Anatomy of a Single Girl Page 2

  “Oh, him again.” Amy stretches out in the passenger seat. “Your friend without benefits.”

  “Very funny.”

  Suddenly my phone beeps in my purse, and Amy checks it for me.

  “Speak of the devil …” She clears her throat before reciting Calvin’s text in a mock-excited voice. “ ‘Hi, Coppertone! Hope all is well in sunny FL. Just wanted to say goodnight.’ Aw, that’s really nice!”

  “Can you write back for me ‘Sweet dreams’?”

  Amy smirks naughtily. “Sure … but can I leave out the first s and an e?”

  “Huh?” I picture it in my mind: Wet dreams. “Ames, don’t you dare! The only reason my friendship with him works is because I never lead him on!”

  “Okay. Calm down. Don’t have a conniption!”

  After texting my reply, Amy scrolls through my photos of Audubon Aquarium, where Calvin took me as a surprise yesterday to celebrate the end of my exams. Then, as I’m pulling into the Braffs’ driveway, she drops the phone back into my purse and says, “My, my. The Cal-man really looks stuck on you. Poor guy.”

  “Well, we still might get together at some point.”

  “Dom.” Amy scowls. “You. Don’t. Like. Him. That. Way. End. Of. Story.”

  “But maybe I would’ve liked him that way if I’d met him, like, tonight instead of back in October. Let’s face it. I wasted freshman year clinging to you know who, and then reeling from the damage when we went up in smoke, so I was not in a receptive head space. Maybe Cal was just a victim of bad timing.”

  “You sound like my mom.”

  “And Cal and I now have a strong foundation to develop something more serious.”

  “I’m sorry—did you say you wanted a boyfriend or a building?”

  “Go ahead, make fun. But I’m treating this vacation as a kind of experiment. If I end up missing Cal a lot, that could mean there is relationship potential between us and I just haven’t been ready to see him as more than a friend. I know it’s a long shot, but I want to be open to the possibility.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, if the possibility becomes an actuality, will you greet him with a smooch when he picks you up at the airport? Aah! I’d so pay admission to see his face!”

  “Please. The boy just dropped me off, and you’re talking about the end of August, so I think we’re jumping the gun.” I chuck her the car keys and grab my overnight bag before we trot up the front path to her house. “And whatever happens, I’m glad Cal and I have a break from each other. That whole situation was getting stressful.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Amy cheers, swinging open the front door and ushering me inside. “Now that you’re back, prepare to de-stress, starting now!”

  During those next few hours, Amy and I practically regress to the tweens we once were as we reenact our first sleepover nearly eight years ago—singing along to Grease, playing Marco Polo in her pool, moon-bathing in her yard, giving each other manicures, and chattering until the Sunday dawn. Unfortunately, I wake up too late to join my parents for fishing, but it was worth it just finally getting to hang out with my best friend again without phones or computer screens between us. That’s another reason why I decided not to remain in New Orleans all summer—so Amy and I could rack up more quality girl-time before another long school year of being seven states apart. It never occurs to me that her boyfriend could get in the way.

  3

  Thursday morning I’m chaining my bike behind Lee County Medical, where I’ve started a volunteer internship for the summer, when Amy calls to break the news: Joel said during their video chat date last night that he found her a discount airfare for a round-trip flight from Fort Myers to Wichita.

  “It’s some special Independence Day weekend rate,” she explains. “There’s a red-eye leaving here tonight, and the return flight is Sunday afternoon.”

  I feel like my cell phone just stung me in the ear. “Isn’t Joel going to be busy at camp?”

  “Yeah, but he has breaks throughout the day, and lights-out is from ten to six.”

  “You said he lives in a bunk with other counselors, though. So how could you two even … you know?”

  “We can pitch a tent in the woods and light a fire. Joel says that’s what the other couples do.”

  “But your parents’ barbecue is tomorrow.”

  “So? It’ll be boring, as usual.”

  “Oh.” I take a seat on the curb and pout.

