A Girl Like You Page 9

  “So should we take bets to see who meets The One first?” Madison said one night in early August when we were having a bucket of spaghetti for dinner at my house.

  “What the hell’s The One?’” Ian asked, using his fork to poke around in the white cardboard bucket.

  “You know, The One.” Maddy took a long drink from her water glass. “And stop picking out all the meatballs, Ian. Mom, he’s hogging the meatballs!”

  “There are a bunch on the bottom; I ordered extra,” I said calmly. “Let’s get back to The One.”

  “The One is the person you’re meant to be with, your soulmate, your perfect match,” she said.

  Ian snorted. “You’re kidding, right, Madd?”

  “Laugh all you want.” She pretended to look offended. “But I think there’s genuinely someone for everybody. You just have to find each other.”

  I slurped up a string of spaghetti, pondering this. The One?

  I’d grown up on Cinderella and Snow White fairy tales, without question believing there was a prince out there for me. I never really got behind the idea of being saved by that prince, because I was always quite certain I could save myself, but that wildly romantic notion of having a soulmate? I’d bought into it big time.

  For much of my adult life, Adam had been The One for what I’d believed was forever. After that, Bryan had been The One for a period of time. Maybe I’d maxed out on meeting the ones I was meant to be with.

  “I see you feeding Penny pasta,” I said to Ian. “She’s going to get fat.”

  Ian shrugged. “She looks cute with a little bit of pudge.”

  “I wish someone would say that about me,” I sighed.

  The doorbell rang, and Penny charged at it like a bull.

  “Lily, this late?” Madd asked.

  “Nah, FedEx,” Ian said. “Mom’s shopping addiction has taken on a whole new level.”

  “Hey, I send a lot of stuff back,” I defended myself.

  I brought in the Amazon box and stuck it in a corner.

  “Go ahead, Mom. You don’t have to wait to open it.”

  Truth be told, I didn’t want the kids to see me open the jade roller to de-puff undereye bags, the mini teapot shaped like Humpty Dumpty, or the set of three garden gnomes with little plaid hats.

  “It’s fine, I’ll wait,” I said. “Now, where were we?”

  “So, no one believes there’s someone out there for them?” Madison pushed her plate away and sat back in her chair.

  “It’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think? It’s a big weight to carry around, thinking you have to be perfect for someone else,” Ian said.

  “No one has to be perfect. They just need to be better people when they’re together,” Maddy said. “What do you think, Mombo?”

  “My days of believing in a prince out there for me are long gone,” I said, picking up the empty bucket and carrying it to the trash. “But yeah, I do think there are people put in our paths that are good for us. You just have to be ready.”

  I bent down and scrubbed at Penny’s chin to get off the bits of spaghetti sauce off her little face as she tried to bite at the dishcloth.

  “So what’s the verdict?” I asked the kids.

  “I say wait for The One,” Madison said. “Work is so busy, people coming and going all day long. Someone wonderful could walk in and start up a conversation any time; you never know!”

  I envied her confidence and wished I had the same.

  “It could happen in your office too, Mombo.”

  “Somehow, I don’t picture Mr. Right just walking in the door to pay his sewer bill,” I sighed. “How about you, Ian?”

  “My plan is to cycle through as many women as possible while looking for The One,” Ian said, laughing when I shot him a look of horror. “Kidding. But I can’t just wait around for that one woman to come along.”

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

  “Try to ignore how superficial the sites are and connect with someone genuine,” Ian said.

  It sounded like a plan.

  27

  By September, I had established an exercise routine.

  Sort of. I went to the gym two or three days a week after work and once on weekends. Had I regained my fitness level? Nah. Overcome the locker-room modesty? Nope.

  But I was proud of the fact that Marvin knew who I was now at the Y, greeting me by name when I went in. That made me almost a regular.

  I walked fast on the treadmill at a slight incline, but found I sweated more on the stationary bikes. Each machine had a monitor that flashed units in bright red lights: miles completed, heart rate, calories burned. I brought in a hand towel to cover up the monitor, because it did me no good to know I’d only walked .08 miles, burned eleven calories and had the heart rate of a camel.

