Private Politics (The Easy Part) (5 page)

“I date.”

“When was the last time you had dinner with a woman? Just two of you?”

That was easy. He’d been on three dates with a DOJ lawyer eight months ago, Amanda something or other. A nice girl. Curvy, pretty, smart. He’d stopped calling her after she’d asked him if Michael was single. She hadn’t even known he thought they were dating. There was no way he was admitting that to his mother.

“I’ve been very busy, you know, running a business.”

She softened. “If not J-Date then, if not a Jewish girl, if not someone to marry, just something for balance. You work too hard.”

This was why he couldn’t be mad at her. Maybe their end games differed, but she really did want him to be happy. If he brought home some WASP like, say, Alyse Philips, she’d be upset for about forty seconds before she threw herself into the wedding planning. Only barring her from helping with the centerpieces or whatever would be nonnegotiable.

“What are you doing right now?” she asked.

“Cleaning.”

“It’s Friday night. Go out and
do something
,” she said.

“We’ll see. Night, Mom.”

He turned back to the books stacked on the floor, entirely too many for the shelf space gawking behind them, but it was hopeless. He was too unsettled now to deal with this.

He abandoned the living room and its questions. He washed the dishes from his microwaved dinner, sorted his laundry and checked his email. He stared at the wall for a long minute after dealing with the last thing he absolutely had to do tonight. His mother had made his apartment seemed empty and silly in ways it hadn’t an hour ago.

He was happy. Except when he thought about how he felt looking at Parker and Millie. He wanted
that
. The connection, the spark and the promise of a family. Wanted it so badly that he’d ended up talking himself into a consuming crush on his best friend’s girl’s best friend because it would be convenient.

Alyse would never date him but now she consumed all of his romantic energy. He threw
Infinite Jest
into the storage box. Inconvenient feelings needed an equivalent emotional palate cleanser.

Which was how he ended up using the username and password his mother had sent him and logging on to J-Date. It was exactly as he remembered from his mother’s first attempt—only more desperate.

Likes long walks on the beach.
No
,
really
,
I
do!
I
know everyone says that
,
but I do.

My favorite book is
Atlas Shrugged.

I’m hoping you’ll give me a reason to quit this site.

I’ve been planning my wedding since childhood and all I need now is Prince Charming to star in it.

Who had written these profiles? Parents like his who distrusted the long tail of adolescence their children were riding? Who didn’t understand why it was so impossible to settle down by one’s late twenties, as they had done? The children themselves?

Had the profiles been produced by committee? Fueled by booze and laughter, written in hazy, silly moments by friends and roommates? What did it mean that all of these people had paid for memberships in order to try to market themselves to one another as if they were commodities?

Speaking of profiles...his mother had chosen a picture of him with his arm around his grandmother taken about a year prior. She’d cropped the image, but you could still see the edge of a little gray head at his shoulder. Not understated, that. She’d probably barely restrained herself from adding a caption, “And he loves family.” At least he was laughing. At least he looked like himself, relaxed and a bit sloppy. No false advertising here.

Well, he did like family. He wasn’t ashamed.

She’d filled out the rest of the profile too. For the About Me section, she had written,
The first thing you should know is that I love politics.
Really
,
there’s no use moving forward if you don’t like parsing election results or take the view live filibusters are more interesting than the Super Bowl.
Okay, so that was both true and fairly amusing.

I
also enjoy reading and attending live music shows
. The generational gap was showing. Perhaps she would also mention that he enjoyed The Facebook.
I
cannot cook
,
but I have a knack for finding good restaurants wherever I go
,
particularly holes-in-the-wall.
True, but jeez, he didn’t want to sound cheap.

I’ve been to school
,
I’ve achieved professional success and it’s been wonderful.
But I haven’t found a partner.
And that’s what I want:
an equal and a companion for the rest of our days.
Someone to fight with and laugh with.
To build a family with.
I
hope it’s you.

He shut his computer and picked up the half-full box of books marked for storage. His feet echoed in heavy falls as he marched into his bedroom. He heaved the box onto the shelf at the top of the closet and tried to shut the door. There was something wrong with the handle and it took two good shoves for it to stay closed.

He stalked back to the living room and stood there, staring at his laptop on the couch. So this was how it had been for Tom Sawyer, attending his own funeral. How...odd.

