The Good Life

Chapter NINE



Caroline Ganier stood in front of me in her stupid, ugly cardigan sweater with a nametag that said “Skank Queen, Ristorante Manager.” Okay, it didn’t really say that. The Skank Queen part anyway. And if they were going to use the Italian word for restaurant, why didn’t they also use the Italian word for manager? I hated the place immediately.

There was no way I could tell her I was there to apply for a job. That would be a ten on the mortification scale. Standing there and shitting my pants in front of her would have been less embarrassing than asking her for a job. Yet, there I was ringing the doorbell before hours wearing a nice pantsuit and holding a manila folder on the very day a wanted ad was listed on Craigslist. What the hell else would I be there for?

“Roxie Humsucker,” she said (Yes, that’s my maiden name. Can you see why I was in such a hurry to change it?). With a smirk on her face not unlike the one I saw when I caught her in my boyfriend’s bed more than ten years ago, she leaned on the doorframe, crossed her arms and raised her chin up. She looked seriously entertained, and I wanted so badly to punch her in her stupid, ugly face!

I am known for my quick-thinking skills. But it’s a total fake-out. The reason people think I’m a quick thinker is because I prepare so extensively for every situation I can think of. I make it seem like I’m a quick-thinker, but really, a lot of thought goes into nearly everything I do. But this, this I was not expecting in any part of my imagination. I have to say, though, that for being put on the spot like that, I was impressed with the way I handled the situation.

“Hey there...you,” I said, purposely not using her name so she would think I forgot it even though it was on her nametag. “I’m so glad someone’s here. I just ran over on my lunch break because I heard you guys do catering for large groups.”

She gave a sly grin like she didn’t buy the story. “Yes, we do catering. You didn’t have to come in person though. We have the menu and prices on the website. You can order it online, too.”

“Yes,” I said, thinking fast, “but this is kind of last minute so I wanted to do it in person. I’m in a jam and I need it this Thursday. Will that be possible?”

“Of course. For how many people?”

“Thirty,” I said quickly.

Damnit! Why didn’t I say twenty?

Almost $400 later, as I was walking back to Jake’s Jeep, the only positive thing I could think of was that this would make a really funny story someday. Oh, and that she’s not aging well.

I got back into the Jeep and blasted the A/C. That incident was a serious blow to my self-worth, not to mention my dwindling bank account. My overall outlook on life took a major nose dive. I couldn’t continue to job search after suffering such a blow. Job applicants needed to be oozing with confidence, not pouting over a bad memory and a mean girl.

I was starting to think moving back here had been a bad idea. I’d only been home two days and already these people and events from my past were trying to bring me down. What happened to the last ten years I’d spent maturing into a classy and confident woman? All it took was an old rival with bad hair and suddenly it was like I was back in high school again with a head filled with silly, childish insults. I mean, yes, her hair could use some serious professional help and that turquoise eye shadow didn’t work with her skin tone whatsoever, but that’s no reason for me to call her a stupid, ugly face. It was her personality that made her ugly, and if I stooped down to her level, I would be just as bad.

In one of the classes I took in college, we discussed the problems criminals faced once they were released from prison after an extended period of time behind bars. I don’t remember the exact wording of this theory, but it was something about how their minds stopped maturing when they entered prison. If they went in at twenty and were released at forty, their minds were still mentally age twenty. They ended up socially inept and were unable to develop mature relationships with people their own age. This usually resulted in them returning to their lives of crime. Or looking like total pervs trying to date women twenty years younger.

Now I wondered, was this similar to what happened to me? Was my marriage a prison? Am I now being released from incarceration with the maturity level and mental capacity of a twenty-two year old? Am I socially inept?

I had a lot to think about. I needed to go somewhere where I could find some clarity and peace of mind and do some serious soul-searching, which is how I ended up sitting at the water fountain in the mall sipping on a frozen Coke. I know how bad sodas are but I wasn’t concerned with calories anymore. First, a brutal I-don’t-love-you announcement from my husband, followed by memories of several breakups from the past coming back to haunt me, all in a few days time. I was done. Over it. It wouldn’t bother me one bit if I got all bloated on soda, filled my closet with unshapely muumuus, grew a beard and adopted a dozen cats.

Oh, speaking of the boyfriend…after Riley took Skank Queen to the Incubus concert I’d bought him tickets for, he was recruited by a Big Ten college hockey team and given a full athletic scholarship. He spent most of his freshman year on the bench as the back-up goaltender. Rumor had it he was destined to be the starter the following year once the current starter graduated, but the rumor never had a chance to turn into reality because he got in a car accident that summer and suffered a career-ending injury to his knee. I’m not proud to admit this, but Allison and I threw a killer party the night we found out. Karma had come back around and smacked Riley on the butt real good. Now I was starting to wonder if Miss Karma was after my ass, too, probably because we threw the party in the first place.

