Chapter Thirteen
I don’t usually have questions about whether to fight or flight. I’m almost always on the side of fight. But when I see Amber a few days later power walking with her baby strapped to her chest, all I want to do is flee.
Because Amber is the living, breathing manifestation of all that I never was.
Good enough to keep a man walking all the way down the aisle.
She had something I never had. I don’t even know what it is about her. Is it her looks, all hourglass redhead? Or is it her body and the way she can bend? Or it is more? Is she funnier, smarter, more interesting? Does she love harder, better, more? How did he know in one night that he wanted to be with her forever?
I don’t have those answers as I walk my dog along the Marina bike path on a weekday morning. I don’t think I’ll ever have those answers. Worse, I don’t know if I’ll ever stop wanting them. It’s like there’s this raw wound inside me that can never be exposed to enough air to heal. I’ll never be able to treat it, so it’ll become a part of me, the ulcer in my heart that won’t ever go away.
And that’s why I want to duck and hide right now, to roll into a bush and curl up with my dog, like we’re two soldiers who’ve found a foxhole for protection.
But she sees me, and she waves and smiles.
Breathe deeply. Turn over a new leaf. I am Zen McKenna. I am cool, calm and collected McKenna, as I walk in her direction, imagining I am a guru, a yoga instructor, a therapist. I am serene, I am graceful, I am a mountain breeze.
“Hey, McKenna,” she says and stops.
Okay, so I guess I have to stop now too. But I don’t have to be nice because I’m not a yoga instructor or a therapist. I’m the jilted and I don’t like that the jilter is on my territory. “What are you doing in the city? Don’t you live in the suburbs?”
Amber pats the back of the sleeping baby on her chest. “I started teaching again. Gymnastics. I have a class with two-year-olds in about a half hour over in the Marina with some of the mommies there.”
“Oh, that is so sweet,” I say and somehow find the restraint not to fake gag.
“I love teaching, and Charlotte is a good baby. She sleeps during the class. But I also just love being an independent woman and supporting our family.”
“Oh,” I say and place my hand on my chest as if I am so touched. “That’s so lovely.”
“It’s important, don’t you think? That’s what your Trophy Husband quest is all about right? By the way, I love it. I love your show. And I just think we have to set examples. And mine is that I can be a working mom and help pay the bills.”
“That’s great,” I say through gritted teeth.
“And how is sweet Ms. Pac-Man?”
Amber leans down to pet my dog, the sleeping baby angling close to my dog’s face. I make a mental note to give the dog a bath when I return home. Then Ms. Pac-Man emits a low rumble. I snap my head and look at my dog. She’s pulling back her doggy lips and showing her teeth.
I yank her collar and pull her away.
Amber stands at attention, a look of terror in her eyes.
I’m about to admonish my dog, who has never been anything but sweet with kids, when I realize she wasn’t going after the baby. There’s Michelangelo up ahead, trotting in our direction, his wrinkly little face and beige puggy body aiming straight for one of Ms. Pac-Man’s legs.
A wicked sense of glee floods my veins. Because this isn’t just parking karma. This is all the karma in the world.
“I’m so sorry about that, Amber. Todd must not have told you?”
“Told me what?”
“Oh. Yeah. Ms. Pac-Man doesn’t like babies. Or kids for that matter. She growls at all of them. I’m working on it with her, but she’s just not fond of the littles ones.”
“Oh,” Amber says and nods in understanding. “That’s really good to know.”
“Isn’t it, though? All right, toodle-loo. I have to go.”
Thank the lord for horny pugs.
* * *
“Here’s my favorite part of dating. I get to do what I like best – devote my mental energy to assembling cute outfit combos,” I say to the camera, then model the newest ensemble I’m wearing for an afternoon coffee chat. “Here’s the worst part. You’re caffeinated all the time. Because you constantly have to go out for coffee for first dates. I have never had so much coffee in my life.”
We’re shooting outside today, so I gesture to the coffee shop near my house, Your Other Office.
“So I’m just going to head in and grab another. After all, I have a date in, oh, about two hours. And guess what? It’s Bachelor Number Four, thanks to you!” I point at the camera. “You know the drill. You picked ‘em for me and I’m doing the dirty work, going on the dates. So, in two hours, I’ll be reporting for duty and tomorrow, I’ll report back so you can choose who deserves a second date. So keep voting, keep sharing your thoughts on the candidates. Because this isn’t just about me. This is a communal effort, a collective Trophy Husband for all of us.”
I salute the camera and give my usual sign-off. Then Andy turns off the camera and I sigh heavily. It’s getting harder for me to keep up the act, but I don’t want Andy to know.
“How was it?”
He gives a silent thumbs up. He packs up, staying quiet most of the time. I do my part, helping with the microphone, but decide to ignore his noiselessness. I counter it with chatter. “I’m exhausted.”
He gives me a harrumph.
“What should I talk to this guy about?”
“Don’t know,” he says curtly.
“You want to just add a ‘don’t care’ to the end of that statement?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, that’s kind of what you meant, right? Don’t know, don’t care?”
He stares at me for a second, then continues packing his camera gear.
“What is eating you?”
“You know what it is.”
I do. The same thing that’s eating away at Andy is what’s been eating away at me since that kiss with Chris on Saturday night. Since then I’ve been going on the requisite dates with the top five, and, as I predicted, the viewers voted for Chris as one of the five. The dates are chaste, as they should be at this point in a dating contest, and nothing has happened physically with any of them. Chris is the only guy I’ve kissed and he’s the only one I want to kiss. Even when I’m on other dates, my mind is on him. So I have to wonder if Andy’s instincts are right.
