The Friends We Keep (5 page)

11

 

I'd never told anyone about Ben. Who was there to tell? At the age of forty-two I had no close friends, maybe no friends of any description—until the reemergence of Sophie. And I wasn't sure that I could call her a friend and mean it.

And yet, I'd blabbed to her about my failed relationship with Ben. Worse, I hadn't presented an entirely accurate picture of what had happened between Ben and me, or about how upset I was when he left. The truth was that I hadn't been half as devastated as I'd let on. So, why the exaggeration?

See, this is what I was discovering: When you're self-sufficient for a length of time, you fall out of the habit of trading personal information. So, when you find yourself in a rare position to talk, you either say too little or say too much and one way or the other, the other person is left with an erroneous impression of you.

Someone with an active social network, someone with friends and confidantes, doesn't have this problem of balance. Someone like me, with no friends or confidantes, does.

How does an adult go about making friends, anyway? I don't consider colleagues candidates for friendship. I'm convinced it's impossible to be friends with someone in a subordinate position and I'm uncomfortable with the notion of office chatter, even if it's among people at the same professional level. I don't want to waste my time standing around the coffee machine sharing anecdotes about my dog or my kid; well, I can't, really, can I? I'm not interested in the domestic details of people with whom I have a professional relationship. And I refuse to show anyone the cracks in my armor; rivals can arise from anywhere.

Some people, of course, consider family members friends. But I hadn't called my sister, Maura, in months. Neither had she called me, but her neglect was to be expected. I'd set the tone of our adult relationship years ago, after Maura moved to the Midwest, married, and started having kids.

Even growing up we weren't close. There are ten years between Maura and me, too large a gap to bridge in the early years. How could I tell a five-year-old about my first French kiss? Maura could come to me with her little-girl troubles—after all, I'd been there, I knew the terrain. I didn't mind being the big sister back then. It gave me another way to identify myself: big sister, first child, good student.

No, it wasn't until college that I knew what it was like to have a confidante—and to be one. But then . . .

I wondered what Sophie must think of me, a pitiful wreck of a woman, washed up on the rocky shores of love.

I realized I would have to erase that erroneous impression. The truth was I'd almost forgotten about the pain that the breakup with Ben had caused me. What buried memories of hurt feelings still existed had been coaxed into emergence by the unexpected presence of a sympathetic ear. But those memories could easily be stuffed back into forgetfulness. And the next time I was with Sophie—because I did want to see her again—I would watch my words more carefully.

12

 

What was there for me in California after Jake came East for graduate school? Certainly not Brad. If anything, the proximity of my ex-husband, especially once he began to date women young enough to be his daughters, was a big negative.

And as for friends, well, there were no friends to leave. I had acquaintances but I knew that within a few weeks of my leaving I'd be almost entirely forgotten. Acquaintanceships rely on frequent face-to-face interaction. Friendships, I believed, could survive even great distances.

I suppose it was only postdivorce that I realized that in all the years I'd lived in California, I hadn't made one close friend. Sure, I'd socialized with women I met through Jake's involvement in school activities. The strongest thing we had in common was our children; conversation was about soccer teams and yoga classes; bake sales and SUVs; what movies were kid-friendly and what movies were not. Once our children graduated into different middle schools and then high schools, once our children needed us less and less, we mothers drifted apart. At the time I didn't much miss their presence in my life. Girls' night once a month gave some structure to my social life, but none of the “girls” ever meant anything to me.

Maybe that was my fault. Maybe I just didn't try to get to know anyone well. Maybe I was just too lazy. Like with my weak attempt at a career in real estate, maybe I'd failed to find an incentive. Why did I need friends when I had my husband and my son?

Anyway, after that first, somewhat disappointing evening with Eva, I began to worry that I'd set myself up for a major disappointment by coming back East.

In reality, I knew I wouldn't see my parents all that often. For several months each year they took off for the condo in New Smyrna Beach, and when they were here, at their home in Freeham, they enjoyed a busy social life. The last thing I wanted to do was tag along with my parents, the newly single third wheel, to be pitied by the smug married women and ogled by the regretful married men.

