A Girl Like You Page 4

I finally went with a black lace peek-a-boo bra that exposed my greatest asset: my boobs. I threw in a pair of boy shorts I hoped would have enough spandex to suck in my stomach. I clicked the order button, hoping I wouldn’t look ridiculous and also hoping the lingerie wouldn’t stay on for very long once Bryan and I got our hands on each other.

  The next Friday night, I made grilled chicken salad for dinner, hoping Bryan wouldn’t hunker down on the couch with a fleece blanket and turn on Netflix.

  “Here you go,” I said, bringing a bottle of Moscato to the dinner table. “I got wine!”

  “Why are you acting so strange?”

  “Strange?” I was slightly offended, and the peek-a-boo bra had turned out to be extremely itchy, especially under a turtleneck. I was seriously concerned about breaking out in hives.

  “I don’t mean strange, just…giddy,” Bryan said, holding out his wineglass to be filled.

  After we finished eating, Bryan helped load the plates into the dishwasher, then headed to the living room.

  I took a deep breath. How to be seductive? How to be serious at the same time? Giddy, I felt pretty certain, wasn’t sexy.

  As predicted, Bryan was huddled beneath the blanket with little sheep carousing in a field.

  I picked up a corner of the blanket and slid in next to him.

  He put his arm around me. Good sign. And yawned. Bad sign.

  I kicked myself for not planning ahead and wearing a cardigan that I could slowly unbutton instead of a turtleneck I’d have to struggle with to get out of. But something had to be done, and it had to happen before Bryan nodded off, which was about forty-five seconds. I got off the couch and gamely pulled the turtleneck off over my head. There I was, itchy black bra with my nipples exposed, and vampire leggings.

  “Wow,” Bryan said, visibly stunned. “What is that?”

  Either he didn’t recognize my boobs, or he’d never seen a bra without cups. I considered grabbing the turtleneck to cover up, but before I could, Bryan was off the couch and leading me to the bedroom.

  Success.

  I quickly unbuttoned his flannel shirt, then fumbled with the zipper of his jeans, which were snug over his erection. It had been a long time since I’d been that turned on. Pulling his jeans off, I got on my knees to take him in my mouth.

  “Wait,” he said, pulling me up. “I want to see. Show me what else you have on.”

  At the last minute, I’d left the boy shorts on the floor and gone with nothing on under my leggings. When I sat on the edge of the bed and began peeling them off, Bryan was the one on the floor ready to use his tongue.

  But as soon as he opened my legs and touched me, it happened. I broke out nervous laughter, which I can tell you is a serious mood-breaker.

  “Let’s try again,” I said, reaching back to unhook the bra.

  “Leave it on,” Bryan said, pulling my hands away.

  I loved to be told what to do. And with that, I was wet and ready. I wanted to just skip the foreplay, but Bryan wanted to make a night of it. He ran his hands across my breasts, fingering the black lace, which unfortunately made it itchier. I fought the urge to scratch and wished he’d let me take the damn thing off and just lie there naked. Bryan ducked his head to lick my nipples, and this time thankfully I didn’t laugh, but moaned instead. He loved to use his tongue, and I was the lucky recipient.

  But I didn’t want to just lie there and make him do all the work.

  I pushed him down on the bed next to me, effectively putting the brakes on everything he was trying to do. Well, that was a wrong move. Time to rethink. I decided to throw caution to the wind and get into a good, sweet 69, but there was the usual dilemma: his ass in the air or mine? Neither was an attractive option, which is why I rarely initiated the position.

  Woman on top, I decided after deliberating for a moment.

  Lying next to Bryan, both of us naked except for the one wearing the itchy bra, I realized to accomplish this somewhat gracefully, I would have to turn in the other direction in the bed and swing my leg over his chest. The turning went fine. The swinging, not so good.

  “Shit, Jess,” Bryan said, sitting up after I kicked him in the nose.

  “Is it bleeding?” I grabbed the box of Kleenex and held one up to his face.

