Better Than None (2 page)

Unfortunately, the thoughts in my head kept me lingering in his doorway
a bit too long.

“Listen, my timing might suck, but who knows. It might be just what you
need.” Marty paused giving me enough time to start mind-fucking myself,
wondering what he could possibly be leading towards. “Every now and then, I
have some of the employees over for poker and dinner. Nothing fancy, just a
casual get together. I’d love it if you could join us this Friday.”

My heart started beating fast and my face grew warm. Definitely not a
poker face.

There was no way I could say no to my boss, especially after everything
he’d already done for me. But the thought of being social with my coworkers
terrified me.

 “Not everyone gets invited. So, if you could keep it quiet…”

“Oh, yeah, definitely, of course. Um, I’d love to come. Thank you.”

“Good. I’ll email you my address and directions. It’ll give everyone a
chance to get to know you better. And maybe give you a chance to have a little
fun, given everything…”

With that he flashed a smile as I walked out. Fuck. This whole ‘new
Steph’ was going to be harder than I thought.

Marty’s house was gorgeous. It was up in the hills of Studio City, high
enough that at night I could see all the twinkling lights of the valley making
the area below seem like a wonderland rather than home to strip malls and porn.
The house itself was a designer’s dream. Being creative, I wasn’t surprised
that even the little I saw just on the outside, every detail was tended to,
every tile, fixture, accessory was perfect.  

I’d toyed with having a drink before leaving my place to calm my
nerves, but worried it might be a slippery slope, as I knew all too well how
one drink could turn into six.

After all those years of numbing myself, or as I euphemistically liked
to call it, taking the edge off, I felt incredibly vulnerable in my sobriety as
I walked up to Marty’s front door. With a little hindsight, I realized the edge
that the alcohol removed wasn’t really an edge at all, but a red flag meter,
any sense of judgment. That’s what was the alcohol stripped away. That, and eventually,
my clothes. As fragile as I felt walking up to the door, I was actually far
more vulnerable drunk than sober. But as uncomfortable as I was, if I were to
really make a go of truly changing, I’d ultimately have to learn to be social
and dip my toe into previously uncharted waters. I was like an adult who’d
suffered some type of brain injury and had to relearn skills that most people developed
as teenagers.

Plus, Marty had made it clear that he didn’t invite everyone. As
nervous as I was, I was also flattered to be included in the inner circle, even
if it was just so people could figure out the new girl. Regardless, I felt like
an invitation to the boss’s house for poker night with fewer than a dozen
people was like the gold wrapper to Charlie. That invitation was exclusive,
hard to come by and not to be squandered.

“Steph! I’m so glad you could make it!” Marty exclaimed as he opened
the door and welcomed me into his house.

I couldn’t help but return his smile, but stood there awkwardly as he
held one arm. I wasn’t sure if it was just a sweeping gesture pointing towards
the house, or an invitation to a hug, so I fumbled with my purse and then
turned to look past him, into the house.

“Thanks for having me, Marty. I really appreciate the invite.”

“Just wait until we take all your money, you might not be so
appreciative then.” He winked and ushered me inside lightly putting his hand on
my shoulder.

It was nothing, but it made me flinch. Silly that such an innocent
touch could make me feel more than I had felt with most men I’d done far more
with. Marty obviously mistook my reaction.

“Hey, I was just kidding. We play for nickels, dimes and quarters.
Don’t worry, no one’s gone home broke from one of these parties. Perhaps a
little humbled, but never broke.”

“Well, that’s a relief!”
Nice recovery, Steph. Head in the game.
He’s your boss.

“What can I get you to drink? We’ve got beer, wine, harder stuff.
What’s your poison?”

“So you
are
trying to take my money!”

Marty laughed and then rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist
as he twirled an invisible mustache. “That’s my secret plan. Rob all my
employees of their hard earned pocket change so that they’ll be indebted to me
for life!” And then he laughed maniacally.

That made me giggle.

“You have a nice laugh, Stephanie. I think that’s the first time I’ve
heard it.”

I stopped in my tracks, my face warming with a flush. I didn’t know
what to say. I didn’t know if Marty was flirting with me or just being nice.
Thankfully, Tom, one of the copywriters walked up at that exact moment.

