The F Word

  “I’ll text when I get to my parents’,” he says. “Gotta take this back to the costuming lady.” Gus gestures to his superhero costume. “They’ll kill me if I take off with it.”

  “Okay.” Gus lunges into me for another hug and I see Ben looking over. I pat Gus’s back as he squeezes me tight.

  “Thanks again.”

  “Okay.” One last smile and he sneaks out into the mob of fun-sized candy and super-amped kids who can’t wait to separate the top-tier offerings from the less valuable ones. I can already hear the candy negotiations going on. As Gus disappears, the world around me snaps back into focus. Before I cave in to letting Ben’s kiss overwhelm me again, or think about how I’ve somehow traded being awful for being a boring, numb robot, I speed home to change before my happy hour with Leah. I do not say goodbye to Ben or wonder how warm and lovely their hamburger night will be, followed by a dessert of five cakes.

  * * *

  I pull up to the valet at Otis Bar, freshly showered and blissfully de-Grooted. I hand over my keys and walk inside the restaurant scrolling through my phone, checking on how the public is reacting to Caroline’s divorce. There is definitely a huge—and quite vocal—“she deserves it” camp. Although, these are also the same people who punctuate their every thought with gifs of kids falling or some reality star crying. I’ve always been baffled that these same women identify with the characters that Caroline plays, but not the actress who brings those characters to life.

  I scroll through Twitter and find the following doozies:

  @GGGirrrl14 says, “ha! Blonde bitch now alone with skiny azz.”

  @SherriHeartsLove says, “he was always 2 good 4 her.”

  And my personal favorite:

  @PepperPeepers420 says, “Caroline Lame maybe #lovewins.”

  I’m still shaking my head about “Caroline Lame” when I see Leah wave from one of the high tables over in the corner. As I walk over to her, I pass tables full of costumed revelers and already drunk groups of friends pre-gaming before walking up to Old Town Pasadena for a night of Halloween fun. It being Halloween will help diffuse the Caroline bombshell. People are going to be out and busy and with every day that passes, our gossip moves further down the feeding frenzy. Of course this was all intentional.

  Leah already has a drink in front of her, as well as two people I’ve never met. She does this all the time: consolidates friends like items on a to-do list. This doesn’t help assuage my fear that everyone in my fancy new life was chosen because they’ll never go deeper than an acquaintance. Like Caroline was saying, we know.

  “Hey, you!” she says. I pull out a stool and slide up onto the seat as elegantly as I can manage, which is not elegantly at all. High barstools are the great equalizers. No one looks good climbing onto them. And now that I’m finally seated, I’m a full two feet away from the table. Unless I commit to hop-hop-hopping the barstool and me forward, this is where I’ll stay. I get inordinately angry at the thing and feel the rage building in my shoulders. There’s a very real possibility that I might throw this barstool through one of the windows behind Leah very soon. But, there’s also a very real possibility that this rage isn’t about the high barstool at all. I wrap my purse over the chair back and collect myself.

  “Hey!” I finally chirp.

  “Olivia, this is my yogi, Elijah.” Leah turns to Elijah. “I talk about you constantly.” Leah has never mentioned Elijah once. I extend my hand across the table to the toned wisp of a man. Between the long blond hair, the waxed handlebar mustache, and the bushy blond beard, I can’t help but wonder how he doesn’t asphyxiate during downward dog.

  “Namaste,” Elijah says, reverently closing his eyes, bringing his hands up in a prayer position, and bowing slightly. Okay. I’m going to need to get out of here right the fuck now.

  “And this is Jillian. She’s a stylist we work with sometimes.” Jillian is wearing gold gladiator sandals with jean shorts that are so small the pockets are hanging out of the bottom. She’s paired this tasteful ensemble with a white halter midriff-baring top that is—at this very moment—undoubtedly being worn by some rebellious teenager, much to her father’s chagrin. I may not even order a drink before an “emergency” mercifully calls me away.

  “Nice to meet you,” Jillian says with a nod.

  “Nice to meet you.” I smile. “Shouldn’t you guys be at some super cool Hollywood Halloween party?”

  “That’s later.” Jillian sighs.

