Love by the Book (29 page)

I made a spluttering noise that surprised both of us. “I know all about your little
flirtation
,” I spat. “How can you call that love? And you go and fucking
disappear
without so much as a word for a week and a half and expect you can just walk back into her life and pretend it never happened? Do you have any idea how hurt she was? How scared?”

“Lauren, I know that what I did was shitty, and I've apologized a thousand times and will continue to apologize until I make things right but . . . Christ, you know better than most that marriage can be hard.”

“Don't you dare bring my shit into this,” I hissed.

She put her hands up. “I'm not trying to compare us. I'm just saying . . . sometimes things break, and sometimes they can be fixed. I promise you, I am going to fix this.”

I studied her for a minute. Her eyes were rubbed red and raw, her blond hair was shot through with white strands and there were fine lines around her mouth. She looked like she'd aged ten years. I knew that look. I understood it.

I stood up and hugged her. “Okay, okay. I believe you.” I pulled back and looked her in the eyes. “But I promise you this: if you ever hurt her again, I will beat you up. Like, for real. I will go Schwarzenegger on your ass.”

She smiled and I could see the relief in her eyes. “Deal.”

“
And
I get dibs on the last spring roll. You're not out of the doghouse yet.”

I spent my days splitting my time between Meghan and Sue's place and my parents', living off a steady diet of inventive snack foods (M&Ms a
nd
pretzels, you say?), cable television and
US
Weekly
.

It was nice to be back in the comforting bosom of family. My mom fussed over me, plying me with grilled cheeses and strawberry milk and giving me long, searching looks. I knew what she wanted to ask—
What happened with Dylan?
—but she never did, and I loved her all the more for it.

Some nights, when Sue was on a late shift at the hospital, Meg came over for dinner and my dad would come in from working in the yard, open a couple of beers and silently hand one to each of us with a nod before retreating to his den to watch the Red Sox. After dinner, Meghan and I went on Facebook to look at photos of people we went to high school with, checking who'd got fat, who'd had kids, who'd been to jail.

Last night, after we inspected the former prom queen's terrible dye job, I showed Meg my Victorian calling cards. I was on the verge of throwing them out; there were only a few days left with Mrs. Humphry, and it looked unlikely that I'd be able to road test my Victorian wiles at home. The project, like an unsuccessful sitcom, was temporarily on hiatus.

“These are awesome!” she said, holding one of the cards up to the light, the gold embossed lettering glinting. “You can't chuck these away. They might come in handy some day!”

“In what possible way could a hundred cards with just my name come in handy?”

She shrugged. “You never know.” A wicked little grin appeared on her face. “You should leave one at Dylan's house.”

I shoved her away. “Are you insane?”

“Come on, you can't hide from him forever! When are you going to see him?”

I threw a tortilla chip at her. “Never, if I can help it. Besides, I thought he was off on his cycling quest.”

Meghan had the good grace to look sheepish. “I think he's back in town.”

“What?!” I stood up, sending the bowl of Doritos nestled between us flying. “Have you seen him? Does he know I'm here?”

“Calm down! I haven't seen him, but I ran into his cousin the other day and he said he just got back.”

“And when the hell were you going to share this little gem of knowledge with me? Jesus, Meg.”

“Uh, have you forgotten about my recent extreme emotional turmoil? Sorry if I've been a little distracted from yours.” She tugged on my arm and I sat back down next to her. “Look, if you don't want to see him, don't see him. There's no law saying you have to make your presence known when you're in the New England area, and considering you've spent most of your time here so far on my couch or this one, I think you're safe.” She shifted so she was facing me and looked at me evenly. “But I think you should see him. It'll be good for you. He's not an asshole—he's not going to make a big scene or anything. But you guys should talk it out.”

“He sent me a letter.”

“I thought he might. What did it say?”

“
All is forgiven
,” I said in a fake-menacing voice.

“Do you believe him?”

I shrugged. “How can I?” I could barely forgive myself.

The thought of seeing him again, or digging up all those old bones and laying them out for the two of us to examine and discard . . .

Meghan frowned at me. “He deserves at least a phone call.”

I knew she was right. I had hurt him, badly. The least I could do was allow him the opportunity to tell me as much. But still, the idea of facing him felt impossible.

Meghan, as if sensing my thoughts, said, “I'm not saying you have to wear a hair shirt around town and beg forgiveness or anything. It's just—you were
married
to the guy. And I think a little closure would be good for you, too.”