  I want to point out how Amy will be seeing Joel just next month when he flies in for her stepbrother, Matt’s, wedding. And we already made plans this weekend for more retro girlie “play dates” like Glamour Shots at Edison Mall, home facials, and of course another sleepover. But then I recall last summer when I was in Amy’s shoes and how she never complained about being only my second-choice person to spend time with. That’s just the reality of having a best friend who’s also someone’s girlfriend—you have to share.

  I force myself to sound supportive. “This is beyond romantic, Ames! He’s clearly really pining for you, and you’ve clearly been really, um—”

  “Horny?”

  “Actually, I was about to say ‘restless,’ but sure.” We both laugh. “So I guess we’ll just see each other when you get back on Sunday.”

  “You didn’t think I was gonna up and desert you, did you? You should totally come away with me, too! My mom’s letting me use her credit card, which has plenty of points to cover our airfare.”

  “Oh … well, that’s awesome of you and your mom and everything, but what would I do at your boyfriend’s camp?”

  “Hike on their trails, swim in their lake, and Joel said we can use the dining hall. It’ll be a blast just chilling out!”

  “I don’t know, Ames. This is really last-minute. Plus I have two bratsitting gigs later today, so I’d be rushing to pack.”

  “Please? If you come, I can hang with you and my man. And it’s high time you two met.”

  “What about sleeping arrangements?”

  “Joel will get an extra cot for you in the girl counselors’ bunkhouse. Unless, of course, you hit it off with one of the guy counselors and you camp out there yourselves,” she says coyly.

  “Yeah, ’cause that’s likely.” I get back on my feet and make for the hospital employee entrance. “Listen, the logistics sound too complicated, and I don’t want to be a third wheel anyway. Forget about me, and I’ll just meet Joel at Matt’s wedding.”

  After a beat, Amy mutters, “I feel horrible flaking out on you, Dom. Say the word, and I’ll nix the whole trip.”

  I smile because I know she means it, but I also know I shouldn’t stand in her way, so I promise her that everything’s cool. Then later, when my supervisor begs me to come in for the overnight shift tomorrow since the holiday is leaving them short-staffed, it seems that everything has worked out for the best.

  As far as the Braffs’ barbecue, I opt to go for three reasons: One, Dr. Braff calls to reassure me that I’m always welcome there with or without her daughter. Two, there’s nothing happening at my place since Dad, the local chief of police, is needed at headquarters because the Fourth is a high crime night, and Mom will be there, too, helping the desk sergeants manage the increased call volume. And three, I assumed Amy was exaggerating when she warned me about Matt’s fiancée, Brie, becoming the most irritating person on the planet.

  I never got to know Brie well. The few other times I’ve seen her have been at past Braff get-togethers, and she and Matt typically kept to themselves. They graduated from college in May, though they’ve been dating since their junior year of high school, so we all expected it when Matt popped the question last Valentine’s Day. I’m excited because I’ve never been to a wedding before, and it’ll be twice as fun going to one with Amy there as a bridesmaid. But as Brie blathers on all evening about centerpieces, personalized napkins, embossed place cards, and gift registries, I understand why Amy escaped to another state. I also have a newfound respect for my parents’ decision tw
enty years ago to elope with no fanfare at Fort Myers City Hall.

  “Did you get your invitation yet?” Brie asks me after Dr. Braff goes into the kitchen to make more punch, leaving us alone on the porch. “Each one was hand-calligraphed with a real wax seal!”

  “Yep, came in the mail yesterday. It was beautiful!” I pretend to rave, struggling to keep my eyes from glazing over. I’d like to escape inside, too, but it’d be rude to ditch Brie while she’s still having dinner. Part of her pre-wedding diet regimen includes taking painfully long pauses between bites to trick herself into feeling fuller with less food.

  “I can’t believe I’ll be a wife in only forty-three days!” she peals after blowing a kiss to Matt in the backyard, where he’s playing glow-in-the dark badminton with his dad. “We’re so thrilled you’ll be able to share our big day with us!”

  “Aw. Well, thank you so much for including me.”

  “You’re welcome! I know you’re practically family here, which means soon we’ll be family. And I’ve been wanting to ask you …” She sips her vitaminwater. “Will you be bringing a date?”

