What a Girl Needs
By Kristin Billerbeck
What a Girl Needs By Kristin Billerbeck Copyright © 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition
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“M
arriage won’t solve
your problems. It will only highlight them.” My mom used to tell me that and I’d laugh. I mean,
seriously
, she married my dad. What did she expect? Roses and serenades from the balcony? One can hardly expect romance from a man who grunts the vast majority of his words. Let’s not even bring up the fact that he thinks it’s appropriate to unzip his pants after a big meal—regardless of who is present. Clearly, romance wasn’t a priority to my mother, so I wasn’t inclined to take her advice in this arena.
“You’ll see,” she’d say, then grin at me like I didn’t possess a brain cell. Her condescension infuriated me, and I’d follow her into the kitchen, determined to tell her my future didn’t look anything like hers.
“I won’t marry a man who isn’t romantic. You won’t catch us reading the paper at the breakfast table. That’s so depressing when couples do that, like they’re just not interested in one another at all!” At this point, I’d get a little heated. I’ll admit it; I took it personally when she’d tell me romance was a myth.
“Well, I hope you meet this Prince Charming, Ashley. May the enchantment and lingering gazes over the scrambled eggs last forever.” Mom would then roll her eyes and set the breakfast dishes in the sink.
As I’m about to celebrate my second anniversary to Prince Charming, I have to admit, there may have been a little truth in my mother’s words. Just a smidgen. We still don’t read the paper over breakfast, but I’d be lying if I said my expectations weren’t the slightest bit dashed. I thought the daily rejection that was my single-life existence would end at marriage. I mean, someone basically signed a contract to not reject you, am I right? Three years ago, I wanted nothing more than to be married. And now? Now I just want a husband who is home once in a while…
* * *
I, Ashley Stockingdale Novak,
did marry my real-life Prince Charming. Amazingly, he was available in human form: Dr. Kevin Novak, Resident Pediatric Surgeon. I
used
to be a leading patent attorney working on the latest technologies in Silicon Valley. We left the area, and my career behind, for Philadelphia, so that my husband could further his profession in the renowned neonatal surgical unit with preemies.
Patents on the latest integrated circuit seemed insignificant by comparison. I mean, Kevin isn’t just a doctor, he’s like Superman and Mother Teresa rolled into one amazingly hot package… And I’m…well, outside of patents, good at shopping. If I have other skills, I have yet to discover them.
It certainly isn’t cooking.
When I dwell on the humanity chasm that looms between my husband and me, it becomes overwhelming. While he disappears off to the hospital to save someone’s precious child, I tell myself that it’s enough to be at home as his support system. I tell myself that it’s a godly thing to be satisfied with being his helpmate, that there’s honor in being Robin to his Batman. Or am I Alfred the butler?
Every day I start with prayer and good intentions. Today I’m going to bake cupcakes and have a three-course meal on the table when Kevin returns from his arduous day. Only, I’m not such a great cook, and while shopping may be a specialty, grocery shopping is like browsing for a casket. You might HAVE to do it, but does anyone really want to? Maybe foodies who watch the Food Network. But two channels over on QVC they’re selling Chi hair straighteners on EasyPay. I ask you, where would your attention go?
When you’re lacking a set schedule, the day begins to get away from you, and before you know it, you’ve lost an entire day and can’t account for it. Being unemployed, for me is like being on a drunken binge. At least, what I imagine a drunken binge to be like.
I’m in Philadelphia, but my life is still back in Silicon Valley, where I left my job, my friends, my family and my church. It all seemed so reasonable and self-sacrificing for love—it was romantic. Except the reality is that I’m bored out of my skull. I should be content. The operative word being
should
, but I’m bored out of my skull.
I still have my patent license, but I’m not legally allowed to work for a law firm in Pennsylvania without passing the bar. So I
can
do my job, but no one will actually hire me to do it. In this state, I’m only qualified to be a patent agent, so I’m relegated to consulting occasionally on patents for the kind of chintzy gadgets sold on late-night television.
A monkey could write these patents.
“You’re an intellectual snob,” my friend Brea told me. “You’re not the belle of the ball in Philadelphia and you can’t handle it.”
Perhaps, but eventually, you have to own your truth. And here it is: I need more mental stimulation than writing patents for the “finger-mounted fly swatter” and making dinner every night.
