The Friends We Keep (12 page)

34

 

“What was Mom—I mean, Sophie—like in college?”

We were in Jake's bed. A bottle of wine sat on the floor next to a cheap digital alarm clock and two torn condom wrappers; Jake didn't see the need for a bedside table.

I took a sip of wine—a very good one, which I had brought, as Jake kept only beer in his apartment—before answering. “You know you're not supposed to bring up the subject of your—of Sophie.”

“Oh, come on,” Jake pressed. “I'm just curious about what she was like when she was my age.”

Well, I thought, it won't kill me to give the kid some information.

“Okay,” I said. “My memory for details is pretty grim. But what I do remember is that Sophie wasn't all that different from the way she is today. Pleasant, sociable. Smart. Sometimes a little dull.”

“Hey!”

“You asked a question,” I pointed out. “Don't ask a question if you don't want to hear the answer.”

Jake frowned. “Dull compared to you, maybe.”

Most people, I thought, are dull compared to me. Or, at least, dull compared to my public persona.

“So,” Jake said now, “did she date much?”

“She went out from time to time. I don't think there was anyone serious. And once she met your—once she met Brad, well, it was all over.”

“You make it sound so negative,” Jake said. “Like her entire life was over when only her single life was over.”

“Yes, well. I never much liked Brad. And he never much liked me.”

Jake laughed. “I'm not surprised.”

“Excuse me?”

Jake took a sip of beer before replying. “My father prefers women to be—how do I put this?—more docile. More malleable. That's why a twenty-four-year-old, not-very-bright restaurant hostess is perfect for him. She allows him to be everything he thinks he is: powerful, indispensable.”

“Then why did he leave your mother?” I asked. I was too tired to correct my choice of words. We both knew about whom we were talking. “Didn't she play her part in his game?”

“You might find this hard to believe, but Mom developed a bit of a rebellious streak when it came to my father. She resisted him in subtle ways, but her plan—if it was even conscious—worked in the end. He left her alone. Now she can start over.”

This was an interesting view of the situation. “Huh,” I said.

“It was never in her to ask for a divorce,” Jake went on.

“I'm sure it never even crossed her mind. But in a slow and subtle way she forced him to the point of wanting out. And to wanting a woman more interested in playing the adoring, pampered wife of a rich and powerful man.”

“How did you become so aware of your parents' relationship dynamic?”

Jake shrugged. “Most kids know a lot more about their parents' marriage than the parents think they do. Or would want them to know. And, I'm a particularly observant person.”

“Oh, really?” I asked. Was Jake observant enough to realize that a large part of the time my attitude toward him was one of mild amusement? Did he realize that I saw him as in large part an entertainment?

“Really,” he said, without a trace of defensiveness. “Still, I think if someone confronted my mother with this theory of mine she'd deny it. But I'd still say that I'm right.”

“Sure of yourself, aren't you?”

Again, Jake was unfazed. “About most things, yeah.”

About me? I wondered. How could he be? I thought of the call I was planning to make. Lately, I wasn't even sure of myself.

35

 

I wasn't looking forward to making the call. But it had to be done and better over the phone than face-to-face.

I called Sam's cell, per my habit. There was no reason for his assistant to have any knowledge of me. He answered immediately; of course he did, my name showed on the screen of his phone.

“I have to cancel tomorrow.”

Sam laughed dryly. “Hello to you, too. Okay. Let me get my Blackberry. How about Thursday? At one?”

“No,” I said, “that's not going to be good, either. In fact, I'm not going to be seeing you for a while.”

“Whoa. This is a surprise. What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

I laughed. “Everything has to be all about Sam. No, you did nothing wrong and nothing's wrong with me, thanks for asking. I'm just—we're just not going to be seeing each other for a while.”

“Wait a minute,” he said. I heard him get up from his desk and close the door to his office. When he got back on the phone he said: “Jesus, Eva, after all we've been through aren't you going to give me more of an explanation?”

Damn, it was going to be as exasperating a conversation as I had feared it would be. “Sam,” I said, with exaggerated, false patience, “we've been through nothing together but a few hundred condoms. We're supposed to mean nothing to each other, remember?”

“Yeah, well, call me a romantic, but I like you, Eva.” His voice sounded ragged. “I can't have sex with someone over and over and not grow to like her.”

“You're just used to me, Sam, that's all.” I fiddled with a pen. I am not a fiddler. I put down the pen. “You'll get used to another woman.”

“There aren't many other women like you, Eva.”

“By that you mean a woman who can divorce sex from intimacy.” Except when she can't, I thought. Isn't that why I was ending things—temporarily—with Sam, because of some sense of loyalty to Jake? Or was it guilt about deceiving Sophie?

“You know that's not all I mean when I say that you're special,” Sam replied, and for the first time since I'd known him, he sounded angry.

I didn't owe Sam an explanation, I didn't. But something made me give him one. “Look,” I said in what I thought was a conciliatory tone, “if it makes you feel any better, I'll tell you the truth. I met someone a few weeks back and we got involved and, well, for now, while this other thing plays itself out, I'd feel more comfortable if you and I weren't having sex.”