I didn’t go to the mall to shop. I thought I could people-watch for a bit and maybe see some people who had it worse than I did to help put things into perspective. It was always easy to do that in New York where there were less fortunate people all over the place. But everyone looked pretty happy to be in a suburban shopping mall in the middle of a weekday. The teeny-boppers were giddy as they walked past me, proudly carrying tiny pink bags from Victoria’s Secret. These girls were like junior-high age. I know it’s off topic, but my daughters, if I ever have any, will NOT shop at Victoria’s Secret until they have graduated from high school!

The couple who looked to be in their sixties looked pretty happy, too, as they slowly walked hand in hand. Even the group of three middle-aged ladies in full-out exercise gear who were walking swinging-arms-style looked happy. Once the frozen drink started to make my teeth hurt, I was about to give up and go home. And then I saw a Sephora!

This was the part of my movie where the clouds parted and suddenly there was light again.

I just had to go in and try on some turquoise eye shadow to see if I could rock that color with my skin tone. It looked pretty good on me, and I really wanted to buy it, especially since there was a free gift with purchase. Ahhh, the free gift with purchase had gotten me so many times in the past. But I was supposed to be different now. I didn’t know who I was without Caleb just yet. I didn’t know who the Michigan Roxie would become or even if I wanted to be a Michigan Roxie at all. But I knew I couldn’t be the New York Roxie and only a New York Roxie would spend $20 on one eye shadow color.

Then I remembered the Good Life List. One of the tasks was to go to a department store and create a divorce registry. I shrugged and headed towards Macy’s. It was as good a time as any.

The young salesgirl looked seriously confused when I asked.

“We have a wedding registry and a baby registry,” she told me. “But no divorce registry. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” She scrunched up her face like she thought a divorce registry was a bad idea.

Oh, what do you know anyway? What are you, like fifteen? Wait until you’re in my shoes before you judge, you little bitch!

She pointed me in the direction of the registry kiosk and told me to come back for a scanner when I was ready.

I hit the wedding button on the screen since I wasn’t going to be registering for baby bottles and bibs. When it asked for the groom’s name I typed in Dick Microphallus at 123 Douchebag Avenue. I believe I just proved a theory – a person coming from a failed marriage really was like a newly released prisoner. I was now basically twenty-two again. Hmm, that might not be so bad!

I spent the next hour and a half registering for everything I would need to build a new home for myself. I registered for kitchen appliances, bath coordinates, wall art, candles. Nothing overpriced and extravagant either, just the basic stuff. I didn’t expect anyone to buy me a divorce gift, but it was a good way for me to keep track of what I still needed to set up a home of my own. And it was also a good way to remind me that being single meant being able to make all the decisions, and that wasn’t such a bad thing.

When I was done picking out stuff for my future home, I decided to have some fun with it. I took my scanner to the lingerie department. I didn’t think anyone would ever see the registry anyway – unless Hope did a search to check up on me. And in that case, I should make her proud, right?

I had a pretty good time in there. It was a relief being able to pick things out on my own for a change. When Caleb and I had done our wedding registry, it had been one argument after another.

“No rubber duck décor in the bathroom. We’re not Bert and Ernie.”

“Why do we need eight towels for two people? How often do you plan on doing laundry?”

“I don’t care if proceeds go to breast cancer research. We are not getting a pink toaster.”

“What do you need a stand-up mixer for? You’re not exactly Betty Crocker.”

Ugh. He really knew how to suck the fun out of everything.

Good thing I had a friend like Hope. She knew what she was doing when she made the Good Life List. I came to the mall feeling miserable, but by the time I left I had some pep to my step.

When I got home I saw Jake sitting at the patio table with his laptop. I figured he was editing photos, and headed out there to tell him his Jeep was home. I was about halfway out the patio doors when I saw his laptop screen and realized he wasn’t editing pictures after all. On his screen I saw a picture of a woman wearing nothing but black fishnet thigh-highs.

Seriously? Stop the madness! Reverse the curse! Why must I stumble upon one mortifying moment after another like I’m stuck in some terrible slapstick comedy? I didn’t know who was in charge of this mess, but I was starting to get really pissed off! If I was on some kind of hidden camera show, it was time for the reveal already.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to … um, interrupt.” I put my head down to avoid eye contact and tried to escape back into the house but he called after me.

“Hey!” he called. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

I shrugged and avoided his eyes. “It looks like I am.”

He looked puzzled for a few moments until he glanced at the computer screen and realized what I was talking about. Then he burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he could barely even speak.

“You (snicker) thought (giggle) I was (snort) … Oh God. That’s great, Roxie. Thanks for the laugh.”

I just stood there like a dumbass. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m not the exhibitionist here.”

He doubled over in laughter. It took him several minutes to compose himself, and then he motioned at the patio chair across from him for me to sit. I sat.

