“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” He’s incredulous.
“I don’t know. I never used to, but when you hit your fifth wedding, you start to wonder.”
He nods slowly, thinking that over. Strangely, I appreciate that he doesn’t immediately try to placate me with some knee-jerk rebuttal or forced compliment. If there’s one thing I’m tired of hearing, it’s:Your day will come!(A close runner-up:It’ll happen when you least expect it!I’ve beennotexpecting it for a decade now, thankyouverymuch Aunt Carol.)
“What about me?” he asks. “I’m not married, is there something wrong with me?”
“You’re what, four years older than me? Thirty-two?” He nods. “Then probably, yeah.”
He snorts.
“I’m kidding. Anyway, it’s different for men. You not being married is a choice, and no one’s going to give you a hard time about it. Women don’t have that luxury. I have to hear, ‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Are you being too picky? You’re not getting any younger! But what about kids?’ from every distant relative or random acquaintance of my parents’ until my ears bleed. And you know what the worst part is? I ask myself those same questions.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You think I’ve never been asked those questions?”
“Oh please, it’s hardly the same. If a man isn’t married, it’s because he’s ‘focusing on his career,’ ” I say, fingers clenched in angry air quotes. “If a woman isn’t married, it’s because no one’s picked her. And don’t even get me started on how women are called ‘spinsters’ and ‘old maids’ while men get sexy nicknames like ‘distinguished’ and ‘silver foxes.’ I did a whole story on this.”
“I know, I read it.”
That pulls me up short. “You did?”
“Of course. I read everything of yours I could find.” He starts reciting from memory. “ ‘When they graduate, men are told they have their whole lives ahead of them, while women are told their clock is ticking.’ That was a great line.”
I stare at him, mouth agape.Jack’s read my work?I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised; I certainly investigated him, so it stands to reason he’d do the same. Still, the idea of him scrolling through years of my writing (and apparently, committing some to memory?!) is both flattering and mortifying. My words are like a window into my soul; despite us never having kissed, he may as well have seen me naked.
“Wow. Uh, thank you,” I stammer. I think of that line fromWhen Harry Met Sally: ‘Nobody has ever quotedmeback tomebefore.’ I’m totally thrown. “Anyway, I got off track there. What was I...?”
He looks amused. “Weddings, I think?” he offers innocently, swilling the tumbler so the ice clinks against the crystal. He’s clearly enjoying that he’s flustered me, the deep blue of his eyes awash with humor. They remind me of dark water; a pool at night. I want to dive into them and never come up for air.
“Weddings,” I echo, trancelike, then shake myself. “I’m sorry, no, not weddings. I mean, it’s notjustabout weddings.” I tear my eyes away from his; it’s like they’re hypnotizing me. “I just feel like this stage of life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We’re constantly being told that our twenties should be the best time of our lives, but if that’s the case, then I’mdefinitelydoing something wrong.”
He sits back and drapes his arm across the back of the couch. “Explain.”
“First of all, I’m constantly stressed about money. I work all the time, but I’m barely keeping my head above water financially. When you just got up to refill your drink, I had to stop myself from digging in your couch cushions for loose change.”
He chuckles.
“And then there’s the work. When I first started at Siren, it was exciting and everything felt important. And don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of what I do. But does any of itmatter? People read it, then click away and forget it. It’s not changing anyone’s life. Now, writing a book, that matters. Thatlasts. But I can’t seem to actually start.
“And the weddings thing just adds insult to injury. All my single friends are dropping like flies, and once they are married, they fall off the face of the earth. They’re either hanging out with other couples, or they get pregnant and only seem to have time for their mom friends.”
To illustrate my point, I stand and head over to his credenza, where I’ve set my purse. While I rummage through it, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the oversized round mirror: eyes alight and vibrant, skin flushed, cheeks tinted with the type of natural glow makeup brands would kill to replicate. I’m a vintage photograph come to life. I’m Reese Witherspoon inPleasantville, slowly colorizing in a black-and-white world.
I finally find what I’m looking for—my keys—and hold them aloft. “You see this banana key chain?”
He nods, looking both amused and bemused about where this is all going.
“My friends got it for me at the end of a girls’ trip we took to South Beach years ago. It was a gag gift, really—at some point during the trip, I claimed that piña coladas weremade with frozen bananas, and they had a field day making fun of me for it. Anyway, they came across the banana key chain at some souvenir shop and couldn’t resist.”
I think back to that trip and how bright-eyed and optimistic we were, reunited for the first time since we graduated and moved into new apartments, new jobs, and new relationships. How we stayed up late swapping stories of horrible bosses and money stressors and dating woes. How it had felt like there weren’t enough hours in each day to finish all the conversations we started. How we swore we’d make the trip an annual thing, committed to prioritizing our friendships no matter what.
“Anyway, that was the first and last girls’ trip we took before weddings and babies took over. I’ve been carrying around this stupid banana forsix yearsand I can’t decide if it’s more depressing at this point to leave it on or take it off.” I toss the keys on the coffee table and sink back down into his luxurious couch cushions. “I really don’t want to be someone who begrudges other people their happiness, but sometimes I just feel... I don’t know, stuck in between. Or left behind. Do you ever feel that way?”
I finally pause for breath, and when I glance over at him, he’s quiet, his face expressionless. I can’t really read him. I’d like to think he’s just being thoughtful, but he’s probably trying to figure out how to politely remove me from his apartment. I seem to have careened right past “awkwardly personal” and straight into TMI territory.
I immediately regret my honesty. Why on earth am I telling him all this? I sound like some desperate husband hunter; a wannabe bridezilla on steroids. This is a rant best left to my single friends who can commiserate, or people who have no choice but to listen to me complain, like my mom.It’s Dating 101: Never whine about being single. Betty wags her finger in disapproval—Girls who whine stay on the vine!
I let out a self-conscious laugh and attempt to course-correct. “Sorry, got a little carried away there. Was that the kind of oversharing you were looking for? Rant over, I promise.” I seize my glass and shotgun the rest of my wine.
