The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (24 page)

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s too ridiculous. I’m embarrassed to repeat it.”

“It can’t be that bad. What did she say? Did she tell you I was a so-so lover, because I think I’ve demonstrated that’s not the case.” His expression is playful, as if whatever his ex and I discussed must be inconsequential.

“No, nothing like that. She told me you made more money than you’d ever imagined and it changed you.”

He nods slowly, and replaces the clicker onto the nightstand. “I invested in Bainbridge’s hedge fund and it did well. She’d never say so, but it bothered her that I was suddenly richer than she was. I never understood the big deal.” He looks genuinely puzzled, like he’s trying to figure out a riddle that should be obvious but isn’t.

I know if I stall I won’t have the gumption to raise it again. “Olivia said you broke up because you started seeing prostitutes,” I say tentatively, and scan his face for a reaction.

Oscar laughs out loud and shakes his head. “Wow. She always was creative. I have to give her that. Though I’m not sure why she feels the need to drag me through the mud. I’d think she’d want to leave well enough alone.”

“So it’s not true?” I prod, because he hasn’t said those words exactly.

Oscar leans over to look me in the eye. “Absolutely not true. I do not, and have not
ever
, paid for sex.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. “I didn’t think so, but she was so matter of fact about it. And then I got to thinking about the conversation we had after the O’Malley scandal hit the news.”

“Just because I think something should be legal, doesn’t mean I indulge in it. I feel the same way about pot, but I haven’t touched the stuff since college.”

“Right. I’m sorry I said anything.”

“Relax. I understand. You had to ask.” He leans over to kiss me. “So are we okay?”

“We’re more than okay.” I beam at him, thrilled that he apparently has zero interest in prostitutes and pleased with myself for having the maturity and fortitude to tackle a tough question head on.

“So should I quit talking now and let you dive into your book?” he asks playfully.

The next morning when I emerge from the Beresford’s distinctive entrance at just before six-thirty, Oscar’s driver is waiting to shuttle me home so I can change and face another day at Broadwick & Associates in attire that won’t draw negative commentary from my boss. Carol is so rarely happy with me—satisfied, yes, but happy is unheard of—that I want to keep the honeymoon going as long as possible. Which probably means three or four days. By then, some other big deal will close, which will cause transference of her praise to another employee, or, more likely, some small catastrophe will befall the office, which will make my little triumph seem meaningless.

Most of midtown is still sleeping, or at least hitting the snooze button. We pass a few joggers, and several coffee carts, but Oscar’s driver ferries me home in no time. I unwind my scarf and remove my sunglasses as I shuffle upstairs. My kitchen clock says 6:45. I could easily get to the gym this morning. Maybe if I showed up now and then, they’d stop sending me snarky emails extolling the benefits of physical exertion and reminding me that my metabolism slows with lack of exercise. I turn the key in my lock, pleased with myself because I’ll easily make it to 7:15 spin. For almost the whole hour, as I pedal and sweat, I think about Oscar and how wonderful he is.

I stayed up until almost three reading
Surplus Boys
, and though I’m exhausted, my mind is racing. Oscar amazes me. He grew up in a house with four “sister-mothers” and their thirty-eight children. His father once wielded a good deal of power in the FLDS, but he couldn’t stay out of trouble with the authorities, so his influence waned during the course of Oscar’s childhood. Oscar watched a dozen of his sisters married off in tears to gray haired men; he witnessed his older brother repeatedly raped by an uncle who had a thing both for blond boys and exhibitionism; and he realized that even as his father’s star fell in the church, his mother (herself a fifth generation multiple wife) was unwilling to stop the church elders from banishing her sons by going to the police. His mother’s betrayal seems to have hit Oscar the hardest. He thinks she knew the elders would send him away early on, because through some fluke of genetics, he looked like a black sheep. The cult prefers conformity in all things, behavioral and physical. Oscar admits, towards the end of the memoir, that he would probably be incapable of maintaining a normal relationship with anyone if his foster family hadn’t been so incredible.

He hadn’t met Olivia at the time the book was published, but he was confident he’d go on to have a normal family life. The book isn’t as seedy as I expected—it recounts awful events but doesn’t dwell on lewd details –and several chapters do nothing but extol the virtues of Oscar’s foster family.

