Cheating on Myself (2 page)

Lily polished off the yogurt in six or seven very large and messy bites, stuffing the container in the trash when she was done. “I gotta go. Why aren’t you eating?”

We lowered our voices for the walk down the hall of cubicles. “Erik is taking me out to the new place on Washington tonight. He booked us in at the kitchen table.”

“Ooh, I heard about that place,” Lily said, obviously both hungry and jealous. “I read somewhere that the chef brings you little portions of every single dish that gets ordered. I don’t know how you stay so skinny.”

See what I mean? Even though she should be easy to hate, there was something about Lily Sparrow that made her very lovable. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Sitting on my ass, alone and miserable, as always.”

I rolled my eyes and said nothing. I wasn’t being cruel by ignoring this comment. I heard some version of the same thing most days, even when we had plans to go out. Her boyfriend, Chad, was a management consultant, and traveled to his clients’ offices every week. Many times, instead of flying home for the weekend, Chad would get his company to fly him to Connecticut to visit his parents or his college buddies instead. I was convinced their relationship only worked because of how infrequently they actually saw each other.

Lily sighed hugely. “I might have to make myself an alcoholic milkshake. Guilt bingeing.” We’d reached her office, but since there was no door she went inside and brought her voice down to a whisper. “Did I tell you I have to fire two of the marketing assistants today?”

“Why?” I honestly didn’t care
who
. There were so many marketing assistants that they all blended into one perky, post-internship blur. Yes, even the guys. Again, this was marketing. According to “The Bears” code of rules, we were all required to be perky and optimistic. James’ motto is, “Culture, kindness, and sharing foster innovation.” Interestingly, James was sharing a bed with his boss, Terese Fitzgerald, despite the fact that he was a newly married man. I guess he believed this was his contribution to the Centrex culture: kindness through orgasm and sharing spit with a superior.

“Why are they getting fired?”

Lily shrugged. “Performance issues, maybe? Excessive sick days? Bad attitude? The usual crap, but we’re calling it a layoff for legal reasons. ‘Downsizing.’” She made air-quotes and rolled her eyes. “I get to do the honors, as usual. Everyone thinks that just because I’m a bitch, I’m heartless.”

I laughed. “Well, you’re welcome to join me and Erik. At least then you won’t be drinking alone.”

“As if,” she murmured. “There’s nothing more attractive on a date than a drunk third wheel. And you never know… tonight might be the night, Stella Dahl.” She rolled my first name and last name together, Stella-doll, like I was a sad sub-brand in the Barbie franchise. Then she moved toward her desk and logged in, glancing at her email as she lifted her eyebrows at me. “Maybe?”

“Hardly,” I said, but the thought
had
crossed my mind. It was ever-present, actually. After twelve years together, I wasn’t foolish enough to think a surprise proposal was likely (especially since Erik and I didn’t exactly
do
surprises), but Erik knew I was waiting and wouldn’t wait forever, so it wasn’t totally out of the question. “Of course, you’ll be my first call if it does happen tonight.”

“I should hope so,” she said. “Now get the hell out of here so people don’t think I’ve gone soft. I don’t want anyone to see me smiling. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Yes, ma’am!” I announced loudly, as I left her office. “So sorry to bother you, VIM!”

“Stella?” Lily shouted this, drawing attention from the collection of interns who were gathered around a computer monitor at the cube directly outside her office. “One more thing…” I peeked in and saw that Lily was holding up a piece of paper with “Will You Marry Me?” scrawled across it in black Sharpie. She tipped her head back, propped her feet up on her desk, and laughed. At least someone was asking me.

* * *

“
If I get a glass of the Malbec, will you get the Cab so I can try it?” I gazed at my boyfriend, Erik, across an expansive wood table in the bright and bustling kitchen of
Molto
later that night. He was studying the wine list carefully, looking hopefully for one of his favorites, I was sure. I’d already scanned the list of reds and saw none of the wines we were familiar with were featured on the list. We’d have to take a chance and try something new. Admittedly, this wasn’t something either of us did very well.

