Baby Proof (27 page)

“Cool places to be seen ?” Stu said, waving the list in the air, as she chased him around the apartment. “This thing is too queer for words. Who wrote this?”

Jess played dumb and said, “Oh, that ol’ thing? Some friend of the family came up with that Our dads work together. I barely know her. Tell him, Claudia.”

“We barely know her,” I echoed.

“Well, the only thing more queer than writing such a list is anyone who would actually save it,” he said, cracking up as he made the L-sign for loser on his forehead. “And then make check marks and notes all over it!”

Jess’s face reddened as she said, “Well, you’re the loser who has accompanied me to half of those places!”

She promptly crumpled up the paper and tossed the list in the trash, but by that point Temple Bar had been firmly established as our favorite hangout.

A lot has changed since then. As a thirty-five-year-old senior editor and a nearly-as-old managing director at a top Wall Street firm, Jess and I no longer hang out much in that Village-NoHo area. Nor do we enjoy lounges like we once did, vastly preferring restaurants where people will dare to be seen in a color other than black. But, like a song that is inextricably tied to a certain time in your life, Temple Bar evokes much nostalgia from our early twenties.

So whenever I see that lizard sign adorning the entrance on Lafayette Street and then step into the romantically lit, red-velvet, deco interior, I have a wave of being twenty-three and so poor I had to nurse one drink all night (I made nineteen thousand a year when I started out at Elgin). I also remember the way I felt, both wildly intimidated and impressed by the city, both filled with a sense of doom and full of hope. Most of all, I recall our many twenty-something mishaps, almost always caused by a member of the opposite sex.

That much is actually still true, I think, as I find Jess in a corner table with a cosmopolitan. She hardly ever drinks cosmopolitans anymore, but the beverage remains part of the Temple Bar ritual (a ritual she established way before Sex and the City ever aired). She hands me my personal Temple Bar favorite, a martini with a kiss of vermouth, and says, “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” I say.

“Really?”

I nod, but then say, “No. Not really.”

“Okay. Look. I was thinking. This marathon thing is just not your style anyway,” Jess says.

I think, If that’s the best you came up with all day, I’m really in big trouble , but I say, “I’ve always wanted to run a marathon.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. You say that,” Jess says. “You say that in the same way I fancy myself the sort of girl who would enjoy snow-boarding and bungee jumping and white-water rafting. I wish I liked adventure sports. But you know what? I don’t. They’re scary. They’re not fun. So no, thanks And you might think you want to run a marathon, but c’mon, do you really want to run twenty-six-plus miles? Do you really want to get up at the butt crack of dawn and train? No . You don’t. So let the dream die, already.”

“I guess so,” I say. “I don’t know I know that this shouldn’t bother me as much as it does. Nothing has really changed since I went to Italy with Richard or talked to Ben or saw those Internet results. I’m in the exact same place I always was, or have been since I got a divorce. So I’m really not sure why I feel so much worse now”

“Well, suspecting that Ben is in a relationship was one thing. Confirmation is another. It’s hard. I get that.”

“I know. But I really thought I was moving on,” I say, recalling my dad’s pep talk at lunch. “Richard or no Richard, I thought I was okay with my decision.”

“You are okay, Claudia. You did make the right decision,” she says. “It’s just that moving on sometimes consists of some minor setbacks along the way. You had to have your rebound guy in Richard. You had to worry about Ben’s rebound girl. Which is probably all Tucker is in the long run. But regardless of whether she is or isn’t, you are moving on.”

“Just like you’re moving on and forgetting Trey?” I say hopefully.

“Exactly!” she says, grinning. “He’s actually coming into town next week. He left me a message. But I haven’t called him back.”

I shoot her a dubious look.

“I swear I haven’t. And I’m not going to. I’m done with him. You need to be done with Ben, too.”

I nod and say okay.

“So here’s to fresh starts,” she says, raising her glass.

“To fresh starts,” I say, thinking that this time I almost, very nearly, mean it.

We then proceed to get really drunk together, and it feels just like old times, when a few cocktails at a trendy lounge could fix just about anything.

