Split Ends (35 page)

“See that. I told the jeweler in Paris it had to be perfect. What do you say to a walk on the beach with your fiancé? Well, eventual fiancé, once you're quite certain of my stability. And I am stable, Sarah. I'm the rock of Gibraltar because I know how quickly I fell.”

“I've been waiting for the beach.”
With you
, I add silently.

He laughs. “Not the fiancé?”

“Well, maybe once in a while I thought of it in passing. Getting married.”

He kisses me with a passion I didn't know could exist outside of a Cary Grant movie. Dane is truly notorious. Then he grabs his fedora, which I brought for him from Scott's house, places it on his head, and opens the door to the sunlit path. I can hear the ocean's waves crashing along the shore. The spray of salty sea air hits us as we walk down the path toward the Pacific.

My entire life's work is strewn on the pages of
InStyle
for all to see. I'm proud of what I have to show for my life, and my ending will be whatever I want it to be. God might send a few road bumps and a few forks, but I'm going to to better for it.

“Kiss me, Sarah. From here to eternity.” Dane wraps me in his arms.

Sometimes apparently, men do marry Winowski women.

also available from Kristin Billerbeck

what a girl wants

an Ashley Stockingdale novel

“This is Rick Ramirez, reporting for Entertainment This Evening.”
The announcer rolls his “R's” to emphasize his Latin heritage; he's a cross between Ricardo Montalban and the used car salesman up the street.

“We're live in Silicon Valley at the celebrated wedding of
Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale to the world's most eligible
bachelor, John Folger, heir to the coffee fortune. Not since JFK, Jr. have the world's single women mourned a wedding as today, but Ashley is the woman who stole his heart—the woman who left the sworn bachelor no other option but marriage. And we
hear the ladies cry, Who is this woman? For more on Ashley, we go to Jen Jenkins in 'copter 7.”

“Rick, we're live over the Stanford University chapel,
awaiting the much-anticipated arrival of the enigmatic
Ashley Stockingdale: A woman who brought Manolo Blahnik,
shoemaker to the stars, all the way to California to design her
diamond-encrusted bridal slippers. Who is this Ashley?” Jen
leans into the camera's lens, “I'm glad you asked.

“Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale came from humble beginnings,
and grew up in a quaint California bungalow. The child of a homemaker and a carpenter, Ashley always knew she was
destined for something great. Although there was time for
frivolity, like high school cheerleading, Ashley was a serious
student, passing the California bar her very first time out. And she
hasn't forgotten her roots; when asked if Franklin Graham
might perform the ceremony, Ashley declined, choosing her
beloved pastor instead. Rumor has it she'll arrive in a cream-
colored, body hugging Vera Wang gown. The world waits . . .
back to you, Rick.”

Yes, the world waits. And so do I. There's single for a season, and single for a reason. My singles' pastor used to say that and laugh like staccato Spongebob. I remember thinking it was hilarious until the day I turned thirty. Then my thoughts turned much darker, like hey, maybe I am single for a reason. That's a depressing day, when you realize Prince Charming isn't riding in on a white horse, and J. Vernon McGee is starting to sound awfully handsome on the radio.

I gaze around the singles group and it's rife with its reasons. Tim Hanson has those hair plugs that look like
he's sprouting rows of corn on his head. Jake Henley has
been pining over an ex-girlfriend that no one's ever seen, for going on three years now. He still talks to her on the phone, and I just want to say, “Wake up, dimwit! She's moved on!” To waste your life on an emotional relationship that is going nowhere is such an easy out, don't you think? It makes him unavailable, and avoiding commitment is now that much simpler.

There's Kay Harding, resident organizer and analretentive of the group. She can run everyone's life perfectly and is content to do so. The sad thing is we all go along, without enough will of our own to plan our social lives. Kay does a fine job, and we always have something to do on Saturday night, so who's complaining? Kay's home looks like Martha Stewart lives with her, but she's alone. Just like me. So here I'm left to wonder, if all their reasons are so blatantly obvious, what's mine? And why can't I see it when I see everyone else's so clearly?

When I graduated from law school from Santa Clara University and became a patent attorney, I thought the world was my oyster. My head had a hard time fitting through the doorway, it was so grossly oversized. It's been shriveling ever since with the daily rejection that is my reality.

My mother told me that no man wanted to marry a lawyer. “You're too educated,” she'd say. Like I was supposed to dumb myself down for Mr. Right. I laughed at such a ridiculous concept. After all, I'd dated plenty in college, but I waited on real romance because I knew there was someone out there who would make my feet tingle and my brain fog. Alas, I'd settle for a phone call at this point. My mom's intellectual theory is starting to gel like her aspic. But I live in Silicon Valley—it's not like intellect is a bad thing here—so where's my knight in shining silicone?

Family support is everywhere. Besides my mother, there's my brother who calls me “bus bait”—as in, I have more chance of getting hit by a bus than married after thirty. They've proven that study is totally bogus, but does that mean anything to my brother? Absolutely not. I just pity the poor woman who eventually gets stuck with him. He's a bus driver, by the way. And probably the one to run me down just to prove his point.