“Hey, Steph, good to see you! I mean, I know I just saw you like a
couple hours ago at work… but, well, it’s good to see you outside of the
office. I mean, not that it’s not good to see you inside… Um, you know what I
mean…”

Tom and I were already paired up on a project and he was a sweetheart.
A little awkward and emo, but a nice guy. For someone who made his living
working with words, he was often tongue tied and uncomfortable. So it must have
been the beer that emboldened him to hold out his arms. This time, there was no
confusion on my part. I gave him one of those non-committal tent hugs before he
led me into the living room where a half a dozen or so familiar faces were
talking and laughing.

I felt like I was in high school again. I couldn’t remember the last
time I’d been in a social situation without a little lubrication. Everyone at
the agency so far had been nothing but friendly. Still, I was jonesing for a
drink, something, anything to quiet the pounding in my heart. Of course, it
made no sense. I’d talked with these people in the office. But being here was
so new to me that I felt like I was having an out of body experience. I forced
myself to smile at the group. I was sure I looked like the Joker, my smile felt
so big and fake, but it was all I could focus on.

Just smile
,
Steph. You can do this. They’re just people.
People you work with. People you’re not going to get drunk with. And most
definitely, people you’re not going to sleep with
.

I had never really considered that I might be an alcoholic or an addict
in any way. I could go weeks without having a drink and never once miss it or
even feel any sort of need for it. Of course, those were weeks that didn’t
involve being social. Standing there in the midst of this setting, I realized
that I’d never approached any social function without having something to
drink. In my youth, drinking was often accompanied by drugs. Basically,
whatever made me feel better before I ultimately ended up feeling worse.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed with me just standing there like
a grinning idiot, but I forced myself to take a few steps forward to join the
group, say hello and try to be normal. When Tom offered to get me a drink I
temporarily froze again and then regained some sense of composure.

“I’ll just stick with water right now, thanks.”

“You don’t drink?”

 “I do.” I smiled.  “I just want to be able to count up all
my winnings!”

Everyone chuckled and I finally relaxed a bit. Perhaps I really could
do this, remake myself. I was so petrified that if I did have even one drink
that the situation might spiral out of control all too quickly, and I really
liked my new job. I didn’t want to screw it up. I didn’t want to start over
again. Given everything that was going on with my mom, I needed stability in
one area of my life. So I stood there and chatted, but mostly listened. I wasn’t
the life of the party by any means, and that was okay. In fact, it was a good
thing. Better that my coworkers think I’m boring than a drunk slut.

Plus, it was safer this way. Not nearly as easy, but definitely safer. I
was the new me. I wasn’t the girl, I mean, woman, who got loaded, picked out a
guy, and took him to the closest available room, surface, car, area… and fucked
him. That wasn’t me. Not anymore. But it was so hard not to be that person when
that was all I had ever known. It was like being a recovering alcoholic. Not
that I believed in the notion of sex addiction. At least, not for me. I wasn’t
addicted to sex. Not at all. It was just my go-to move. It was just easy to do.
It was a hell of a lot harder not to get sloppy drunk and have meaningless,
not-pleasurable sex than it was to make polite conversation. And not just
polite conversation, but it was such an effort to try to give my co-workers
just enough information about me that they didn’t think I was a total recluse
with no life experience, no fun… and not a drop more.

Throughout the evening, everyone got a little more buzzed, a little
louder, and laughed a little harder. I felt like I was conducting a
sociological experiment, and obviously, I wasn’t the first sober person amidst
drinkers, but it was fascinating for me to see the progression as the night
wore on. The more that everyone around me drank, the less desire I had to have
anything and the more relaxed I became, though I was still rather guarded. I
just so desperately wanted to finally have boundaries in my life that I wasn’t
ready to share personal information with them just yet. So I gave them crumbs.
Little pieces. I shared that I had two dogs and some of them knew about what
was going on with my mom. I told them how tough it was, especially given how
close we were. Most of the group acknowledged how lucky I was to have a good
relationship with my mother, and I agreed. It wasn’t perfect, but many people
had no relationship with their parents. Hell, I was one of those people when it
came to me and my dad, so I knew what I had with Barb was special.
Unconventional, but I was old enough now to truly be friends with her. She was
the only person I ever let in, and even then, there were still parts that I
held back.

Regardless, I shared more about Barb. In fact, I told them more about
her than I did about me, which was an easy diversion that I doubt any of them
noticed. I gave them those bits to form a picture of who the new girl was. They
could determine if crumbs were better than nothing.