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Can you imagine a party starting right when it gets dark?” Jillian says, laughing.

  “Oh, I can imagine it and then be horrified by it,” Leah says. The last gathering I attended at her house started promptly at dusk.

  “Like a horror movie,” Elijah says.

  “Because horrified,” Jillian says, nodding. I watch this back-and-forth as if it’s some kind of Centre Court finale at Dumb Wimbledon.

  “We’ve already ordered a pitcher of sangria and were waiting for you to decide which appy we’re going to have,” Leah says.

  “The tuna is always good,” I say, trying to move this happy hour along so they can all get to their cool midnight Halloween party and I can stop being confronted by how far I’ve fallen.

  “I once ate so much tuna, the guy at Whole Foods told me he couldn’t sell me any more,” Leah says, laughing. “Mercury poisoning, he said.” Leah puts giant air quotes around the words “mercury poisoning.”

  “But you can still have sushi, though,” Jillian says.

  “Just not with ahi, sure,” Leah says.

  “But ahi is the same as tofu.” A confused look from Leah. “No, trust me. I’m vegan and I have sushi with ahi all the time,” Jillian says.

  OH MY GOD.

  “Ahi is tuna,” I say.

  “No, it is not,” Jillian says, crossing her long, tanned legs. “There’s sushi with tuna and then there’s sushi with ahi. One is vegan and one isn’t. You’re getting them mixed up.”

  “Ahi and tuna are the same thing,” I say, pulling my phone from my purse and Googling “Is ahi tuna?” It immediately pulls up a picture of a giant tuna and the full definition. I show Jillian my phone. It’s like watching a toddler grapple with “I got your nose.”

  “Is that for real?” Jillian asks.

  “Maybe you’re more of a pescatarian,” I say, pulling my phone back.

  “A pesca … what?” Jillian stares at the phone as I turn it over on the table. “No, I’m vegan.”

  “If you’re eating sushi with ahi in it, you are not vegan.” I look around for the waiter. I wave him over.

  “Just let her think she’s a vegan,” Leah says, only half kidding.

  “What? No,” I say. Leah’s eyes narrow. “Vegans don’t eat fish. Jillian eats fish, ergo she’s not vegan.”

  “But, I don’t eat fish,” Jillian says, annoyed.

  “Let’s just order, okay?” Leah suggests, her voice tight.

  “I wonder what they have that’s vegan here,” Jillian muses, looking over the menu.

  “Apparently everything,” I say.

  “Wow, someone has an overstimulated fifth chakra,” Elijah says, jumping in. He puts his knobby elbows on the table and leans across the table toward me. “Do you ever feel strangled, Olivia? Choked up?” He wraps both hands easily around his swanlike neck. I try to force myself to look as passive as possible, because goddammit if Elijah’s diagnosis hasn’t hit the nail squarely on the head. Elijah’s clear ice-blue eyes bore into me as he stops faux-strangling himself long enough to reach across the table. He curls his fingers around my hand and shockingly, I let him. The table falls silent and I must be truly desperate, because I find myself actually waiting for enlightenment from this mini-mustachioed guru. “Hum.” Elijah closes his eyes. I tilt my head, my brow furrowing. “Huuuummmmmmmmm!” I pull my hand back as the fugue state dissipates. And then the little weirdo starts humming. Loudly. Leah sways in time. Jillian beams. The other people in the bar rightfully
stare.

  “Is that ‘Dream a Little Dream’?” I ask. Elijah’s hums only get louder. “Okay. I get it, I need—” Elijah begins to hum even louder as our waiter appears.

  “Hiya, so sorry to interrupt. My name is Mike and I’ll be your server this evening. I see you’ve ordered the sangria, can I get you something to start? Brussels sprout salad? Maybe the deviled eggs?” Mike’s pen is poised, waiting.

  “The sangria will be fine for now,” I say.

  “Ooh, deviled eggs,” Jillian coos.

  “That’s perfect,” I say.