I don’t mention Ben and Tucker for another few days, until one of my authors, Ethan Ainsley, stops by to say hello. Ethan recently moved from London to New York which made me happy because he is one of my few authors who has a perfect score on my four-point checklist, namely: (1) I like him; (2) I like his writ-ing; (3) his books sell; and (4) he’s reliable. More typically, I like the author and the writing but the books aren’t as commercially successful as I’d hoped. Or I like the writing and the books sell well, but the author is pompous and unreliable.

So when Ethan appears smiling in my doorway, I smile back and tell him to come in, have a seat.

“Look what I got this morning,” I say, handing him a mock-up of his next book jacket that the art director just gave me. “What do you think?”

Ethan looks down at the stark navy cover adorned only with a small, white pillow and breaks into a huge smile. “I love it,” he says. “It’s so simple but perfect.”

“I know,” I say. “I think it’s really good.”

“Those guys in the art department are brilliant,” he says. “Let’s just cross our fingers that people judge my book by this cover.”

I smile and say, “So what’s doing? Just in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah. I was over at Paragon picking up ski gear We’re taking the boys on a little ski trip.”

“That sounds fun,” I say.

“Yeah. Should be a good time,” he says.

“How is your family?”

“Good. John and Thomas just started kindergarten and, in bigger news, they have a little sister on the way!” Ethan says, beaming.

“Ethan! That’s awesome news!” I say, feeling genuinely happy for him. “Darcy really wanted a girl, didn’t she?”

I suddenly realize that I might be confusing his wife with a character named Ellen in his first book. It’s something I often do when it comes to Ethan’s books, because in one of our early conversations, right after I bought his manuscript, he admitted how much his novel mirrored his own life and marriage. Specifically, he confided that like the hero in his book, he fell in love with a girl, despite her baggage, despite her flaws, despite his own fervent wishes to be free, unencumbered, and blissfully alone. All that went out the window. Because he just had to be with her. Needless to say, I was fascinated when I met Ethan’s wife at his first book signing last year, and after only a five-minute conversation with her, I could see why he had fallen so hard for her. She was charming, unaffected, and drop-dead gorgeous.

Ethan says, “Well, Darcy insisted that she didn’t care, but she was giddy at our ultrasound. I think she was feeling a bit outnumbered at home And I secretly wanted a girl, too.”

“Well, that’s really good news,” I say, thinking that I can be happy for someone when the news of conception is normal, straightforward, and unfettered by drama and controversy. “Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” he says. “So, what about you? How are you doing?”

Ethan knows about my divorce. I recently gave him the abbreviated version (“I don’t want a baby; he does”) of why we split.

So I say, “Oh, I’m fine Just keeping busy you know.” I consider telling him that I was briefly dating someone, but reconsider when I remember that Richard has done some work on his books. Incidentally, other than a couple of e-mails, I’ve yet to talk to Richard since our return. I’m starting to wonder if he came to the same conclusion about us.

Ethan hesitates and then asks, “Have you talked to your ex at all?”

The question shouldn’t catch me off guard, Ethan is candid that way. But it does, so I find myself blurting out the latest on Tucker and the marathon. I tell the story with a self-deprecating, humorous bent, but Ethan’s face stays serious. When I finish, he says, “So how do you feel about all that?”

I shrug, trying to brush it off. “The doctor-jock combo is certainly annoying,” I say with a smile.

“So just the standard post-break-up pang?” he asks.

“More or less.”

“But you don’t want him back, do you?”

I think of my talk with Jess at Temple Bar. Then I think of the reason Ben and I broke upand how nothing has changed since then. I think that I certainly know what the answer should be. But I still shock myself when I say, “Well, yeah. Sure I want him back. In theory.”

“So go get him back, then,” Ethan says matter-of-factly.

“I can’t, I say.”

“Sure you can.”

“It’s too late. He has a girlfriend. And, you know, there’s the whole baby issue.”

“Both are surmountable obstacles.”

“Not really I mean, who knows about Tucker? But the baby issue certainly isn’t surmountable.”

“Yes it is.”

I look at Ethan, processing what he is saying. He is, more or less, telling me to have a baby to get Ben back. It is just about the worst advice I’ve ever heard, akin to Jess’s dishonest attempt at entrapping Trey.

