His Five Night Stand (2 page)

It is amazing how much two bottles of wine dulls a broken heart. My best friend, Cara—a certified therapist who is constantly on the lookout for poor self-medicating choices—had been the one who filled my glass that night . . . repeatedly. I felt better getting drunk with a therapist, it seemed slightly less pathetic.

“They’re in love,” I repeated for about the tenth time.

“Correction. They
think
they are in love,” Cara said, sitting across from me in her PJ’s, a blanket wrapped around her long legs. We had regressed to slumber party mode. Our hair in top ponytails, we were bundled in blankets drinking wine and eating handfuls of salty truffle popcorn.

“Well, Henry used to think he was in love with me.”

I borrowed a pair of Cara’s PJ’s. They were too long on me since Cara was about five inches taller, but I’d rolled them up and they were super cozy with pictures of tiny troll babies all over them. Cara and I had been friends since third grade. She’d been with me through every twist and turn in my twenty-eight years of life. When my parents died the summer after high school, I’d lived with Cara and her mom. They were my support system in life. Cara was the closest thing to family that I had in this world.

“Henry and Sophia are in lust,” Cara said. “Remember what it was like when you and Henry first got together?”

“Yes, I mean no,” I said, as I wracked my brains for a lustful memory. We’d met at the Suzzalo Graduate Library. Henry had asked me out to dinner. We’d gone to a little Italian restaurant and I remembered thinking he was really handsome and seemed smart. We made out in his car and things had progressed in a really normal way. “I really don’t . . . I mean we definitely had sex more in the beginning, but we were never out of control if that makes sense. Did you know they were going to have sex on the rug, on our shag rug?”

“You mentioned that,” Cara said, sipping her chardonnay.

“The rug that we never did it on?” I took a big swallow of my wine knowing the tannins were going to kick my behind in the morning. Cara drank white; I drank red. I thought that was one of the reasons we were such good friends. We never had to argue over a bottle. “I should have insisted we fuck on that floor. I should have made him do me.”

“But you know how Henry feels about profanity,” Cara said, giggling.

“Oh right, I should have said something like Henry I think we should have sexual relations on our floor. I insist. Ravage me, right now.”

Cara laughed so hard she almost choked on her wine. “I seriously cannot imagine what Henry would have done if you talked to him like that.”

“We didn’t talk during sex,” I said, feeling suddenly self-conscious about our silent love making.

Cara raised an eyebrow.

“I mean we had good sex, it was satisfying. We just didn’t need to talk which I think is very, very normal. It’s normal right?”

“Sure, it’s normal, totally,” Cara said.

“We were good together. We had a routine, an understanding and it wasn’t all fireworks, but we enjoyed each other and I thought he was the one for me, you know? I thought he was my one and only.”

“I know honey,” Cara got up and sat next to me on the couch leaning her head against my shoulder.

“Don’t be nice to me, or I will cry,” I said, tears filling my eyes.

“You deserve to cry sweetie,” she said, kissing the top of my head. “You know you can stay here as long as you want. Josh won’t mind.”

“Um, that is going to be really awkward when you have sexual relations on your living room rug, am I right?”

“You’re right, it would be quite awkward.” She glanced around the room as if considering the logistics but then thinking better of it.

“Henry thinks I should move to Bellevue,” I said, holding up a print out of a map decorated with yellow circles. Before I’d left the condo he’d handed me a manila envelope with details about dividing up our belongings, a summary of vacancy rates by neighborhood, and a check to help get myself established in a new apartment. I hated how the check felt like hush money or go-quietly-and-don’t-make-a-scene-money.

“Bellevue,” Cara snorted and pushed the bowl of truffle popcorn my way. “He’s the one who should move to the other side of the lake. Screw him.”

“But I am going to have to rent a place,” I said. “Oh my God, I’m twenty-eight years old, single, and I have no clue how to rent an apartment. I’ll need references, how will I get references? I’ve been with Henry for five years and before that was graduate housing.”

“You have skills. You are a capable woman. You will figure this out,” Cara said. “But, you don’t need to figure this all out right now.”

“I’m a capable assistant designer who designs and gets no credit,” I said. My cheeks flushed at the memory of that day’s disastrous but lucrative deal for the firm. “Roxanne showed my designs today as if they were hers . . . again. If I had any backbone I would do what I wanted and go into business for myself. It’s just so hard to speak up sometimes. I should quit my job. Seriously why not? My love life is a train wreck; why don’t I just go real big with a total life reboot.”

“Easy tiger,” Cara said, changing to her therapist voice. “You are going through a major life transition with Henry, take things one at a time.”

“The thing is, I feel like I had a plan for my life and now I’ve got nothing. I’m off the rails,” I said, tears filling my eyes and spilling over. Suddenly, I felt drunk and nauseous and stupid thinking of all the years I’d spent with Henry. “I thought he loved me.”

“The question is: did you really love him?” Cara asked, her voice soft.

Once upon a time I thought I knew the answer to that question.

“I think you need to figure out what you really want, honey,” Cara said. She leaned over and kissed my forehead before standing. “I need sleep. You do too. You going to be okay with the blanket and the cat out here? There are extra pillows in the basket and drink more water.”

“Yes, Mom,” I said, stretching my legs out on the couch and pulling the blanket up to my chin.