  I didn’t bring headphones like most of the crowd; instead, I watched the 6 o’clock news. I got accustomed to the ’90s music and caught myself humming along to Madonna songs. I was chasing that runner’s high, but so far, the best part of working out was being done and going home.

  My goal was to recapture my fitness to the level where I could muster up the guts to even approach the locker room scale. At no time did I put bands on my ankles and walk sideways across the room. Nor did I yell out the number of miles I’d done like a small group of sprinters were in the habit of doing.

  One night I was reaching the end of a long haul on the bike, sweat sticking my bangs to my forehead, nearly breathless, when a tall man with sculpted calf muscles walked by me, stopped, and pointed to his chest.

  We were wearing the exact same T-shirt. Mine was an old St. Patrick’s Day Marathon shirt of Ian’s from six years before, with the name of the race emblazoned on the chest over a leaping leprechaun. Calf man’s was the same, maybe a little more broken-in.

  Among the sea of T-shirts in the workout room, most were athletic labels, making it even more odd to be wearing the same one as anyone else. Of course, he was a man and I was still the only woman who didn’t wear sports bras and spandex, but that’s another story.

  Matching shirts had to be a sign something was meant to happen!

  “What are the chances of this?” he said, settling into the bike next to me.

  “Slim to none.”

  “Right?”

  I knew having the same shirts had to be a sign.

  “Did you run the race?” he asked.

  “What? Oh, no, this is my son’s shirt. I borrowed it,” I overexplained.

  I discreetly slowed my pace to stop panting. What to say?

  “I’m Brant,” he said.

  “Jessica,” I said, holding out my hand. Good Lord! Who shakes hands at a gym? And how did I not notice how clammy and wet my hand was before offering it to Brant Beautiful Calves?

  Gamely, he shook hands with me.

  “You come here often?” I wanted to kick myself, but both feet were on the bike. I was resorting to 1970s bar pick-up lines. WTF?

  “It varies from day to day. Now that I’m retired, I can go anytime.”

  Retired? Hmm. He didn’t look a day over forty-five. The only wrinkles he had were completely adorable smile lines around his green eyes.

  “Lucky you,” I said, attempting to brush my bangs back, but my sweat was like super glue. I thought about mopping my face with the hand towel, but there was an off chance I still had mascara on, and I didn’t want to smear it all over.

  From the back of the room, someone dropped a heavy weight onto the floor, a thudding sound that always made me jump. Marvin strolled in to chat with the personal trainers in the front of the room. I waved, but he didn’t see me, so I pretended I was just fixing my ponytail.

  Cathy’s Kitchen was on the screen nearest me. She was making a bacon, potato, and cheese frittata that looked amazing and also a zillion calories per forkful. I looked away, as if watching Cathy would make me look too into food.

  I brushed my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand and
stealthily wiped it on the hand towel. I could tell by the fire in my calf muscles I’d been on the bike at least 45 minutes, but hell if I was quitting now. I was determined to ride it out with Brant.

  “What do you do?” Brant was outpacing me like crazy but still able to carry on a conversation.

  “I work for the Town of Meredia.”

  “Downtown? I run there some mornings and stop for coffee.”

  “Brew Coffee?”

  “That’s the place.”

  Good god, he could know the Three Stooges!

  We pedaled in silence for a minute. Maybe the shirt thing wasn’t a sign. But Brew Coffee had to be.

  “How do you stay busy?” I meant, aside from the marathon training.

  “Gardening, mostly. I have some beautiful apple and fig trees. Ever had a fresh fig, right off a branch?”

  “I’ve had Fig Newtons.”

  Brant tipped his head back and laughed, so I did too. “I like to show the grandkids how to grow their own fruit; they like the getting-dirty part.”