“This,” he said, pointing to the picture on his screen of the woman in fishnets, “is a boudoir photograph.” He sounded like a professor giving a lecture. “It’s a style of photography that shows women in various stages of undress. It’s supposed to be elegant and tasteful, not pornographic.”

“I see.”

“It’s gotten pretty popular lately. Women have been getting these done to give as gifts to their husbands and boyfriends. I’m hoping to start doing some boudoir work myself so that’s why I was looking at these. To get some ideas.”

Yep. I felt like an ass. But what else was new? “Gosh, I’m so sorry,” I practically stuttered. “I feel so stupid.” I could literally feel my cheeks burning.

He sighed, closed the laptop screen, crossed his arms on the table in front of him and leaned forward like he had something important to say. “I think we need to throw some snowballs around, Rox.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“All of this weirdness and tension and excessive apologizing. If we need to hash something out, let’s do it and move on.”

All this time I’d thought he might not remember anything about The Summer of Jake and Roxie – like maybe he drank so much that summer that it was a three month long blackout. I know that sounds silly, but sometimes when something goes unmentioned for so long it seems like the other person forgot about it. But the comment about the snowballs told me otherwise.

Back then I kept things inside. When my feelings were hurt or I doubted myself and felt inadequate, I kept those feelings and insecurities inside, which sometimes caused me to do things I shouldn’t do. When someone hurt me, I would either withdraw from them completely or do something to hurt them in return. This usually left the other person confused since they didn’t know they’d hurt me to begin with and didn’t understand where my behavior was coming from. It was all very immature – I knew this now. But I didn’t think it was all that uncommon, especially for people that age.

The first time we “threw some snowballs” was a few nights after we started hooking up. We were at work, and I saw some girl at the bar give Jake her phone number. Jake smiled and looked at her appreciatively and I didn’t like it, especially being so fresh out of a relationship with a guy who had been lying to me the entire time we were together. I had some issues, that was for sure.

Instead of just saying to Jake, “Dude, that is not cool,” I started serving lemons to one of the guys in my section with my mouth. Once the bar closed, I told Jake I didn’t need a ride home because the guy was taking me to an after party.

“Dude, that is not cool,” he said, as we both sat at the bar counting out our banks. “Instead of getting a ride home from one of the girls and pretending you went to an after-hours just to piss me off, how ‘bout we throw some snowballs around right now?”

Jake is different than me in that way. He’s not afraid to say what he thinks or what he feels or what he wants. And he has a way of completely taking control of a situation with his bluntness. There I was thinking I was the one in charge, and I was really going to show him to flirt with other girls. And then he called me out on it and knocked out my whole plan. Typical.

“What are you talking about?” I asked with an eye roll. “There’s no snow.”

“It’s an expression. One that you made up a few years ago, remember? When things get weird we’re supposed to have a snowball fight. So let me hear it. What’s the issue here?”

“There’s no issue,” I said quietly. My anger started to melt away. How many guys remember something that was said one time like five years ago? Not too many.

“We will talk about the issue when I drive you home tonight.”

“Fine.”

It took a little while, but he eventually broke me down and got me to admit that seeing him flirt with that girl bothered me, and I’d only been trying to get him back by doing some flirting of my own. He nodded like he completely understood. That’s one thing I always liked about him. Even though he was different than me, he tried to see things from my perspective. He didn’t make me feel like an annoying, psycho, jealous girlfriend.

“I work for tips,” he said patiently. “If a girl is tipping me well, even if a guy is tipping me well, I’m gonna flirt a little. That’s what bartenders do. You need to get it in your head that it’s just part of my job. I know you’re doing the same thing out on the floor.”

I nodded.

“This can’t turn into anything messy,” he said. “We’ve been friends too long to screw it up over some dumb shit. I’m telling you right now that my intentions are not to hurt you, piss you off, screw you over, or anything like that. I just like being with you, Roxie. And I’m not gonna like you any less if you tell me what’s on your mind. If you ever have something to say, say it. If there’s something you want to know, ask me. If you’re mad about something, tell me. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“Okay.”

“No mind-games, no secrets, no lies. Promise me.”

“Promise,” I said.

From that point on, there wasn’t any drama between us – unless we created it on purpose, which we did on occasion just to spice things up. Like the one time he caught me in the beer cooler.

One of the guys in my section that night had asked if he could do a shot out of my cleavage. Since he was drunk, and giving me $20 for each shot, I let him. Then his whole group of friends decided they wanted a body shot, too. I knew Jake was watching from the bar, but I figured it was okay since we’d already had the conversation about flirting for tips.

When the group left and the crowd started to thin out, I went into the beer cooler. I liked to stock the bar for Jake at night so we could get out earlier.