  Despite Elijah’s pleas for me to “stay in the moment,” I tune out the rest of the ordering process and pick up my phone. I read through Ellen’s report of the online reaction to Caroline’s divorce. She’s aggregated all of today’s content into one spreadsheet that’s broken down into different categories of researchable data. The word “bitch” was used the most. Followed up by “stuck-up,” “rich,” and “skinny.” On the other end of the scale were the posts about “love dying,” “feeling sorry” for the super couple, and that they should have known the marriage was doomed as no one could ever figure out how to join their names into one cloyingly adorable couple name: Carolax was bandied about for a while, Maxoline never quite caught on, and my personal favorite, Wang—a combination of Walsh and Lang—died the same day it was suggested. #RIPWang.

  On the other side, the posts about Max are lousy on the ground with people happy that he’s now single. The word “free” is used a lot. Willa Lindholm is mentioned so little it barely registers. I thank Ellen for her diligence and say that we should probably talk later. She agrees and adds that despite what the research shows, Søren insists it’s not as bad as we thought it would be. I nod and text back that I’ll call her within the hour.

  “Olivia?” Leah asks.

  “Hm?” I ask, not looking up from my phone.

  “We ordered the Brussels sprout salad while you were on your phone like some kind of millennial.”

  “I actually have to head out. So sorry,” I say, not sorry at all.

  “What? You just got here,” Leah says, her smile faltering.

  “It’s been a long day and I still have a ton of work to do,” I say, holding up my phone.

  “Is this about Caroline Lang?” Jillian asks.

  “So sad,” Elijah says.

  “Not that I said anything,” Leah quickly adds.

  “What about Caroline Lang?” I ask, completely thrown that Leah’s repeated something I thought was said in confidence. For everything that she is, she’s never done this before.

  Of course, she has. It’s just no one has ever been dumb enough (e.g., Jillian) to repeat it.

  “She filed for divorce today,” Jillian says.

  “Did she?” I ask, hopping down from the barstool.

  “You know she did, Liv,” Leah says, her voice hard.

  “I think I saw something about it on Twitter, now that you mention it.” I sigh. “It was lovely meeting you two.” My voice is laced with all the civility I can muster. Elijah leaps off his barstool and takes a long deep breath, one hand placed on his stomach and the other gesturing as if he’s scooping up his own deep breaths.

  “If humming isn’t your bag?” he asks. And then we proceed to stand in awkward silence for what feels like hours.

  “Okay,” I say. “It was lovely meeting you, Jill—”

  “Speak your truth!” Elijah blurts, his voice sounding like he’s channeling some being from the great beyond. He opens his eyes dramatically and whispers, “Speak your truth.”

  “I’d rather hum,” I say, the wind slightly knocked out of me. He brings his hands up to the prayer position and bows disappointedly.

  “And my name is Jillian, not Jill,” Jillian says, with what I’m sure she imagines is a particularly cutting inflection.

  “Let me walk you out,” Leah says.

  As I wait by the door for Leah to apologize for what a bitch her friend is, I can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for Jillian and oddly thankful that I wasn’t always considered beautiful. My time as an Invisible allowed me to find other things at which to excel. I think we’re simple beings and once we feel validation for one trait, we lean into the thing that earned the accolades, and the other qualities recede. In essence, we continue to put our best foot forward.

  I was always the smartest. The quickest. And I was always the most comfortable being those things the loudest and first. I was first to raise my hand, first to answer the question, and first to steamroll over those who were less so. The validation I received, however, was a bit complicated. I was rewarded for giving the right answer, but always with a suggestion that I should be slightly more demure in my delivery.

  But, I continued to be the smartest and the quickest, because above all else, it earned me the most attention and praise. Had I been beautiful, I wonder if that would have been the case. While I may hate that I was once fat, I am absolutely thankful that I grew up relying on something other than beauty.

  What I fear is for women like Jillian, being pretty is enough … for a while. We’ve all seen what happens to women who don’t know how to not be pretty, adored, and valued by men as they age. It’s a cruel discovery and one oftentimes made too late.

  I think about the teenage fantasies that have become my reality over the last ten years. The swell of pride I felt as that intern envied me, even as my marriage bumped and swerved. Sure, I felt lost—but I looked great. And that made me feel better.

