| |
“Todd!” I called. If I’d actually had a moment to absorb the fact that a guy I thought about on a daily basis was on the same coast, in the same city, and in the same restaurant as me, I would have had the presence of mind to identify it as an extraordinary coincidence, but not one I should act on. I would have hovered over the bar and hidden my head in the cocktail menu, and maybe texted Veronica. “Guess who just walked by in SF of all places. TTT—Todd the Turd.”
But I’d reacted.
He looked up, and it was too late.
“Jada?” His face was full of shocked delight. It had only been six years, and I’d seen on social media that he hadn’t changed much. Maybe he had a few more forehead wrinkles like we all did, but he was the same. Same light hair. Same broad shoulders. Same blue eyes.
I rose from my barstool to do... I wasn’t sure what. Kiss him on the cheek? Hug him? Offer a handshake?
I decided on a hug. It was long and warm, followed by excited and awkward simultaneous exchanges of “What are you doing here?” and “on business,” “me too,” “you look great,” and “you too.”
“Wow, Jada,” he said. “In San Francisco, of all places.”
“All the way across the country.” I shook my head. “Crazy.”
“What have you been up to? Did I hear you got married?”
I noticed his coworkers waiting for him in the lobby. “You’re not going with them?”
“Nah. I see them all the time. Hold on.” He walked to the doorway. I heard him tell someone to text him the name of the bar where they ended up, and he would meet them there. I was elated for a moment, in spite of myself, that I would get more time with him.
He came back and pulled out a seat. He ordered a vodka and tonic for himself. “Martini, extra dirty, with extra-large Spanish olives?” He remembered.
My legs threatened to quit on me as I settled back on my barstool. “I already ordered one.”
“So, wow. You got married, right?” he asked again.
“I did.” I displayed my left hand. “Had a kid too. A boy. Ethan. Almost four years old now. He’s great. Not planning on another one soon, though. We’re taking our time.”
“Nice. I’m married too. We didn’t take our time. Got pregnant just before the wedding. Shhh.” He smirked. “So, where are you and your husband living?”
“On Long Island.” That was my attempt to be vague, hoping he wouldn’t ask what town. “We decided we wanted Ethan to have a suburban childhood. Even though we love the city, I think Mark—my husband—and I just felt like it would be easier to raise kids in the suburbs.”
“Us too. Me and Jessica, my wife. Same thing. We’re on Long Island too. Never thought that’d happen, but at least I don’t drive a minivan.”
“Ha! Me neither.” Our drinks arrived at the same time.
“Let’s drink to that.”
We lifted our glasses and clinked just as our knees brushed.
“Where on Long Island?” he asked.
I had to concentrate on swallowing and backing myself up on the barstool to avoid another knee brush. “Empire Hills.”
“No way. We’re in Roseland. Wow. We live in neighboring towns and had to fly all the way to San Francisco to run into each other. Another toast,” he declared. “To San Fran and old friends.”
“To San Fran and old friends.”
We sipped. I concentrated. Swallow. Back up again. Little more. Not too obvious.
I scooched back and said, “This is pretty crazy. You know—”
But I couldn’t finish because he reached for the small of my back, leaned in close to my neck, and said, “You look amazing.”
I cleared my throat. Say something. “Thanks.”
We chatted more about houses and home improvements and work and kids and family.
“So...” He moved back as if to get a better look at me. “Are you happy?”
Despite my internet search history, I had only recently confessed to myself the undeniable truth about my marriage. I still hadn’t said it out loud to anyone.
“No,” I replied before I could stop myself. Well, the truth is out.
After a few more martinis and vodka and tonics, he knew too much and so did I.
He and Jessica had had problems from day one. They may have rushed into it with unrealistic expectations. She wanted several children. She wanted a bigger house. She wanted a nicer car. She wanted it all. And when he wanted to end a fight—or start one—he would just tell her she lived in a dream world and had better start living in reality.
“There are good times,” he said. “We laugh over the kids, and we have our good moments, but overall it’s, well, it’s not what I expected.”
They appeared so happy in their photos on social media, but if anyone could understand what a façade that was, it was me.
When it was my turn again, I let another truth leave my lips for the first time that I hadn’t realized was just beneath the surface. “I’ve found motherhood to be unfulfilling.” I quickly explained that I loved my son with every fiber of my being, but motherhood was harder than I’d ever imagined.
What is in these martinis?
He nodded as he put his arm on the back of my chair. “That’s what they should tell women in that book about expecting. ‘Don’t expect what you expect.’”
“Yes!” I shouted, spilling a bit of my martini.
“But what can you do about it now, right?”
That doesn’t sound so good. I half-nodded. My throat clenched, partially from the guilt of admitting it all and partially from the relief of finally feeling understood for the first time in as long as I could remember. I was afraid I might cry, so I changed the subject.
“Did you read the latest news about Lee Harvey Oswald’s trip to Cuba?”
His shoulders lifted a little as he laughed and sipped his drink. “Yes. You did?”
“Yeah. Remember my friend Veronica? She has an obsession with true crime and history too. I used to be completely disinterested, and then I saw a book on your shelf once, and I borrowed it.”
“Agent X? So that’s where it went.”
“You gave me permission, by the way. Must have slipped your mind that I still had it when, you know, we went our separate ways. Anyway, remind me, what got you interested?”
“The movie from the nineties. JFK. I saw it on TV once and read a bunch of books after that. I remember Veronica. How is she?”
“Good. Happy.”
