Life After Yes (11 page)

Outside, it's still snowing.

“We should shovel the sidewalk before someone sues us,” I say.

Sage ignores me, takes my hand, and drags me down the block. Children with pink cheeks are laughing and crying, dragging sleds, throwing snowballs.

We stop at the corner and wait for the light to change. An older woman stands next to us, her graying blond hair peeking out from a knit cap. She looks at me and then Sage and smiles. Maybe strangers
do
smile. Even here.

When we get to the park, he drags me to a virgin patch of snow—pure, white, untouched—and he pushes me down to the ground. The snow, a soft pillow, catches us. He kisses me, his lips cold, his whiskers rough.

“It's a good day for angels,” he says.

And here we are, two adults acting like kids. Tummies full of bacon, heads free of worry, we flop our arms and legs about in freshly fallen snow.

I
t's Monday again. I can no longer deny there's a world outside my door, a world that might house an answer or two I don't want to hear. I must shower and dress like a normal person, a person who's not suffering a cancerous breed of guilt.

This morning is business as usual. We juggle the carton of one-percent between our respective cereal bowls and coffee mugs, and trade newspapers after ten-minute intervals.

Out the window, across the street, schoolchildren wearing precariously low-riding pants wait for school to start. They gather in clusters, clutching greasy paper bags from the corner deli.

Sitting here with my mate, swimming in international news and stock quotes while drinking fancy coffee, I feel painfully adult. I long for the days when I would trek down the street to school, eager to show the girls my new pair of cowboy boots, nervous for my algebra quiz, eager for my afternoon soccer game versus our biggest rival.

We don't speak much. But this can be very normal for us.
This morning, though, our silence is loaded. I am taking it all in and trying to wake up, to soak in the new day, the new beginning.

“I hate Mondays,” I say.

“Everyone hates Mondays,” Sage says, and sips his coffee.

Sage's phone rings, and it's his mother. He answers, goes into the bedroom, and shuts the door.

The thought of going to work makes my stomach turn. Most Monday mornings, as dreadful as they are in their capitalistic yuppie monotony, at least I know what to expect: streets crowded with people in the mild throes of low-level misery, people sleepwalking their way toward a corporate destination somewhere in the morass of midtown, loading themselves with enough caffeine to float them to Tuesday.

But today's different. I imagine the worst: whispers in the hallway, gossipy e-mails bouncing around the office like an invisible and deadly boomerang.

Gossip is fun. Really fun, sometimes. Okay, most of the time. But gossip is not fun when it's about you. It just isn't. Sure, it's a release from the plague of seriousness that has swept over us in the corporate, responsible world.
Gossip is rooted in ancient forms of storytelling
, Mom told me once when I caught her with
Star
magazine. I think it's even fine to talk about Britney Spears, even sink as low as engaging in the breast implant debate. It's all an innocuous breather from the stress of our wrinkling existences.

Before he leaves for work, Sage kisses me on the forehead. I'm still in my robe. “Have a good day, Bug. Say hello to Kayla and your
new, um, friend.
” He looks me in the eye, searching for something I won't yet give him.

“I love you,” I say, as if these three words, like bacon and snow angels, can patch a shredding moment.

 

When I walk into my office, I see a single rose floating in a plastic cup. A purple Post-it is stuck to my desk next to the cup.

“I had fun.” That's all it says. The three words are hardly cryptic, but intriguing in their English-as-a-second-language simplicity.

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

Cameron. He towers over me, managing to look masculine in his wrinkle-free lavender button-down. For a moment, I'm living in my own little purple nightmare.

“Quinn. How are you?” he says, looking past me.

“Fine, you?” I say, and wish he would go away and come back in ten minutes so I could prep a little. Come up with a few witty one-liners, a clever way to figure out what happened between us. But he's not going anywhere.

Unfortunately, you cannot prepare for life like you can a deposition.

“Nice flower you've got there,” he says. And just as I think I hear his voice crack and conclude that he's just as nervous as I am, he starts singing “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.” And not quietly either.

“Gotta love Poison,” I say.

“Gotta love red roses,” he says.

“Guess I have you to thank, cowboy?”

“Not me,” he says. “Guess you have more than one admirer. One smarter than me, what with the sub rosa Post-it. Genius. Did you know the Post-it was an accidental invention? And that guy is loaded. Beats this shit.”