Instead of spooking me, reading Oscar’s memoir sort of reassures me that Olivia’s behavior is what my mother would call “sour grapes.” The more I come to understand Oscar, the more certain I am that Olivia must regret leaving him. So his past is unorthodox. Arguably, surviving it has made him a stronger person. She’s probably just realizing this. Oh well, too late for her. At least Oscar doesn’t seem interested in rekindling their romance. If only Olivia would hurry up and fly back to Europe where she belongs, my life would be perfect, I decide as I stand under the hot shower.

My early workout must have great karma, because things hum along smoothly all day. So smoothly, in fact, that I actually pause around four in the afternoon, right after the snack cart lady rolls through our floor with her contraband transfat-laden wares, and wonder whether I’m experiencing some kind of cosmic calm before the storm.

Niles and his secretary have completed their move and he’s up and running as a partner at Cutler & Boone. I’ve spent the day calling associates he’d like to bring with him. There are three, plus a junior partner, who is slightly less likely to move. If any or all of them go as follow-ons, we get to bill on them. At a slightly reduced rate, but it’s a windfall I hadn’t allowed myself to contemplate until today. And I get to arrange all their interviews without Carol breathing down my neck, because she’s flown down to DC to terrorize her neglected Washingtonian employees for a change. I’d forgotten that she was going to be gone today, until I saw Marvin on the way in, suit less and sporting a sweater. He wouldn’t dare do that if the boss lady hadn’t left the tri-State area.

After weeks of maternal goading, I’ve gotten it together and purchased a plane ticket to Florida for Thanksgiving. I got a direct flight for under $300, way less than I expected to pay. My mother practically hyperventilated with excitement because I told her I
might
be bringing someone for them to meet. Nothing is definite, but Oscar didn’t seem against the idea when I floated it last night on the way home from the restaurant.

I hadn’t planned on asking him until he mentioned that he and his ex had a few of the best holidays ever with those people we met, the Bainbridges. He asked where I go for Turkey Day, and I told him. I even mentioned that since my mom went vegan over a decade ago, it’s been Tofurkey for everyone, unless my brother’s gang comes in from San Francisco. My sister-in-law, after enduring one Clark family holiday on what she called starvation rations, now arrives at all family functions bearing her own provisions, which last time included an obscenely large bird. She spent most of the rest of the weekend transforming the leftovers into vats of divine-smelling soup, which she sent home with everyone. Unfortunately, airport security confiscated my share.

Oscar surprised me by saying it all sounded charming and wonderful, so before I realized what I was doing, I asked if he wanted to come for the holiday weekend. He said he’d love to, but he’d have to check on some things at work, and he’d let me know by tonight.

Part of me is freaking out, because while I want him to come, to make us more public, or more official, or whatever, the other half is afraid. Maybe he won’t like my family, or they won’t like him, and the whole thing will be a disaster culminating in a break up at the holiday dinner table, right before my mom serves her homemade vegan pumpkin pie with non-dairy whipped topping.

Today, though, I’m feeling so Zen about everything that I think it’ll be fine either way. If he comes, that’s great, we’ll make it work, and if not, there’s always Christmas. That is, I’m Zen about it until just after five, when Oscar emails me that he’s in, and his secretary is booking his ticket right now. We’re going to fly out with the mad rush on Wednesday night and return Sunday morning. Three full days in the Florida sun with Oscar. And my parents. And my brother, his wife and their twins. I feel a stress headache brewing as I email him back that I’m so happy he can make it. Then, feeling sick to my stomach, I call Angela.

“He’s coming home with me for Thanksgiving.” I announce, not caring if the whole office hears me. Half my colleagues are out having manicures or getting a head start on happy hour anyway. This office is a perfect case study in what happens when some tyrannical figure rides a group of self-motivated, smart, driven individuals relentlessly. She transforms them into exactly what she fears most: opportunistic slackers who take advantage when her back is turned.

“Really? Did you tell him about the Tofu?”

“Yeah, he knows all about the menu and he still wants to come.”

“Wow.” Angela doesn’t know quite what to make of this development. “Do you think he’s going to ask your dad for permission to marry you or something?”

“No. Don’t be dumb. Wouldn’t you think he’d discuss that with me first?”