“How do you know she’s happy?”
“I can tell. And I’m happy for her.”
“Are you really?” he teased.
“Ha. Yes.” I said pointedly. After a moment, I added, “But sometimes, it feels like, I don’t know, kind of like her happiness is a sort of personal affront to me. Does that make sense?”
“No. You’re jealous.”
“No,” I pleaded. “It’s almost like her happiness magnifies my unhappiness. Do you have any friends like that?”
“I know what you mean.”
I touched the stem of my drink. “This has turned into a real confessional.”
“We’ll both say three Our Fathers when it’s over.”
I couldn’t be sure if my lifted mood, and what I confessed next, was due to the drinks, the relief I felt after confessing the truth about my marriage and motherhood, or the thrill of seeing Todd.
“Well, while we’re still at it, I have another confession to make.” I adjusted myself on the barstool and licked my lips. My mouth started to feel puckered and dry. “I know your wife. Our kids play together at Long Island at Play.”
“Say that again?” He leaned in as if he hadn’t heard me correctly, though the corners of his lips curled in a knowing smirk.
“I know Jessica, your wife,” I repeated.
“How?”
“Long Island at Play,” I said again. “We’re friends on Frontbook. But I’m never on. Who has the time, right?” Ha! “But yeah, I know her. Very well. Well, not very well. We’re friendly. We’re always there at the same time. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“She never mentioned that.” He was serious.
“Because she doesn’t know.”
He smirked. “She doesn’t know she’s friends with you?”
“No. She doesn’t know that I know you. I mean, Todd, come on. What was I going to say? ‘I used to date your husband?’ I figured I should just keep my mouth shut for once.”
As I said this, I had his full attention. For so long, he was my friend’s good-looking older brother, who was aloof and unattainable. He had this way about him that made it seem like he was never that interested in anything or anyone, so when anyone did get his attention, it was the ultimate validation, as pathetic as that sounded and seemed now.
I fell for it then, though. When we ran into each other one night in the city six years ago, it had seemed like fate. I was with Mark, my boyfriend of two years at the time, but I broke up with him to be with Todd. It seemed like we were headed in the right direction at first, until our dinners and nights out together became more and more infrequent and his declarations about how busy he was and how he didn’t like to define relationships became more and more frequent.
One morning, I told him my parents were coming into the city to go to lunch and asked if he wanted to meet them, and that was when he ended it. I’d left in a ball of fury, breaking his UPenn mug in the process.
So mature.
Not long after, I’d reconciled with Mark, which was easier than it should have been. He’d welcomed me back with open arms. I’d felt then like I didn’t deserve Mark and was lucky he would even have me back.
I asked the bartender for water. “And honestly, is date even the right word for what we were? It would be more like ‘Your husband and I used to... I don’t know what. I fell in love quickly, and then he ripped my heart out.’ But at least I got a book out of it, and all he got was a broken mug.”
I gulped my water. I realized I’d never ordered food. I was drinking on a few oysters, a basically empty stomach. As I was about to reach for the menu, he squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Jada.”
I stared at his hand on mine. “It’s okay.” I pulled my hand away.
He ordered another round.
I shook my head and changed the subject. “Social media can be so deceiving.”
“How so?” he asked.
“It just looks like everyone is so happy. It’s a big fucking façade. It never seems like anyone has a fight, or feels drained from work, or from commuting, or taking care of their kids, or doesn’t love their spouse anymore. And maybe never did.”
He nibbled on his cocktail straw as he readjusted himself on the leather barstool, never taking his eyes off me.
“I have another confession,” I said. “I check Frontbook every day, every hour. And I check Jessica’s in particular—often—because I want to see how you’re doing and how you look. I never really stopped thinking about you.”
He released the straw and studied me.
It’s all out there now. I pulled the curtain back, and I’m still the same old pathetic, pining Jada, just older.
“I have a confession too,” he said.
I sat up.
“I know that you know my wife. She mentioned a kind of foulmouthed but funny mother at LI Play. That’s how she described you—foulmouthed but funny—and I asked her name. There aren’t a lot of Jadas in the world.”
My mouth fell open.
“And there’s only one Jada who could fit that description. You’re one of a kind.”
I know I’m drunk, but I have to commit this to memory. One of a kind. That’s better than piece of work. And this whole time, he knew? I have to digest this when I’m sober.
“There’s more,” he said.
“If you tell me you know my husband, I’ll vomit.”
“No, not that, but I’m on Frontbook too. I don’t use my name, just an abbreviation of first and middle name, and my profile picture is a Giants helmet.”
“You have a fake account?”
“Well, it’s me, but yeah, I guess so. And I can see your pictures when you allow friends of friends to see them. I’ve seen you and your husband and your son. I think about you too, Jada. A lot. I’m sorry I ever hurt you. I’m sorry you’re not happy. You’re still beautiful.”
My throat constricted. Tears welled up. Do not cry, you pathetic loser! I tried to breathe, but no air was coming in. You’re acting like a teenager! You’re a wife and mother. Get it together. Oh, fuck it.
I leaned in to kiss him. When was the last time Mark and I looked at each other? Really looked at each other? I can’t remember.
I jerked my head back before our lips could touch.
Mark.
The combined motion of leaning in then jerking back made me dizzy, and before I could steady myself, my butt slid off the stool and landed firmly on the floor.
That’s going to hurt tomorrow.
Todd knelt down to help me up. “Let’s get out of here.”
He paid the bill, and we went back to his room.