My parents didn't need me in any tangible way; they were healthy and had pensions and health insurance. I was glad for that, of course. Someday, when the end approached, I might be of actual service to them, but not now, not yet.

And Jake. Well, of course, Jake still needed me, even if he protested that he didn't. I know my own child. He had already made it a habit to stop by for dinner once a week, and that said something.

Yes, I would still have Jake for a few more years, at least until he finished his graduate program. And I consoled myself with the thought that Jake might not marry until thirty, maybe even later. That he would someday “settle down” and have a family I had no doubt. But for my own, selfish sake, I hoped that day was far in the future.

Although, it would be nice to have grandchildren. I could be of great help to Jake and his wife; I could be there whenever they needed me.

Because if no one needs you, who are you? And what's the point of your life?

I realized with some alarm that I would have to shake off my complacency. I would have to make myself needed. At the very least, I would have to make a friend. Maybe, that friend would be Eva.

13

 

“Want to grab something to eat? I'm starved.”

I turned from the mirror and looked hard at Sam. Why did he have to do this again? He really was good in bed. Why did he have to ruin things out of bed?

“What?” he asked, and his voice squeaked just a bit. “What's with the look?”

“You are unbelievable. You know our deal: sex and no other involvement.”

Sam sighed and continued to button his shirt. “Eva, I'm not talking about a marriage. I'm talking about a sandwich.”

I turned back to the mirror. “Still involvement.”

“You have to eat lunch.”

“I'll grab something on the way back to the office,” I said. And I will eat my lunch in peace.

“Why not grab it with me? There's a good coffee place just down the block. They have great paninis.”

“Sam, no!” I swung around to face him again. He was entirely dressed now, all buttoned into his beautiful suit. “What do I have to do to make myself heard? No lunch, no dinner, no coffee, and definitely no drinks. Ever. Look, if you have a problem with this arrangement—”

Sam looked away. “No, no, I'm fine with it. Don't go crazy, I'm fine. So, same time next week?”

“Can we do it on Tuesday, instead? I've got a meeting Wednesday and timing might be a little tight.”

We each reached for our Blackberry.

“Tuesday's no good,” Sam said after a moment. “How about Thursday?”

“No. It's Friday or we skip the week. No big deal.”

“Man. I've got a lunch on Friday . . . Look, I'll cancel it.” Sam slipped his Blackberry into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and looked back at me with an expression that hovered between resignation and bemusement. “I'm not stupid. I know what a good deal I've got with you. Sex with no strings? It's every man's dream.”

“Let me tell you,” I said as I grabbed my bag, “it's a working woman's dream, too. I'm off. See you next Friday. Your turn to pay for the room.”

My hand was on the doorknob when Sam spoke again.

“I don't know why we can't just go to your apartment. It's so close to both of our offices. Why does one of us have to lay out all this money every week?”

I sighed. Really, I wondered, was the sex worth this misery?

“You know, Sam,” I said, still facing the door, “I think you're getting early-onset Alzheimer's. I told you why I don't want you in my apartment. It's my territory, it's my refuge, and I don't want you getting the wrong idea. If I take you to my apartment, the next thing I know you'll be asking for a key and popping in whenever you feel like it.”

“No, I wouldn't. I'd respect your privacy, I swear. Could you face me when we talk?”

I looked at Sam over my shoulder. “Anyway, it's a hotel or nothing and if you can't afford the hotel, then—”

Sam waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, I can afford it. Sex with you is well worth the money, you know that.”

“I do know that,” I said carefully. “Now, don't you forget it.”

And I left. As was our deal, Sam waited five minutes before following.

14

 

I sat next to Sophie in her latest-model Saab as we winged our way to the suburbs to watch her son's baseball game before driving back into Boston to meet John for dinner. “Winged” is the exact word I want here. Interestingly, given her mild nature, Sophie drove with a lead foot. All those years sitting in backed-up LA traffic must have been terribly frustrating.

Really, I thought, I have no clear idea of why I'm here. I have no interest in baseball, in sports of any kind, for that matter. I could have used this time to finish the book I was currently reading, a juicy adventure novel by one of today's top-selling writers. (The name stays with me.) I could have gone to the Armani Exchange store and bought that jacket I'd been considering.

