Sometime Soon (9 page)

“Does he want a relationship with
you?” I ask.

“I don’t know. There’s an
attraction there, but neither of us want to hurt Katie.”

“Oh my god, Bryn.”

“I know,” she nods miserably.

“This is why you’ve been acting
strange? Why you haven’t spoken to Katie?”

Bryn nods again. “I didn’t know
what to do, and I couldn’t face her.”

“But you can chat with Mike on the
phone whenever he likes? Does he talk to you about his relationship with
Katie?”

She’s reminding me of a bobble head
doll as she continues nodding.

I look away from Bryn, breaking the
terrible spell she’s cast, and the world comes back into focus. I stare blindly
at my surroundings. Katie is going to be devastated. I reluctantly return to
the conversation. “Why did you tell me this?”

“I had to tell someone. I feel so
awful about everything.”

“Not awful enough to stop talking
to Mike.” I glare at Bryn. Her eyes are red and her face is tearstained. “You
like him.”

She seems surprised by my
statement. I think she’s not going to comment when she finally says, “I don’t
know.”

“Is he going to call off the wedding?”
I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.

“I know he’s been having second
thoughts. But I don’t know if he’s serious.”

I feel queasy as I push away my
half empty frappuccino and study Bryn, her full face pale against her faded
yellow
Life is Good
T-shirt. “What have you been thinking?” I ask,
genuinely wanting to know. In my opinion, Mike isn’t worth even five minutes of
thought, and yet he has two women fretting and pining over him. I suddenly feel
restless. Before she can answer my question, I stand abruptly.

Bryn jumps to her feet. “Are you
going to tell Katie?”

The thought makes my chest feel
tight. “Maybe you ought to tell her.”

“I can’t.” Her voice is quiet but
adamant.

Then a terrible thought occurs to
me. I can feel the frappuccino churning in my stomach. “If
you
tell
Katie, you’re afraid Mike will be angry with you. But if I tell her, you might
have a chance with him.”

Her response is
silence. No denial.

 “He’s a miserable asshole,
bad-mouthing his ex-wife all the time and now doing this to Katie. How could
you want someone like that?”

“But he isn’t that way. You don’t
understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

“It’s not his fault.”

“What isn’t his fault?” I
challenge. “His life?”

“He and his wife were never happy.
She never really loved him. And now Katie’s pushing him to get married, and he
isn’t ready for that again.”

“So rather than being straight with
her, he keeps up a charade while he’s taking his consolation from you?”

“You just don’t understand,” she
says softly.

I walk out of the Starbucks without
looking back.

“Interesting morning,” Joan
comments, back at her post again.

“You have no idea,” I mutter, and
continue on to my desk. Nate is gone, probably uneasily continuing his
paternity leave.

“You don’t want to miss
The
Bachelor
tonight,” Rob says, stopping by my cube.
“Why not?” I ask, feigning interest.

“I saw the previews. The panty girl
gets drunk and passes out on the bed. She’s too wasted to show up to get a
rose.”

“She sounds like quite a catch.”

“They sure can pick ‘em for that
show. During the auditions, they must look for the wackiest, most mentally
unstable women they can find.”

Once Rob ambles away, I settle in
at my desk and stare blindly at my computer monitor. Poor Katie. Telling her is
the right thing to do, despite the fact that Bryn has manipulated me into it.
It has to be in person. I can’t tell her something like this over the phone.
We’ve all had that hypothetical thought. If your boyfriend or husband were
cheating on you, would you want to know? It’s a big ‘yes’ for me. As appalled
as I am with Bryn, I know I’m angry for another reason, too. I’m feeling
astounded that two sensible women have allowed themselves to be hooked by this
completely despicable man. Are the pickings so slim that if any man pays some
attention to you, you have to latch on to him with a death grip because you
don’t know if another man will ever be interested in you again? They can’t be
blind to his considerable shortcomings, can they? The whole situation is just too
depressing.

I call my mother, the most
enthusiastic purveyor of advice I know.

“If you decide to tell her, be
prepared for her to be angry with you,” Mom cautions.

