Twenty-Nine

Erin

It takes most of Sunday to finish my dating profile on Hinge. One of my biggest problems, other than freaking out about the whole idea in general, is how hard it is to come up with six photos of myself that don’t include Josh. Or some part of Josh. Or me staring up at Josh. In fact, I can hardly believe how few mementos or memories I have that are only about me.

I already downloaded the app, so now I answer prompts and upload photos—two of them taken yesterday at Between the Covers thanks to Carlotta, Meena, and her photographer, and one of me in the red dress at Katrina’s party that she sent me.

I feel like I’m practically naked in front of the world by the time I finish my profile, which will open me and my life up to a whole batch of strangers. Before I can freak out completely, I speed-dial Katrina, who is now an official resident of New York City.

“Hi.” She answers, and all I hear are traffic noises, car horns, a siren, people shouting.

“Where are you?”

“I, my friend, just left an incredible fashion exhibit at the Met and am now on my way into Central Park.”

“Oh my God! You are an actual New Yorker.”

“I am. It’s a whole other world, and I keep pinching myself to be sure I’m really here.”

“Is it wonderful?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. I mean, my apartment is the size of a postage stamp. And there is no dishwasher or washing machine or any other convenience, including an elevator. But the location’s great. I can walk to shops and restaurants, and to the park. And the subway is only five minutes away.”

“You ride the subway.” It’s a statement, not a question. The closest I’ve ever been to Manhattan is Sex and the City reruns.

“I do. Personal space takes on a whole new meaning in the subway at rush hour. In other words, there is none.”

“Is it awful?” If someone gets within two feet of you here in Atlanta, they’re most likely a relative.

“Sometimes. But it’s wonderful, too, you know. I just . . . everywhere I look there’s something interesting. And life. And . . . remember how the suburbs would be deserted at nine p.m.? Well, things don’t even get started here until then. How about you? You all right?”

“I’m okay,” I say, trying to sound it. “I’m on Hinge as of, like, fifteen minutes ago. And I’m feeling kind of unhinged about it.”

Katrina snorts. “Ha. Good for you. It’s about time you experience some of the rejection and heartache the rest of us have been living through for years.”

“I think I did that in one great big chunk,” I point out.

“True. You always were an overachiever,” she says. “Are you really okay?”

“Yeah. Just . . . it’s weird. He was such a part of my life for . . . forever.”

“I know, Erin. And I know it’s hard. But it’s time. You’re right to move on. Like Josh is.”

“I know. Only, I feel kind of like a balloon off its string, just sort of floating along with nothing to hold me in place.”

“You never needed Josh, Erin,” she says. “You know that, right? You drove that bus, and frankly, he was lucky to be on it. I don’t think he’d be where he is today without your drive and ambition for him.” There’s a brief pause. “You can do that for you now. You can tether yourself. Not so tightly that you can’t take off and fly, but not so loose or fast that you can’t control where you’re going.

“It’s called freedom. And it can be totally scary and totally fabulous, sometimes all at one time. I feel that here every time something new happens or I have to do something I’ve never done before. You just have to take a deep breath and know that everything you need is right inside of you.”

“Wow,” I say when she finishes. “You’re good. A little woo-woo but good. Maybe you should give up fashion and become a therapist.”

“Hey, as far as I’m concerned, fashion is therapy. It brightens the world. And when you get some time off, I want you to come up and visit. I’ll show you around. I think you’d really like it here.”

“I’ll come up. Just as soon as I can. But . . . I don’t know if I can do this whole dating thing right now. Not because I want Josh back or anything, but— I don’t know, I’m just not really interested.”

“So don’t. You don’t have anything to prove. Just focus on yourself for a while. Figure out who you are and what you really want—not what you thought you were supposed to want. You’re only twenty-three, girl. You have plenty of time to find a man when and if you want one. There are, as they like to say, plenty of fish in the sea.”

Sara

When I come into the kitchen Monday morning for that all-important first cup of coffee, Dorothy is already at the kitchen table frowning down at her phone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask over my shoulder as I brew my K-Cup.

“It’s this dating app. The SilverSingles thing.”

“What’s the problem? Do you need help setting it up?” I ask, carrying my coffee to the table and hoping Saturday’s Dating 101 session was enough to help me help her figure it out.

