Ex and the Single Girl (2 page)

I choked on a sharp
gulp of wine. “
The
summer
?”

“
I
’
m sure I
’
ll be up and around by August. September at the latest.”

“
The
whole
summer?”
I glanced around the apartment, my mind whirling in a desperate search for reasons why I could not leave. My dissertation. M
y shot at getting the assistant professor position opening up next spring. My life…

My eyes grazed over the window, then zoomed back. A chunk of ice formed in my throat. I squinted at my reflection in the glass.

Epiphany.

“
Oh, my god,”
I said, and walked c
loser to the window, touching my face, straightening my glasses, running my hand over the bird
’
s nest ponytail hanging off my head at a tilt.

“
Portia?”
I heard Mags
’
s voice come through the line, tinged with concern. I walked over to the mirror by the fron
t door and took a good look. Pale skin. Bags under the eyes. I practically had a neon sign over my head, flashing the same empty message over and over.

Alone
.

I swallowed and the ice shifted to the back of my neck. I blinked and looked around my apartment,
seeing fresh the mass of empty junk food wrappers and dirty coffee mugs. My chest tightened.

“
Darlin
’
?”
Mags
’
s voice was muffled; I
’
d let the phone drop against my chest, where it vibrated to the beat of my frantic heart as the neon sign flashed in my ima
gination.

Alone. Afraid.

Oh, my god,
I thought.
I
’
m four cats and a Reader
’
s Digest subscription away from being totally irredeemable.

“
Portia? You still there, baby?”

I shook my head, got control of my breathing. The ice receded. I pulled the phone up to
my ear. “
Yeah. I
’
m here.”

“
Oh, good,”
she said, apparently missing the panic in my voice. “
I thought I
’
d lost you there for a minute. So, when can we expect you here? You know our busy season starts around mid-May...”

“
Hold on for a minute, okay, Mags?”
I
put the phone to my chest again. I breathed deep, turning my back to the mirror, raising my eyes to the ceiling, which was the only place in my apartment showing no evidence of the fact that I
’
d driven my life into one hell of a ditch.

Use logic. Make a ch
oice. Stay here and recite Austen movies with the
actors and never write another
word of your dissertation and morph insidiously into the Crazy Cat Lady in the attic apartment...

My heart started to pump erratically again. I took another deep breath.

...or
, spend a summer in the clutches of the Mizzes. Lesser of two evils. Make a choice, Portia.

“
Portia?”

“
Just a minute, Mags.”
I grabbed a quarter off the floor a
nd flipped it in the air. Heads,
Syracuse. Tails
,
Truly.

I caught the quarter in the air and sla
pped it on the back of my hand.

Tails.

Best two out of three.

“
Portia? Honey?”

I flipped again, then sighed and tossed the quarter back on the floor. I rolled my head on my shoulders. My breathing stabilized. My heart fell into a reasonable rhythm. I squin
ted at the calendar.

“
My last class is May nineteenth,”
I said, feeling the words stick in my throat as I croaked them out. “
I can settle things here and be there by the twenty-second or so. Assuming I can find someone to sublet my apartment. If I can
’
t fi
nd someone…”

Mags squealed and giggled. I
’
d have pictured her jumping up and down if it weren
’
t for the acute pain and torture in her back. “
Oh, darlin
’
, that
’
s just perfect! I knew you
’
d come through for us. I just knew it!”

I grabbed a red marker, took t
he cap off with my teeth, and spit it onto the kitchen counter as I flipped up the pages to August. The panic subsided as resignation flowed in. “
I
’
ll have to be back by...”
I ran a finger over the days. “
August twenty-second.”

I circled it in red, then pu
t two stars on either side. August 22. Three months. Thirteen weeks. Was it really going to kill me?

Chances were fair to middlin
’
that it would. But the dismal state of my life had been recognized, and it had to be dealt with. Even though my response was
to run far, far away, at least I was doing
something.
At least I wasn
’
t floating around town with open cans of Fancy Feast, trolling for strays. That was good. Wasn
’
t it?

I muddled through a few more niceties and finally shrugged Mags off the phone. I scuf
fed through the living room, reaching down to flick off the television set as I headed toward the closet, grabbing the last clean towel and revealing the remote, sitting there on the naked shelf.

I stared. All this time, it had been sitting there, waiting
for me to hit rock bottom, to get to the place where I
’
d whittled the laundry down to the last pair of clean underwear, the last clean towel. I raised my fingers to its bumpy, worn surface, then rolled my eyes at myself as my vision started to blur under
t
he tears.

Peter would not be coming back.

I tossed the stupid thing down the hallway, where it skidded to a stop on the living room rug. I longed for a warm, furry kitten snuggling up against my ankles, justifying my existence by needing me. Maybe if I got
just one, it would be okay. You have to have more than one to be the Crazy Cat Lady. I tossed the towel over my shoulder and decided to think about it on August 23.