  Grandkids? Retired? Clearly, I had to rethink my vision of what today’s grandfathers look like. I pictured Brant in an orchard of trees (did they look like apple trees? I had no idea) picking figs with several blond grandkids, all with green eyes like his. In my mind, the sunset made the whole scene look like a Sonoma Valley wine country commercial.

  We pedaled in silence for a few minutes. I was glad for the chance to catch my breath.

  “You have kids?” Brant asked, showing no signs of sweat.

  “Two, both in their twenties.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “My kids are both single. We’re all single, actually. Single and ready to mingle.”

  I turned my face to the wall clock so he couldn’t see my red face after sharing that unnecessary info.

  Without warning, Brant was done biking, and incredibly, I was still breathing. He climbed off and stretched his calves again in a way that made me almost drool.

  “Nice talking with you, Jess,” he said, smiling.

  “You too.”

  He turned to walk back to the weights area.

  “Hey!” I called out before I could stop myself.

  Brant turned back.

  “It might be nice to talk sometime when we’re not both sweating,” I said. “Maybe Brew Coffee sometime?”

  He hesitated and I immediately wished to take back the invitation, pluck it right out of the space between us.

  “I’m really not dating right now. Nothing against you. I’m just not into it.”

  “Oh, sure, I understand. Dating is a pain.”

  I tried to manage a laugh, but it came out like a guffaw.

  “See you around,” he said.

  I focused on the TV while Brant headed to the back of the room to use the weight machines. He was a cross trainer. Of course.

  I immediately took my towel and wiped down my sweaty forehead, mopping at my forehead and eyes. To hell with the mascara. The monitor was flashing my stats, and they were amazing: I’d burned 390 calories! A personal record.

  My legs were on fire when I got off the bike, but I straightened my shoulders and walked briskly toward the door. No slumping out for me, even if I’d been turned down for coffee. It was only coffee. Not like I’d offered him sex. Although maybe I would have.

  “Lookin’ good!” someone called.

  It was Marvin, at the front counter in the exercise room.

  I looked around.

  “Yeah, you, Jess!”

  I gave him a wave. I didn’t have a date for Brew Coffee, but I had confidence, and I was on my way to regaining my fitness.

  A man coming in held the door for me and I sailed through, feeling stronger. Feeling strong.

  28

  On a Saturday morning, I was using clothespins to hang my black-cat leggings on a rack to air dry, because one heated dryer cycle would make them capris. Penny was by my feet snoozing.

  “Well, not to brag, but I just hit the 100 mark,” Ian announced from the living room.

  “A hundred what?”

  “A hundred mutual likes,” he said, coming into the laundry room to show me his phone.

  “So, 100 women like you and you like them back. That’s your dating pool.”

  I was a little envious.

  “It’s my profile pics, Mom,” he said.

  “What’s so great about your photos?”

  “Well, for starters, I took my shirt off—”

  “What are you suggesting, Ian? That I show some skin?”

  “Of course not,” Ian said. He took an end of a blanket I was trying to fold by myself. Together, we made it into a perfect square. “But I do think it’s time to think about putting up a full-body pic—with all your clothes on, obviously.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”

  “Why?” Ian grabbed a handful of loose socks and helped me start sorting.

  “Well, for one, I don’t want to attract the type of guy who won’t message a woman with just headshots,” I pulled at a sock, glued to a towel with static. “Two, I’m going to the gym but still not feeling so great about how I look, so why would I want to preserve this moment in time with pictures?”

  I had gained at least five pounds since Bryan had moved out, maybe closer to eight pounds. The muffin top was impossible to ignore. OK, ten pounds. I did not know exactly because I still hadn’t recaptured my fitness enough to even think about approaching the scale at the Y locker room.

  “What the hell?” Ian said, trying to help me sort the socks. “Why do socks never match? How can you stand doing this?”

  “Everyone knows the dryer eats them,” I said, taking the socks from him and piling them into a laundry basket.

  “Think about that full-body shot,” he said, running back upstairs.