“No. I think it’s working. But now that I have it, I feel like I have to use it. I’m not sure what I’m more afraid of: that no one will be interested in me or that someone will.”

I understand this completely. Not having to put myself out there and find out if strangers consider me attractive may be the only upside to my current still-married status.

“No one is going to force you to do this,” I point out as I add cream and sugar.

“I know.” She takes a long sip of coffee. “Only, I promised Annell.”

“Yeah.” I join her at the table. “I still can’t believe I’ve known her all this time and never had any idea that she’d been married.”

“We all have our secrets,” Dorothy replies sagely. “Some are more benign than others.” She looks down at the tabletop, then up at me. “I should have told Mitch the truth about his father a long time ago. I . . . shouldn’t have babied him all those years, excused the weakness I saw.” Her face and voice are tinged with regret.

“You did what you thought was right, Dorothy. He’s an adult. And he needs to accept responsibility for his actions.” It’s my turn to look away, gather my thoughts. “He was lucky to have someone who loved him and who was always in his corner. Even if it wasn’t perfect. I would have given anything for that.” My hands wrap around the coffee mug, cupping its warmth.

“You haven’t mentioned where things stand. And Mitch doesn’t want to talk about it,” Dorothy says. “He seems to be living in some fantasy world where everything works out exactly the way he wants it to. Are things moving forward?”

I study my mother-in-law’s face and think about Bonnie’s warning about not sharing with the enemy. But as far as I’m concerned, avoiding the truth, as Mitch has done over and over, is the same as lying. It’s a breach of trust. And this woman is as close to a mother as I’m ever likely to get.

“Well, the paperwork has been filed. We hired a forensic accountant at $300 an hour, and it seems that after Mitch ran through everything that should have gone toward paying your mortgage, he began depositing a portion of each paycheck into an account at a bank in Birmingham. He then took out a credit card on that account and used it to pay the rent on Margot’s apartment, her monthly allowance, which he classified as ‘domestic help,’ and their son’s private preschool tuition.” I take a deep breath because somehow the idea of Mitch paying for private school tuition while I earn a public school teacher’s salary feels horribly personal.

I close my eyes. When I open them, Dorothy is waiting quietly for my answer.

“So the bright side, if there is one,” I continue, “is that I’m not on that card and shouldn’t be responsible for half of that debt. Because having to pay for his other life—well, that would be about way more than money.” I take another deep breath and force myself to say out loud the thing that keeps me up at night. “But the house—well, unless the miracle I’m praying for occurs, this house will be sold, and all I’ll have left is half of whatever we get for it minus the payback on the mortgage.”

“Oh, Sara.” The words are filled with apology.

“But Mitch is cooperating, and his attorney’s responsive, so Bonnie is certain we’ll ultimately reach a settlement. And once that happens, I’ll be free, and as she keeps reminding me, that’s what this is really about. The opportunity to move on and . . . live whatever life I choose. Maybe even meet someone else one day.” That thought seems so far out of the realm of possibility that it brings tears to my eyes. I spent my childhood trying and failing to make strangers love me. Now that the one person who ever loved me has betrayed me, how could I ever trust anyone again?

I’m blinking back tears when Dorothy’s phone pings. Once. Then twice. She glances down. An odd look steals over her face.

“What is it?”

“It’s . . . I . . . it’s the dating app. I’m sure it’s not important.” She begins to push the phone away. “I’ll look at it later.”

But I’d way rather focus on someone else’s life than think about mine, so I reach for her phone and glance down at the screen. “Oh my gosh! You have four smiles. That’s . . . that’s men reaching out to you.” I tap and scroll. “Here are their pictures.” I angle the phone so that we can both see the screen. The first man is balding with shaggy white eyebrows and a beak of a nose. The next two are moderately attractive in a silver-haired, well-groomed way. The last stands out from the others, though it’s hard to pinpoint exactly why. He has a square jaw, straight nose, and wide-set green eyes that look straight into the camera lens and thus into ours. His iron-gray hair makes him look older than his seventy-three years, but his smile is the eager, friendly one of a golden retriever. He looks like someone you’d want to share a lifeboat with if your cruise ship went down.

His name is Dean Francis. According to his profile, he’s a widower and father of two grown children who’s looking for a woman who can “help him find love again.” He was an investment banker before retiring to manage his own portfolio.

I tap on the screen to read more. Dorothy leans closer. “Oh, look,” she says. “He majored in finance at NYU, then got his MBA at Harvard.”

