first observation and eager to hear more.

“Like that Jerry guy. All the women in your division are nuts for him. They get all flustered when they talk to him. They can’t look him in the eye. But you, you don’t seem to care a bit.”

“Interesting,” said Annie. “You’re right. I don’t care.”

“Maybe he’s just not your type.”

Annie knew that Jerry was good-looking, had heard women at the office talk about him, but he didn’t have an effect on her. Actually, she couldn’t remember the last time a guy did have an effect on her. Maybe she was a lesbian. No, it wasn’t that. Annie simply wasn’t feeling sexual toward anybody lately.

“Maybe there’s something wrong with me,” said Annie, hoping that Claudia might have some insight into her problem.

“Maybe there’s something right with you,” said Claudia. “It’s always bothered me how women, even the strongest women, let men rule their lives.”

“I can’t imagine you letting anyone rule your life.” Because Annie’s face was so delicate and her body so petite—barely five foot four and a mere 115 pounds—she was always in awe of women like Claudia, who was tall and muscular with dark, striking features. Annie knew she was strong and independent, but sometimes she wished her dainty features and frail frame didn’t stand in such contrast to her bold personality.