I put my head on her shoulder. “I'll think about it.”

“Whatever you decide, I'm behind you. Now, have you seen how fat Greg Bellows is these days? Seriously, he looks like he swallowed an inner tube.”

I woke up this morning to discover that I'd gotten my period.

I jumped in my mom's car, not bothering to shower or put on matching socks, and headed straight for the drugstore. I fought my way through a horde of harried moms buying last-minute bags of candy and crêpe-paper skeletons. I picked a jumbo-sized bag of mini-Snickers out of a display bin, ostensibly for tonight's trick-or-treaters but more accurately for the car ride home.

Anyway, I think we can guess how this goes: me, looking bloodless and miserable, in sweatpants in the tampon aisle. And as I stood there, wielding a box of Tampax like a really useless weapon, I heard it.

“Lauren?”

I knew it was him immediately. He approached me with quiet caution, as though if he moved too quickly I might dematerialize, which was a fair point. He looked good. Tanned and blond, like a
G.I
. JOE action figure. He was wearing a pair of battered gray trousers and a navy-blue University of Maine sweatshirt I used to steal from him all the time. I'd wear it on weekend afternoons on the dock. I felt sick.

“Dylan!” I trilled, like this was a pleasant surprise. “I thought you were pedaling through Wyoming!” My voice was a full octave higher than usual. “What are you doing here?”

“I think that's my line in this case,” he said. There was an edge to his voice, but he looked like he was trying to swallow it.

“Meghan and Sue broke up.”

“Shit.” His eyes did that crinkly concerned thing I loved and a fresh wave of nausea swept over me. “Poor Meg. How is she?”

“Fine now. They got back together while I was on the plane.”

He laughed. “I see your timing hasn't gotten any better. They okay now?”

“Yeah, I think so. They're solid.”

A stretch of empty silence yawned before us. We were each the deer and the headlights.

He cracked first. “How long have you been in town?”

“About a week,” I said.

“Were you gonna call me?” he asked, quietly. He sounded wounded and—oh God—maybe a little hopeful.

I thought about lying, but I knew he'd see through me. “No.”

“Oh.” Another endless pause.

“Look, Dylan, I know I owe you a—”

“Lo. I can't do this here,” he said, gesturing around him. “Whatever you're gonna say, I don't want to hear it while standing in front of a bunch of fucking tampons and adult diapers. Let's go for a drink before you go. Talk things out.”

“I . . . I don't think that's such a good idea.”

Dylan gave me a long, steady look. “C'mon, Lauren. One drink. One hour.”

I met his gaze. “Okay,” I said. “But not Sangillo's.” I couldn't face the idea of sitting in our old haunt, rehashing all this shit while some drunks downed Jäeger meister shots at the table next to us.

“Deal. Should I just call your folks' place?”

“No!” I yelped. The thought of him calling my parents' house for a long, emotional, not-particularly-flattering-to-me conversation with my mom filled me with horror. “I—I'll give you my mobile number. International fees for texting aren't bad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “
Mobile
, eh? Whatever happened to your plain old cell phone?”

“Sorry, force of habit.” I dug around in my bag and could only come up with an eyeliner and one of my Victorian calling cards. I scribbled my number on the back and handed it to him. “Watch out, it might smudge. It's kohl.”

He looked at the number and then flipped it over to see my name embossed in gold. “Shit, you're
fancy
now, huh?”

“They're for work,” I said quickly, hands flapping toward the card in his hands. “I'm just as un-fancy as ever.”

“I don't know about that,” he said with a slight smile. “It was good to see you, Lauren.” He nodded toward the box of tampons and his smile widened. “I'm glad you were—uh—unprepared.”

I smacked him on the arm. “This is a dangerous time to tease a girl, you know.”

We looked at each other and, for a split second, it all came back to us.
We
came back to us. And then I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me.” I turned to find a minuscule elderly woman clutching a handbag. She beckoned me to come closer and whispered, “Would you help me get one of those down from up there?” She pointed discreetly to a bumper pack of adult diapers balanced precariously on the top shelf. She peered around me and saw Dylan lurking in the background. She pressed her finger to her lips. “Sshhh!” she said, nodding toward him.