  “Doesn’t look like it,” I drone, now wishing I’d been rude.

  “What about that guy you were here with last Fourth of July?”

  I’m prepared for this. One of the pitfalls of having an ex-boyfriend is that people still pair you together in their memories, and sooner or later someone’s bound to mention him. And now that it has happened … I can’t say I feel nothing. I don’t think it’s possible to get royally dumped by the only boy I’ve ever done it with, let alone loved, and then feel nothing when he’s brought up in conversation. This whole recovery process has been two steps forward, one step back, but I feel okay. I’ve been feeling okay. And that’s pretty incredible, considering that just this past February, on the very day Brie was being proposed to, merely the word “valentine” reduced me to tears.

  “We split over Christmas break,” I state matter-of-factly.

  I’m not prepared for what comes next. From the way Brie’s jaw hits the table, you’d guess I just told her I have three months to live.

  “Oh, Dominique. No!” She gulps down the half-masticated vegan burger sludge still in her mouth. “When you didn’t bring him tonight, I was afraid that might’ve been why, but … I could’ve sworn you two were forever! Oh, what a shame, you poor, poor girl!”

  Doesn’t she realize that’s the most demoralizing reaction to breakup news ever? All my school friends said stuff along the lines of, Hooray for moving on to bigger and better things! They may not have meant it, but it was nicer to hear.

  “Thanks, Brie, but like I said, it’s been ages.”

  I take out my cell phone to check e-mail, not caring that it’s impolite. I’m assuming the subject’s closed. I assume wrong.

  “Now, I faintly remember him talking about how he was planning to major in English. Did he go to Tulane also?”

  I sigh. “NYU.”

  “Thaaat’s right. And you two didn’t go to the same high school here, either.”

  Is that a question?

  “Correct. He went to Amy’s.”

  “So you met through her?”

  “Um … sorta …”

  I sigh again, recollecting that winter’s day senior year when Amy took me to her school’s charity football game. Like a dolt, I tripped on my way to a Porta Potti, and he happened to be nearby and helped me up. There were instant sparks, but we were both shy, and it took two agonizing months of friendship before he worked up the guts to confess he wanted more. The moment we got together still ranks as the most magical in my life, though I should’ve taken the Porta Potti as a sign of where things would end up. It seems impossible that that football game was a year and a half ago. I remember it more vividly than this morning. But I’m not about to trot out the humiliating details for Brie’s sake.

  “Actually,” I continue, “I probably never would’ve met him if it weren’t for Amy, but she wasn’t close friends with him or anything. They just knew each other from both being on the track team.”

  “Oh, okay. It’s coming back to me now. He’d mentioned he was a sprinter—well, he certainly had a runner’s body.”

  I don’t respond.

  “So tell me”—Brie clucks before taking another micro-bite of her bun-less burger—“what happened with you guys?”

  I have to stop myself from asking if she’s for real. Brie has barely ever bothered to speak to me before today. So nothing entitles her to know that my ex-boyfriend, who had sworn his undying love to me during our last semester of high school, ceased having feelings for me during our first semester of college. She has no right to hear how he wanted to stay friends but that I wasn’t about to reward his change of heart by being demoted to a pal. And it’s no one’s business that he and I haven’t communicated since, and chances are we never will. But because it’d be awkward for a wedding guest to tell the bride to quit acting like a nosy bitch, I stick to vagueness. “It just seemed smart to keep our options open since we were so far away from each other.”

  “Omigod, Dom, I know exactly what you mean! It was really hard at first with Matt in Ithaca and me at Bennington, but I’m so relieved we resolved to make it work. I couldn’t imagine a future without him now.” Brie extends her left arm and grins goofily at her 1.67-carat princess-cut solitaire before blowing another kiss at Matt. Then she gapes, wide-eyed, at me. “But there must be a chance of a reconciliation. I hate the thought of anyone being dateless at my wedding.”