“Maybe I should wait to see how this
wedding date issue plays out. Katie was going to try to pin him down on a date,
finally. And he hasn’t actually cheated on her yet.”

“I’d say he has,” Mom replies. I
think she’s right. He has betrayed Katie.

After I hang up the phone I’m too
distracted to get any work done, so I compose an email to Katie simply asking
when we can get together. Her reply appears about a half hour later. She wants
to go shopping for swimsuits on Saturday. This is not my favorite activity, but
I agree to go. Why do I feel like I’m summoning her to her execution?

A few uneventful days have passed
since Bryn’s confession. It occupies my thoughts constantly, ahead of the
company buyout, about which there has been no further news. I thought Bryn
might try to call or email me after our conversation. No doubt, she’s wondering
if I’ve told Katie, but I haven’t heard from her. It would be easy to vilify
Bryn, but I’ve thought things over, and I find myself feeling sorry for her
instead. Having the attention of an attractive, successful man, no matter how
despicable he obviously is, would be hard for her to resist. Character issues
aside, Bryn is insecure and probably a little bit lonely. Mike found the
perfect candidate with which to share his own significant issues. Katie really
would be better off without him. But I have a feeling she just won’t see it
that way.

The nagging nausea I now feel
reminds me that I have to hurry and get dressed if I want to be on time for my
date with Jason. I’m always slightly nauseated before a date. No matter how
many dates I’ve been on, or how many years I’ve been dating, nerves are my
constant dating companion. Also, a part of me doesn’t want to go and would
rather stay home. I wonder if that’s normal.

I drive toward a red velvet sky as
I head into the city. The last moments of daylight are bleeding into a layer of
purple clouds just above the horizon as I pull into one of the many public
parking lots downtown and pay the attendant. The humidity has dissipated with
the sunlight, and my clip-free hair feels as though it’s behaving nicely. I
swiftly walk the two blocks to the restaurant with my clicking heels
broadcasting my progression. Someone is leaving as I’m arriving, and he
graciously holds the door open for me. The artificial arctic air hits me as I
enter the restaurant. I’ve been to this place before when it was a more casual
spot that served Mexican food. Since then it’s changed hands, transforming into
an upscale Italian place. It’s crowded, and echoed voices create a constant
level of noisy conversation occasionally punctuated by a burst of laughter.

The main foyer is filled with
people waiting to be seated. I don’t see Jason. It’s just eight now, and I’m
right on time. When I spot a crowded bar area in the back, I decide to take a
quick look over there, hoping that I’ll recognize Jason if I see him. I crane
my neck and glance around, ignoring the invitations for eye contact that I
notice in my peripheral vision. I don’t think I see Jason, and I move back
toward the door to speak with the maitre d’. When I do, I learn that there is a
reservation for two under the name Randall. I let him know that half of the
Randall party has arrived and then, rather than stand in the chilly foyer, I
move outside to the sidewalk and the balmy evening air.

Boston is a great city for people
watching. The street on which I stand is comprised of mainly of upscale
restaurants and shops. Expensive cars line the sidewalks, and couples dressed
for an evening out stroll by. The streetlights have been constructed to look
like old-fashioned gas lamps, but they are juxtaposed by the modern skyscrapers
that stretch up into the night sky. The tangy scent of garlic is in the air.
I’m taking in the scene and thinking of Katie again. What will this second
relationship disillusionment do to her optimistic outlook? Like Katie and
myself, I know many women who are bright, ambitious, and successful in every
aspect of their lives except romantic relationships. Why is that last frontier
so hard to conquer?

Jason is now almost twenty minutes
late, and he hasn’t called. I get the feeling I’m being stood up. I decide to
give him ten more minutes before leaving. But just then Jason arrives. I hear
my name called, and I turn to see him walking toward me. He looks sharp in a
blue dress shirt and navy slacks held up by a brown belt with a silver buckle.
He pockets his phone when he reaches me, leaning down to peck my cheek. The
familiar frameless glasses are in place above a bright smile. His brown hair,
streaked with blonde, has not one hair out of place. I expect to hear an
apology or an explanation. He doesn’t offer one.