  Wait. Shit. How am I different from Jillian? Oh my god. No, really. How am I different from the Fish-eating Wonder Vegan Jillian?

  “You ready?” Leah asks, finally joining me by the door.

  “Yeah,” I say, slightly haunted and rechecking the math in my head. No. It can’t be right. Do the work again. I am NOT Jillian. First and foremost, I know what a goddamn vegan is. And besides, beauty was something I needed so I could be above reproach. Unassailable. It was the last piece of the puzzle, not the only piece. That’s not all I am. Leah and I walk in silence toward the valet. I mean, sure I like that people see my life and want it. I like the feeling I get when I walk in somewhere on Adam’s arm and feel people coveting what we have. It makes me feel good. It feels a whole helluva lot better than being ignored for twenty-two years, that’s for sure.

  “What is going on with you?” Leah asks, as I hand my ticket to the valet.

  “It’s been a long day,” I say.

  “You didn’t have to be so rude. Jillian may be a bit—”

  “No one is that stupid.”

  “What harm does it do to let her think she’s a vegan?” Leah asks, laughing.

  “It makes her look like an idiot.”

  “She is an idiot.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Well, she is. She’s an amazing stylist, but dumb as a post.”

  “Wow.”

  Leah shrugs. “It’s the truth.” A smile curls across her face. “Ahi isn’t tuna,” Leah says, giggling. She ends with a satisfied little sigh. “I can’t wait to tell that one to Gregory.”

  “Ew, you like that she’s super dumb,” I say.

  “What?”

  “You like that Jillian’s so dumb.”

  “That’s bonkers.” Leah waves me off, still smiling.

  We stand in silence.

  What I don’t say is the reason Leah likes that Jillian is super dumb is because Jillian is way hotter than Leah. And younger. The super dumb thing evens the field a bit in Leah’s mind. So she lets Jillian say insane shit like ahi isn’t tuna and gets that swell of superiority as she and Gregory make fun of her later. I’m sure this is Leah’s elaborate, yet entirely unintentional, plan to feel assured that whenever she feels like Gregory is taking a bit too much interest in Jillian, she just has to remind him how monumentally stupid she is. As if that’s ever mattered to Gregory.

  Goddammit. Another wave. Now how am I any different from Leah? I love that I’m smarter than all my pretty idiot friends.
As I’ve recently, and quite inconveniently, uncovered, there will never be a time when they challenge me in any way.

  This afternoon comes rushing back. Ben confronting me with the terrible things I said to him. How that felt. That sickening feeling. My entire body fighting my visceral reaction to him. I haven’t felt that in years. That … exposed.

  My face prickles with memories of Ben, and I immediately feel guilty. But, isn’t what’s good for the goose good for the gander? Or … flip it. Can’t what’s good for the gander be good for the goose, too? Especially since this goose really liked kissing that particular other gander? Shit. No. Because the goose has to be the good one and is currently waiting for her gander to get over this philandering phase and come home so we can start the next chapter. And when that happens, the goose can’t have philandered with other ganders because then the goose can’t be as smug and self-righteous as she so wants to be when that moment finally comes.

  “Okay. Whatever. You’re just tired.” Leah backs us up until we’re underneath the shade of the valet’s umbrella.

  “Why did you tell them about Caroline?”

  “They knew most of it already. Jillian dressed Max’s leading man for the Toronto Film Festival last year and he was majorly bummed that Willa was into Max and not him,” she says with a sigh. “And they hadn’t even slept together yet, so…”

  “Wasn’t that guy in his forties?” I ask, noticing my car pulling out of the parking garage.

  “Fifty-three, actually.” The valet flips a U-turn and is idling behind a few other cars in line waiting to be parked. “Oh, how was that Halloween fair today?”

  “It was good,” I say, getting my dollar bills ready for the tip and not looking at her just in case the flush of my face betrays me. “Wait. How did you know about that? I haven’t talked to you in forever.”

  “Gregory and I bumped into Adam at lunch yesterday.” Leah runs her finger along the valet stand for a long moment. “Adam mentioned you’ve been super busy with it.”

  “I haven’t been all that busy with it,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”