A Girl Like You Read online

  I hadn’t smoked since. For a minute, I thought about getting high with Michael, maybe getting silly, maybe having extraordinary sex…did pot really improve sex?

  If there was any chance it did, I was more than ready to give it a try.

  32

  Michael and I met for gyros Saturday afternoon, four days after our first date. Like everything else in town, it was within walking distance.

  It was September. The days felt like summer, but the crisp nights had made the leaves begin to change, bursting forth with breathtaking crimson, gold, and orange.

  The Mediterranean waiter was a cutie with green eyes and thick, slicked back hair. We each had the lunch special, a $7.50 platter with hummus, cucumber sauce, pita, and little piles of spring mix. When the bill came, Michael left it on the table untouched, until I got out my wallet.

  “Let’s see, your half was $9,” Michael said, studying the bill.

  “All I have is a twenty.”

  “Forget it. I’ll pay this time; you can pick up the next tab. Where’s that waiter?”

  As we walked back to my house, I slipped my hand into his. “Do you want to sit on the porch awhile?” I asked casually, as if I hadn’t made a pitcher of iced tea (with actual lemon slices floating on the top), scrubbed the bathroom, yelled at Ian for leaving the living room a mess, and fluffed all the pillows on my bed, in case I gave him a tour.

  “Can’t today—rain check,” Michael said.

  “Really?” I couldn’t hide my disappointment.

  “Yeah, I gotta go buy some hardy mums to plant before a frost,” he said, starting to lean down to me. “Guess I can’t surprise you this time.”

  It was a nice kiss on the sidewalk under the bright sun where all my neighbors could see, some of whom probably didn’t yet know that Bryan was gone. A very public kiss. Ian was sitting on the front porch with Penny, but I believed the kiss was out of his sight.

  “How was the date?” Ian smiled widely.

  “Actually, really good,” I said, patting Pen. “Did you bring her water out? It’s really hot today.”

  “Right there, mother to all dogs,” Ian said, pointing to a little bowl of water.

  “I’m just going to take her inside,” I said, holding out my arms to her.

  “Looked like some great chemistry there,” Ian called before I went inside.

  Would the teasing of the mom never cease?

  “How’d it go with the plants?” I texted Michael later. After a few minutes, I tried again. “Did you get the mums or something else?” I kicked myself for the stupid question, but I needed to hear back from him. It was suddenly really, really important for me to know what Michael was up to.

  No reply.

  He might be getting stoned and listening to music, or sitting on his own porch, but not knowing made me feel left out, as if he was having a good time and I was waiting around.

  Which, unfortunately, I was.

  Penny and I both had trouble sleeping, fighting for space on my side of the bed.

  Sunday, I logged onto Fish to look at Michael’s photos again. The little green clock next to his profile showed he’d been online for five hours. Five hours?!

  I took Penny for a long walk around town. Too long, in fact. After half an hour she gave up and plopped down on the sidewalk. I scooped her up, my little lump of love, and carried her home.

  “You’re acting like an old lady,” I told her, burying my face into her fur.

  I had peanut butter on English muffins for dinner. And also three cheese sticks. And the rest of the Chex Mix Ian hadn’t finished. And some braided pretzels.

  Then I brushed my teeth and flossed and vowed not to eat again that night.

  “I hope next time we can have iced tea on my porch, like an old couple,” I texted him after dinner.

  “We’ll play it by ear.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  I opened the pretzel bag again. I kept busy the rest of the night, trying to concentrate on a freelance job writing web copy for Benson’s Builders and not having much luck. Then I made a critical error. I had two glasses of Moscato. I swore I wouldn’t text him again, but after I turned out my light and climbed into bed, the wine really kicked in.

  “Are you awake?” I texted Michael.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “What’s up?”

  “Tell me a secret.”

  My cell screen stayed blank for several minutes. The equivalent of dead air time.

  “I don’t think this is how it works,” he texted at last.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think you ask people to tell you personal things.”