***

I drove the fourteen hours home for two reasons. One, it allowed for the possibility
of changing my mind and turning back, something that
’
s much harder to do on a plane. Two, it gave me a fourteen-hour reprieve from my immersion into the collective bosom of my mother, aunt, and grandmother, known throughout Truly as the Miz Fallons. The
n
ickname stems from the fact that our family has been suspiciously lacking Mr. Fallons. None of us has ever been married, and when we get knocked up, we have girls.

“
Men just don
’
t stick to Miz Fallons,”
Mags had often said throughout my childhood, as thoug
h it was simply a fact of life to be accepted and moved past, like having freckles or being color-blind. I hadn
’
t accepted it as fact, but so far, I had to admit the phenomenon was consistent. I
’
ve termed it the Penis Teflon Effect. Patent pending.

When I
pulled my rattling Mazda sedan past the town limits of Truly, Georgia, population 6,618, I had fourteen hours of self-talk under my belt. I would be gracious. I would be pleasant. I would ignore any quirks, insensitivities, and unintentional offenses. I w
o
uld enjoy my time with the Mizzes. I might even wear makeup and dresses if it made them happy. After all, how much did it really matter? It was one summer, and I
’
d be going back to Syracuse at the end of it. I could be gracious for one summer.

I rolled dow
n my window and drew in the clean air, watching the sun set behind the purpling Northwest Georgia Mountains. I was overwhelmed by contentment, even a little nostalgia, as I traded Battlefield Parkway for Truly
’
s Main Street. As I drove past, my eyes clung
to the old-fashioned wooden sign that hung over the family bookstore, the Printed Page. I was surprised by the ache I felt, the longing to see once again the shelves of books and random knickknacks, drink the brew from our little coffee bar, inhale the mu
s
ty wood and pulp.

“
God,”
I said to myself as I waited at Truly
’
s only stoplight and stared at the Page
’
s storefront. “
I had no idea how much I missed you.”

“
Why, Portia Fallon!”

I turned my head to see a large woman in a blue dress waving from the front st
oop outside of Whitfield
’
s Pharmacy. I fluttered my fingers at her and laughed.

“
Hi, Marge!”
I called through the open window, surprised at how quickly shed recognized me. With the exception of the occasional low-profile holiday visit, I
’
d been gone twelve
years. I didn
’
t know whether to be glad or disturbed that I
’
d changed so little.

“
Good to have you home, baby!”
she called as the light turned green and I moved on. It was a short six blocks from the center of town to our old two-story colonial, but I too
k it slow, remembering every oak tree I
’
d ever fallen out of, every friend
’
s house I
’
d ever ducked behind to try on lipstick or smoke a cigarette. They were all there, every last one. How was it possible that a place could be exactly the same after twelve
years? Had I been raised in Brigadoon and never even noticed?

By the time I pulled into our driveway, I was feeling pretty good. I chuckled to myself as I stepped out of the car, wondering what all my dread had been about. It was just Truly, and Truly wasn
’
t so bad. It was a place where kids played safely in the streets and neighbors all knew each other, and there were definitely worse things than spending a summer drinking iced tea in pine-scented mountain breezes. The Mizzes would behave themselves, cert
a
inly. Hell, Mags would be in bed most of the time. Everything was going to be just fine.

Maybe even fun.

I popped my trunk open and looked up with a smile as I heard the creaky porch door swing open, followed by squeals of excitement.

I heard a pounding an
d looked up to see Mags bounding down the steps toward me like a Great Dane released from a small pen. My smile froze. She was all energy and verve, and there wasn
’
t even the tiniest evidence of acute pain and torture on her face.

“
Good to see you, Mags,”
I said when she released me from her exuberant hug. “
How
’
s your back?”

She gave a dismissive wave as though there was a small fly rather than a huge deception between us. “
Oh, my back
’
s fine. That was just to get you here. And now you
’
re here!”

Mags flashed her sparkling white smile at me, and her blue eyes shone under her perfectly lined lids. Not a hint of guilt or shame or anything that anyone with a moral center might show. Either she didn
’
t think it was wrong, or she didn
’
t think I
’
d be mad.

Or, and this was my vote, she just didn
’
t think.

I lifted my indignant gaze up to the porch. My aunt Vera waved and held up a glass full of clear liquid and clinking ice cubes. I didn
’
t have to taste it to know it was a gin and tonic, the signature drink
of the Miz Fallons.

God bless Vera.

“
Come on up, darlin
’
!”
she called. “
We
’
re fixin
’
to celebrate!”

Mags easily lifted my heavy duffel bag out of the passenger seat of my car, and I felt my irritation flare up again.

“
I don
’
t know why you can
’
t get some pr
oper luggage, Portia. Something with corners, maybe.
And wheels. You know they make
‘
em with wheels nowadays. Isn
’
t that smart?”