Jo Piazza (19 page)

Stella, cool and collected, merely smiled.

“Hi, Jake.”

McMasters knew his cue when he saw it. He strode over to Stella and put an arm around her waist.

“You are certainly not Kimberly, my dear. What happened to Kimberly?”

“Well, Danny,” Stella replied in an equally measured and television-friendly tone, “it seems that maybe Kimberly wasn’t as in love with Jake as Jake seems to have thought. I had a little chat with her before the show and she was having what you might call … cold feet. After talking to her for a while, she asked that I come in her place to tell Jake personally just how sorry she was that she couldn’t go through with this.”

“I see.” McMasters rubbed his stubby chin with his stubby fingers. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

Stella smiled. “I’m Jake’s ex-girlfriend, Stella.”

“And why did you come here tonight, Stella?”

“For closure. I want to ask Jake one question, and then I want to move on.”

Jake couldn’t have looked more terrified. The studio audience members were on the edge of their seats, and Erika’s wails could still slightly be heard from offstage. Behind me I heard Prithi make a low growl in anticipation.

“Why not me, Jake?” Three words that every woman wants to ask after a breakup but never has the courage to say out loud. Why not me? We don’t really want to know the answer to that question. We don’t want to hear that we actually weren’t pretty enough or young enough or smart enough or good enough in the bedroom or that his mom secretly didn’t want him to marry us because of the time she caught you giving him a hand job under the holiday table. We don’t want to know that his friends thought our laugh was annoying or that since we began dating our tummies had gotten too soft for his liking. We don’t want to know the answer to this question, but we
have
to know it. Not knowing is what keeps us from moving on. If we don’t hear the horrible truth, we can cling to some small shred of hope that we might still have a chance.

That’s when Jake surprised us all by completely going off script, his personal script, the measured one he probably always stuck to because he was that kind of guy who always planned everything in advance… . He was honest.

“Look. I couldn’t imagine you being the last one. I just couldn’t. And then here I was with twenty-seven women, thinking, ‘Whoooa, I have twenty-seven women, one of them will be the last one.’ And it was the same thing all over again. I’m not ready for the last one.”

Stella stared at him, a surprising lack of anger in her eyes; instead, it had been replaced with something that almost looked like pity and resignation. She walked over toward Jake and put her hand on his arm; he flinched visibly.

“OK,” she said. It was that simple. Just an OK. The meetings, the steps, the silence even—all of it had worked for Stella.

And then Prithi groaned. I thought what Stella said was great, how she acted was great; what problem could Prithi possibly have with it? And then she groaned again deeper this time and grabbed my shoulder.

“Sophie … I think the baby’s coming.”

I squawked and full bansheed out of my seat, ignoring all regulations that the studio audience remain silent save for claps, cheers, sighs, and measured sniffling. Stella looked over, Jake continued to look confused, and McMasters’s expression didn’t alter even a wee bit. Botox must be a wonderful thing.

Prithi stood up, leaving a puddle on her seat. Joe wrapped his arm around her.

“Stay calm, Prith. We’re in New York. There are a dozen hospitals within walking distance. We’re going to get you in a cab, and everything is going to be OK.”

Joe looked at me. “Sophie, give me your phone so I can call my friend at NYU and let him know we’re on our way stat.” I dug my iPhone out of my bag and handed it to Joe, then began clearing an aisle for Prithi to walk down to get the heck out of the audience. The cameras continued to roll on our drama, being live television and all. McMasters for once seemed to be at a loss for words. I waved awkwardly to the camera. “Hi, Mom.”

Our mad entourage made it into the elevator and downstairs. As I settled Prithi into the back of a cab, Joe slid into the backseat next to me.

“We’re all set. My friend Dr. Uluhru will meet us at NYU; everything is going to be OK, Prithi.” Then in Joe’s hand I saw my cell phone begin to ring.

“The doctor must be calling me back,” Joe said. Except my phone wasn’t ringing Meatloaf; it was ringing a more distinctive ring that I knew just as well. It was ringing “I’m Bringing Sexy Back” and I caught a fleeting glimpse of the screen as Joe raised it to his ear and answered; my stomach tightened into a knot as I read “Crazy Fucking Bitch” light up the place on the screen where a name should have appeared.

