I nodded, maintaining my sympathetic looks, feeling her pain.
As much as possible, when relating my online debacles to my friends, I tried to keep my dating stories limited to those that were hilarious or outrageous. This was because the rest of my stories were disheartening. Depressing and sad. Like Camille’s story.
And no one in a happy relationship wants to hear disheartening stories, nor did I wish to repeat them, because they only made me feel worse.
“What am I going to do?” she moaned, wiping at her eyes and huffing a humorless laugh. “You know how it is. I feel like you’re the only one I can talk to about this without getting shitty advice or stupid questions. You know what my brother said?”
“What?” I braced for this new tale of woe.
“He said, ‘I don’t understand why you can’t get a boyfriend. You’re pretty.’” She looked heartsick, glancing at the mirrored elevator ceiling. “And that just says it all, doesn’t it? Like, that’s all men want. Someone pretty. That’s all it takes. Ugh! I’m just so sick of it.”
“Maybe you just need a break?” I suggested, trying to infuse my tone with optimism. “Maybe you’re burned out on dating. Think of it like taking a vacation.”
Her eyes slid to mine and her chin wobbled. “Yeah. Maybe I will. I think I’m just tired in general. Maybe I’ll take time off work, go someplace far, far away from here. Where there are no American men to disappoint me and make me feel crappy about myself.”
I nodded, never knowing what to say at this point in the conversation, because—if it were me—I wouldn’t want platitudes and assurances. I wouldn’t want someone to tell me it gets better, because I knew for a fact it wouldn’t.
So instead I stayed quiet, trying to offer moral support with my silence, but feeling every inch as discouraged as Camille.
My foul mood stalked me for the next several days, a persistent shadow. At least, that’s what it felt like. So when Fiona called unexpectedly on Thursday night, asking if I’d be willing to pick up her kiddos from summer camp the next day so she and Greg could go to their prenatal checkup together, I readily agreed.
Even better, Janie and Quinn were also scheduled for a checkup on the same day. Impromptu plans were adjusted, and I offered to make dinner for everyone at Fiona and Greg’s place after both couples’ appointments.
Jack and Grace were great kids. They seemed to have inherited their mother’s moral fortitude and their father’s quick wit. Plus, at nine and six years of age respectively, they were capable of conversation. I wouldn’t be required to change any diapers or diligently keep them from self-harm.
I’d once watched them when Grace was eighteen months; I swear, watching a toddler is like trying to keep a reckless drunkard from committing suicide. She almost killed herself at least seventeen times. The more dangerous a situation, or activity, or object, the more determined she was to participate in it, or possess it, or put it in her mouth.
And she’d hated clothes, so that made putting on her pajamas a tortuous exercise in masochism.
But she’d also been sweet and cuddly, so that made all the torture worth it.
That was then, and this was now, and Grace had grown into a joyful, silly, smart little girl. I was looking forward to playing their Harry Potter board game and hearing all about what they’d been up to.
After picking the kids up at the community center promptly at 4:00 PM, we walked the six blocks to their building, stopping off at the store to grab ingredients for homemade pizza.
Chicago-style pizza was one of the main reasons I would never be svelte. I worked out in fits and starts, seldom consistently. However, I was very active overall. I walked to work every weekday; I loved to hike when I had the chance, especially if I could canoe or kayak as well; but I’d never enjoyed going to a gym with any regularity.
Therefore, in the absence of a consistent exercise routine to combat the deep-dish deliciousness, my roundness was equal parts soft and firm. Bottom line: I loved pizza too much to care about my bottom’s line.
“Grace, please set up the game and grab our costumes. Jack, please help me in the kitchen.”
The kids happily complied, with Grace running to her closet to retrieve our wands, wizard hats, and house scarves. I was a Hufflepuff, to the surprise of no one, Grace was a Slytherin, and Jack was a Gryffindor. It was my rule that we always dressed in costume when we played Harry Potter. Always.
Soon, we were gathered around the coffee table, having just defeated Draco Malfoy in Diagon Alley while the first pizza baked in the oven, filling the apartment with the lovely aromas of tomato sauce, Italian seasonings, and mushrooms.
And that’s when a knock sounded on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Jack said, jumping up.
I stood as well. “No. I’ll get it. You stay here and plot our next move.”
“But it’s Professor Simmons,” he protested, edging backward toward the door. “He usually comes over for dinner on Fridays.”
I stiffened, the hovering shadow of discontent growing darker, more omnipresent at the mention of not-Derek/Professor Matt Simmons.
“Stay here, I’ll be right back.” I gave Jack a look that left no room for argument, though I could see he was tempted. Once satisfied the nine-year-old would stay put, I moved to the hall, mumbling under my breath, “He’s not coming to dinner tonight.”
Bracing myself, I counted to five, then opened the door.
“What?” I demanded.
The smile melted off the professor’s face, replaced with an expression of startled surprise, as his eyes clashed with mine.
“Oh,” he said, blinking once, and stuffing his hands in his pockets like he needed to hide them, or put them someplace to restrict their movements.
“Hello.” I didn’t smile either, instead leveling him with a glower. “What do you want?”
“I, uh . . .” His gaze shifted to the wand in my hand, the hat on my head, the scarf around my neck, and then back to me. “Hello, Luna.”
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding the plastic play wand raised between us until it drew his attention. Grinding my teeth, I lowered the wand and scowled at him. “Luna was a Ravenclaw. Not a Hufflepuff.”
His lips tugged to one side, like he was fighting a smile. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I snapped, whipping off my hat and scarf and tossing them with the wand to the table behind me. “What do you want?”
He stood straighter, and he appeared to be trying to contain his grin. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
I crossed my arms. “Life is full of surprises.”
“It certainly is,” he agreed quickly, his gaze latching on to mine and growing oddly hazy.
A few seconds passed. The moment stretched. I waited. And still he gazed at me, looking a little lost and a lot conflicted.