I heard Dylan chuckle quietly behind me and turned back to see him walking away. “See you later,” he called from over his shoulder. “Tell your folks I said hello. I'll call you in the next couple of days!”

I handed the old lady her Depends and immediately high-tailed it over to the health and beauty section, where I pulled every face mask, hot roller, body lotion, epilator, loofah, salt scrub and volumizing mousse into the basket alongside the tampons. If I was going to have to see him again, I was going to make damn well sure I looked good this time.

Which is why I'm now locked in my parents' bathroom, covered in Nair.

As I've got some time on my hands and as it's the last day of the month, I guess it's time for a little round-up of
Manners for Women
, even though it's been a sort of truncated experiment. Still, I think I managed to squeeze a lot in: there was a canoe, embossed stationery, a full roast chicken . . .

Mrs. Humphry wasn't nearly as restrictive as I thought she'd be, and basically didn't seem to care what I got up to as long as I did it with excellent manners. And I think we can all agree that I have an innate knowledge of proper social etiquette.

Works best on . . .

Bike Guy seemed completely nonplussed by my Victorian ways, though that might have been due to all the weed he smokes. I'm pretty sure I could have revealed myself as some sort of shape-shifting dragon, or a Republican, and he wouldn't have batted an eyelid. I can't see it working particularly well on the more skittish man—I can imagine Adrian getting the hell out of Dodge if I presented him with a formal invitation to a boating party. Still, I think the enforced propriety—and the general sense that I was doing things correctly in the eyes of society, albeit outmoded society—was strangely reassuring. Plus, I got all that nice stationery.

To be used by . . .

Women who love customized stationery.

by Rachel Greenwald

I spent the morning browsing my favorite used bookstore in Portland, hoping to find a guide for this month. I was determined not to let the project stall despite my brief American adventure; at this point, it was the only thing keeping me sane.

After discarding countless
Rules
copycats and weird cosmic ordering books, I finally found it:
Find a Husband After
35
(Using What I Learned at Harvard Business School)
by Rachel Greenwald,
MBA
. How could I
not
try this book?

I bought it immediately, jumped in my car and drove home, where I locked myself in the study with the book and a jumbo-sized box of Junior Mints. According to the introduction, I was about to embark on something called “The Program,” which was “a combination job search and strict diet: there are commitments, sacrifices and rules involved.” I groaned. I missed the Victorians already.

The more I read, the more terrifying the prospect of being single at thirty-six became. Because, apparently, even if you're the most successful, attractive, socially engaged thirty-five-year-old around, once you hit thirty-six, the party is officially over.

You're on the shelf. Like, way up on the shelf. The top shelf, where it's dusty and only reachable using one of those wobbly little step stools. The vast majority of men have been fished out of the sea and those still obliviously swimming along will only be caught by the cleverest of women, women who have made finding a husband their
number-one priority
. Have a fulfilling career? If there aren't enough men at your workplace, you should probably quit. Own your own home? If your neighborhood isn't teeming with eligible bachelors, sell and get out!

What I'm saying is, you're probably fucked. At least, that's what Rachel Greenwald,
MBA
, is saying.

I decided to take a Diet Coke break and walked into the kitchen to find my parents giggling like a couple of teens who'd just huffed a whole lot of glue. I stopped in the doorway for a second and watched him pinch her on the ass, watched her swat him away and collapse into another fit of giggles, and I thought: this is nice. Marriage is nice. Stability is nice. Home is nice.

I was going to be twenty-nine soon. Most of the people I went to high school with were on their first child by now, spreading softly and contentedly into domestication.

I had the domestic dream once—a handsome, handy husband and a little clapboard house. According to Rachel Greenwald, I'd achieved the ultimate goal. If her book was any indication, there were lots of women who were desperate to fill my former wifely shoes. They were willing to consider leaving their jobs and moving to a different city in the hopes of finding a stable, committed relationship. They wanted exactly what I'd thrown away.

The truth was, each day that passed here, I started to wonder more and more why I'd left Portland and everything that came with it. It was a sweet little town, comforting and kind, and filled with people who I loved. People who loved me. What was so wrong with that? Maybe London, Adrian and this whole ridiculous dating project had just been a fevered dream I was destined to wake up from.

Tonight, just as I was about to go to bed, my phone flashed with a text message from Bike Guy.

Did I ever tell you that you give great head?