Both Erik and I were creatures of habit. Planners by nature. That’s part of the reason we worked so well together. We had both been the type of kids who knew exactly what we wanted out of life, and had taken all necessary steps to get there. I’d gotten near-perfect grades through high school, had piled on extracurricular activities to get myself into a great college, and landed the perfect internship at Centrex right out of undergrad. I never really had any clear vision of life after that, but that’s where Erik came in. He gave me a new goal for my adult life. I’d immediately fallen head over heels for him, and focused everything I had on our relationship and the new goals we’d made together. Before we met, Erik had followed almost exactly the same path as me. He’d been working at Centrex as a Marketing Assistant when I started as an intern, his sister introduced us, and the rest is history.

We’d spent our twenties focusing on careers and our relationship, and the problems only started to creep in a few years ago when I started asking about marriage. We’d always talked about commitment and staying together and making a life as Erik and Stella, but it was only then that he made it clear that he felt traditional marriage was an unnecessary formality. “Things are perfect the way they are,” he’d said that first time I brought it up with any real pressure. “Neither of us wants kids, so why do we need to spend twenty thousand to throw a party to get a form that tells us what we already know? I consider you my life partner—do you need a certificate to remind you not to leave me?” He’d smiled and kissed me and we’d made love on the couch, and I’d felt happy again.

I sometimes lost touch with what I wanted, but Erik was always there to remind me what I was looking for. It just seemed like fewer and fewer of our goals were mine, and more and more of them were his. They just suddenly
felt
like mine.

After the first conversation about marriage, I eased off for a while, but the truth was, I wanted to get married. It was part of my plan, the last thing on my list, and I was going to get it. So I started bringing it up more frequently. I know, I know… the women’s magazines would have had a field day with me. Whether I wanted kids or not (they weren’t a goal that was included in my list, and Erik and I had decided together that we did not), there was something romantic and powerful about commitment and compromise and the permanence of marriage, and I believed in it. But I was starting to wonder if I had to give that up if I wanted to stay with Erik.

At that point, I hadn’t even considered how much I was giving up by staying with him.

“You know I like Malbec.” Erik announced at
Molto
that night, finally looking up from the wine list. “I’m going to get that.”

“But that’s what I want.” I sounded like a whiny kid. “I just thought it would be fun to try two wines we’ve never had before. But if we both get the Malbec, then we only get to try
one
wine.”

Erik grinned. “If we both get Malbec, we can get a bottle. Isn’t that a better deal anyway?” He reached for my hands across the table. He lifted my left one off the table and held it up to his lips. His mouth grazed across my knuckles, dusting little kisses from pointer finger to pinky. I watched him as he ordered the wine, and thought about how well we fit together. He was right—if we picked the same wine, we could get a bottle. And then I’d get two-and-a-half modest glasses, the perfect amount. It was the smarter strategy, and this was usually what we did. When the waiter left, Erik continued to gently stroke my fingers. His focus on my left hand made me think about a ring again, and the thought made me wonder.

Each of his kisses sent the tiniest shock up my arm, reminding me of the time when his touch always made me feel like that. I still remembered that new love feeling, the sense of excitement and uncertainty and self-consciousness and curiosity. I missed the way he’d held me and wrapped his arms around me, even when people were watching.

That night, the kisses on my fingers and the anticipation and wonder about whether maybe tonight was the night, the night he’d see it my way, gave me delicious, tingly shivers. I pulled my foot out of my black slide beneath the table and reached it up, up, up Erik’s leg.

The bottle of wine arrived just as my toes found their way to his inner thigh, and he reached under the table to push my foot away. Erik wasn’t big on PDAs. Not that I was going after true affection… I just wanted to be sexy. After he tasted the wine and approved, Erik furrowed his dark eyebrows at me across the table. He needed a haircut, I noticed. His sideburns were too long, and his blackish hair was extra-puffy.

“What’s going on?” he asked, as my foot continued its path up his thigh.

“What’s going on with you?” I purred back, lifting my foot into his lap again. I wiggled my eyebrows at him and twirled a short curl around my finger. “Hi there.” I wasn’t much of a seductress (it happens when you ditch the dating scene at twenty-two), but I had a few decent moves. I licked my lips.