Perhaps it was odd that over all the years, and all the guys, as close
as my mom and I were, talking every day, and yet, with all those conversations,
all that closeness, she still never really knew all of me, the real me. I hid
what I did with men. It wasn’t just because she was my mother. Of all people,
she always wanted to talk about sex, always sharing way more details and
information than anyone ever should have been privy to. I think that perhaps,
if I had ever said out loud what I did that it would validate it. If I kept it
hidden, it would be like a tree falling in the forest that no one heard.
Perhaps it never fell.

She never understood why I never, in neither my teen nor adult years,
brought a guy home. I couldn’t count how many times I heard some version of
“honey, a cute girl like you, you should have guys banging down your door!”

I think that’s why I knew I could try to remake me. If I could fool my
own mother, my best friend, if I could lie to her, lead her to believe that I
just never found the right guy—which wasn’t a total lie at all—if I
could be the Steph she saw, then I could easily recreate myself with strangers.

Then again, so much of her focus was always on herself that if she had
ever really taken the time to look a little deeper, she might have seen what
was hiding in plain sight. But I was an adult now. I’d tried to stop blaming my
mom for who I had become. At a certain point, I had to take responsibility for
who I was. Which was exactly what I was doing. I was old enough by now to know
that most people didn’t get a second chance. For whatever reason, I had. When I
was feeling confident, I would tell myself that I chose to make a second
chance. I think all the screwing around finally got so bad that I could answer
that question that was posed by her so many times when rationalizing her own
failing relationships. “Is half a loaf better than none?” The answer, for me at
least, was no, because I never even got half a loaf, so now, I opted for none.

****

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night, Mom, but I, um, had plans.” I
hesitated telling her, afraid she’d jump to her usual conclusions, hoping I was
out on a date.

“Plans?” She asked excitedly.

“Yeah, um, my new boss invited a few of us over for poker and dinner.
No big deal…”

Naturally her next question was, “Oh, honey that’s great! Is he cute?
Single?”

“Mom! He’s my boss.”

“So? You’re always so defensive about men, Stephanie. I don’t
understand you.”

I just shook my head and rolled my eyes. As much as I hated this line
of conversation, I think it helped make my mom feel more like Barbara and less
like Barbara the potential cancer patient. So I indulged her, sharing about
Marty’s house and the range of people who were there.

“Well, was there anyone else there that you’d be interested in?”

“Ma! I work with these people. Jesus.”

“What? How do you think you’re ever going to meet anyone? Work is a
great place to meet a boyfriend.”

“I don’t need a boyfriend, Mom.”

“Honey, of course you do. You need a man in your life. I don’t know why
you’re always alone. I worry about you.”

“I have you, mom.” I felt guilty using flattery to change the subject,
but I was so tired of this conversation. We had it over and over again and were
never going to see eye to eye. I knew that with my mother, flattery got me
everywhere.

“Oh, honey, you know what I mean. It’s not the same. Plus, I’m not
going to be around forever.” She paused.

For the first time ever, I realized the gravity of those words. She
must have too, but it was clear she was enjoying talking about men and dating
rather than her upcoming appointments, so, as if she hadn’t stepped on the
landmine that she’d placed, she went back to the topic at hand.

“You know, when I was working, there was nothing wrong with a little
flirting at the office. I remember that one guy. Oh gosh, what was his name? At
the agency in Santa Monica, you know, the accountant who was so handsome?”

There had been a lot of guys in my mom’s past, and I think I heard
about all of them.

“Darren?”

“Yes! I can’t believe I couldn’t remember his name. You know, he was
the one who—”

“Ma!” Before she could continue and give me some detail that was wholly
inappropriate, I cut her off. “I don’t want to talk about guys you slept with.”

She huffed. “Oh, you’re such a prude. I don’t know how a daughter of
mine could be so uncomfortable talking about sex.”

“Ok, Ma, whatever you say.”

“All right, let’s not fight. What time are you picking me up?”

****

It was an odd dynamic with the two of us. We both thought our relationship
was special, unique, and we were both proud of it. Especially when describing
it to anyone else. Perhaps like any other relationship, the description and
what outsiders saw could be far different than what really went on. I knew she
was proud of me, extremely proud, and bragged about me to all her friends. I
had become a successful art director and was making good money. Whenever we
went to any dinner party, holiday party, event, really any type of function,
Barb literally showed me off. As much as she could be so focused on herself,
when we were together with her friends, she displayed me with such pride. I was
her greatest accomplishment. While flattering, I couldn’t help but hear how
even her pride in me tied back to her. I was her doing.