  A week later, Ian was messaging Hannah, mutual thumbs-up on Tinder. Her picture showed a pretty blonde, and she described herself as petite. She even showed a little skin in a beach pic. Intrigued, Ian asked her out to a movie date. Then the cold feet set in.

  “Why are you so reluctant to go?” Madison said, handing him sneakers to wear instead of the Adidas sandals he had on.

  “I don’t know. It’s just so much easier to text than to meet in person. I don’t know.”

  “Ah, yes, the fear of putting yourself out there and risk getting hurt,” Madison said, shaking her head.

  “Like you don’t have that problem?” Ian said.

  “Not saying that,” Madd said. “I give you credit for going out. Me and Mom, we’d rather hide at home.”

  “Hey!” I said. “Speak for yourself!”

  “When’s the last date you had, Mom?”

  “1980.”

  Ian left early for the movie theater where he was meeting Hannah, while Madison and I sat down to argue over Netflix.

  Ian texted me an hour later: “I’ve been catfished.”

  “What? What is that?”

  “Catfished, when someone pretends to be someone else so they can reel in a date.”

  “Like an alias?”

  “No, they post a picture that isn’t even them!”

  “Oh no…Hannah isn’t that cute girl?”

  “Mom, she said she was 5’3”. She’s as tall as me and built like a football player.”

  “I’m sorry, Ian. Is she at least nice?”

  “The movie hasn’t even started, and she asked me to hold her hand. Her friend dropped her off, so now I have to drive her home! What if she tries to kiss me?”

  “You don’t have to kiss her.”

  “She’s as big as me, Mom, she could force it. She could be a female linebacker.”

  “Just leave the car running and say good night. Don’t even hug her.”

  “Was that Ian?” Madison said, peeling an orange over a bowl on the couch, pausing the movie. “What’s wrong?”

  “He said he’s been catfished….”

  “That little bitch!”

&n
bsp; I held out my hand out to Maddy for a wedge of orange and tossed it into my mouth.

  Twenty minutes later, Ian texted me again. “It’s getting worse.”

  “Are you texting during the movie? You know you’re not supposed to do that,” I said.

  “I’m out in the lobby. Do you think it’s OK if I leave?”

  “Oh geez, Ian, I don’t know.”

  “She put her hand on my leg and squeezed it!”

  Madison was leaning over my shoulder to read Ian’s texts.

  “Tell him it’s OK to run, Mom,” Madison said heatedly. “Hannah, if that’s even her real name, deliberately misled him. Tell him to run.”

  “If it’s that bad, then yes, go ahead, but tell her you’re leaving,” I texted Ian.

  Five minutes later, another text from Ian.

  “I did it. I ran to my car. I mean I literally ran through the parking lot and drove away, as if she was chasing me.”

  “Did you let her know?”

  “Yeah, I texted her that my sister needed a ride.”

  “OK, then don’t worry about it. She misled you.”

  Madison nudged me in the ribs with her elbow, “Hey! That’s what I said. Tell him I said that!”

  “Are you on your way home?” I texted Ian.

  “Yes, and I’m going off Tinder and never meeting anyone again.”

  “Now you’re being dramatic.”

  “I’m serious. See you soon. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  29

  Some days at work when Joe camped out with his cronies at the conference table, I had a chance to check my messages on Go Fish or do a quick search to see who was online. Just about every guy’s profile on Fish had a picture of a motorcycle, a selfie in swim shorts, an enormous-mouthed bass, or worse, a hunting rifle.

  The men on the site had snappy profile names, like Talk2Me, BestYet2B, Dr.FeelGood, and PlsTryAgain.

  I didn’t exactly hit the ground running. I just hit the ground.

  I looked at dozens of thumbnail shots and read profiles until they all sounded alike.

  OK, they did all sound alike, but my point is I couldn’t make up my mind about any of them.

  It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. There wasn’t any sunlight shining out of anyone’s eyes. No one had a stamp on their forehead saying, “Come get me, Jessica.” Worse still, none of the men came with warnings that said “insincere,” “hookups only,” or “I will break your heart.”