“Impressive,” I agree. “The app said that eighty percent of the people on this site have university degrees. But these aren’t just any universities.”

Another ding. I attempt to hand her the phone. “Dean is chatting with you. He wants to know whether you’re interested in meeting for coffee sometime next week.”

She looks at me, panic flashing in her eyes. “But . . .”

“According to the book, coffee’s safe. But you only want to go to places where there are a lot of people, and you don’t have to stay long if you don’t like him. And you’re never supposed to let him know your address.”

“How on earth did you remember all that?” she asks, still staring at Dean Francis.

“It was on Meena’s handout.”

We laugh, but Dorothy looks way more nervous than excited. She doesn’t take the phone I’m still trying to hand her.

“I’m pretty sure you can just chat awhile if you like. You know, to get used to the whole idea and see if he feels like someone you even want to meet.” I set her phone on the table in front of her. “But Meena also said you want to meet relatively quickly so that you can eliminate people you don’t have chemistry with.”

“Chemistry? Oh my God . . . I didn’t really think this through,” Dorothy says. “It seemed a bit of a lark: the makeup, the dressing up, taking photos. I honestly never considered what might happen if someone expressed interest.”

I feel an odd swirl of affection and protectiveness toward this woman I’ve known for so long but only recently begun to understand. “What do you want to do?” I ask.

“I’m not sure.” She looks up, and I see fear and nerves but also an odd gleam of excitement in her eyes. “How do I wave and . . . and chat?”

I click through to the instructions, and she scribbles down notes. She may be hyperventilating. But, I think, possibly in a good way.

“Okay. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you after work.” I get up and sling my purse over my shoulder.

“Right. Have a good day.”

I glance back when I reach the kitchen door, but Dorothy’s attention is completely focused on the screen in front of her, the excitement winning out over the fear. I pull the kitchen door closed behind me and get into the car, unable to ignore the irony; my seventy-five-year-old mother-in-law is chatting with an attractive, available man while I slog my way toward the end of a marriage that was riddled with lies.

If that’s not irony, I don’t know what is.

Jazmine

I arrive at the office after a working lunch to find Erin grinning like a loon.

“What is it? What happened?”

“Louise called me.” She grins.

“Louise? My Louise?” I ask, referring to the woman whom I will always love and respect, but for whom, I realize, I no longer pine.

“Yes, she heard that I am”—she does air quotes with her fingers—“‘knocking it out of the park.’”

It’s my turn to grin. “Oh, I just told her that to rattle her chain.”

“You did not.”

“Okay. I may have told her that you’re doing a good job. I believe I even used the word ‘impressed.’ But the corny baseball analogy? That’s pure Louise.”

Erin’s face lights up.

“You can stop going all Cheshire Cat on me. Compliment given and received. Can we get down to work now?”

She holds on to the grin for another few seconds, then nods. “Right. Rich Hanson is waiting for you in the small conference room. All pertinent files and notes on the tennis center are on your desk.” She points to the stack. “I’m reminding you this one last time that I have to leave at two thirty for a dental appointment. I tried to change it, but I couldn’t make it happen. Your calls will be transferred to the front desk.”

I nod.

“Most importantly, you’re due to pick up Maya from Chastain Park at four o’clock. They’re finishing early today because the younger players are at a tournament.”

“Got it. Thanks. Anything else?”

“No. But I did order those mini desserts you like. And I’ll bring them in with coffee right before I leave. Early. Before my dental appointment.”

“Yes, I heard that part.”

“Please, give me your phone.”

When I don’t hand it right over, Erin takes it out of my hand. Her thumbs fly over the screen. “Okay—there’s an alarm set now for three thirty. So you can get to Chastain by four.”

“Got it.” I give her a look. “I’m not really loving being treated like a child here, Erin.”

“Sorry. It’s just that I know what happens when you’re completely focused on something, and I won’t be here to drag you out of the meeting.”

“Boy, you’re getting to be almost as big a pain in the ass as Louise was.”

Erin looks as if I’ve just handed her a winning lottery ticket.

“Oh, no. Don’t get all excited again. That wasn’t meant as a compliment.”

“Sorry.” She shoots me a grin. “It’s a little hard to tell sometimes.”

I find Rich in the conference room. Graphs, charts, spreadsheets, and athlete photos are spread across the table.