I shake my head and say, “I can’t have a baby just to get Ben back.”

“Well, then,” he says slowly. “I guess he’s not your soul mate So that should be a consolation when you’re looking up their future marathon results.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask, feeling oddly defensive. As much as I want to feel okay about Ben in the present, I don’t like the implication that what we had wasn’t, at one time, the real thing.

“Well, because,” Ethan says, “you’d do anything to get a soul mate back, right? I mean, that’s the nature of soul mates. You know, Romeo and Juliet swallowed poison to be together So if Ben were really the one for you, don’t you think you’d go ahead and have his baby?”

twenty-four

I don’t think Ethan intended to make a profound or lofty statement. Nor do I think he was trying to offer any relationship counsel. Rather he seemed simply to be throwing out his offhanded two cents about the nature of true love. Essentially, he was just saying what we’ve all heard a million times love conquers all .

So I’m not really sure why his words affected me. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t giving me preachy advice. Maybe it was the parallel to his book, the recognition of art imitating life imitating art. Maybe it was the clarity of hearing something from a relatively random messenger, a player un-invested in your life, someone outside your inner circle.

All I know for sure is that Ethan’s words cut straight to my heart and made me see my relationship with Ben in the least complicated, most stripped-down terms. I saw the bare essence of our breakup. The hard truth of the matter. I realized, almost in an instant, that I no longer bought all the propaganda about relationships ending because of bad timing and incompatibility and outside influences, like wanting or not wanting a baby. A baby is huge it doesn’t get much bigger than that, but so is religion and age and geography and being married to other people and feuding houses and so many other seemingly insurmountable factors that couples encounter and defeat when love is true.

So, right there in my office, I decide that as simplistic and naive as it may sound, I do believe that true love conquers all. Therefore, one of two things must also be true: either my relationship with Ben was not what I believed it to be, or our breakup was a big, horrible mistake.

It has to be one or the other.

I know where I’m coming out in the matter. I only hope Ben feels the same way.

Later that afternoon I call Daphne and ask her if I can come and spend the night.

“Sure!” she says. “Tony’s going out with the guys, so it’s perfect timing.”

“Don’t cook,” I say. “We’ll order a pizza, okay?”

“Papa John’s?” she says hopefully.

Papa John’s versus Domino’s is a raging debate in her house, with a multiple-prong analysis, cheese, crust, sauce, delivery time, value for money.

“Perfect,” I say, feeling a wave of affection for my sweet suburban sister.

I return to Jess’s apartment and quickly pack an overnight bag. As I’m retrieving my toothbrush from the bathroom I hear the unmistakable, distinct sounds of my best friend having sex with an equally expressive, not-so-gentle man. There are few things as unsettling as hearing a close friend having sex (only slightly less disturbing than hearing your parents doing it). But what makes the symphony of groans more offensive is that I recall that Trey is in town. I am filled with something close to rage at him for toying with her, but more at Jess for being so stupid. She damn well better be using a condom, I think, as I hurry out the door during a long, drawn-out moan.

About two hours later, I arrive at Daphne’s and walk in her side door without knocking. She is sitting on the floor on a large throw pillow, grading tests in flannel pajamas and Snoopy slippers.

“Hey, there! Pizza just got here!” she says. “I got pepperoni. Hope that’s okay?”

“Sure,” I say.

I put down my bag and have a seat beside her, picking up a paper from the marked pile. It belongs to Annabel Partridge, who earned herself an A+ and a “Fine job” with three exclamation points and a smiley face.

“Wait,” I say. “Isn’t Annabel ‘Bigghettobooty’?”

Daphne laughs and says, “Yup.”

“Man. An A-plus with that sort of extracurricular activity That really is an anomaly, huh?”

“Yeah,” Daphne says, shaking her head. She flips to the bottom of the stack and produces Josh McCall’s paper, covered with red marks, a big D, and a “You can do better” (with one exclamation point and a frowning face).

“Her guy?” I say.

“Uh-huh,” she says, shaking her head and putting the stack of papers down. Then she clears her throat and says, “Look, Claudia, I know what you came here to tell me”

“You do?” I say.