“Right. Just like he discussed the apartment with you. Zoë, this is huge.”

“I know.”

“It’s also potentially relationship ending.”

“I know that, too. You’re not really helping here, Angela.”

“Sorry. You’ve stepped outside my realm of expertise. You know I don’t do long term monogamy. And the last four guys I’ve been with were European, so Thanksgiving was off their radar. Thank God. It would be tough to choose whom to bring home otherwise.”

“People wish they had your problems. What are you doing for the holiday anyway?”

“We’re all going to my sister’s in DC, since she’s pregnant and my mom doesn’t think it’s safe for her to travel. She’s only four months, and she knows mom is being ridiculous, but we’re all humoring her.”

I’m about to agree that her mom is overly cautious when my phone beeps with an incoming text. “Hang on one sec.” I check the screen. “New Message Kevin.”

It asks, somewhat cryptically, “What’s your deal?”

“I guess Kevin’s trying to talk to me again. Maybe I should call him.”

“You think?” Angela is gone before I can answer her.

Kevin’s phone rings so long that I start to compose a curt but not overtly rude voicemail message in my head. Just when I’m about to hear the recording, he picks up. “We need to talk.”

“Alright.” I hope I sound flat, but not too bitchy. I’m mad, but I miss him. He’s been a constant presence for over a decade now, and I am having a hard time imagining life without him in it.

“Don’t be mad, but I just heard about the condo. I’m afraid you’re way over your head with this guy. You barely know him and he’s buying you real estate? What kind of deranged nutcase does that?”

“He’s not a nutcase. He’s generous, and thinking long term.”

“Fine. Maybe ‘nutcase’ is too harsh. But you need to consider that Oscar might not be the knight in shining armor you think he is.”

“I see. And since you’ve never exchanged more than, oh, seven words with him, I’m dying to know what you base this on.”

He starts to say something but I cut him off. “For the record, I feel like Oscar
is
my knight in shining armor, if you want to use that antiquated term. He makes me feel loved and, I don’t know, safe, somehow. He’s the best thing that’s happened to me in ages. So why can’t we just agree that you and I are done discussing him?”

“Because I’m your friend and I’m worried about you.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

My lower lip starts to quiver and I feel the waterworks start. “It really makes me crazy, Kevin, that you can’t be happy for me. Ever. If I do well at work, you say my job is beneath me. If I’m happy with my new boyfriend, you try to convince me what we have isn’t real. And frankly, I’m kind of tired of it. Especially since I’ve been your number one cheerleader since we were eighteen years old and eating Ramen noodles in the dorm.” I pause to take a deep breath through my mouth, because my nose has gotten stuffed up. “When you were working seventeen hour days stuffing envelopes, thinking you’d never get noticed, and
everyone
else, including your girlfriend at the time, said give up and go to law school, I told you to hang in there. When you almost purposely screw it up with every woman you date, I always tell you it’s their loss. Even though you’re too old to be such a dog, and you’re starting to be an affront to single women everywhere. For Christ’s sake, even Brendan saw it. There are always two standards. One for you and one for everyone else. And guess which is the unattainable one. So fuck you, Kevin. Don’t call me anymore, unless you want to apologize and start acting like a real friend.”

When I hang up, the phone falls to my desk from my shaking hands. Maybe it should feel cathartic to let loose and express myself, but instead it feels sickening. I take a cursory look over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone. I am, except for New Girl, who’s hunched in her cube, trying to slog through the fifty cold calls Carol decreed she must log each day until further notice. I put my head down on my keyboard and sob, as quietly as possible.

It takes me a full ten minutes to register that this is at least the second time in recent memory I’m crying after talking with Kevin. I can’t believe how nasty he’s being, and I’m mad at myself for letting him get to me. I doubt Angela’s right about his feelings for me, but maybe it’s one of those territorial male things. He might not want me for himself, but he doesn’t necessarily want anyone else to have me. He’s doing the human equivalent of running around me and peeing on my feet to mark me as taken and make me smell bad, in case anyone else comes along. Which makes sense, since most men are basically dogs. I latch onto this thought and it makes my tears stop as I start to contemplate an unpleasant possibility. Can Kevin be the true friend I’ve always believed him to be, if he’s urging me to ditch a man I’m crazy about?