  I’m brainstorming how to respond to that without telling Brie to shove her ring where the sun don’t shine, when fireworks suddenly explode over San Carlos Bay, prompting us all to drop everything and scuttle to the front lawn for a better view. I’m grateful for the interruption, though the pang in my chest indicates it’s too late. The wound’s been torn open.

  I’d been looking forward to the fireworks all day. Now I hardly notice them as I replay in my head Brie gagging on the word “dateless” as if it were code for “pathetic hopeless ugly reject.” Like I haven’t wasted enough time feeling like one. Then when I realize that everybody’s paired up—Amy’s mom on her husband’s lap on the porch swing, and Brie on Matt’s lap on a patio chair—it dawns on me that I’m a fifth wheel. Inevitably my mind begins wandering where it shouldn’t: At this precise moment last year in this same spot, I was on someone’s lap as well.… I wonder if anyone’s on his lap now.…

  I mentally slap myself across the face and keep my eyes trained on the sky, in a futile attempt to focus on the present. Perhaps I should’ve joined Amy in Kansas after all, though she’s probably sitting on Joel’s lap now, too—or going down on it, more likely. I consider texting Calvin for an ego boost, but seeking out the one boy who wants me, just so I can vent about another boy who doesn’t, would be irredeemably dumb. And cruel. Bitching about the past never helps anyway.

  I don’t have to report to the hospital for another two hours, but I’ve learned from experience that the best way to combat “steps back” is to lose myself in work as quickly as possible. So the instant the fireworks end, I announce that I need to get to my internship. Soon I’m racing away on my bike, wishing I had never come in the first place.

  Fortunately, my supervisor keeps me plenty busy throughout my shift, and before I know it, I’m lumbering to the cafeteria to refuel on yogurt and granola for the ride home. I’m feeling okay again. Or maybe I’m too drained to feel anything after pulling an all-nighter of unpacking medical supplies, digitizing files, operating the switchboard, and fetching coffee for the staff. Whatever the case, the crisis is averted, and all I’m thinking is how good it will be to snooze away the Saturday.

  I finish eating and am gearing up to leave, when one of the hottest guys I’ve ever seen sits down opposite me at the next table.

  4

  His cell phone starts ringing as soon as he pulls in his chair.

  “Hey, dude,” he answers lethargically. “Yeah, Bruce will be fine. Just his fo
rearm got burned, and the doctor said it’s only second-degree …”

  Next to my tray is a back issue of Scientific American I borrowed from the waiting room to skim during breakfast. As a reflex, I hold it up and pretend to keep reading so I can sneakily observe him over the top of the pages.

  “… I think we can safely assume he’ll never go near another firecracker again.…”

  He looks older than me, but not by much.

  “… We were here five hours before they finally took him in, so I couldn’t sleep, ’cause I was constantly bringing him wet paper towels from the bathroom.…”

  He’s smokin’, all right—square jaw, Greek nose, full lips, slight tan.

  “… Then he kept sobbing about what a good friend I was to stay with him. To get even for everything, I’m gonna make him do my laundry for a month.…”

  But he’s cuddly, too, courtesy of his apple cheeks and dimpled chin.

  “… At the desk, they said this was the busiest they’ve been since New Year’s. Guess Bruce wasn’t the only dickwad playing with pyrotechnics last night.…”

  And his hair’s a fluffy jumble of sand-colored ringlets that shoot out every which way in a kind of ’fro.

  “… Yeah, he’s all gauzed up now, in one of those curtained ER rooms, so I’m just grabbing some food.…”

  Like me, he has green eyes, although his are a lot paler, resembling mint ice cream. They’re almost incandescent under the fluorescent lighting.

  “… We can go once a nurse comes to remove his IV, which they said should be around nine, so not much longer.…”

  I like how he’s built and broad-shouldered without crossing the line into gross muscleman territory.

  “… Don’t sweat it, dude. I’m here, so I might as well take him home, too. You sound too hungover to drive anyhow.…”

  And from the way his torso towers above the table and his outstretched legs extend out from under it, he can’t be any less than six two.

  “… Oh, and tell the guys we have to remember to get a new fire extinguisher.… Okay, see ya soon.”