  “I don’t need that,” he said, waving it away. “No. It’s not bleeding. It’s fine.”

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” I said, trying to inject a little humor.

  “Let’s just try and pick up where we left off.”

  Sweet talk, that wasn’t, but I was determined to have a memorable roll in the hay. We started kissing again; this time I stayed put and didn’t try anything fancy that required rolling all over the bed. Bryan stroked my hair, which I always loved, and ran a row of kisses down my neck to my shoulders, making me shiver.

  It was good, I told myself. We were back in the saddle again. But when Bryan reached down and fingered me, he stopped and sat up.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, leaving my legs open for him to play.

  “I think we need some lube. You’re kind of dry.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked indignantly. I reached down and touched myself and realized he was right. I was the Sahara Desert.

  “I don’t understand,” I sputtered. “I was soaked a minute ago.”

  “Don’t women dry up after menopause?” Bryan said, tilting his head to one side in a way I took as mocking.

  “I’m in perimenopause, for your information, and it’s probably just because we haven’t had sex in a while.” I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic, but the menopause thing really pissed me off.

  The room fell silent.

  “I’m tired anyway,” Bryan said quietly, pulling on pajama pants he’d left on the floor that morning.

  I took the bra off in the bathroom, wadded it up and tossed it into the trash.

  So much for lingerie.

  Then I looked for calamine lotion to put on the rash that had formed. The left side was worse, a raggedy circle of hives around the space over my heart.

  12

  Despite the thwarted sex, we’d gamely continued to work hard on our marriage that winter. Wednesday night was date night, going out to horror movies (his choice) or rom-coms (mine) then out to try a new restaurant. We’d had chunks of chicken tossed on our plates at a Japanese place, dunked cubes of bread into cheese at a fondue eatery, enjoyed spicy Indian food until the gas hit us hours later.

  We got up and made waffles together Saturday mornings with this great double waffle maker I got on Amazon. Bry wore his Rocky robe while he warmed his cold hands on a coffee mug.

  I ordered him one of those lights that were supposed to mimic the sun to help people with seasonal depression. He said it gave him headaches, so I put it next to the peace lily, which thrived under its warm glow.

  We played Monopoly and Clue. Sometimes Ian joined in, even though he said he was too old for board games.

  I couldn’t sleep many nights when Bryan went to sleep with the heated blanket on its highest setting. Instead, I got up and sat at the kitchen table with a mug of orange spice tea. I needed a clear mind to think about what I could and would do.

  When the kids were middle-school age, they’d come home with various middle-school problems: a friend who snubbed them, a moody teacher, failing to score the game point in gym volleyball.

  I tried hard not to solve the kids’ problems for them.

  “So, what’s your plan?” I’d asked instead. “You always have a plan.”

  I’d run out of plans to make my marriage to Bryan work.

  “Maybe it would help to get a new job and work less hours. I can look for one,” Bryan said at last.

  We’d been through all that before. I’d emailed Bry job openings, critiqued his résumé, helped write cover letters, quizzed him on common interview questions, picked out a nice dress shirt and tie. But he’d never gotten around to applying for other jobs.

  “You don’t want to
change jobs,” I said in the kitchen as he cooked.

  “No, I don’t, but I’ll try to find something else,” he sighed. “I don’t know where I’d find one. At my age I can’t exactly start over.”

  “Your chicken is burning,” I said, pulling away.

  “Jess, what do you want me to say?”

  I counted the seconds clicking by on the kitchen clock. Click. Click. Click.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to say.” I started to cry.

  “So that’s it? Just like that, we’re done?” His voice had an angry edge like the time I’d tried to talk to him about antidepressants.

  I cried harder.

  Bryan came to me, putting his arms around me and shushing me.

  “You think I should move out, then?” His voice was back under control.

  “Where would you go?” I pulled away to look at his face.

  “South, to be with Cassie and Ben,” he said with the conviction of someone knowing, at last, where they belong.