Okay, so what his mother had written was a little banal. He was looking for a companion? He’d get stuck in the friend box before he even went on a first date. “The rest of our days”? It managed to be both a bit morbid and something he would have read on a Valentine’s card circa 1997—a rhetorical triumph.

Beneath the vulnerability it was him. It was what he wanted. A relationship of equals, a shared vision for the future. Add in a spark and some shared interests and he’d be a happy man, happy enough not to have to wonder if he were happy. Well done, Mom.

How had she known? Maybe it was obvious. That would explain a lot. Maybe women could smell the open helplessness wafting off him like the smell of hot oil off fresh French fries. He was approaching Miss Lonely Hearts’ levels of desperation and without meaning to he was announcing it to the world, which was not what women generally went for.

And right now, it was live on J-Date. He’d told the truth with Alyse today, told her that he’d be there for whatever she needed from him. This was just a continuation on that theme. Truth on a dating site? He’d be a novelty.

Not that he would find the mythic companion—partner? lover?—his mother had described for him, of course. He hadn’t articulated it quite like this before, but he had put himself out there and it wasn’t like snapping your fingers made the perfect woman appear and love you.

No, you had to search for it. And for the next two hours, that was what he did.

Chapter Five

“One for
Love Conquers
, please.”

The man in the booth—really, she used that term generously, he couldn’t have been more than seventeen—shoved her ticket through the window and she proceeded into the lobby. Given the mist outside, she was surprised to find it mostly empty. Apparently all the other people in the District had found other ways to distract themselves this afternoon. Heaven knew she needed pretty people and silly jokes on screen and chocolate, or whatever convincing substitute they made cheap movie candy with.

She got into the short line at the concession stand and played with the change in her purse. Mostly, she needed a distraction. For forty-eight hours, she’d revisited the hug with Liam more times than she should have. The correct number for repeats of that particular incident would have been zero, but it wasn’t like she had exceeded this ideal by any reasonable margin, say, in the single digits. Oh no, it had pretty much been all that, all the time.

She told herself it was because thinking about the hug was safer than contemplating the situation at work, but she wasn’t certain this was true. Quite simply, she couldn’t stop thinking about the hug because Liam was the only person who had made her feel better.

Millie had been as thoughtful as she could: bringing tea, offering to listen and generally being considerate, but her attentions made Alyse feel hopeless and infantile. Suddenly so much about Millie’s response after she’d had been held hostage by a crazy guy in a chicken suit nearly eight months ago was now clear.

Her other closest DC friend, Margot, had told jokes and shared gossip and tried to act as if nothing were wrong. In its own weird way, this was spectacularly helpful. Except that something really was wrong.

She paid for her candy and paced through the theater. The light coming in through the windows was starkly white, as if it had to make up for the parts of the day when the clouds prevented the sunshine from getting through. Her mother would probably call it Vermeer-esque.

She shifted her purse away from her hip, trying to put some distance between her and her phone—a tangible reminder that she hadn’t yet told her parents what was going on. She’d avoided calling in part because she didn’t want them to freak out and the rest because she didn’t want to freak herself out.

Her parents were...fine. They really were fine. They weren’t warm and involved like Millie’s parents, but that was okay. Not everyone grew up in a Middle American paradise straight out of an eighties teen comedy.

No, John and Alma Philips were the slightly less neurotic cousins of Woody Allen characters. They were smart and well educated, successful and a bit aloof. Part of her appreciated they had lives and interests outside of their children. But part of her resented that when they noticed their daughters, it was to advocate them fitting their lives into a nice, pretty, little Upper East Side boxes.

If she told her dad what was going on at YWR, he would call a family friend and suddenly she’d have a lawyer who would micromanage everything. This would be followed by hours of lectures about how she’d exposed herself unnecessarily and how she really should move back to New York. Because why would anyone want to live anywhere not New York?

Her mother would offer to take her shopping. While at Bergdorf’s she would chatter about her sister and her grandmother and her cousins, all of whom had been settled by thirty and been mothers by thirty-two, and suggest—or offer flat-out—to set her up with an investment banker whose mother she knew from some volunteer thing.

If she lived their vision and married the investment banker and moved to Manhattan, they’d settle into some sort of routine where they saw each other three times a month, vacationed in East Hampton twice a year and spoke mostly about real estate and the ballet and other things that didn’t matter.

