Forever, Interrupted Page 3

  I finally found Ana asleep in the master bathroom. I picked her up and cabbed her home. By the time I reached my own apartment, it was about 2:00 a.m. and I was tired. The bottle of champagne intended for our beach rendezvous went unopened and I got in bed.

  As I fell asleep that night, eyeliner not fully cleaned off my face, black sequined dress on the floor, I thought about what this year could bring and my mind raced with all of the possibilities, however unlikely. But out of all the possibilities, I didn’t think about being married by the end of May.

  I woke up New Year’s Day alone in my apartment, just like I woke up every other day, and there was nothing in particular that seemed special about it. I read in bed for two hours, I took a shower, I got dressed. I met Ana for breakfast.

  I’d been up for about three and a half hours by the time I saw her. She looked like she hadn’t been up for five minutes. Ana is tall and lanky with long brown hair that falls far beyond her shoulders and perfectly matches her golden brown eyes. She was born in Brazil and lived there until she was thirteen, and it’s still noticeable every once in a while in some of her words, mostly her exclamations. Other than that, she’s fully Americanized, assimilated, cleansed of all cultural identity. I’m pretty sure her name is supposed to be pronounced with a long a like “ahn-uh” but somewhere in middle school she gave up explaining the difference, and so now, she’s Ana, any way anyone would like to pronounce it.

  That particular morning, she was wearing big sweatpants that didn’t make her look fat because she was so skinny, and she had her hair pulled up into a ponytail, a zip-up sweatshirt covering her torso. You could barely tell she wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath her sweatshirt, and it occurred to me that this is how Ana does it. This is how she drives men crazy. She looks naked while being entirely covered. And you would have absolutely no indication she does this on purpose.

  “Nice shirt,” I said, as I pulled my sunglasses off and sat down across from her. Sometimes I worried that my own average body looked oversize compared to hers, that my own plain, all-American features only served to highlight how exotic she was. When I made jokes about it, she would remind me that I am a blond woman in the United States. She’d say blond trumps everything. I’ve always thought of my hair as dirty blond, almost mousy, but I saw her point.

  Even with how gorgeous Ana is, I’ve never heard her express satisfaction with her own looks. When I would say I didn’t like my small boobs, she’d remind me that I have long legs and a butt she’d kill for. She’d always confess how much she hated her short eyelashes and knees, that her feet looked like “troll feet.” So maybe we’re all in the same boat. Maybe all women feel like “before” photos.

  Ana had already made herself comfortable on the patio, having a muffin and an iced tea. She pretended like she was about to get up when I sat down, but just reached for a half hug.

  “Are you ready to kill me for last night?”

  “What?” I said as I pulled out the menu. I don’t know why I even bothered to look at the menu. I ate eggs Benedict every Saturday morning.

  “I don’t even remember what happened, honestly. I just remember parts of the cab ride home and then you taking my shoes off before you pulled the covers over me.”

  I nodded. “That sounds about right. I lost you for about three hours and found you in the upstairs bathroom, so I can’t speak to how far you and that guy from the gym got, but I would imagine . . . ”

  “No! I hooked up with Jim?”

  I put the menu down. “What? No, the guy from the gym.”

  “Yeah, his name is Jim.”

  “You met a guy at the gym named Jim?” Technically, this wasn’t his fault. People named Jim should be allowed to go to gyms, but I couldn’t shake the feeling this somehow made him ridiculous. “Is that a bran muffin?”

  She nodded, so I took some of it.

  “You and I might be the only two people on the planet that like the taste of bran muffins,” she said to me, and she might have been right. Ana and I often found striking similarities in each other in meaningless places, the clearest one being food. It doesn’t matter if you and another person both like tzatziki. It has no bearing on your ability to get along, but somehow, in these overlaps of taste, there was a bond between Ana and me. I knew she was about to order the eggs Benedict too.

  “Anyway, I saw you making out with Jim from the gym, but I don’t know what happened after that.”

  “Oh, well I’m going to assume that it didn’t get much further because he’s already texted me this morning.”

  “It’s eleven a.m.”

  “I know. I thought it was a bit quick. But it is flattering,” she said.

  “What can I get for you two?” The waitress who came up to us wasn’t our usual waitress. She was older, had been through more.

  “Oh, hi! I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Ana.”

  “Daphne.” This waitress wasn’t nearly as interested in being friends with us as Ana might have hoped.

  “What happened to Kimberly?” Ana asked.

  “Oh, not sure. Just filling in for the day.”

  “Ah. Okay, well, we’ll make this easy on you. Two eggs Benedict and I’ll have an iced tea like she has,” I said.

  “You got it.”

  Once she left, Ana and I resumed our earlier discussion.

  “I’ve been thinking about resolutions,” Ana said, offering me some of her iced tea while I waited for mine to get there. I declined because I knew if I had some of hers, she’d take that as license to drink some of mine when it arrived and she’d drink my whole damn glass. I’d known her long enough to know where to draw my boundaries and how to draw them so she wouldn’t notice.

  “Okay. And?”

  “I’m thinking something radical.”

  “Radical? This should be good.”

