He had the Uber stop at my apartment building and clearly waited to be asked up. I shook my head, said I had a nice time, but that I wanted to turn in early. He leaned over to kiss me goodnight, but I shied away. I almost apologized, but there was no reason to. We didn’t click. There was no chemistry. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I just waved from the door, and the Uber drove off with him inside it.
Sarah Jo texted to see how my date went an hour later. I told her I was already home, and it was a bust. There was nothing wrong with him, just no spark. She suggested I go to the botanical gardens or a park the next day because for Sarah Jo, plants were the next best thing to taking care of everyone. I told her I’d think about it. I didn’t mention that outdoors isn’t my jam. I’d much prefer looking at animal rescue web sites so I could start choosing cats for my future as a crazy cat lady.
That’s what I would do. Find a cat. Not waste time regretting the Forbes magazine I’d thrown away. See, I had a plan.
16
Brent
Before facing the wedding, I had to run what felt like a gauntlet of social obligations. One night was a charity function at a museum. The next was a trip to the opera as a favor to Harold, one of the directors on Astley’s board. His newly divorced daughter was in town, and he had gotten her tickets to the opera. He thought she’d enjoy it more if I took her than if she had to go with him. I had agreed and even acted pleased about it. I could show an out-of-towner how beautiful and cultured our city was and enjoy the opera.
No one enjoys opera. People may pretend to enjoy it so they seem smart or else they understand German and Italian better than I do. Either way, I’d attended just enough productions to know I didn’t like it. So a set-up date with a recent divorcee to attend an activity I didn’t like wasn’t a promising obligation. But I had agreed to it, so I put on my Armani tuxedo and squired Ella from her hotel to dinner and then the opera house.
At the opera, she started to cry, but not because of the long and boring production. Apparently, the real reason she was crying was because it dawned on her that she’s thirty-eight years old and starting over, divorced. And also ma because she couldn’t hold her wine. I offered to get her a bottle of water, but she declined. She accepted my handkerchief, blew her nose and then went to the ladies' room to ‘fix her face.’ I sat staring at the performers, wishing Cat was there to make fun of it with me. She would have had me cracking up with fake dialogue for the actors, I knew. Admonishing myself for obsessing, I went to the lobby to see if Ella wanted to give up on the opera. She emerged with fresh makeup on and swore she loved the opera and wouldn’t dream of missing it. Back we went to our seats and another hour and a half of loud foreign singing passed.
I stayed awake. I nodded and agreed with all of her remarks. I was counting down until I could take her back to her hotel and leave her there. In the car, she asked if I wanted to go up to her room for a drink. I shook my head.
“I’m flattered, and I hope you’ve had a good evening. I’m just not in a place to get serious with anyone, and you deserve a man who is.”
“It wouldn’t have to be serious,” she said, biting her lip.
I kissed her cheek, “Ella, have a Merry Christmas, and I wish you the best in the new year. You deserve so much better.”
She finally nodded and said good night. On the way back to my place, I texted Cat.
I didn’t know why I finally broke down and did it. Perhaps it was my evening with Ella. Perhaps it was the upcoming wedding and the knowledge that I had no one who really knew me. Or it could be that I missed her for who she was, her voice and her humor and her energy.
After I hit send, I wondered if I was making a mistake. I knew I was, but I also knew it could be a mistake of the most delicious kind.
17
Cat
I was watching a documentary about a serial killer and searching for rescue cats online, which sounds creepier than it was. I paused to fish for a piece of popcorn I’d dropped down the front of my pajama top when my phone buzzed.
I looked down to see Brent’s name flash across my screen.
I sat down and held my phone in my hands. It lit up again with, “I know it’s late. Would you go out for a drink with me?”
A drink sounded legit like he wanted to talk. Not like he was drunk and wanted to bone someone convenient. I looked at myself and decided that going out wasn’t something that would take less than an hour to get ready for. So I decided to play it cool for once.
Nah, it’s late. In my pj’s. You could come over for ice cream if you can find me in the slums, I texted, joking. My cute apartment was far from the slums, but nowhere near his tax bracket.
Send me your address.
I sent him my location and waited. And by waited, I meant that I picked up stuff, cleared off the coffee table, and put on a pushup bra under my striped pajamas. I curled my lashes and put on mascara—not enough makeup to be obvious but enough to keep me from looking completely unappealing.
When he knocked at the door, I composed myself and took a deep breath and smiled before I opened it. I stepped back to let him in. I didn’t go into his arms to be crushed in a hug I needed so badly. I felt diffident and shy, wanting to be sure this wasn’t just another step forward into two steps back.
We sat down at my kitchen table and dished chocolate chip ice cream into my deep, blue bowls. I took a bite.
“Why did you text me? And why were you at the opera? Did you lose a bet?”“I was doing a favor for a friend. You know Harold Street?”
“I know the name. Industrialist, retired, lots of shipping I think.”
“That’s the one. He’s on the board of directors, a seat he earned by having his shipping empire acquired by Astley seven years ago.”
“So he took you to the opera?”
“No. I had to take his daughter to the opera. She’s divorced, in town for the holidays or something.”
“Couldn’t you take her to do something fun?”
“Harold gave her tickets to this.”
“Was he trying to get rid of them?” I said.
“I don’t know. She seemed to like it. Maybe it’s like casseroles—if you grow up with it, you think it’s normal. It could be that way with opera. I would rather have a tater tot casserole any day.”
“You and me both. All that yelling. And the woman always dies.”
“That’s a generalization. Surely the woman doesn’t always die,” he said.
“Name one opera where she doesn’t.”
“Marriage of Figaro. Next?”
“Okay, fine. Opera is boring. It’s only fun if you pretend they’re cats who are yowling because they’re really mad about, like, the wrong kind of cat kibble.”
“That would have improved this a lot. I wish you’d been there,” he said.
“So what brings you here?”
“I miss you.”
“You told me to leave you alone.”
“I was right. Everyone would be better off if we spent less time together. The only problem is that it makes me miserable because you’re the one person I can talk to.”