At some time in the last two years, I stopped finding joy in shoes and that’s when I knew I was in trouble. As a patent consultant, I rarely had reason to leave the house. Let’s face it, you don’t need schematics and design engineers to describe “The ABC Banana Peeler” in graphic detail. Forget the fact that this is what opposable thumbs are for. This kind of patent work can be done over the phone or by email. Or in crayon scribbled on a piece of binder paper.
There was intrigue in the fact that patents I worked on were at risk of being stolen by foreign countries—it brought this whole espionage thing to the table that made me feel like a female 007. Countries that are tempted to steal the next iPhone design couldn’t care less about Junko’s latest weight-loss gimmick. Without an office and a steady stream of work and compliments on my shoes, my joy in fashion lost its power.
And in essence, so have I.
It appears, and this totally surprised me, but it appears as though I am not all that good at sacrificial living. I may even be…gasp…slightly selfish. However, after two years of living in this interim mode, I’ve finally worked up the courage to tell Kevin that I need more from life. California doesn’t share reciprocity with Pennsylvania, so I either need to get licensed as an attorney in Pennsylvania, or find meaningful work to do while Kevin saves lives. Since Kevin’s position wasn’t permanent, it seemed silly to get licensed when we might move again soon. So I waited. And I bought more shoes. And I became this cardboard cutout of myself.
No more.
Ashley Stockingdale Novak is back, and I plan to be better than ever and rekindle the romance of life that makes it worth living.
Kevin’s and my second anniversary falls on a Monday night, and I plan to use the occasion to tell him my truth. I smooth my electric blue skirt in the mirror and practice what I’ll tell him. “I’m so proud of you Kevin, with all you do to save babies who wouldn’t stand a chance without you. You’re so selfless and awesome, but—”
And this is where I stop. But what? But I’m too shallow to sit home while you save babies all day? I must write patents the way Dickens had to churn out words, what?
The doorbell rings, and I slide into my strappy, silver sparkle Sergio Rossi heels. There’s a lot of money in Philly. So much money in fact, that you can buy designer heels for nothing at consignment shops. I never saw myself as a “used” shoe kind of girl, but when what I could afford on Kevin’s salary became obvious, I became frugal.
Giving up my job didn’t prepare me for what I’d actually have to surrender: Shoes, clothes, coffee shop soy lattes on a regular basis…it’s like being in college without the work to take your mind off the sacrifice.
I open our front door, and Kevin is standing in a charcoal suit with a cobalt-and-red tie I bought him back when I had a job. He looks as if he’s stepped out of a Nordstrom window and I’m taken aback by the warmth in his eyes. He holds up a bouquet of red roses. “Happy Anniversary.” He puts the flowers on the table by the doorway and envelops me in a hug. He kisses my neck and whispers, “I love you.” With a small growl, he suggests, “We don’t really need to eat
now
, do we?”
“You made reservations. We’re going to be late,” I say in obligatory fashion, but the idea of a quiet evening at home sounds like absolute bliss. His work is constantly on his mind, and the notion of having his full attention burrows in deep and finds a warm spot in my heart.
“I did make reservations.” He helps me with my coat and opens the door wider and leads me outside. “C’mon, sexy. The sooner we go to dinner, the sooner we’ll get home—”
I hang onto his solid bicep as he shows me to his waiting white horse: A Dodge Stratus. He tells me about his day and the surgery he performed until we arrive at the Society Hill restaurant. He pays for valet, which thrills me, since the Sergio shoes are not comfortable, and I’m out of practice in heels. I’m fumbling about like Bambi getting the feel for new legs. Gone is the confidence dressing up once gave me—now it’s as if I’m wearing my mother’s heels and padding about awkwardly. If, in fact, I had a mother who ever wore heels.
Kevin places his hand at the small of my back, and we enter into the romantic dim lighting. The restaurant is everything I do love about Philadelphia. It is filled with history, from its beamed ceilings and exposed brick walls to its underground tunnels. Everything in the city seems to have a story, and running my hand along the brick wall I wonder what it could tell me if it could speak.
Kevin checks in with the maître d’ and we are seated at an intimate table in the wine cellar, which is candlelit and ours alone. The music from the piano bar above wafts in and echoes off the brick walls, and the ambiance is everything I might possibly hope for.