  “Celibacy.”

  “Celibacy?”

  “Celibacy. Not having sex.”

  “No, I know what it means. I’m just wondering why.”

  “Oh, well, I came up with it this morning. I’m twenty-six years old and last night I got drunk and can’t be entirely sure if I slept with someone or not. That seems to be the closest to slut rock bottom that I want to get.”

  “You are not a slut.” I wasn’t exactly sure if this was true.

  “No, you’re right. I’m not a slut. Yet.”

  “You could just stop drinking.” I had an interesting relationship with drinking in that I could take it or leave it. Drink, not drink, it did not matter to me. Most people, I’d found so far, fell strongly on one side or the other. Ana fell strongly on the “drinking” side.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know, stop getting drunk.”

  “At all?”

  “Stop it. I’m not saying something preposterous here. There are plenty of people that just don’t drink.”

  “Yeah, Elsie, they’re called alcoholics.”

  I laughed. “Fair enough, drinking isn’t the problem. It’s the sleeping around.”

  “Right. So I’m just going to stop sleeping around.”

  “And what happens when you meet someone you really want to be with?”

  “Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I didn’t meet anyone last year worth my time. I can’t say I expect that to change this year.”

  Daphne showed up with two eggs Benedicts and my iced tea. She put them down in front of us, and I didn’t realize how hungry I’d been until the food was staring me in the face. I dug right in.

  Ana nodded, chewing. When it started to look like she could speak without spitting food, she added, “I mean, if I meet someone and fall in love, sure. But until then, nobody’s getting in here.” She made an x in the air with her utensils.

  “Fair enough.” The best part about this place was they put spinach in the eggs Benedict, kind of an eggs Benedict Florentine. “This doesn’t mean I can’t sleep around though, right?” I said to her.

  “No, you sti
ll can. You won’t. But you still can.”

  Ana was soon on her way back to the other side of town. She was living in Santa Monica in a condo that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. I’d’ve been jealous enough to resent her if she hadn’t offered on a regular basis for me to move in. I always declined, knowing that living with Ana might be the only thing that could teach me to dislike her. I never did understand how Ana could live the way she did on the salary of a part-time yoga teacher, but she always seemed to have enough money for the things she wanted and needed when she wanted and needed them.

  After she left, I walked back to my apartment. I knew exactly how I’d be spending my afternoon. It was a new year and I always felt like a new year didn’t feel new without rearranging the furniture. The problem was that I had rearranged my apartment so many times in the two years I’d lived there that I’d exhausted all rational possibilities. I loved my apartment and worked hard to afford it and decorate it. So as I moved the couch from wall to wall, ultimately realizing that it really looked best where it was originally, I was still satisfied. I moved the bookcase from one wall to another, switched my end tables, and decided this was enough of a change for me to commemorate the year. I sat down on the couch, turned on the television, and fell asleep.

  It was 5:00 p.m. when I woke up, and while it was technically a Saturday night and single people on Saturday nights are supposed to go out to bars or clubs and find a date, I opted to watch television, read a book, and order a pizza. Maybe this year was going to be the year I did whatever the hell I wanted, regardless of social norms. Maybe.

  When it started raining, I knew I’d been right to stay inside. Ana called a few hours later asking what I was doing.

  “I wanted to make sure you’re not sitting on the couch watching television.”

  “What? Why can’t I watch television?”

  “It’s a Saturday night, Elsie. Get up! Go out! I’d say you should come out with me but I’m going on a date with Jim.”

  “So much for celibacy.”

  “What? I’m not sleeping with him. I’m eating dinner with him.”

  I laughed. “Okay, well, I’m spending the night on my couch. I’m tired and sleepy and . . . ”

  “Tired and sleepy are the same thing. Stop making excuses.”

  “Fine. I’m lazy and I like being alone sometimes.”

  “Good. At least you admitted it. I’ll call you tomorrow. Wish me luck keeping it in my pants.”

  “You’ll need it.”

  “Hey!”

  “Hey!” I said back.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Bye.”

  With the phone in my hand, I ordered a pizza. When I called Georgie’s Pizza to order it, the woman on the phone told me it would be an hour and a half before it was delivered. When I asked why, all she said was “Rain.” I told her I’d be there in a half hour to pick it up.

  Walking into Georgie’s Pizza, I felt nothing. No part of my brain or my body knew what was about to happen. I felt no premonition. I was wearing bright yellow galoshes and what can only be described as fat jeans. The rain had matted my hair to my face and I’d given up pushing it away.

  I didn’t even notice Ben sitting there. I was far too involved with the minutiae of trying to buy a pizza. Once the cashier told me it would be another ten minutes, I retired to the small bench in the front of the store, and it was then that I noticed there was another person in the same predicament.

  My heart didn’t skip a beat. I had no idea he was “it”; it was “he.” He was the man I’d dreamed about as a child, wondering what my husband would look like. I was seeing this face I had wondered about my whole life and it was right here in front of me and I didn’t recognize it. All I thought was, He’ll probably get his pizza before I get mine.