I sighed.

“What?” Sophie asked, her eyes shifting to look at me.

“Nothing. Keep your eyes on the road.”

“I'm an excellent driver,” she said. “I've never gotten a ticket.”

“Maybe because the police haven't been able to catch you,” I muttered as we whizzed past a string of fast food giants with colorful names like Timmy's Tub o' Lard and Duke Danny's Donuts.

We arrived eventually at the field, a big, square plot of grass and dirt punctuated only by a high fence and two sets of rickety, unpainted wooden bleachers. Nice, I thought. I'll get a snag in these pants and they'll be ruined. Two hundred bucks down the drain for a charitable act of so-called friendship.

Sophie and I took seats halfway up one set of bleachers. Sophie seemed extraordinarily happy to be there. But already I was bored silly and very aware of the stares I was getting from some of the people scattered across the ancient bleachers. Fine, I thought, let them stare. The sweatpants-wearing public is no concern of mine. I will die, I thought, before I plunk a hot-pink sun visor on my head.

But I wasn't bored for long. For some crazy reason I'd been thinking that we were on our way to watch a bunch of pimply preteens. But the players trotting out onto the field were men. Young men.

Of course. The three-year-old boy I vaguely remembered would be an adult now. Kids. They're tricky.

I let my eyes roam over the players taking positions and discussing, no doubt, vitally important strategic matters. It was quite a display. One player in particular caught my attention: a tall, well-built guy with thick, wavy dark hair and a butt for which a woman would kill to have access. As if reading my lascivious thoughts, the guy turned and looked right at me.

There it was, the spark that sizzled and burned. I felt overwhelmed with lust, almost sick with it.

Suddenly, Sophie grabbed my arm. I didn't even have the presence of mind to shake off her touch. “Eva, look,” she said excitedly, “there's Jake!”

Sophie let go of my arm and waved wildly toward the playing field. “Jake, over here!”

And then the guy with the amazing butt was ambling toward us, a slow grin dawning on his very beautiful face.

“Oh, shit.” The words escaped my lips and Sophie turned to me with a frown.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine,” I squeaked. “Just . . . just a splinter from the bench.”

And then Jake was climbing up the bleachers, his muscular thighs outlined nicely beneath his formfitting pants.

“Mom, hey,” he said. Sophie leapt to her feet and threw her arms around Jake's neck. I sat, transfixed. Over her shoulder, Jake gave me a wink.

“Are you glad I came to see you?” Sophie asked when she'd let her son go.

Jake smiled. “More than you know, Mom.”

Oh, shit, I said, this time to myself.

“Oh, where are my manners!” Sophie turned to me and said, “This is my friend Eva. Eva, you remember Jake, don't you? Though he doesn't look anything like he looked when we moved West!”

Jake extended his hand. I put out mine as I searched for an appropriate greeting. “
I want to have sex with you immediately
” probably wouldn't cut it.

“Hey,” Jake said. “It's nice to meet you.”

His eyes held mine. Yeah, I know that's a trite expression but how else to describe the “moment”?

“Hey,” I said back. “The pleasure is mine.”

The moment the words were out I thought I'd blown it. Had Sophie heard the implication there? I released Jake's hand quickly (though reluctantly), but the happy smile on my friend's face put my mind at ease.

Sophie told Jake that we were having dinner in Boston after the game with our college friend John.

Jake put his arm around Sophie's shoulders. “Hey, maybe I'll come with you, no? After I clean up.”

I imagined Jake in the shower. He looked at me and I'm sure he knew what I was thinking.

Sophie playfully patted her son's chest. She was killing me and had no idea. “Don't be silly,” she said. “You'd just be bored. All we'll be doing is reminiscing.”

Jake squeezed her shoulder and then released her. “Okay, well, maybe some other time. I'd better get back to the field. The game's about to start.”

I smiled pleasantly, but my heart—rather, the seat of my libido—sunk. With a wave and another smoldering look (yes, smoldering, and very daring, too), Jake loped off to join his teammates.

Sophie sat down next to me and beamed. “Isn't he wonderful?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said weakly, “wonderful.”