I study the handwriting on the Post-it.
Kayla.
Why would she do this? This isn't funny.

“Oh, I know who's behind this. She's perfectly insane,” I say.

“Kayla?”

“Yeah. How did you know?” I ask.

“She came by my office this morning and was joking around with me about how obliterated we all were and how I was being a bad boy. She said that you were pretty shaken up and that I should come talk to you.”

“So here you are.”

“Here I am,” he says.

Leave it to Kayla to meddle. Leave it to Kayla to orchestrate the postcoital “discussion,” where we make only intermittent eye contact, where we hurl meaningless sentence fragments back and forth at each other waiting for it all to end.

“Don't worry. Nothing happened,” he says.

“Good. The end of my night was, well, kind of fuzzy. When Kayla said that we left the bar together, I guess you could say I panicked…”

“Yeah, we did leave together. You wanted to go to McDonald's. So we went across the street from the bar. You gobbled up a Happy Meal and drank my milk shake. It was very sexy,” he says, chuckles, and runs his fingers through his blond hair. I'm pretty sure he blows it dry.

“Nuggets?” I ask.

He nods. He can't be making this stuff up because it sounds just like me. For some reason when I drink I crave my childhood favorites. Mom used to take Michael and me to McDonald's when Dad was on call.

Momentarily, I feel better about things. Nothing happened.

“So nothing happened?” I need for him to say it again.

“No. You went on and on about Sage, about how much you love him, how he is such a terrific guy, and how you think he will be a good dad someday. It was pretty inspiring, actually. Don't tell the guys I said any of this. I will lose my manly edge if they find out that I spent the night having a heart-to-heart with you, acting like your sorority sister listening to you sap it up. It would be very emasculating. There I was thinking you were having naughty thoughts about me and you jabbered on and on about another guy,” Cameron says, smiling.

“I've never quite thought of my fiancé as another guy. Guess that's a good thing,” I say. “I owe you a milk shake though.”

“I'll hold you to that. And no regrets. There are worse things than spending a night in the company of a pretty girl,” he says, and smiles. Flirtation was probably taught at his high school.

Cameron turns to leave. “Well, I better get going and get some work done. I'm hoping to escape for poker night with the guys.”

“Better go then,” I say.

Just as he's about to disappear, Cameron returns. “Oh, I forgot one thing that happened.”

“Oh?”

“At McDonald's, you kept talking about some fishing boat and kept saying one thing.”

“What's that?”

“That you miss him,” Cameron says, and looks down. And no doubt assumes I was talking about Dad.

And maybe I was.

S
pring in Manhattan is like breasts in a sports bar; longed for and bound to arrive—at some point. You never know when, but if you wait long enough, it will come. And it might not hang out, but sure enough it makes its cameo.

Scarves hit storage. Smiles reappear. Bundled and sleepy New Yorkers begin to buzz again, to trade in deep glasses of cozy Merlot for oversweetened mojitos, puffy parkas for blazers of suede, hot coffee for iced.

Another Monday. I walk to the gym and sense someone behind me. I turn and see Avery. She sips water, smiles big, and skips over to me.

“Time to get serious,” she says and hugs me. “No one likes a bride with fat arms.”

“Good point,” I say. And wonder how a human being can be so damned chipper at this early hour, so infused with
optimism about life and commitment and, well,
everything
, even toning up flabby arms (which she doesn't even have).

We walk toward the gym. People are already sporting sandals.

“It's a bit early for toenails, don't you think?” I say. The toenails tell it all; who's on her game. Are they yellow and gnarly? An inch too long? Or polished with the season's most vibrant coral for their reveal?

Avery shrugs. “I don't know about that. I'm all for embracing the new season.”

And she's right. It's a shiny new season. Restaurants set up outdoor dining, lining up rickety plastic tables and chairs and erecting precarious and soiled umbrellas. Ice cream trucks park on select street corners, ring with childhood bells, and remind us of warm weather delights we once had time to appreciate.

White snow disappears and yellow slush melts and cherry blossoms perk; a snapshot of nature amidst the ubiquitous man-made.

“I feel queasy,” I say. “I never knew you could be hungover for two days.”

And Avery, perfect and happy Avery, emits a string of judgment-free giggles.

Together, we walk into the gym, childhood friends, two brides on a mission.