I threw the phone across the room. It was flattering, sure, in a really weird way, but it also made me feel kind of gross. What was I doing with my life that a forty-two-year-old almost-homeless man was texting me about my blowjob prowess while I sat in my childhood bedroom, trying to figure out what I was going to say to my ex-husband when I saw him?

I picked up the book and studied its cover. Maybe the idea of finding a husband wasn't so bad, after all. Particularly as I already had a perfectly good one lying around here somewhere.

After a slightly stilted breakfast with my mom, who I was both desperate to tell that I'd seen Dylan and also desperate not to in case it set off a deluge of hopeful questioning, I threw on my running gear and headed over to Meg and Sue's. I let myself in and helped myself to a banana from the fruit bowl while Harold noisily sniffed at my shins. I knelt down and gave him a good scratch behind the ears.

I heard Meghan moving around upstairs. “That you, kid? Be down in a sec!” she called. “Just putting my running stuff on!”

Meghan came crashing down the stairs, holding her sneakers in one hand and Harold's dog leash in the other.

“You ready?” she said, pulling on a sneaker.

I filled Meghan in on the tampon encounter during our run, Harold yapping at our heels. It was a beautiful day: blue-skied, autumn crisp and unseasonably warm. We looped around the Eastern Parkway and finished up at Back Cove. Meg let the dog off his leash and we watched him chase after flocks of seagulls, stretching our legs out under trees with branches still heavy with leaves in brilliant reds and yellows.

I lay down on my back and stared up at the sky through the canopy.

“What are you going to do about Dylan?” Meghan asked.

“I don't know,” I said, picking nervously at a clump of dirt. “I'm starting to think I made a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” she said, turning toward me and propping herself up on her elbow.

“I wonder if I should . . . if we should get back together.”

Meghan sat up and looked at me like I'd gone crazy. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”

“It's just—I feel like I had what everyone wants and then ran away from it. What's wrong with me that I don't want what everyone else wants?”

“A more pertinent question would be: why do you think you should want what everyone else wants?”

“I don't know. I'm reading this new guide and it's all about how finding a husband after thirty-six is, like, impossible and—”

“Uh, I'll stop you right there. Why are you taking these guides seriously? You know as well as I do that they're bullshit. Now, what's really going on?”

I shrugged. I could feel my throat constricting with unspent tears. “I feel like I've let everyone down by running away like that. I'm such a fucking wimp.”

Meg grabbed my chin. “Hey, look at me. You are the bravest person I know. You were unhappy so you left everything behind and started a completely new life for yourself. Do you know how amazing that is?”

“It sounds pretty chickenshit to me.”

“No, it doesn't. So many people in your position would have just stayed where they were and been miserable forever. But you had the courage to walk away from it.”

“But look at you and Sue! You guys went through a rough patch, but you're working through it. Maybe I left too soon. Maybe I should have tried harder.”

Meghan stroked my hair. “Don't you think the fact that you weren't willing to stick it out is proof that it wasn't right between you and Dylan?” She sat up and faced me. “Sue and I are willing to work on things because we both know that we want to spend the rest of our lives together. Can you honestly say that's how you felt about Dylan?”

I thought for a minute, remembering Dylan's kind eyes and the way he used to kiss the tip of my nose before bed every night. “I loved him, Meg.”

“I know you did, kid. But I don't think you loved him completely. That's not a criticism—it's just a fact. You did the right thing by leaving. Just because you had something that other people want doesn't mean it has to make you happy. You've got to make your own happiness.”

I nodded. I knew she was right, but I couldn't let go of the fear that had set into my bones since coming home. “But . . . what if I end up alone?”

She put her arm around me and squeezed. “There are worse things to be than alone.”

I thought of my last weeks with Dylan: the stilted suppers, the endless bickering, the simmering resentment, the cold freeze in the bedroom . . . she had a point.

“So, what are you going to say to him?”

“Fucked if I know,” I said, plucking a handful of grass and tossing it in the air. “Meet him for a drink, let him tell me what an asshole I am for an hour, come over to yours and get shitfaced. That's the current plan at least.”

“He's not going to tell you you're an asshole, kid. Well, at least not for a whole hour. He's a good guy. He just wants to know what the hell happened.”

 • • • 

I heard from Dylan later that afternoon: drinks on Tuesday at the Old Trawlerman,
7
o'clock.