  “I was really just kidding,” I texted, trying to backpedal.

  What about his pot-smoking revelation? And being dominant in bed? Hadn’t he said he wanted to share secrets?

  “Look, I’m beginning to think you’re not a good match for me.”

  I was dumbstruck. My stomach lurched—not in a good way this time. I had no idea what to do, so I did nothing.

  A few minutes later, he texted again: “I can see you’re much more interested in me than I am in you, and I don’t like that.”

  “What?”

  “I’m an adventurer, I’m a pleasure-seeker, a mover and shaker.”

  I thought of myself the same way now. I was seeking pleasure, although I hadn’t actually found any yet.

  “I’m used to people wanting to be around me,” he texted. “It’s not surprising that you want to, but you’re coming on a little strong.”

  I remembered the man at the bar who barely touched Michael’s arm but pissed him off anyway. How the half-full bar seemed crowded to him.

  “OK. You attract people. That’s cool.”

  “It’s freaking great. I could be out with a different woman every night if I wanted to be.”

  Hmm. Was he stoned? Was this what pot did these days—turn people into assholes?

  “Why tell me this? I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t know how to be clearer,” Michael replied. “Listen, I have to go—good luck to you in your search, Jessica. Don’t text me anymore, and I’ll do the same.”

  I dialed Maddy’s cell immediately, reaching for Kleenex.

  “You were looking at the gyro waiter when you went to lunch!” Madison yelled at me. “You weren’t even into Michael!”

  “He was special,” I cried, snuffling into the tissue. “He understood me like no one else has in a long time.”

  “Now you’re being dramatic.”

  “He was smart and funny and attentive,” I sobbed. “He was a really good texter!”

  “He was a tall Bryan. Nothing more.”

  “I really liked him.”

  “He’s dirt under your shoe, Mombo. Scrape him off.”

  For a week, I re-read all Michael’s messages until Madd made me delete them. Then I bought a half-gallon of chocolate peanut butter ice cream, eating it out of the carton five nights in a row, wondering how good the sex might have been with a joint and confident, mean Michael.

  33

  “I have news,” Bryan texted on a Sunday morning nearly seven months after he’d left.

  “You got a job?” I was excited for him.

  “I met someone.”

  I sat down hard on a kitchen chair. It wasn’t the answer I’d expected. “Good for you,” I texted when I realized he was waiting for an answer. “Who is she? How’d you meet?”

  “Actually, it’s Ben’s teacher. I’ve been picking him up at preschool and we started talking and really hit it off.”

  I closed my eyes. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel happy for Bryan…OK, I wasn’t exactly thrilled for Bryan. I didn’t want him to be miserable and alone, but for it to be that easy, meeting a preschool teacher?

  “Hold on, I’ll send you a pic,” Bryan texted.

  It took just seconds for the photo file to come through my phone. And there she was, possibly the most attractive teacher I’d ever seen in my life, wear
ing a yellow bikini, red sunglasses, and the cutest little brimmed hat to keep her skin from freckling. Bryan was beside her, toasting the camera with a can of Coors. He was deeply tanned, not quite as thin as he had been when he’d left, wearing swim shorts I’d never seen before.

  “She’s pretty,” I texted back. “You make a nice couple.”

  “She’s great, Jess. We’re really happy.”

  “I’m glad.”

  The universe sent Bryan a potential swimsuit model to take to the beach. Big deal. The fact that I didn’t have a sexy beach buddy, much less a beach, shouldn’t make any difference in my happiness for Bryan.

  I remembered Bryan on a summer day in our backyard, drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade with Ian while playing badminton, minus the net. Amazingly, the more they drank, the better they got at hitting the birdie back and forth. They were both shirtless and the blazing afternoon sun was doing a number on their shoulders, but despite my nagging, they hadn’t bothered with sunscreen. I gave up and went inside to watch from the comfort of our air-conditioned house.