The locker room is filled with new bodies. Everyone wants to be skinny by Memorial Day and they've pinned all their hopes on this place.

Avery affectionately squeezes my biceps, reminding me that my arms aren't Madonna-buff yet either, and disappears to her corner treadmill.

I take a few large swigs of my coffee, burnt but drinkable,
and scan the gym for Victor. I spot him by the Cybex machines and walk over. He loads weights onto the machine.

“Hi,” I say, gulping coffee, begging the caffeine to start flowing through my floppy limbs.

Victor looks me up and down and doesn't do a very good job of concealing his disappointment. His glare speaks volumes; it's spring already and I've only lost two pounds.

“What?” I ask, hoping he goes easy on the honesty. He hands me a forty-pound barbell.

“Dead lifts,” he says, ignoring my question.

“Why are they called dead lifts?” I say, lifting and lowering the weight to the ground.

“Because if you do them the wrong way, they'll kill you. But if you do them the right way, they'll
kill
you.”

“Lovely. Seriously, why are they called dead lifts?”

“Someone took a curiosity pill,” he says, resting his hand on my lower back. “If you really want to know, they're called that because you're squatting to pick something off the floor, a dead weight.”

“I liked your first explanation better,” I say, finishing my last rep.

“It's a very functional, practical lift. They say it prepares you for ‘real life,' for picking up groceries, a laundry basket, a child.”

“Screw practicality and
real life
, prepare me for my wedding day. I don't want muscles to scoop up a toddler. I want to look good.”

“Do you really?” Victor asks.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It just seems like you're more a fan of the forklift these days.”

“Cheers,” I say. But he's right.

The gym is packed. Bodies have emerged from hiding. Winter flab is no longer kosher.

“This year's seventeen-minute members have arrived,” Victor says, looking around at all the new faces. These creatures think a short spin on the stationary bike will make the swimsuit look better come summer.

“Sometimes I think life would be so much easier if I were delusional like that. Having a firm grip on reality is exhausting.”

Victor laughs. “You are plenty delusional.”

“What does that mean?”

He doesn't answer.

“Speaking of delusions, I had another dream.”

Victor pulls a knot out of a rubber jump rope. His eyes light up. “A sequel? Do tell.”

“Don't get too excited. You don't have a surprise role in this one,” I say.

So, I tell him about the dream. We were back in Paris. Sage and I sat across from each other at a small table covered in white lace. We waited for more champagne. But the waiter wouldn't come. Finally, he came by but it wasn't the waiter. It was Phelps. He smiled big when he saw me. His teeth were whiter and straighter. Phelps studied me, then Sage, and then laughed a shrill laugh. He kept bringing new bottles of champagne and refilling the basket of croissants. Sage kept saying how efficient the service in France was. Each time I took a bite, my thighs tingled and expanded slightly. And each time I took a bite, Sage slumped down in his chair, appearing to shrink the littlest bit. Each glass of champagne had more bubbles than the last, and every time I took a sip, Sage's face grew blurry. His features softened. But I kept eating and drinking. Couldn't stop. Finally, I blinked and Sage
was gone. The seat was empty and Phelps sat down. He said it was nice to see me. I told him I was engaged. He said he didn't see a ring. I looked down and my finger was bare. I panicked. Looked around. At the edge of the table, I saw the stone. It rolled away from me, off the table and onto the floor. And then I was under the table, feeling around in darkness, fumbling with carpet for my lonely diamond. There were four legs, not two. Phelps's legs were intertwined with another pair. I heard laughter above.

And then Phelps said to someone: “Always pay attention to dreams.” I came out from under the table without my stone and found my seat. There was a girl on his lap now, facing him, ringlets of red snaking down her back. She cupped his broad jaw with her thin fingers. They kissed, but only for a minute, and then the girl turned around. It was Kayla. She was made up like a 1940s housewife with bright red lipstick and a candy cane smile. “We're engaged,” she said, and held out her porcelain fingers. And there was the ring, my ring, nestled snugly on her finger. She shifted her weight and moved, lifting the shadow from Phelps's face. But it wasn't Phelps. It was Sage.

“That's an easy one,” Victor says. Insinuating that, duh, I'm fat. Ergo, reveries about fat.

“What the hell is it with you today? Bad one-night stand this weekend?” I ask. Guys like Victor make me relieved I'm in a committed relationship. He sleeps with women as casually as I shop.