“And if you need anything at all, you come upstairs and get me.” Cara stood at the bottom of the stairs.

“I’m not bothering you anymore.” Elsa, Cara’s mildly obese Siamese cat, jumped into my lap purring and kneading. “See, Elsa loves me. Henry might not, but this cat freaking loves me.”

“We all love you,” Cara said, smiling. “You’re going to be fine. You know that.”

“I know that,” I said, keeping a brave face but as soon as Cara padded up the stairs, I poured myself another big glass of wine. “You know what Elsa? I am not fine. I am absolutely not fine at all.”

Elsa the cat stared at me with her unblinking, wide blue eyes. I tried to ignore the feeling that the universe had sent me yet another sign. In case I hadn’t understood the broken cell phone metaphor, I was now a drunken woman talking to a cat. Thanks universe, message received. My life had officially jumped the shark.

I woke that morning with Elsa the cat sleeping on my face and a headache that felt like an ice pick drilling above my left eye.

Hair in a knotted ponytail, red wine on my borrowed troll baby pajamas, I managed to down some water without vomiting though I thought my body might actually be happier if I got sick. According to the clock on the mantle, it was 10:00 a.m. I had a moment of panic about work before I remembered it was Saturday and I was officially on vacation. This sweet relief was followed by the sickening realization that my road trip with Henry was canceled because he was in love with Sophia, his radiant pixie paralegal. I wanted to cry.

Cara had left me a note in the kitchen telling me to stay all day, but I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone and doing nothing. I stripped out of my sweaty borrowed PJ’s and pulled on my skirt and blouse from the day before. I hadn’t exactly left Henry’s with a plan or an overnight bag. The truth was I hardly remembered leaving I’d been sobbing so hard. The memory filled me with equal parts grief and rage.

I wanted fresh clothes. I wanted my toothbrush and my good moisturizer. Once I had fresh clothes, I could hide out at Cara’s and binge watch TV like a proper train wreck. It seemed like a solid plan.

The cab picked me up and I climbed inside wishing I’d dressed better for my get away. I shivered as a cold rain fell on the windshield. It was a damp and dismal day. The weather had gone from good to bad just like my life. I leaned back against the cracked vinyl seat of the cab, my fingers running over the smooth metal circle of my key ring and the key to Henry’s condo.

He’d given that key to me five years ago. I remembered how he’d presented it as if it were an engagement ring even carrying me over the threshold as if we were a young married couple embarking on our life together. Except we hadn’t gotten married and there was no ring; in fact, the condo was in his name alone. Sure we’d talked about refinancing and getting me on the title, but there were always numbers to run and nothing ever seemed to come of it. I had wanted to push for change but I always found a reason to avoid the conversation. I hadn’t wanted to be a drama queen or cause conflict even though I wanted more.

I had thought we were happy.

Great strategy, Cal. I thought to myself. Don’t make waves; just let life steam roll you. How is that plan working for you?

Relationship officially off the tracks.

Career intact only because I’d gotten really good at keeping my mouth shut.

After five years of thinking I was building a life for myself, I suddenly felt like a total failure.

I held my throbbing forehead as techno music pumped through the cab. The driver nodded his head in sync with the drumbeat. It felt like additional punishment, physically and mentally. I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear view mirror.

Brown eyes, bloodshot and puffy. Check.

Sickly pallor to skin. Check.

In need of a shower. Check.

I’d pulled my thick brown hair into a pony tail and I wasn’t hitting that messy-not-trying-too-hard-but-I-still-look-good mark. I looked like a disaster and I was pretty sure I smelled like red wine.

I cracked the window craving fresh air even if it was chilly. We drove through the university district, in stop and go traffic, finally making some progress and idling at an intersection.

Red light.

On the corner, a small thin woman with a pointy face stood in front of a brick building holding a string of blinking Christmas lights.

It was July in Seattle, nowhere near Christmas.

The cab idled at the light as the girl took the blinking, rainbow lights and wrapped them around a sign in front of a large square brick building.

The Holiday. VACANCY

The Holiday. It was such a beautiful name evoking images of exotic vacations abroad and fruity drinks on white sandy beaches.

The girl finished her wrapping. She had the lights going round the post of the sign like a candy cane and draping back and forth over the lettering. They were dim in the daylight but somehow managed to look cheerful in the rain, hopeful even. She looked up at me and smiled, her eyes meeting mine for a moment. I smiled back without thinking.

I felt something flutter in my belly. The girl’s smile felt so warm, so welcoming, like the quiet glow of her lights. She looked pleased with her handiwork and the lights were clearly out of place. As I watched her walk inside, I felt this sudden urge to follow. I wanted to find out who lived in a world where Christmas lights made sense in July. Henry would have made some snide remark about her artsy nature, even called it tacky. I loved those irrational, beautiful lights.

“Stop the car,” I whispered. The light changed and the cab rolled forward slowly. “Stop the car!” I shouted pounding on the back of the seat. “Stop!”

“Easy lady, easy,” the cabbie pulled over in front of a church across the street. “I thought you were going downtown,” he said, as I paid the fare.

“I was,” I said. “But I don’t live there anymore.

I walked out into the rain, the Christmas lights and a single word, Vacancy, drawing me forward like a magnet.