Sam's response was accusatory. “You're in love with this guy, aren't you?”

“No,” I said, “I'm not, as a matter of fact. But I do like him, he's very sweet and that's all the explanation you're going to get.”

Sam was silent for a long moment. I wanted badly to get off the phone and was just about to tell him good-bye when he spoke. “Eva, if sex with me means nothing to you, then why can't you keep sleeping with me while you see this other guy?”

Because . . .

“Look, Sam,” I said, “I'm ending this conversation. I'll call you when . . . when this other thing is over and if you're still interested we can get together.”

“Can't we even talk in the meantime?”

I sighed. “About what?”

“I don't know, about anything. So that I know what's going on in your life.”

“Sam, you've never known what's going on in my life.”

“Only because you won't tell me. You know I'm interested.”

“And that's another reason I won't be seeing you for the duration. You're getting too attached, Sam. Look at how hurt you are. You need some time away from me.”

“Why do you always assume you know what I need and what I don't need?” Sam shot back.

“Because,” I said, “I usually do know.”

Sam laughed bitterly. “Well, this time you're wrong, Eva. But I have no choice here, do I? You're breaking up with me and I have no choice but to accept it.”

“You can't break up with someone you weren't dating in the first place, Sam. Now, don't be melodramatic.”

“Right. Easy for you to say when—”

My stomach clenched and I disconnected the call. Sam didn't call back.

I suppose I'd half-expected him to. The silence left me feeling annoyingly unsettled. For a moment I doubted the wisdom of cutting Sam off, and the wisdom of allowing Jake an exclusivity he wasn't even aware he possessed.

What's done is done, Eva, I reminded myself. Besides, I knew I couldn't reverse the decision I'd made regarding Sam without losing the considerable power I had over him—and that prospect, the loss of power, was far too frightening to contemplate.

36

 

“Eva? It's Sophie.”

“Yes, I know. Caller ID.”

“Oh. Right. Well, is this an okay time to talk?”

I always ask people that question. Almost always. Just in case.

Eva sighed. “Yeah, it's fine. I was just about to nuke some dinner but it can wait.”

I made a mental note to have Eva for dinner soon. No one should eat frozen meals night after night. “I need your advice,” I said. “It's about a man.”

Eva's interest was piqued, as I knew it would be. “Ask away,” she said.

I told her how just an hour earlier, when I'd been getting my mail from the boxes in the lobby of my building, one of my neighbors, a man who lived on the floor above, someone I'd only ever said hi to before, got off the elevator and stopped to chat.

“And?” Eva queried. “This is utterly boring so far.”

“And then he asked me on a date. He asked me to have dinner with him Friday night.”

“He what?” she barked.

“He asked me out for Friday. And I said yes. But I don't know if I did the right thing. I mean, he seems nice enough but I felt kind of pressured just standing there in the lobby, kind of like I was being ambushed. Am I being silly about this?”

“No,” Eva replied emphatically, “you are not being silly.”

I was relieved. From the moment he'd walked out of the lobby I'd doubted the wisdom of my decision. I mean, what if we went out and had a horrible time? Would I have to avoid the lobby entirely from that point on?

“Doesn't this idiot know the rules?” Eva went on. “You don't shit where you eat.”

“Eva!”

“What? That's the saying. Anyway, I want you to call him right now and tell him you've changed your mind.”

“Can't I just stick a note under his door?” I asked.

“No. He needs to hear the words from your mouth. Better yet, don't call him. Knock on his door.”

“But what if he asks me why I changed my mind?” I asked. “What am I going to say?”

Eva considered. “If I were in your position I'd tell him straight out that he was an idiot for trying to date his neighbor. But you're not as tough as me. So what I want you to say is this: that you're not ready to date. You thought you were but you're not. And smile nicely for the man. You don't want your life in that building to be miserable. You don't want to be afraid of running into him every time you leave for work. What an ass. I'm really pissed at this guy.”

You know, I thought, I'm pissed at him, too. How dare he put me in this awkward position!

I thanked Eva and let her get back to microwaving her dinner. And I spent the next half hour working up the nerve to follow through with her advice.

In the end I picked up the phone. (Thankfully, his number was listed.) I just didn't have the courage for what might become a face-to-face confrontation. I mean, what did I know about this man other than the possibility that he was, in Eva's words, an ass? I'm sure it would have sickened her to hear me apologize repeatedly for breaking the date he never should have asked for in the beginning. But my humility (faked, even though I hate playacting) seemed to work, and although he sounded mildly disappointed he didn't give me a hard time at all.

I settled in bed that night with a new mystery by one of my favorite authors, and tried to let myself be transported to another time and place—England in the 1920s, to be exact. But at the back of my mind the current world continued to intrude, and I couldn't help but wonder if my every experience with dating would be fraught with unforeseen complications and rules I would need a notebook to keep track of. Thank God, I thought, for a friend like Eva.