  13

  Getting divorced the second time took more than returning postage-paid paperwork.

  I told Bryan I would find a lawyer and get the papers drafted. I’d gotten the names of four attorneys online. Two of them never called me back for the free consultation. One told me over the phone it would take six months and a $2,500 retainer to finalize the divorce. The fourth gave me an appointment to talk at her office. I arrived to find a handwritten sign on the door of the lawyer’s office: Please don’t let the cats out.

  I stood for a moment before going in, careful not to let any cats escape through the glass door and pad down the hallway. I stared at the saltwater fish tank and wondered if the turquoise and yellow fish drove the cats batty. I saw toys and cat beds, but no actual cats.

  “Jessica Gabriel?” The lawyer was wearing khakis and a red fleece pullover with a snowflake dangling off the zipper. It was the end of winter, but her office was chilly. I followed her out of the reception area into her office, where there were files piled on the desk and stacks of yellow legal pads with notes scrawled in pencil.

  “Jesus, this place is a shit show,” she said, laughing at herself.

  She had to move things around to make space to work on her desk, but once she sat down, she made the kind of eye contact where you either trust them or think they’re trying to pull one over on you. I liked her instantly.

  “So you’re divorcing,” she said simply. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How many years together?”

  “Four—well, three years married.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No, the children—well, they’re adults now—belong to me. They’re mine.” I felt like we were divvying up communal property. “Their father left to travel, ah, cross country, but he’s still in the picture, sort of.”

  I had no idea why I was giving her the story of my life. She nodded as if she understood, or cared, which I’m sure she didn’t.

  “And the house?”

  “Also mine.” I tried not to fidget.

  A cat appeared out of nowhere and rubbed against my leg.

  “Now, you know New York is an equal distribution state. Under the law, he is entitled to half the assets, including the house.” She tapped her pencil on her desk.

  “Yes, but he’s willing to sign off on it.”

  “Good. Other assets?”

  “I’ve split the bank account with him,” I said.

  What little money we’d saved over the three years amounted to about $5,000 for each of us.

  “Debts? Cars?”

  “Just the mortgage, and we each have our own car.”

  “Well,” she said, leaning down to scoop up yet another cat. “This is an easy one. All we need is a basic agreement and the court to uphold it.”

  “My husband—ex—is hoping to leave for North Carolina in two weeks….”

  “Good for him! That won’t be an issue,” she said confidently, scratching behind the cat’s ear. “I’ll have the papers drafted and ready for him to sign in ten days.”

  I couldn’t believe it could be that easy to dissolve a marriage. Like antacid tablets dropped into a glass of water. Plop plop, fizz fizz.

  As I left, two different cats tried to follow me out, but I was too quick for them, closing the door firmly behind me. When I looked back, one of the tabbies was leaning her paws up against the glass as if trying to stop me from going, to take it all back and try to make it right again.

  14

  Two weeks later, Bryan loaded up his SUV, filled to capacity with boxes and bins and garment bags, his bike rack and off-road bike on the back.

  I’d left the house to drive around. Anything to not be there when he left.

  “On my way,” he texted. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

  It was March, a late spring. People call it the mud month because all it does is rain right into April. Some years the rain uncovered hidden blooms in the front garden and along the backshed—sprouts of greenery that would bring purple and pink tulips and bright yellow daffodils.

  Not the year Bryan left. That year, winter held on tight.

  I worried about everything, not the least of which was money.

  I’d been earning enough money to cover the mortgage by freelance writing web copy, SEO landing pages, e-blasts and newsletters for local businesses: dry cleaners, auto shops, solar panel companies, florists. I had also been lucky to get referrals for new clients. Those first terrible days after Bry left, I couldn’t even open my computer, much less finish an assignment. My concentration was shot.

  It was like having Adam and Bryan both leaving me at the same time. I hadn’t been able to fall under the crushing weight of grief when Adam took off. I’d gotten busy with the kids and taking care of the house and all the small details that kept my mind busy and my feet moving forward. I exhausted myself to the point where I couldn’t even think straight, much less feel the heaviness of what I’d lost.