I was about to grab a case of Miller Lite when I heard the door open and felt him come up behind me. He pushed me up against the boxes, not forcefully, but firmly. He put his hands on my hips and his mouth really close to my ear.

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” He asked. His voice sounded rough and a little jaded, nothing like the sweet and patient tone I was used to. And I kind of liked it. More than kind of, really. It was hot.

“Maybe,” I answered playfully. “Is it working?”

“I don’t care what you do out there,” he whispered into my ear, “because I know I’m the one who gets to f*ck you when we get out of here.”

He pulled my hips back into him and kissed the back of my neck.

“Do I have to wait that long?” I asked innocently. “Can’t you f*ck me right here? Just like this?”

I heard him gasp. “You’re being naughty tonight.”

He moved away from me just long enough to turn the lock on the door and then he was behind me again.

“I like it,” he said as he tugged my little black shorts down to my knees.

I never even noticed it was cold in there.

Thinking about that night while I sat across from him at the patio table made me so hot I looked over at the pool with desire. I wondered if Jake noticed the color that crept onto my face or the beads of sweat that appeared on my forehead suddenly? Could he hear the sound of my heart pounding?

I was too afraid to look at him, afraid that I would give myself away, and he would know that I’d never gotten over him. I didn’t want to be the one who cared more. No one ever wanted to be the one who cared more.

I already made it clear that our sex life was stellar, but there was more to it than that. After our first snowball fight, when he told me his intentions, things were easier.

Being able to be honest all the time was a whole new way of life for me and I loved it. Saying what was on my mind without fear of judgment was so liberating. I don’t think most people realize how much we keep to ourselves, either because we’re afraid of what people might think, or we’re afraid of hurting them. Jake gave me the freedom to be me and he still wanted to hang out with me, which I thought was pretty cool. He made me feel comfortable and confident. If only every relationship could be that easy. Unfortunately, when you’re that age, most of them are not. I was one of the lucky ones. For a little while anyway.

Just the thought of a snowball fight made me realize once again how much I had changed since I’d met Caleb. In the last few years I had stopped being honest, with other people as well as with myself. It was going to be hard for me to open up again. Opening up to someone would put me in a very vulnerable position, and that was scary. But Jake had never disrespected me, intentionally hurt me or made me feel like I didn’t matter, so I was willing to give it a try. I was willing to trust him because I remembered how simple life had been as an open person and I wanted to get back to that simplicity.

“I can tell you’re uncomfortable being here,” Jake said.

I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. My life has been turned upside-down in the past week. I’m not sure I feel comfortable with anything right now.”

“Stop apologizing. That’s what I’m talking about. It’s weird.”

I picked at the cuticles around my fingernails and avoided his eyes. “Okay.”

He didn’t say anything for a few moments. Eventually I looked up to find him staring at me like he was waiting for me to speak again.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“Are you gonna tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“What the deal is. Why you’re acting so weird.”

“I thought I just did!”

He shook his head. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Tell me the truth. What’s happening in that head?”

I concentrated on my cuticles so I didn’t have to look at him. And then I gave in. What did I have to lose, right?

I took a deep breath and began. “That day I got here, it wasn’t a good morning for me,” I started. “Leaving New York, not knowing what was going to happen to me. I was scared.”

He nodded.

“But when told me you bought me Cinnamon Toast Crunch, I felt so much better. You made me feel – I don’t know – taken care of, I guess. Like you were trying to protect me and I thought that was really nice of you. Then I hugged you, but you didn’t hug me back, and I got the idea that you didn’t want me here.”

“I understand,” he said patiently. “I’m glad I was able to make you feel better. It was my intention. You caught me off guard with the hug but I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome. I would definitely rather you were here with us than there with him.”

“Why?” I asked.

He shrugged. “We don’t need to get into it because it’s not my business. But I am glad you’re here. Even though we haven’t talked in a long time, I’ve still got your back, okay?”

OMG! Is he the best or what? “Thanks.”

“Do you want a redo on the hug?”

I laughed. “No. But since we’re being honest, please don’t pat me on the head ever again. It made me feel like a dog.”

“Got it. So how’d the job search go?” he asked.

I leaned back into my chair and sighed very dramatically. “Not great.”

“Why not?”

“I went to apply at this little Italian place off South Main and you won’t believe who the manager is there.”

“Caroline Ganier,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You knew that!” It was more of an accusation than a question.

“Yes,” he said, as if I should have known he knew that. “I work right down the street. I pretty much know who works at every bar and restaurant down there.”

I rested my chin in my hand. “I guess I’ll ask you next time then,” I said quietly.

“What happened? Did she see you?”

“Yeah! She was the one who answered the door.”

“Oh man. What did you do?”

“I pretended I was there because I needed an event catered.”

He nodded and looked impressed. “Nice.”

“Yeah. So I hope you have a lot of friends. We’re having fettuccine and lasagna for thirty people on Thursday.”