What he was was not interested in me.
I was a woman in a boxing gym. I had breasts. I had a booty. I had long hair and it was thick and shiny.
But to him, a man perhaps in his mid-thirties, who, depending on a woman’s preferences, might not turn heads but was not a man you’d dismiss, I was a nonentity.
I’d been married to Conrad for sixteen years. We’d been together for three before that. And the three after, I’d had nothing on my mind but resentment and revenge. I hadn’t thought of a man looking at me because I hadn’t looked at a man.
Then came Maine.
And the day after I arrived…Mickey.
And it hit me then with that boxer paying absolutely no mind to me that I had no idea what a man would think of me. I had no idea if men looked at me.
Until then when I knew they didn’t.
Mickey disturbed me in a pleasant way I couldn’t allow myself to feel and I hoped I hid.
But either he was phenomenally good at hiding it himself or I didn’t disturb him in the slightest.
I figured it was the latter.
Jake was married but he didn’t even look past my eyes to my hair.
And I had good hair.
Further, the rope-jumping boxer barely glanced at me.
My ride, yes.
Me, no.
I got in my car and didn’t waste time pulling out of the spot, getting away from Mickey, burying the sting of these realizations, how deep they bit, how they made me feel—old and past my prime, insignificant, a body passing through a gym who was not female or male or anything.
I drove, resolutely turning my mind to heading home (which, alas, was across the street from Mickey).
And as I drove, I forced myself to think about the fact that I was happy I’d found a local organization that would put the money I made off my old life to good use.
I drove also troubled this involved Mickey.
And when I was getting out of my car in my garage, I was surprised when my phone rang.
The garage door was folding down as I dug my phone out of my purse, doing this with some trepidation.
I, not officially (but unofficially for certain), was severing ties with Robin, my best friend back in La Jolla. This was because she was much like my mother, spurring me on to random acts of bitchery in order to make Conrad’s (but mostly Martine’s) life a misery.
Along with coming to the understanding my mother and father were triggers, on my drive across country I’d also decided Robin was a bad influence.
She had called too and I’d texted her back. I’d email her when I had my computer set up. And according to my plan, if I couldn’t manage to adjust our friendship to something that was far healthier for me, we’d eventually become acquaintances. Something, if she brought it up, I’d blame on the distance.
I did not take this in stride and I didn’t take it lightly. Just the thought of losing Robin hurt and I hated it. Robin and I had been friends for years. We’d met at a party when Conrad had joined her husband’s practice. She was beautiful and funny and she loved my kids like I loved hers. We spent a lot of time together. We shared everything with each other. We trusted each other completely. In forty-seven years, she was the only woman I’d met who’d become the absent sister I’d always needed.
Over the past years, the rest of my friends had shied away as my random acts of bitchery carried on (and on), so Robin was the only one I had left.
But her husband had left her two years before mine did and not for a nurse, for a Pilates instructor. Thus Robin had random acts of bitchery down to an art as she’d been honing her skills way before I entered the game.
She’d been my mentor, a very good one, and we’d carried on with our shenanigans, doing it with a glee that I only very recently realized hid our despair.
She was still there and living her bitterness while spurring mine on, nowhere near coming to a place in her life where she’d reflect on this, move past it and take back her life.
But to save my family, I had to do just that. And to do that, I had to cut her off (semi) cold turkey.
Which, to start anew, was what I was doing.
So the call could only be from Mom, something that would be out of her usual modus operandi.
Or, if she jumped the gun, it would be from Dad, angry with me that I hadn’t taken Mom’s calls and not only willing but very able to share that with me, cutting me to the bone with his precisely aimed ice daggers, reducing me to nothing.
I didn’t know what to make of the fact that the screen had nothing but a number I didn’t recognize.
Mom would not play games. She wouldn’t get to me through subterfuge. And Dad never phoned me on anything but his cell because that would require the effort of looking up my number, which he would not bother to memorize. He would never make that effort, even to allow himself his relished pastime of laying into me.
Though, it could be Robin. She had a variety of ways of getting to people who didn’t want to hear from her.