“Try seven.”
“Seven?” He winces. “Ouch.”
I sock him in the shoulder. “You’re not supposed to make me feel worse!”
He laughs, blocking my blows with a throw pillow. “I was just kidding. Anyway, who cares? It’s not like you’ve been married seven times. You’re not Ross.”
I shoot him a look. “Come on. Seven weddings in the last few years, and I’m no closer to one myself. What does that say about me?”
He blinks. “That you have a lot of friends?”
I smile faintly. “Or that other women are marriage-worthy, and I’m not.”
It’s a shocking thing to say aloud—especially since it’s one of those deep-seated fears I only allow myself to brood over when I’m several glasses of wine deep during that time of the month. What’s wrong with me? Will I be alone forever? And the one that scares me the most: Am I unlovable?
I’m too proud to voice these feelings to my sister or all the other smug marrieds in my life, so to bare my soul like this to Jack of all people is humbling, to say the least. But I think a larger part of me wants to hear how Mr. Perfect, I have an answer for everything will respond to this confession—especially since he has unique insight into the collective male psyche most others don’t.
“You don’t actually believe that, do you?” He’s incredulous.
“I don’t know. I never used to, but when you hit your fifth wedding, you start to wonder.”
He nods slowly, thinking that over. Strangely, I appreciate that he doesn’t immediately try to placate me with some knee-jerk rebuttal or forced compliment. If there’s one thing I’m tired of hearing, it’s: Your day will come! (A close runner-up: It’ll happen when you least expect it! I’ve been not expecting it for a decade now, thankyouverymuch Aunt Carol.)
“What about me?” he asks. “I’m not married, is there something wrong with me?”
“You’re what, four years older than me? Thirty-two?” He nods. “Then probably, yeah.”
He snorts.
“I’m kidding. Anyway, it’s different for men. You not being married is a choice, and no one’s going to give you a hard time about it. Women don’t have that luxury. I have to hear, ‘Why don’t you have a boyfriend? Are you being too picky? You’re not getting any younger! But what about kids?’ from every distant relative or random acquaintance of my parents’ until my ears bleed. And you know what the worst part is? I ask myself those same questions.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You think I’ve never been asked those questions?”
“Oh please, it’s hardly the same. If a man isn’t married, it’s because he’s ‘focusing on his career,’?” I say, fingers clenched in angry air quotes. “If a woman isn’t married, it’s because no one’s picked her. And don’t even get me started on how women are called ‘spinsters’ and ‘old maids’ while men get sexy nicknames like ‘distinguished’ and ‘silver foxes.’ I did a whole story on this.”
“I know, I read it.”
That pulls me up short. “You did?”
“Of course. I read everything of yours I could find.” He starts reciting from memory. “?‘When they graduate, men are told they have their whole lives ahead of them, while women are told their clock is ticking.’ That was a great line.”
I stare at him, mouth agape. Jack’s read my work? I suppose I shouldn’t be that surprised; I certainly investigated him, so it stands to reason he’d do the same. Still, the idea of him scrolling through years of my writing (and apparently, committing some to memory?!) is both flattering and mortifying. My words are like a window into my soul; despite us never having kissed, he may as well have seen me naked.
“Wow. Uh, thank you,” I stammer. I think of that line from When Harry Met Sally: ‘Nobody has ever quoted me back to me before.’ I’m totally thrown. “Anyway, I got off track there. What was I . . . ?”
He looks amused. “Weddings, I think?” he offers innocently, swilling the tumbler so the ice clinks against the crystal. He’s clearly enjoying that he’s flustered me, the deep blue of his eyes awash with humor. They remind me of dark water; a pool at night. I want to dive into them and never come up for air.
“Weddings,” I echo, trancelike, then shake myself. “I’m sorry, no, not weddings. I mean, it’s not just about weddings.” I tear my eyes away from his; it’s like they’re hypnotizing me. “I just feel like this stage of life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. We’re constantly being told that our twenties should be the best time of our lives, but if that’s the case, then I’m definitely doing something wrong.”
He sits back and drapes his arm across the back of the couch. “Explain.”
“First of all, I’m constantly stressed about money. I work all the time, but I’m barely keeping my head above water financially. When you just got up to refill your drink, I had to stop myself from digging in your couch cushions for loose change.”
He chuckles.
“And then there’s the work. When I first started at Siren, it was exciting and everything felt important. And don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of what I do. But does any of it matter? People read it, then click away and forget it. It’s not changing anyone’s life. Now, writing a book, that matters. That lasts. But I can’t seem to actually start.
“And the weddings thing just adds insult to injury. All my single friends are dropping like flies, and once they are married, they fall off the face of the earth. They’re either hanging out with other couples, or they get pregnant and only seem to have time for their mom friends.”
To illustrate my point, I stand and head over to his credenza, where I’ve set my purse. While I rummage through it, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the oversized round mirror: eyes alight and vibrant, skin flushed, cheeks tinted with the type of natural glow makeup brands would kill to replicate. I’m a vintage photograph come to life. I’m Reese Witherspoon in Pleasantville, slowly colorizing in a black-and-white world.
I finally find what I’m looking for—my keys—and hold them aloft. “You see this banana key chain?”
He nods, looking both amused and bemused about where this is all going.
“My friends got it for me at the end of a girls’ trip we took to South Beach years ago. It was a gag gift, really—at some point during the trip, I claimed that pi?a coladas were made with frozen bananas, and they had a field day making fun of me for it. Anyway, they came across the banana key chain at some souvenir shop and couldn’t resist.”