“Things with the ladies are just fine,” he says. “Better than fine. You know that.”

“What then?”

“It's just that…I'm not a miracle worker, Quinn.”

“Miracle worker?”

“I can't wave a magic wand and poof—get you in the best shape of your life. You've got to work with me. Why do you think you are having panic dreams about expanding thighs?”

Oh, I'm fat.

“Fuck you. I'm sorry I canceled last week; I was at the office until almost 2
A.M.
every night. Toning my biceps didn't seem quite as crucial as getting some sleep, and my mom is coming to town and his mother is coming too,” I say, blaming the job like I always do, scattering excuses like seeds. He hands me the jump rope and I contemplate boycotting. “And don't you think that dream is about a bit more than thighs?”

Victor doesn't bite. “What about the diet? How's the diet been? I'm hoping those croissants are only in your dreams.”

“The diet's fine.”

“Do you want to look
fine
on your big day or
perfect
?”

“Let me sleep on that one,” I say.

“What about carbs? Nothing is going to happen unless you reach a ketogenic state.”

“I've been limiting them,” I say.

“Drinks?”

“Sure. When?” I say, but he doesn't smile. “What about them?” I ask. Victor doesn't drink. I can't fathom how he swings these one-night stands when sober.

“You're not going to lose weight if you keep boozing,” he says.

“You're not going to be a world-famous photographer if you keep spending your days training delusional and fat and spoiled souls like me. Souls who spew excuses and profanities. I haven't been drinking much anyway,” I say.

“Well, you smell like alcohol this morning. Your body is sweating it out because it is
toxin.
”

“I think
you're
the toxin,” I say. “Maybe you should try that sometime—have a few, it'll loosen you up a bit. The ketogenic state is overrated.”

“Protein is a better crutch than booze,” he says.

“Last time I checked, I am paying you an arm and a leg to tone my arms and my legs, not lecture me on my extracurriculars,” I say.

Victor punishes me; I lift impossibly heavy dumbbells, but still he stands behind me while my shoulders begin to quake on my last few reps. I run suicides down the slender walkways between treadmills. I sweat in embarrassing places.

After a long and uncharacteristic silence, Victor stuns me with a simple question. “Are you happy, Quinn?”

I don't answer him. Because I'm not sure I know the answer to this one. Maybe happy people don't drink every night and let colleagues seduce them. Maybe happy people don't pay muscled strangers to listen to their problems. Maybe happy people don't begrudge mothers who pick rings and send flowers and love their sons.

“Are
you
happy?” I ask.

He looks at me, sarcasm and pride missing from his eyes. I wonder how often he's asked this question, this scary and simple question, no one who is honest really knows how to answer.

“As a clam,” he says, nodding, looking away. “Happy as a clam.”

Silence.

“Why do people think clams are happy?” I ask. “Because they're always smiling?”

“No, that's not it.”

“Does Mr. Trivia have an explanation for that phrase?

How do we know if clams are happy? It's hard enough to tell if people are.”

Victor's eyes light up because he knows this one. He's a trivia guy. Which to me has always been a sad sign. What is trivia but a distraction from what matters? Who appears on
Jeopardy!
? Middle-class folks who focus on random tidbits, study useless information to distract themselves from predictable lives, the mortgage payments, the birthday parties, the sexless marriage, the thinning hair. Or maybe trivia is an antidote for those who feel insecure about their intelligence. They stock up on trivia as a defense, as ammunition. Sure their grammar might be shaky, their spelling atrocious, their common sense off-kilter, but
they
know how many yards there are in a mile, how many species of bats there are in North America.

“The real expression is
happy as a clam at high tide
,” Victor explains. “Clam digging must be done at low tide. At high tide, clams are relatively safe from hunters and able to feed because they are covered in water.”

“I guess you could just say everyone's telling me it's finally high tide, but I'm still scared,” I say.

He nods and smiles and stretches my left hamstring.

“Well, if this dream thing turns out to be a trilogy, I'll be very disappointed if I don't reappear. I could wear some colorful Lycra and show off these goods,” he says, stroking his abs and chest. “I'd be the superhero trainer who saves those thighs of yours,” he says, and laughs.

“Oh Victor, you already are.”

He smiles, pinches my thigh. “That, my dear Prudence, remains to be seen.”