  This time, after Bryan left, I took to my bed.

  Madison came every day and sat near my pillow.

  “God it’s hot in here,” she said, waving her hand around. “What are you even wearing under all these blankets?”

  “Pajamas,” I said, my voice muffled by the heavy blankets pulled over my head, even though I was boiling hot.

  “Your Ben & Jerry’s tie-dye, and those ratty high school sweatpants?”

  “They’re not from high school, they’re from college.”

  “Well, you can’t just lie there.”

  “Watch me.”

  “I’m sure this is all normal, but you can’t keep this up much longer,” Madison said. “What’s your plan, anyway? You always have a plan.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Now you’re being dramatic.”

  “Look at this,” I said, thrusting my arm out from under the covers. I had red, itchy, inflamed spots running from my wrist up to my elbow, like poison ivy, but I hadn’t been outside for three days.

  “It’s probably heat rash from these damn blankets. Are you even drinking water?”

  What Madison failed to understand was that I didn’t care if I dehydrated and shriveled up. I didn’t care about living in pajamas or not showering or even the fact that Penny needed a bath, since she’d been huddled under the covers next to me, never leaving my side.

  “Honestly, I can’t believe you’re still in bed. So, what’s your plan?”

  I felt like a fool. I was lost. I needed Bryan. What had I been thinking?

  What I hadn’t known was that being with someone means there’s a person who cares what you’re doing, how you feel, what you need, at least most of the time. There’s a person frequently within reach. You can go check in with them, sit by them, put your arms around them. There’s a person to listen and maybe even help solve problems. They give a shit about your day.

  All of this brought flashbacks of Adam, to the good times when the kids were little: parent-teacher
conferences, the games of Yahtzee and Monopoly, taking them to the drive-ins knowing they’d fall asleep before intermission.

  I’d overcome the sense that I was responsible for Adam taking off, knowing logically it wasn’t my fault he wanted to be somewhere else, have a different life than the one we’d built. But the parallel circumstances of being alone were wildly painful. Adam had taken to the road, and so had Bryan.

  After Adam, I’d moved on and forged a new life with Bryan. I’d had it, that new life, and I sent him away. In his black SUV with a bike on the back.

  After Bryan left, I had to sit in my own head and figure out how I felt, and how to even begin to feel better. It was a kind of loneliness I’d never known before. It had all happened so fast, that damn cat lady lawyer made the paperwork appear so quickly—voilà! You’re divorced! Free to go your separate ways! Godspeed!

  I remembered the day in the kitchen with the chicken frying, how much sense it made then for us to separate, how clear it had been that Bryan belonged in the sun with his family, how amicable we’d been, how we congratulated ourselves for being adults and handling it all so well.

  I wasn’t prepared to fall to my knees when I found one of his T-shirts at the bottom of the laundry basket. I lined up all the bottles of hot sauce, salsa, and cranberry mayo in the fridge front and center to make myself believe he was still there (he was big on condiments), hugged his pillow at night until it no longer smelled like him, kept the one lone flip-flop I found in the closet in a drawer in my nightstand, because I couldn’t bear to throw it out.

  Grief, as it turned out, wasn’t linear. It was more like one step forward, two steps back. Or up and down. A fucking roller coaster.

  I wasn’t prepared for that kind of sorrow.

  I wasn’t prepared to be that alone.

  I had needed Bryan to recover from Adam. Now they were both gone. Now what?

  15

  Madison did what she felt she had to do: she called Eddie to get me out of bed.

  Eddie had stayed by my side through my first divorce, listening to me lament, drying my tears, stopping me after two glasses of wine. He’d pointed out all the positive things to being single: freedom, not having to answer to anyone, parenting the way I wanted, using the whole bed to sleep, filling the fridge with Chobani and apples and bags of pre-washed spinach. He was there for me in the way a best friend always seems to be.