  Exhausted and sweaty, Ian turned on the hose to take a drink and Bryan ducked his head under the nozzle and sprayed his head with water, splashing water on Ian until they were both drenched. Later that night, I made them both line up to spray Solarcaine on their sunburned shoulders.

  Bryan had been his best self under the sun in the warm months, up for anything. But picturing him on the beach in NC with the model/teacher brought on a sharp pain in my temples, a beating drum of envy.

  Act normal, I told myself. Ask normal questions even though you don’t want to know any more than he’s already said.

  “So, what’s her name?” I texted Bry.

  “Sarah.”

  He then launched into a long list of what he liked about Sarah, each trait more endearing than the last. I carried my cell into the downstairs bathroom, rooting around in the medicine cabinet for Tylenol.

  “Hey, I’m also starting my own business—well, not really a full-blown business, but I’m taking orders for these mini sculpted Jack-o-’lanterns I’m making. And so far, I’ve been swamped.”

  He had found it, I thought. The way to blend his love of Halloween with his artistry.

  “So, they’re clay?”

  “Yes. Then I glaze them so they look like real pumpkins. Each one is different.”

  “That’s so cool,” I texted. “How do I get one?”

  Bry gave me his website address and said I should order early because come October, he’d probably have so many orders he couldn’t guarantee delivery by Halloween.

  After we finished texting, I went out to the shed and brought in the green pail and beach shovel. In my room, I pulled out the Day of the Dead T-shirt he’d left behind, then sorted through my stacked Amazon shipping boxes until I found one that held everything. I tried to make my handwriting look upbeat, but aside from adding a smiley face, couldn’t figure out a way to do that as I wrote his address. Then I put the box back in my car to mail at the post office after work the next day.

  That night, climbing into bed, I wanted someone to be there with open arms, and a smile I recognized, and a voice I knew saying good night.

  Adam was gone and Bryan had moved on. There was no getting around it.

  I felt like I’d lost my best friend, someone I hadn’t yet met. There was an open space in my life that needed to be filled, but I had no idea how to do that.

  Eddie had told me I had to know what I wanted before I went looking. Was he right?

  34

  “So let’s talk about your hair,” Maddy said, grabbing an apple and settling herself on a high stool at the kitchen island.

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” I was attempting to wash Penny in the kitchen sink. So far, I was covered in more suds than she was.

  “It looks—how do I put this?—a little fried.”

  “Fried?” I turned away from Penny for an instant and she scrambled out of the sink into the wooden dish rack. “That’s nice, sweetheart. Come here, Pen-Pen.” I tried to coax the dog back into the water, without luck. Oh well, at least she’d been wetted down. I grabbed the bath towel and wrapped her like a swaddled baby.

  “I mean, how long have you been straightening it?” Madison said, her mouth full of apple.

  “I don’t know—a couple years?” I rubbed Penny’s head with the towel as she squirmed.

  “That’s bad for your hair,” Maddy said, getting up to help me dry the wiggling Penny. “And I suppose you don’t use a good thermal conditioner?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Geez, Mom, how can you not know anything about hair products?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t watch TV. Sue me.”

  I set Penny down and she bolted into the living room to roll around on the carpet to dry herself.

  “What does your hair look like if you let it dry naturally?”

  “A very fashionable frizzy mess,” I said, rinsing out the sink.

  “You can’t keep wearing ponytails. It’s just not sophisticated. I’m making you an appointment to get something done with it.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “And I’m going with you,” Madison said, talking at the same time as me.

  Three days later, Madison dragged me to Le Boutique, literally a pink house with a peppermint-striped awning.

  “Jessica?” asked the receptionist, running her lacquered nails down an appointment book. I had to admit, her hair did not look fried. I could barely remember what healthy hair looked like, but hers was glossy.

  “You’re here for a makeover?” she said cheerily.

  “What? No, haircut—”

  “Yes, she’s here for the works,” Madd interrupted.

