1
I only have to stay for two hours, then I can leave.
Two hours.
No big deal.
It’s ironic that I find this thought reassuring, considering I drove nearly an hour to get here. There’s something about the cost-benefit analysis of driving an hour for a two-hour social interaction that doesn’t quite add up. Like paying five dollars for shipping on a ten-dollar item.
At least I’m late enough that I missed peak rush hour.
My phone vibrates with a call. When I see the name on the screen, I glance around the small Studio City wine shop in which I’ve taken refuge, tempted to hit Ignore. I know I’m running late, but in my defense, choosing a bottle of wine ishard.
“I’m five minutes away,” I say in lieu of a greeting to Ellie, tonight’s host. It’s not a lie. Iamfive minutes away. Five minutes, plus however long it takes me to choose a bottle.
“You’re coming,” he says, but it sounds like a question.
“I said I would.”
“Right. I know you did, but Cat pointed out how you always cancel, and she’s worried the table will be unbalanced if you don’t show.”
I fight back a laugh. I can’t imagine Ellie’s wife, Cat, cares if I come to her dinner party, but Idobelieve she cares about the table being balanced. Cat hates me, but who can blame her?
What wifewouldn’thate a woman who’s in love with her husband?
“I can’t stay too late.” I recite the excuse I’ve spent all day silently rehearsing. “I didn’t have time to stop home and feed Ruthie, so I might have to leave early so she doesn’t starve.”
It’s only a half-lie, I tell myself. Ruthiedoesneed to eat—and if my geriatric cat buys me an easy out from a situation I’m eager to exit, well, all the better.
There’s a beat of silence, and I wonder if Ellie will call me on my bullshit.
“I’m really excited to see you, Joey,” he says softly instead. His sincerity hurts.
Ihadbeen about to cancel on Tuesday when he texted to make sure I could make it.
“Me too.” This oneisa lie. Or maybe it isn’t. Can dread and excitement coexist?
I say goodbye and return to the racks of wine. How much is appropriate to spend on a bottle brought to a dinner party? I asked Ellie on Tuesday what I should bring, and he said, “Just yourself.” Yeah, right. I can just imagine Cat’s judgment.
Arriving empty-handed is not an option.
I should be past caring. Usually, Iampast it. On most days, I can divide my life into two periods: the person I was before I stopped agreeing to do things I didn’t want to do, and the person I became after.
The first person went to law school to appease her mother and then immediately settled down to work in corporate law.
That woman—that much younger, more naive woman—did shit like date men who convinced her to read Jonathan Franzen even though, if she were honest, she’d never really liked reading.
She went to college sports games because all her friends went, even though she hated sports. She drank beer and pretended it didn’t taste likepiss. She stayed at parties later than she would have preferred, and she gave underwhelming men too many chances.
Then, in my late twenties—and only after years of therapy—I stopped.
I started saying no.
No, Iwon’tgo to work drinks on a Thursday when my bed is calling me.
No, I actuallyhatehiking, but thank you for the invite.
No, Iwon’tgo home with you or on a second date, and actually, let’s cut this one short.