Don't get me wrong. I live a full life as a Christian single, and I'm not waiting for life to start when I get married. I just can't stop wondering, what is my reason? Do I have some glaring flaw that I cannot be witness to? This kind of thing just drives me crazy, like when men my age marry twelve-year-olds fresh from college. Okay, so they are in their early twenties. But I remember rooting for
The Bachelor
when he chose a woman twenty-seven. Finally, a man who saw a little age like a fine wine, rather than vinegar past its prime.

Yet here I sit, with all the same single people I've been sitting near for years. Once in a while, we'll get some cute young thing in her twenties and some single guy swoops out of nowhere and whisks her away. Leaving us “reason” people wondering what strange scent we give off. Maybe it's desperation.

I don't feel desperate. I sing in the worship band, I work at the homeless shelter, and I'm busy nearly every night of the week. Granted, my busyness translates into which reality television show is on that night, but I still have my routine.

Kay Harding has taken the podium and her familiar voice breaks into my thoughts. “Saturday night we're going to the local Starbucks for a talent night. If anyone wants to sign up, please see me after Sunday school.” Kay takes the pen from behind her ear and attaches it to the clipboard. “I'll send the sign-up sheet around, but see me if you're performing.”

The thought of invading a local coffee house and humiliating myself sends my stomach surging. At the same time, I know I'll be there. What else do I have to do? I'm in such a rut. It's like when an engineer tries to explain a new segment of technology to me. I know I'll eventually get it, but the early frustration leaves me wondering why I do what I do.

Jim Henderson is clapping. I call Jim “Wild at Heart Man” because he can't seem to say a thing without quoting John Eldredge. Trouble is, I think Jim missed the message of that book because he's not more masculine, just more annoying. Of course, I'm not one to judge because I've been sitting here, same as him, waiting for someone to bear witness to my feminine wiles.

Seth Greenwood stands up. Seth is the one anomaly in the group. He's handsome, albeit bald, but that doesn't bother me. He has crystal blue eyes and a heart as big as the San Francisco Bay. He's a programmer—read: Geek. But who isn't in the Silicon Valley? He's thirty-four—granted his baldness makes him look a little older—but he's always there for anyone who needs him. Including me. Right now, he's got an out-of-work salesman friend living with him. And that guy brought two cats along. Seth's “reason” is probably just fear of commitment, the universal fear of single men everywhere, but something tells me he won't stay in that trench forever. So I guess maybe he's a “season”
man. Time will tell.

Seth takes center stage over the rickety music stand. “On Wednesday night, after Bible Study, we're watching
Notorious
. It's an old movie with Cary Grant,” (the women coo here) “and Ingrid Bergman,” (now a few guys whistle). “Anyone interested”— Seth looks over at Kay and her organized clipboard and winces just a bit. “Well, anyone interested can just show up on Wednesday night. We'll know why you're there. Bring a snack, or be at the mercy of my fridge.” Seth sits back down, and I feel my smile break loose. Seth encapsulates an invisible charm, like Fred Astaire. You can't really see his attractiveness in a Hugh Jackman way, but there's something about him that throws you off, in a good sort of way.

Seth is back to discussing video games with Sam in the front seat of the Saab. They're talking about some secret key in some corner chamber, and I smile dumbly, like I have any notion as to what they're talking about. Or any care.

When I was in eighth grade and boys discussed video games, I understood. Now that I'm thirty-one I think to myself, If you boys would grow up, you might be having sex by now instead of playing Super Mario XXXIV. But as an aging virgin, who am I to judge?

“You want me to drop you off at church or home?” Sam looks at me in the rearview mirror. His Asian eyes are pleading with me silently to save him the extra jaunt to church.

“I kinda need my car,” I say, trying to keep the “You're an Imbecile” out of my voice. Although it should be obvious that I'd like to be taken to where I left my vehicle, I've learned that engineers do not understand simple math: A+B = C. After all, B is an unknown, right? And if B takes an engineer out of his desired path, then the equation just doesn't add up.

I rail on engineers, but if you lived here in Silicon Valley where the men are engineers, and the women are hopelessly single, you'd understand my point. When a new science-fiction movie opens here, it's an event worthy of a costume. A nice dinner out is considered Dave & Buster's, the local grown-up arcade. Just once I want to meet up with a man who knows it's good manners to open a lady's door and let her enter first. Not a race.

Seth turns around, his blue eyes shining with laughter. He instinctively knows where Sam should be driving, but he keeps it all inside. As though he enjoys the private joke of how clueless his friends are. “We're watching
The Matrix
tonight, Ash. You want to come over?”

“No thanks. I'm doing dinner at my mom's house tonight.” My birthday dinner. I don't add that I'll be home in time for Masterpiece Theatre, or that I think
The Matrix
is stupid. That's blasphemy around here. “Don't you guys ever get tired of our lives in Silicon Valley?”

We're at a traffic signal, and they both turn around and stare at me as if I have whipped cream on my nose.

“What do you mean?” Sam asks.

“I mean, we always do the same things. We hang out at the coffee shop, we see the same movies, we—you know, I can't even think of what else we do. We should plan a trip to the beach and have a wild volleyball game or something.”

The light has changed, but they're both still staring. “
The Matrix
is an allegory, a worldview, if you will.”