  Over the next two hours, my eyebrows were threaded and dyed, my feet scrubbed and legs massaged (OK, that part I didn’t mind), nails painted an orangey-red, lips outlined with a lip pencil that actually made them appear fuller. I tried my smile in the mirrors as I sat in the hair cutting chair. Eh, still too forced, like I was saying “cheese” for an unwanted photo.

  “OK, well, we need to do some trimming,” the blonde stylist said. She was wearing a leopard sheath dress and stilettos that looked like she was heading to a club the minute she got out of work.

  “Just the ends,” I said, slumped in the pink plastic cape she had draped over me. “I want to leave it long enough to put in a ponytail.”

  “Right, just the damaged hair then.”

  I closed my eyes and prayed I wouldn’t leave the salon with a shoulder-length bob.

  The stylist ran clippers through my wet hair so fast I couldn’t tell what in hell she was doing to me, but it looked like an awful lot of hair on the floor. She spun my chair, clipped some more, then had me flip my head upside down while she sprayed something good-smelling from my scalp to my ends. Then there was lots of spraying, scrunching, and detangling. By the time she was done, my hair had air-dried.

  “Voilà,” she said, swinging the cape off me dramatically. “You look like a whole new woman!”

  She swiveled me around so I could look in the mirror. My hair had always been straight, until I had the kids, when it turned wiry and frizzy. But the stylist had worked miracles. My curls were neat spirals, springing back in place when I pulled on them. Best of all, my hair was still below my shoulders.

  “Oh my God, Mombo!” Madison dropped her magazine and ran to my side. “You look ten years younger!”

  “Now, here’s what you need to do this at home,” the receptionist said as I cashed out and left with shampoo, pre-conditioner, conditioner, detangler, curling gel, shine spray, and a whole lot more self-esteem.

  Despite liberal use of the products, I didn’t achieve the same look as I had when I left the salon, but at least my hair no longer looked fried. After a few days, I mastered the lip pencil and when I practiced smiling in the mirror, I didn’t quite recognize myself. It was as if I were becoming a new version of myself.

  Was I getting to a bett
er place? Maybe.

  35

  It was a rainy Monday and everyone at the office, even Jerky, was in a bad mood. The rain left streaks on the windows and robbed the Three Stooges of their clear view of the downtown sidewalks. Jerky abandoned his post on the chair near the door and went to lie under the conference table. Wes had been sleeping most of the morning, snoring lightly, a sputtering sound followed by a whistle. We were all used to his sleeping sounds by then.

  I was on my cell, shopping Amazon for compression socks. I’d read somewhere they helped tone calf muscles. Occasionally, I shuffled papers around on my desk, trying to look busy so Joe wouldn’t pile more bills on me to reconcile. I had begun having recurring dreams about falling asleep at my desk, and some days this seemed plausible.

  Joe was uncharacteristically quiet.

  “For Pete’s sake, someone tell a joke or something,” Paulie said. “It’s like a morgue in here.”

  “Knock-knock,” said Sal.

  “Who’s there?” Paulie said, sitting up straighter.

  “A little old lady.”

  “A little old lady who?”

  “I had no idea you could yodel,” Sal said, laughing. “Don’t know where I heard that one…I crack myself up.”

  Paulie yawned.

  “Good one, Sal,” I said, putting my phone down.

  “Thanks! Wanta hear another?”

  “Sure.”

  “Knock-knock.”

  “Who’s there?” I asked.

  “Cash.”

  “Cash who?”

  “No thanks,” Sal said, laughing so hard he could barely finish his joke. “I’d rather have some peanuts.”

  I smiled at Sal. He had a good heart.

  We sat in silence. I could actually hear the seconds on the wall clock tick by.

  “Suppose we should start in on them tax reports,” Joe said.

  But when he made no effort to move, neither did I.

  Wes snored so loudly he woke himself up. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and pulled his suspenders back up on his shoulders.

  “Hey Joe, how’s the missus? Haven’t heard you say much about her in some time now,” Wes said.