“It’s perfect. And so is the ring. And so is Nolan. And so is your life, you bitch.”
“You’re the bitch,” I said, smiling back and deciding, once and for all, that I was going to go through with it.
And that was that. In the next few months, everything happened quickly. I resigned from my job, landed a new law firm job in Atlanta, and bought my childhood home on Dellwood from my mother. It was the perfect solution, as she felt that the house was too big for her to live in alone but desperately wanted to keep it in our family.
Then, one beautiful, bright autumn afternoon, I stood in the front of the church where Daniel’s coffin had rested and exchanged vows with his best friend.
chapter seven
JOSIE
The morning after my last date ever, Pete calls while I’m still asleep, leaving me a rambling voicemail.
“So I’ve given it a lot of thought,” he launches in without saying hello. “Well, as much thought as you can give something in less than twelve hours, of which seven were spent sleeping….So anyway, contrary to your opinion, I think chemistry can develop over time. In fact, I can think of several significant examples in film and literature in which one or both parties had absolutely no romantic interest in the other at the outset of their interaction—only to find that it blossomed—intensely—later.”
I smile as I listen, suddenly genuinely interested—not necessarily in Pete himself, but in where he’s going with this.
“So I say we give it another try, just to be sure….In fact, if you’re free tonight, I’m going to a rooftop party. I’d love for you to join me…and you’re welcome to bring a friend—so she can judge me, perhaps offer a second opinion. Soooo…give me a buzz and let me know what you think.”
I listen to the message one more time, then delete it, shaking my head at the predictability of it all. It is a page right out of one of those dating handbooks—my sudden indifference and independence, neither of which can really be faked, had made me more attractive to the opposite sex.
I call Pete back immediately, something the old strategic me never would have done, and say, “So what are your examples from film and literature?”
“Who’s this?” he deadpans over loud music.
“It’s Josie,” I say, mimicking his dry tone. “Your blind date from last night.”
“Oh! Yes, hi there, Josie,” he says, turning off his music.
“So what are your examples?” I say again. “And do you have any real-life examples or just fictional ones?”
“I’ll tell you in person. Tonight.”
“So you really are asking me out two nights in a row?”
“Yes,” he says. “I really am.”
“You know that’s, like, 101 of what not to do if you like someone?”
“Who said I liked you?”
“Touché,” I say, grinning into the phone.
“So what do you think? About the party? It should be fun. I hear this chick throws Gatsbyesque parties. Over the top.”
The description tempts me for a second, but I reply with a quip. “How did Brio boy score an invite to a party like that?”
“She tore her ACL ballroom dancing. I worked on her knee,” he confesses. “She told me I was welcome to bring friends.”
“She probably meant guy friends,” I say. “I bet she likes you.”
“Nah. It’s not like that,” he says. “So are you in?”
I hesitate, but am determined not to succumb to the slippery slope. “I don’t think so,” I say, holding firm.
“That’s it? You ‘don’t think so’? You’re not even going to make something up? Like, tell me you already have plans or something?”
I laugh and say I actually do already have plans.
“To do what?” he says, breaking another cardinal rule—don’t ask nosy questions during your first phone conversation.
“I’m staying in tonight. I’m going to research sperm banks,” I say.
He laughs, but when I don’t respond, he says, “You’re not kidding about that, are you?”
“Nope,” I say, trying not to think about the potential good genes that could be awaiting me on that roof tonight. It’s the false promise that has always motivated me, kept me going out weekend after weekend. There is always an agenda; the point is always to meet someone. Even if disguised in the form of a girls’ night out. Even if you’re one of those people who pretends to actually enjoy going to the movies or eating at a bar alone. Even if you try to convince yourself that you just want to enjoy a nice end-of-the-summer rooftop party.
“Well, at least that’s a lofty pursuit,” he says. “Will you let me know how it goes?”
“Are you really interested?”
“Yes,” Pete says. “Moderately.”
I hang up, wondering if he’s talking about me or my project. I have a hunch that it is both, and have to admit that the feeling is mutual. But I remind myself that moderate interest is no longer my thing.