“This is my new favorite Italian
place,” he says brightly, resting his hand on my lower back, directing me
inside. “You’re going to love it.”

Despite our lateness, we are led
right to a table for two toward the back of the restaurant. It’s a nicely
situated spot away from the noisy bar and the crowded entrance. I get the
feeling Jason knows the maitre d’ as he shakes his hand and thanks him.

“Were you held up at work?” I ask
once we’re seated.

He seems confused by the question.

“We said eight o’clock. I thought
maybe you were held up at the office,” I explain.

“Oh, no. A friend wanted me to go
by and see an apartment he’s thinking of renting.” Jason unfolds his napkin and
takes a sip of his water. Now I’m the confused one. He went to look at an
apartment when he knew he was meeting me for dinner, and he seems completely
unconcerned that he kept me waiting as a result.

“Did you like the apartment?” I
ask, deciding to put my annoyance aside and get on with the date.

He shrugs. “It’s big. Kind of
pricey, too. Do you like shrimp? We could start with that.”

“That sounds good,” I agree.

The food is wonderful, and Jason is
very charming. He tells me he’s originally from Baltimore, but decided to stay
in Boston after attending college here. He has an older sister who is living in
London with her boyfriend, and he just went home recently for his father’s
sixtieth birthday. He talks quite a bit about himself, but that doesn’t bother
me so much anymore. Most men I’ve dated do that, and I generally don’t have
much interest in talking about myself. I already know that subject thoroughly.

“Do you rent in the city?” I ask,
as our dinner plates are cleared away.

He nods. “I’m in Beacon Hill right
now, but I’d like to move here to the Back Bay.”

“I love the Back Bay,” I say
enthusiastically. It’s a beautiful area of the city running parallel to the
Charles River. “What’s stopping you?”

He rubs his thumb against his
forefingers. “It’s mucho dinero. I’d rather take that money and travel with it.
Do you ski?”

“No.”

“Some buddies and me rented a place
in Aspen over the winter. We had an incredible time. We’re going to do it again
next year. You should come. We’re also talking about taking a place on the
vineyard next summer. Do you like the beach?”

“Love it,” I reply, thinking it’s
strange the way he casually threw that invitation out to me.

“Me, too. It would be great to get
away on weekends to the vineyard.”

I agree with him that it would be nice
to have a weekend getaway place. I’m also thinking how differently I feel about
money and about saving it. I like to travel, too. I just took a vacation, but
I’m getting the impression that saving money isn’t a priority for him.

“Let’s get some dessert at a café I
know over on Boylston,” he suggests. Do you mind a little walk?”

“Not at all. That sounds great,” I
reply. And it does, although my strappy sandals are going to make my feet very
unhappy.

Jason pays the bill and I decide
not to do the wallet-reach. I usually do perform it, but I don’t want to
tonight. Since he extended the dinner invitation, I want him to do the right
thing and he does, automatically, without letting me see the check and
discreetly hands his card to the waiter. I’m pleased, and I decide to insist on
paying for dessert as a thank you for what was likely a very pricey dinner.

We step outside onto the sidewalk.
I look up and see only dark sky with no stars and a sliver of moon in the
distance. This is one negative about the city. The lights make it too bright to
see the stars at night. Jason smiles at me and takes my hand as we stroll down
the street. It’s getting late, and the city is quieter now. Jason moves closer
to me. It feels nice to be beside him, my hand firmly in his. We arrive at the
café and stand at the counter, studying the offerings posted on a menu on the
wall. I glance down and admire the cakes and cookies in the display case.

“Cappuccino, latte, espresso?”
Jason lists, raising his eyebrows at me.

“No espresso. Too much jolt for
this time of night. Cappuccino sounds good.”

He nods in approval. “Want to share
some cheesecake, too?”

“Sure.” I smile. There really isn’t
any dessert that I don’t like.

Jason orders two cappuccinos and a
slice of cheesecake. When the woman rings up the order, I move beside him. “Let
me, to thank you for the great dinner.”

He studies me, hesitates, but then
puts his wallet back in his pocket. “Thanks,” he says graciously.