For years, forever really, she accepted that someday, this was what she would do. She’d dated the investment bankers and the corporate lawyers. She’d attended the parties. She’d limited her ambitions. All the while, she’d assumed she would return to the nest. The cold, perfectly ordered nest.

And it seemed like the day of reckoning was coming. The viable, delightful world she’d structured for herself was not going to last much longer. Everything in DC was changing. Soon enough, Millie and Parker would buy a place and get married. As a result of whatever she had uncovered, there would be a shake-up at YWR. Even Margot had started speaking longingly about moving back to California.

Alyse pushed through the doors into the theater and searched for a seat away from everyone else. She often got the sense other people thought she was urbane. Maybe because they told her she was. It was nice to hear, but the label wasn’t her, or wasn’t all of her. She wasn’t just a classy, elegant girl. She didn’t always have to be cosmos and stilettos and gallery openings.

She cared about appearances because appearances mattered. She cared about money because money mattered. Those weren’t her values—they were the world’s. She could play in that realm and still be her, still like trashy television, cheap beer and fried food. She could be jeans and wedges and rainy weekend afternoons at dumb action movies. She was large; she contained multitudes.

Going to the movies alone was both at once, somehow. It was low-brow because her taste was low-brow. She wasn’t hitting non-subtitled foreign movies at the indie places. No, strictly Hollywood fare, the more mass-market the better. But having the courage to go the movies alone and to look great while doing it? Oh yes, that might be the soul of sophistication.

She holed up in the back row, munched on her candy and people-watched while waiting for the previews. Everyone else there was part of a couple. This was not inherently problematic. It didn’t cause the totally-not-related-to-jealousy sting because in most cases they didn’t seem happy.

At the front were two teenagers who sat in silence for five minutes. They stared at their respective phones and basically ignored the person in the adjacent seat. They might not be together at all.

Then there was the middle-aged couple to the left of her who were clearly fighting, all tense whispered exchanges and closed-off body language. Who went to a rom-com in the middle of an argument anyway?

At the engagement party the previous week, Alyse had felt pangs of jealousy but that was because no one could see two people as obviously right together as Millie and Parker and not feel
something
. At some point in the past six months she’d decided that she wanted full-fat only, please—a first and likely last vote for that.

So she’d stopped calling Quentin back and within days, he’d stopped calling. They hadn’t broken up. There hadn’t been a sting. They’d simply stopped seeing each other.

Once she realized that, she’d made a new declaration: the next time she broke up with a man, she wanted to damn well know it. The next time, whenever it was, she wanted the whole thing, including of course the terse exchanges, but also the sympathy, the love and the toe-curling goodness, the I-can’t-keep-my-hands-to-myself desire and the unshakeable companionship.

As the lights dimmed and the previews finally started, another couple slid in two rows ahead of her. Four seconds of observation and she knew they were at the honeymoon-y, early stage of their relationship. They were so solicitous there was simply no explaining it otherwise.

They’d both started talking and then giggled. Then they struggled cutely over the armrest, not yet knowing the other’s preferences and personal space requirements. There had been some sort of exchange about where to put drinks and popcorn punctuated by titters. Were things really that funny in the early fluttery stages of a relationship?

Since they weren’t touching, but clearly wanted to, it might even be a first date. The girl was pretty in that sweet, short way: curly brown hair, ugly coat. He turned, showing his profile and was...Liam Nussbaum. On a date. Not ten feet from her.

Seriously, karma was such a bitch.

Alyse gasped, but luckily Liam turned back to the screen without seeing her. Her first impulse was to bolt. But if she got up now, she’d just draw attention to herself. He would ask what she was doing and what precisely would she say?
I
didn’t want to be a voyeur on your date because...
Because why? Why did this scene fill her stomach with roiling frustration?

She hadn’t known he was dating anyone when she’d hugged him two days prior, or else she wouldn’t have. Not that there was anything wrong with the hug. They were friends. He was helping her out and they’d hugged. Big deal.

Except it had kind of felt like a big deal. He was warm, so gosh darn warm. And solid. She hadn’t expected that he’d hold her as close as he did and that his arms would feel comforting braced against her back. He’d held her, really held her, and made her feel for the first time in days like everything was going to be okay. She also hadn’t predicted that he would smell like fabric softener and soap and that the combination would be so alluring. She hadn’t known he could do anything other than be nice. She had walked into Cosi expecting the nice, nerdy guy she’d known for six months and had walked out more than a little confused.