It wasn’t my phone. But I was apparently the crazy fucking bitch in question, the same way Eric was “Do Not Call That Lying Cheating Bastard.”

“Hey, Dr. Uluhru. We’re on our way.” Joe looked at me and smiled.

“Sophie? You want to talk to Sophie? Who is this? Eric?” I saw confusion, then recognition wash over Joe’s face. “Sophie left her phone at your apartment this afternoon? OK. Of course, here she is.” He turned to me, his face stone cold.

“It’s for you.” I tried to plead with Joe with my eyes for sympathy, for a break, for anything, but he had already looked away and was calming Prithi and telling the driver where to go over her grunts and moans.

“Hi, Eric … yeah, I think I grabbed your phone. I am going to NYU. No, I’m fine. Want to meet me in the emergency room and we can switch? OK, sounds good.”

I hung up. “Joe, I can explain.”

“No need. I guess you were busy this afternoon. It’s fine. It’s totally fine. I am fine with this. Fine.”

Prithi looked from one of us to the other like we were crazy. Joe turned all his attention on her. I was very obviously not a priority for him.

“Breathe, Prithi. I need you to just breathe.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. His therapist bedside manner was firmly intact.

I tried to breathe.

Only two people were allowed in the delivery room with Prithi, so I waited outside while Joe and Sasank coached her through the rest of her labor. The other ladies, who had met us at the hospital, grabbed taxis back to my apartment to get a couple of hours of rest, but I felt obligated to stay, both for Prithi and for Joe, just to let him know I wasn’t going anywhere.

With nothing else to do after having read a three-week-old
US Weekly
twice, I decided to tackle the mail. Nico really had weeded out all the crap. He left the copies of
Real Simple
and removed the
New Yorker
, which he must have somehow guessed always just collected dust in my bathroom. I paid all my bills online so there were none of those.

At the bottom of the stack was a hot pink envelope. No one sent me letters anymore! Maybe it was a reminder from my gynecologist to schedule my yearly pap smear?

As I looked closer I recognized my grandmother’s signature cursive handwriting. The postmark was dated a week before she died. My heart skipped a beat as I slid my finger beneath the flap and opened this missive from beyond the grave. It was a card, not a letter. On the front was a giant sparkly diamond. On the inside was a picture of delicious-looking chocolate cake. Above it were the words:
Meet your real best friend.
Eleanor had taken up the entire left panel of the card, the bottom half of the right, and then continued on a piece of her hand-bordered Crane stationery.

Dear Sophie,

Hi, beautiful girl!

First, I want to tell you I am going to miss your face a ton and a bushel and a peck when I am gone.

That’s why I am writing this. I know that pretty soon I won’t be around and I just wanted to send you one last note that will make you smile. I also want to impart some end of the road wisdom when you can’t get mad at me anymore, either because I’m no longer here or because I am a sick and frail old woman who shouldn’t be trifled with.

YOU SHOULD NOT SETTLE FOR THAT MANNEQUIN, MOISTURIZING PRETTY BOY you’ve been toying around with. He doesn’t make you happy. In fact, I still don’t think you know who or what will make you happy. That’s what you need to figure out, beautiful girl. What do you want?

For a long time I didn’t know what I wanted. I knew that I didn’t want your grandfather. That snake in the grass cheated on me with every secretary from here to Tulsa. When he finally had that heart attack (on top of a typist in Denver I might add), I was finally ready to start my life. That’s when I decided to figure out what I wanted … and to ask for it. So at that point in my life I wanted to be adored. And I wanted to have great sex. Once I knew that is what I wanted I was able to go out and get it. You want to be loved, but you don’t know how that will work since you don’t really love yourself that much right now. I LOVE YOU. YOU SHOULD LOVE YOU. And some man out there should love you and adore you and worship the ground you walk on. Once you think you’ve found that man, tell him that’s what you want from him. If he is the right guy, then he will give you exactly that.

You deserve only everything.

Love,

Eleanor

PS—Watch out for Enrique’s grandson. He seems like a handful.