“Aren’t you going to try the wine?” Erik asked, widening his dark brown eyes at me and shifting in his seat. “Can you please stop?”

“Stop what?” I asked, using something that might pass as a sultry voice.

“That.” He blushed and pushed my foot away again, dropping my other hand in the process. “Seriously, Stella. That’s really embarrassing. What if someone saw you? This place is crawling with Centrex people. You should be more careful if you want to be taken seriously there.”

I bit my lower lip and looked down at the menu. He was right. Who did I think I was—Angelina Jolie? I was a decent-looking, overly conservative, mid-level marketer with shortish dull-brown curls (flecked with sixteen rogue grays that I routinely plucked), size twelve jeans, and a bad case of PMS-bloat. I didn’t need to do stuff like play footsie with my boyfriend—we were beyond that. I mean, we lived together and he peed with the door open and watched me pluck my grays. We weren’t the kind of couple to do spontaneous, faux-sexy stuff.

“What do you think they’ll bring us first?” I asked, perking up at the thought of food. “I skipped lunch today so I can eat a ton.”

“Did I tell you I gave the intern learning lunch presentation today?” Erik asked, easily shifting into a new conversation topic along with me. “One of the interns asked me to be her mentor. I guess it must have been a decent talk, if someone wants a longer lesson from me on online community activation.” Erik had transferred from his first job at Centrex into a Marketing Director position at a consumer products company called
Zoom!
several years ago. His job was to convince people to buy soap. Eventually, Erik’s goal was to start up his own company manufacturing organic baby products, but he hadn’t yet taken the leap. I guess his fear of commitment extended beyond just me.

The chef came over to our table carrying three tasting plates.

“Good evening.” He grinned sheepishly, as though he was embarrassed to have discovered someone sitting in his personal kitchen. He was obviously young—perhaps not even thirty—and looked like a little kid in a big kitchen. His white chef coat was too big, and something about his awkwardness made me laugh. Erik looked at me like I’d gone crazy, and the chef stammered on, talking about the dishes he’d brought over to our table. “This first plate features a sampling of our mini tacos—carnitas, beet and goat cheese, and sliced prime rib with raddichio.”

“You can put the beet and goat cheese taco on my side of the table,” Erik said. He knew I’ve never liked goat cheese. This was the good thing about life partners—they knew your dining preferences, and no one had to waste their time trying something they were sure not to like. We made a good team.

The chef cleared his throat and set a second plate on our table. “This is a tasting of our famous tater tot casserole. House-made tater tots broiled over a stew of lamb, locally-farmed carrots, and mini-potatoes from my own garden.” I lifted my eyebrows. The chef grew his own potatoes? And how was this dish famous? The restaurant had been open less than two weeks. Still, tater tots were hard to beat.

“The third dish marries grass-fed beef and onion slivers in a perfect union inside a puff-pastry shell. I think you’ll find it light, yet surprisingly filling.” He bowed, then swished back to the kitchen in his big boy coat.

I reached for my fork to start with the tater tots. “Is it just me, or did that waiter look like a little kid dressing up as a chef for Halloween?” I popped a hot tot in my mouth and let the soft, potato goodness melt in my mouth. “Yum.”

Erik shook his head. “He’s twenty-six. He was just featured in Midwest Magazine’s ten under thirty this year.”

I’d refused to read that feature ever since I lost eligibility. So sue me: I was thirty-four and petty. I didn’t need to read about people younger and more successful than me. “How can you be a professional chef with your own restaurant at twenty-six?”

“One of our interns sold her management consulting business while she was still in business school—she’s on her second career.”

I snorted through a mouthful of light-yet-filling beef. “And she’s an intern? She started a business, sold a business, and has decided an internship selling cucumber-melon
soap
would be fulfilling?”

The look on Erik’s face reminded me how sensitive he is about his products. Unlike me, he was a true marketer. He really believed in his product, and thought about the merits and advantages of
Zoom!
hand-soap often. He loved his job, and didn’t like people—me, for example—poking fun. It was a sensitive subject, and I’d crossed the line.