  He looked handsome in a way that suggested he didn’t realize just how handsome he was. There was no effort involved, no self-awareness. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders and strong arms. His jeans were just the right shade of blue; his shirt brought out the gray in his green eyes. They looked stark against his brown hair. I sat down next to him and swatted my hair away from my forehead again. I picked up my phone to check my e-mail and otherwise distract myself from the waiting.

  “Hi,” he said. It took me a second to confirm he was, in fact, speaking to me. That easily, my interest was piqued.

  “Hi,” I said back. I tried to let it hang there, but I was bad with silence. I had to fill it. “I should have just had it delivered.”

  “And miss all this?” he said, referencing the tacky faux-Italian decor with his hands. I laughed. “You have a nice laugh,” he said.

  “Oh, stop it,” I said. I swear, my mother taught me how to take a compliment, and yet each time I was given one, I shooed it away like it was on fire. “I mean, thank you. That’s what you’re supposed to say. Thank you.”

  I noticed that I had subconsciously shifted my entire body toward him. I’d read all of these articles about body language and pupil dilation when people are attracted to each other, but whenever I got into a situation where it was actually useful (Are his pupils dilated? Does he like me?), I was always far too unfocused to take advantage.

  “No, what you’re supposed to do is compliment me back,” he said, smiling. “That way I know where I stand.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Well, it doesn’t really tell you much if I compliment you now, does it? I mean, you know that I’m complimenting you because you’ve asked . . . ”

  “Trust me, I can still tell.”

  “All right,” I said, while I looked him up and down. As I made a show of studying him, he stretched out his legs and lengthened his neck. He pulled his shoulders back and puffed out his chest. I admired the stubble on his cheeks, the way it made him look effortlessly handsome. My eyes felt drawn to the strength of his arms. What I wanted to say was “You have great arms,” and yet, I didn’t have it in me. I played it safe.

  “So?” he said.

  “I like your shirt,” I said to him. It was a heathered gray shirt with a bird on it.

  “Oh,” he said, and I could hear honest to God disappointment in his voice. “I see how it is.”

  “What?” I smiled, defensively. “That’s a nice compliment.”

  He laughed. He wasn’t overly interested or desperate. He wasn’t aloof or cool either, he just . . . was. I don’t know whether he was this way with all women, whether he was able to talk to any woman as if he’d known her for years, or whether it was just me. But it didn’t matter. It was working. “Oh, it’s fine,” he said. “But I’m not even going to try for your number. Girl compliments your eyes, your hair, your beard, your arms, your name, that means she’s open to a date. Girl compliments your shirt? You’re getting shot down.”

  “Wait—that’s not—” I started, but I was interrupted.

  “Ben Ross!” the cashier called out, and he jumped up. He looked right at me and said, “Hold that thought.”

  He paid for his pizza, thanked the cashier genuinely, and then came and sat right back down next to me on the bench.

  “Anyway, I’m thinking if I ask you out, I’m going to be shot down. Am I going to be shot down?”

  No, he was absolutely not going to be shot down. But I was now embarrassed and trying hard not to seem eager. I smiled wide at him, unable to keep the canary feathers in my mouth. “Your pizza is going to get cold,” I told him.

  He waved me off. “I’m over this pizza. Give it to me straight. Can I have your number?”

  There it was. Do-or-die time. How to say it without screaming it with all of the nervous energy in my body? “You can have my number. It’s only fair.”

  “Elsie Porter!” the cashier yelled. Apparently, she had been calling it for quite a while, but Ben and I were too distracted to hear much of anything.

  “Oh! Sorry, that’s me. Uh . . . just wait here.”

  He laughed, and I walked up to pay for my pizza. When I came back, he had his phone out.
I gave him my number and I took his.

  “I’m going to call you soon, if that’s okay. Or should I do the wait-three-days thing? Is that more your style?”

  “No, go for it,” I said, smiling. “The sooner the better.”

  He put out his hand to shake and I took it.

  “Ben.”

  “Elsie,” I said, and for the first time, I thought the name Ben sounded like the finest name I’d ever heard. I smiled at him. I couldn’t help it. He smiled back and tapped his pizza. “Well, until then.”

  I nodded. “Until then,” I said, and I walked back to my car. Giddy.

  JUNE

  I tear the Georgie’s magnet off the refrigerator and try to rip it in half, but I can’t get it to succumb to my weak fingers. It just bends and stretches. I realize the futility of what I’m doing, as if removing this magnet, destroying this magnet, will ease my pain in any way. I put it back on the refrigerator door and I dial Susan.

  She answers on the second ring.

  “Susan? Hi. It’s Elsie.”

  “Hi. Can you meet this afternoon to go over arrangements?”

  “Arrangements?” I hadn’t really thought about what Susan would want to talk about. Arrangements hadn’t even occurred to me. Now, as I let it register, I realize that of course there are arrangements. There are things to plan, carefully calculated ways to grieve. You can’t even mourn in peace. You must do it through American customs and civilities. The next few days will be full of obituaries and eulogies. Coffins and caterers. I’m shocked she’s even contemplating me being a part of them.

  “Sure. Absolutely,” I say, trying to inject some semblance of get-up-and-go into my voice. “Where should I meet you?”