Tears streamed down my face as I read and reread the note.

My grandfather was a man-whore. That was an uncomfortable fact to absorb, but somehow made me feel better. Eleanor didn’t have the perfect love either. That shook my worldview. I had always envied her having that one, great love. Now that I knew her love wasn’t all that great, all that was left to envy was her ability to know exactly what she wanted and then ask for it. She—not any man—controlled her happiness.

I was finally strong enough to try to control my own.

Joseph Sasank Biswas Mehti was born at 1:00 a.m. weighing seven pounds, two ounces. Sasank’s boyfriend, Michael, and all the ladies from the house returned to the hospital, of course, to welcome him into the world.

Sasank called the baby’s father to tell him the news. It went straight to voice mail. Prithi seemed unfazed. Stella joined us at the hospital when the show was over. At first she was hangdog and apologetic.

“It was like the last step for me, you know?” she said. We did know, and we all told her that we understood. She did what she needed to do. Even Katrina was forgiving about the stolen Louboutins.

“Keep them, love,” she told Stella. “Now they’re famous.”

Twitter and Facebook had gone off the hook for Stella. This
Husband
finale had received more tweets than all the past finales combined, and #StellaRocks and #YouTellHimStella both trended before the broadcast was over.

And more than that, the producers of
The Husband
loved Stella so much they asked her to come back for the next season as
The Wife.
She was still thinking it over. McMasters had apparently given her a ride to the hospital, with his hand on her knee the entire time he was making the pitch.

I hardly saw Joe throughout Prithi’s four hours of labor. The doctor allowed him in the delivery room in lieu of a husband, so he had helped to coach Prithi through the birth. My nails bitten to the quick, I had finally grabbed Annie just before midnight.

“I saw Eric today.”

She groaned.

“Gross, why?”

“He called. I needed the closure. I needed what Stella got.”

“And did you get it?”

“I did. It felt great. I felt nothing. I actually just felt good.” Annie hugged me.

“Well then, good, Soph. I’m proud of you.”

“But.”

“I swear if I hear one more
but
today I am going to lose it.”

“But I left my phone there and then I grabbed his phone by accident and then he called my phone, no, his phone, and Joe answered it and it was Eric and now he hates me.”

“Why would he hate you for that?”

“Because we kissed this morning and because his ex-wife cheated on him and he found out by answering her phone and he might not even be ready for a relationship, but if he was, then this might be enough to make him not be ready.”

“Have you explained what happened to him?”

“I couldn’t. Prithi was in labor and then we were in a cab and now she’s having a baby and I am biting my nails and I don’t know what to do.”

“You know, Sophie. You should go for a walk. Think about what you even want from Joe. Think about if you’re ready. You might not be and that’s OK. You told us all that part of your problem is that you love being in love. Maybe that means you need to take things extra slow from now on.”

She was right. I hugged her and walked out the hospital doors. I walked through Times Square, just as crowded during the night as it was during the day, maybe more so. I saw snippets of
The Husband
being played on the Jumbotron on Forty-Third Street.

I didn’t love Eric anymore. I probably never
really
loved Eric. I was infatuated with him and I loved the idea of him, in all his seeming perfect-for-the-future-ness, but I never loved him as a person. Now that I had finally let him go, his person was actually a little stomach-turning to me. Looking back, I had loved the idea of all my boyfriends, had loved the idea of being in love, but I hadn’t truly been in love with them. I wanted them to turn me and my life into what I imagined it should be. Being in love should be a selfless act, where you do something for the other person, where it isn’t about you anymore, where you surrender what you want for the good of the pair, or sometimes for the good of one, the one who isn’t you.

I returned to the hospital with puffy eyes. Our entire little group, our motley family of addicts of both substance and emotion, was cooing over the one great thing to come out of a very bad relationship.

I went to the handicapped bathroom to wash my face and try to regain some outward signs of dignity. Of course, the hospital bathroom only had air dryers and no paper towels. After trying to dab the moisture off with toilet paper, I resigned myself to doing a backbend in front of the blower and letting the whoosh of air dry my face.