I close my eyes, then press my thumb and forefinger against the corner of my eyelids, squeezing them, trying to find some sort of answer. But I don’t even know what the question is and now my brain starts to hurt. I’m not in the mood for heavy reflection.
So I say goodbye to Andy and head to Your Other Office, trying to remember the name of the Trophy Husband candidate I’m meeting there soon. Craig? No, Craig was Monday’s date. Craig and I had pizza at lunchtime sitting by the water. We grabbed slices at Martino’s, a New York style pizzeria that uses the flimsiest paper plates possible. We walked a few blocks to the water, our plates sagging in the middle, grease threatening to spill out. We sat on the rocks just a few feet from the Bay, looking at the gorgeous Golden Gate Bridge. There is no more stunning bridge in the entire universe. I have lived in the Bay Area for six years and have never once grown tired of our rust-colored bridge. Its beauty always captures me, whether I’m driving across it, watching it from the ferry, or gazing at it. The Golden Gate Bridge is one of the wonders of the modern world. It is a marvel.
But Craig disagreed. “That is such an ugly bridge,” he remarked as we sat down on the rocks. I choked on my pizza.
“What?” I said in between coughs.
“Man, if it were up to me I’d rip that sucker down,” he said, casting a disdainful look toward the bridge.
“You’re joking, right?”
He shook his head. “I’d make a sleek steel bridge. None of this suspension shit.”
“Maybe you could tear down the Sistine Chapel, slash The Nightwatch, and see if you can get Shakespeare banned from school curriculum too.”
Tuesday’s boy was a little better, but still no prize. His name was Jared, he was a computer repair guy, and a major fan of Chris’ show. But then all he did was talk about Let the Wookie Win. He told me he’d seen every episode twice. He told me he had added Chris to his Twitter account, so he got updates on Chris’ online “status” throughout the day. He was vying to become one of Chris’ “Top Friends” on Facebook, and could I do anything to help him achieve that goal?
I was already thinking of Chris the whole time during the date. With those constant mentions, it was as if Chris was running at a double-time loop in my brain.
As I walk into the coffee shop, I finally remember the name of today’s date. Jean Paul Peter. I don’t know his last name, but he has three first names. When he arrives, I switch on the iCam. The cards are all on the table now, so I’m going to share some of this date with the viewers. They’ll be happy since Jean Paul Peter looks better than his picture. He’s tall and built with lovely dark skin. He’s wearing jeans and a long sleeve pullover, one that can’t help but accentuate his sculpted arms. His hazel eyes are flecked with gold.
I stand up and shake his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, McKenna.” Then he gestures to the counter. “May I get you a coffee, latte, hot chocolate?”
At the rate I’m plowing through caffeine, I’ll be immune to the stuff pretty soon. He gets a latte, I order another coffee, and he carries them back to our chairs.
“I’m glad I made the cut,” Jean Paul Peter begins.
“I’m glad you made the cut too, Jean Paul Peter.”
He holds up a hand. “You can just call me JP.”
I wipe my forehead in the mock “whew” gesture. “Jean Paul Peter is a mouthful of a name.”
I spend the next thirty minutes chatting with JP. I learn that JP grew up in Florida, played football in high school, studied communications in college, and now at the ripe old age of twenty-two, he works as an assistant for a sports marketing firm. He’s perfect. Truly perfect. He would be a perfect man for some woman.
“So JP, you’re in sports marketing. What do you want to do with that?”
“Nothing really. I want to be a ski instructor. I try to go every weekend. Leaning in and out, speeding down the hill,” he says, moving his sturdy frame a bit from side to side as if to demonstrate how to ski. “I would love to get a place in Tahoe and set up camp there and spend all day on the slopes, teaching people how to ski and skiing myself.”
He wants a place in Tahoe. That means he wants me to get him a place in Tahoe. That’s what the Sugar Daddies do for their ladies. They get them lakefront property, weekend getaways, houses in Hawaii. Apparently, that’s what Trophy-Husbands-to-be expect from their Sugar Mamas too.
I realize for the first time that two people are playing the game. It’s not just me taking Dave and Steely Dan Duran out for test drives, unbeknownst to them. Everything is on the table now. The candidates know the game is on and they’re here because they want a meal ticket. I’m no longer the only one with requirements. They have their prerequisites too. JP wants a woman with money, a woman who can set him up, a woman who can make him a kept man so he can play on the slopes all day.
“So that’s why you’re in this contest, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
I strip the chit-chattery veneer away as I shut off the iCam. “To get a house in Tahoe, right? That’s why you want to be a Trophy Husband?”
“Oh, that? Well, I like you, McKenna. I am having an excellent time with you. And I just believe in trying new things. And I thought this would be a fun way to meet someone.”
“Someone who can set you up with a house in Tahoe?”
“Uh, well. You have always kind of said that you were looking for a kept man. And frankly I wouldn’t mind being kept. So I thought I’d give this a shot.”
“Right, of course.”
I feel a momentary sense of kinship for the well-to-do older man who scouts out a trophy wife. Does he ever wonder if his woman is using him, if she only loves him for his money? Or maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe I need to be more like a man and not care.
But I don’t feel that way. I do care. I do care about someone. A lot.
And I have no idea what to do with these feelings. The last time I felt this way, I was about to walk down the aisle, and then went on to have my heart smashed.
* * *
The letter from Todd’s lawyer arrives this afternoon. He is no longer contesting custody of the dog. I pump my fist in victory, but something about this feels empty. Or maybe it’s just that I feel that way right now.
Empty.