And the whole time he had been seeing this girl? He should have said something.

Wasn’t that just common courtesy? When you weren’t single, and there was the slightest chance someone might be flirting, weren’t you supposed to drop hints that you were in a relationship? She’d flirted with him over the last six months. Okay, so
pro forma
, pity flirting some of the time, but still, flirting. Wasn’t it disrespectful to his girlfriend not to have mentioned it? Not to have a dropped a “we” every once in a while?

Jerk.

The next two hours flew by. She seethed. Liam’s girlfriend giggled. Halfway through the movie, he’d put the armrest up and she’d snuggled into his side and Alyse had forgotten to breathe. Which made absolutely no sense.

As soon as the credits started, she popped to her feet, scooped up her bag and tried to make a quick escape.

“Alyse?”

Not quick enough.

* * *

Molly Mason was very cute. Liam had decided so as soon as he saw her picture on J-Date Friday night. She had one of those feisty, light-up-a-room smiles and lots of dark curls. It wasn’t just her picture, however; her profile was great too.
Former master debater
. Who doesn’t love a bawdy pun? He’d emailed her and she’d responded. Then texting with her consumed most of Saturday.

It turned out that she was the scheduler to a Senate Democrat and knew Parker a bit. Women always did, though a quick call to Parker confirmed they hadn’t ever dated. He and Molly had argued good-naturedly about the midterm election and journalistic ethics in the digital world. He’d asked her to meet him for coffee the next afternoon, aware he was pushing his luck in assuming she was free. But she was. And that date—or pre-date, or whatever coffee was—had turned into a movie because they weren’t ready to say good-bye.

It was great and she was great and spontaneity was great. So she wasn’t a tall, blond New Yorker who drove him insane. She was the better for it.

He’d been maybe the tiniest bit distracted all weekend. He’d thought about calling Alyse before he left his place to check in but he wasn’t sure where they stood after the weirdly intimate hug. His crush hadn’t needed the fuel of knowing how Alyse felt pressed up against him.

But he wasn’t giving any more attention to things that would never be. He could potentially really like Molly. She seemed to think she might really like him. He was starting to feel like maybe the universe was paying him back for thirty-some-odd years of being a good guy. As he stood in the movie theater and decided, yes, he was definitely going to kiss Molly goodbye, he turned and looked right into Alyse Philips’s eyes.

His first impulse was to say her name, sharp and surprised.

This, he did.

His next impulse was to laugh because the situation was hilariously, frustratingly funny.

This, he resisted.

Had Alyse been there the whole time? Had she seen the cuddling? What was she thinking?

After a moment’s deliberation, she walked down the aisle toward them, her mouth set in a tight smile like a hostile witness at a heated committee hearing. That likely meant all three of them didn’t want to have this conversation, though they weren’t going to let that stop them.

If she was stewing about the YWR situation, it hadn’t affected her appearance. Only her face showed the stress and then only to someone who knew its expressiveness as well as he did. He glanced down at Molly and her eyes were wide, taking it all in. And this was the casual weekend version.

“Alyse, this is Molly Mason. Molly, Alyse Philips.” Neither seemed totally happy with the situation as they shook hands in a limpid flounce. Not that Molly had anything to worry about—she looked great and noticeably low maintenance.

“Alyse is Parker’s fiancée’s roommate,” he said by way of explanation.

“And Molly is?” Alyse crossed her arms over her chest and tossed her hair.

He looked down into Molly’s face, upturned to his. They hadn’t decided how to handle this yet. It wasn’t like they were in a relationship; they were on their first date. He hadn’t intended to introduce her to his friends for a long time, if they got that far. He didn’t care that they’d met online—most of his life was conducted virtually—but he knew that some people might not want that fact broadcast.

“Uh,” he said, trying to buy some time, hoping that she would step in and save him.

“We met on Friday,” she said with a smile, turning back to Alyse. “We got together for coffee and then decided to catch a movie.” He sighed in relief that she’d handled it as well as she had.

Alyse relaxed one hand down to her sides. “Me too. Spontaneous movie, I mean.”

“Millie isn’t with you?” he asked. She’d been here by herself?

“No, she and Parker went to Maud’s early to help cook dinner.” He and Alyse had both been dragooned into the weekly Beckett family meal on occasion.

This was followed by an incredibly awkward silence.