I was wandering around the aisles of the closest twenty-four-hour grocery superstore, mindlessly chucking a pack of peanut-butter Oreo cookies into the cart and still mulling over yesterday's conversation with Meghan when my phone rang: it was Lucy.

She started speaking as soon as I picked up. “Lo, I have some
shocking
news.” Her voice was high and breathy, like she'd taken a break from a panic attack to give me a call.

“Have we been robbed?” I asked. I'd been waiting for us to get robbed since the day I moved in. It wasn't exactly the most salubrious apartment building in the area.

“No!” she said. “Nothing like that. It's . . . well . . . oh my God, I can't believe I'm about to say this, but . . .” Her voice was getting higher and higher.

“Lucy, for chrissakes, spit it out!”

“Lo, I'm getting
married
!”

“What the fuck?!” I screamed. A woman with two toddlers tucked in the front of a shopping cart stopped to give me a dirty look.

“What do you mean, you're getting married?” I hissed.

“Tristan proposed last night! Oh, Lo, it was amazing! He took me to the top of the Shard and there was champagne and roses and he was like, ‘Look across the river,' and when I did, that funny looking building, what's it called . . .”

“The Gherkin?” I offered.

“No, the other one. You know—the funny trianglish one that melted cars.”

“The Cheese Grater.”

“Yes! The Cheese Grater was all lit up and the windows spelled ‘Marry Me Lucy!' Can you believe it? I felt my legs go and when I turned around, Tristan was on one knee and holding out the most
enormous
diamond you have
ever
seen! I'll send you a photo—it's on my Instagram. Isn't it incredible?”

It was incredible, all right. I was happy for Lucy, I really was, but there was something faintly depressing about hearing of a friend's engagement spectacular when one has just run into one's own ex-husband buying tampons. It really takes the shine off one's perception of one's life, particularly when one has recently been ruminating on one's future of loneliness and desperation.

Still, I rallied. It wasn't Lucy's fault that Dylan had found me in the tampon aisle, and Tristan was a great guy and I was sure he'd treat her well (especially if she put him in Aunt Dorothy's Cupboard regularly). They would be happy together, and that's all that mattered.

“I'm really happy for you, Luce. I can't wait to see a photo of the ring.”

“Wait till you see it in person—it's a stonker! Speaking of, when are you coming home, babe? I miss you! We're going to have a little engagement do on the sixteenth so you
have
to be back for that.”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

So Lucy was getting married to a gazillionaire and would soon be moving from our little flat into an enormous penthouse in West London, where she would spend her life flogging him into their happily ever after.

And here I was, contemplating a bag of chocolate-covered pretzel pieces while wearing my dad's old tracksuit, mentally preparing myself for meeting my ex-husband.

I tried to slip out of the house unnoticed, but my mom heard me rummaging around in her purse, looking for the car keys.

“Are you going over to Meg and Sue's?” she asked, bustling into the kitchen.

I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Nope.”

“You girls going out for dinner then? Maybe to Sangillo's? See who you run into?” Her voice sounded innocent, but she was eyeing me shrewdly. The game was up.

I sighed. “I'm going for a drink with Dylan, Mom.” She let out an involuntary squeak. “I ran into him at the drugstore the other day and I said I'd have a drink with him. I didn't tell you earlier because I didn't want to get you excited.”

“I'm not saying anything!” she said, even though her eyes had gone all misty and hopeful. She gave my arm a squeeze. “Just tell him we said ‘hi' and that he's always welcome here.”

I rolled my eyes. “I'm not sure how helpful that would be.”

I drove down to the docks, parked behind the railroad museum and walked over to the Old Trawlerman. I hadn't been there since high school—it was the only place in town that didn't check
ID
—but it hadn't changed a bit. The same weather-beaten locals were lined up at the bar. It wasn't Sangillo's, but this place had its own ghosts. I scanned the room for Dylan and, when I didn't see him, I ordered myself a bottle of Bud and sat down at a table in the corner. I had successfully peeled off three-quarters of the label when I saw him walk in.

He looked good. Better than in the drugstore. He was wearing a thin gray T-shirt and loose Levi's, and had obviously made some effort to tame the mess of blond curls on top of his head. An involuntary little rush of comfort washed over me when he spotted me, and for an instant I thought: maybe I could. I waved, but instead of coming over he nodded and headed to the bar, where he greeted the bartender with an elaborate handshake and started talking to him enthusiastically.

So it was going to be like that.