“Hi.” He motions me toward the chair next to him. I’m barely seated before he launches into what might actually be rehearsed opening comments. “So, I was thinking we should put together all the info on the tennis center itself. Once Larry approves those details, we can move on to . . .”

“No.” I stop him as I settle back into my seat. “Larry’s a big-picture guy. He’s not going to care about the details of the facility remodel or the exact tournaments we want to host. Or even the specific talent we’re looking to attract. If we give him too much up front, I’m afraid we’ll lose him.”

“So, you’re saying the way to get Larry all the way on board is with the sizzle, not the steak.”

“Exactly.” I’m surprised at how quickly he gets, and accepts, my point.

We consider each other. “That’s . . .” we both begin.

“You first,” he says politely.

“No, you,” I say, eager, possibly for the first time, to hear what he has to say.

“All right.” He nods, smiling almost to himself. “I was going to say that that’s the exact opposite of what I expected you to say.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” I open my top folder and drop my gaze to it.

“Never,” he says so quietly I almost miss it. Then he clears his throat and speaks up. “What I meant was, I just assumed you’d want to bury him in facts and numbers so that he can’t say no.”

“He’s not going to say no,” I reply.

“He did when you originally brought it up,” he points out.

“Yeah. But the time wasn’t right,” I concede, shocked that I’m willing to admit to having made a mistake in front of this man. I hesitate before confiding the rest. “And I was thinking too small.”

With that admission, I charge forward, letting one idea lead to another until we’re actively brainstorming, arguing and rearguing, looking for holes.

Rich Hanson knows how to look at an opportunity from every possible angle, and I realize that I’m enjoying hashing this out with someone who knows how to form a cogent argument and doesn’t cling to an idea just because it’s his.

Erin delivers fresh coffee and desserts as promised with one last reminder that she’s leaving. I pop a mini cupcake into my mouth and chew it while I visualize turning the idea I once dreamed of into reality.

“How do you eat all the crap you do without putting on weight?” Rich asks.

I shrug, still thinking about the academy. “Metabolism, I guess. And these are not crap.” I hold up a perfectly formed, beautifully iced cupcake. “These are tasty items loaded with deliciousness and energy.”

“And sugar.”

“Yes, definitely sugar.” I lick the icing off my fingers. Then I challenge him on the ratio of coaches to players he suggests. The number of hard courts versus clay. At what point we might need to add an agent who specializes in tennis.

We argue about pretty much everything. I don’t think I’ve had this much fun at a meeting. Ever.

My phone alarm goes off in the middle of a debate about rankings. He knows a lot more about tennis than I want to give him credit for. Clearly, he’s not one to shirk on homework.

I’m about to make a point when I remember what the alarm was for. I glance down at my watch and jump to my feet. “Damn. Sorry. I’ve got to pick up Maya at Chastain.” I shove my files under one arm. “We’re going to have to finish this another time.”

“Sure. No problem.” He stands. “Go ahead. I’ll clean the rest of this stuff up.”

“Thanks.” I drop my files in my office and grab my purse. Then I race down to the parking garage, my keys already out to beep the BMW open. I’m reaching for the door handle when I notice that I’ve got a flat. Damn.

I start to speed-dial Erin when I remember that she’s gone. I consider calling an Uber or Lyft, but neither are ever as fast as you need them to be. I look down the row of cars and spot Rich Hanson’s. It’s an Aston Martin convertible. Midnight blue. Sleek and curvy. Even more penile than Kyle Anderson’s. I hit speed dial. When he answers, I explain.

“Be right there.”

And he is. “How did you get here so fast?”

“I was already in the elevator.” He looks down at my flat front tire. Then he tosses me his keys and reaches for mine. “You go get her. I’ll change your tire.”

My eyes narrow. “I do know how to change a tire.”

“I’m sure you do. If you want, you can stay here and prove it while I go pick up Maya.” He’s grinning.

He follows behind me as I stride to his car. “Just be careful. It accelerates like . . .”

“Men get so protective about their cars.” I lower myself into the driver’s seat, breathe in that expensive, über-masculine new car smell, and press the starter. The engine roars throatily to life.

He motions to me. I lower the window.

“Seriously,” he says. “You barely want to touch the gas pedal.”

“Got it. Be right back.” Then I smile and intentionally peel out of the parking garage like a bat out of hell.