“The way you said that”—Sophie bursts into tears—“it sounds so final.”
I move down on the floor beside her and wrap my arms around her in a hug. “I’ve known Evan for a year. This is who he is. He doesn’t get involved, he doesn’t get hurt. He takes nothing personally. People are just possessions to him.”
Craig would flip if he heard me bashing our number-one client like this. But I feel bad for Sophie, and I want to help her.
“It’s so hard,” she says, drying her eyes on her sleeve. “You lose a part of yourself when you lose a relationship.”
“I know. Believe me, I know.”
We sit there, side by side on the floor, for a long time. We talk about relationships, about Evan. I tell her about my dumped-on-the-radio horror story.
“Is he still on WBCN?” she asks.
“No.” I stand and stretch. “He moved to California, last I heard.”
“Good riddance,” she says. “At least you’ve got him out of your hair. There’s no hiding from Evan.”
“Boston’s a big city,” I point out, turning to pick up my purse.
“Don’t leave,” Sophie says. “We could hang out for a while. Order a pie or something?” She gives me a shy smile. “It’d be nice to have the company.”
“Sure,” I tell her. “Should we rent a movie, too?”
“Yeah!” she says enthusiastically. “We can pick up a pizza on the way back.” She scoops her car keys off the end table and heads toward the door. “I don’t have a Blockbuster card. Are you a member?”
“Don’t worry,” I say, putting my arm around her shoulder. “I’ve got the hookup.” I realize that Craig is rubbing off on me.
I take Sophie to Sean’s Blockbuster on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston.
It’s a bit of a haul from Cambridge, but the rentals will be free. We crank the stereo up and sing along to U2 as we cruise down Massachusetts Avenue. I’m surprised to discover that Sophie and I have the same taste in music.
“You can’t live in Boston and not love U2,” Sophie screams over the blare of Mysterious Ways. “This is practically their second home, next to Dublin.”
The traffic’s surprisingly light for a Saturday night, and we arrive in record time. Sophie drives around for a few minutes and locates a parking spot on the street. We hop out of the car and head into the store. “We can get our videos free here; my brother’s one of the assistant managers,” I tell her as we walk through the front door.
“Older or younger?”
“Younger. He’s twenty-five.” We make our way over to the front counter, where Sean’s busily sorting through a stack of DVDs.
“Hi, Dani,” he says. His eyes widen as he takes in Sophie.
“Sean, this is Sophie. Sophie, my brother, Sean.”
Sophie leans across the counter and shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
His face goes bright red and he drops her hand like a hot potato. “Can I, uh, help you, uh, find something?” My brother’s hardly a smooth operator. He’s only dated three girls in his life, and most of his free time is spent in front of the TV or the computer. The last time he got up close and personal with a woman as striking as Sophie was probably while watching General Hospital.
“We’ll have a look around and let you know,” Sophie tells him, flashing a friendly grin.
“Why don’t you browse by yourself for a minute?” I suggest. “I need to talk to my brother.”
“No problem.” She trots off toward the new arrivals section.
“Where’d you meet the supermodel?” Sean asks, his eyes trained on Sophie.
“Work. Anyway, about Mom’s boyfriend—”
“She must be a real heartbreaker.”
“Mom?”
“No, not Mom, you idiot.” He guffaws. “Sophie! Man, she’s hot!”
“Actually, Sophie was the dumpee, not the dumper.”
Sean lets out a low whistle. “What kind of man would let her get away?”
“A man who has five more women just like her lined up outside his door.”
A customer needs Sean’s attention, so I go join Sophie, who’s moved on from new arrivals and is now browsing in the center aisle of older movies. “What are you in the mood for?” I ask, sidling up to her.
“Something intriguing,” she says. “But not too serious.”
After some deliberation, we settle on the latest James Bond flick.
We head to the counter and wait in line. When we get to the front, Sean comes over to ring us up on his account. Thankfully, he’s much more composed this time. “You know who you look like?” he asks as he scans our videos.
She shakes her head.
“Irène Jacob.”
“Who?”
“She’s a beautiful French actress. You look exactly like her, except her hair’s a lot darker.”
“Sorry, I don’t know who she is.”
“Trust me, it’s a compliment,” Sean says. He turns to me. “Dani, have you heard of Irène Jacob?”
“No.”
“Come on, you two must have heard of her. She played the starring role in Trois Couleurs: Rouge. It’s an incredible film. It has some of the best cinematography I’ve ever seen. And the dialogue is brilliant.” Sean rattles off a few lines in French.
“You speak French?” Sophie asks.
He laughs. “Only what I’ve picked up from movies, but I’m thinking of taking a course in it. I’d love to learn conversational French. There are so many amazing French films, especially the Trois Couleurs trilogy.”
I stare at him blankly. Is this really my little brother, the dorky guy who loves CSI and General Hospital? Since when has he developed a taste for fine cinema?
Sophie smiles, obviously impressed. And, much as it surprises me to admit it, I am, too.
“Hang on, I think we’ve got a copy in the foreign film section.” He runs around the counter and hurries across the store. A minute later, he resurfaces with the video. “Let me know what you think.” He finishes scanning the movies and places them in a bag.
“Okay,” she agrees, giving him a little wave as we make our way out of the store. “Nice meeting you, Sean.”
“Nice meeting you, too,” he says, blushing. “And thanks for making it a Blockbuster night!”
21
STAGE FOUR OF BREAKUP HELL: Backsliding
After sampling the dismal dating scene, the dumpee concludes that no one could possibly be as smart, witty, charming, and attractive as his or her ex. Desperate and obsessed, the dumpee attempts to win the former lover back using any means necessary.
Sunday night, the phone rings. I quickly grab it. “Hello?”
It’s Sean. “I just had a heart-to-heart conversation with Mom, and I have some great news!”
“You did?” I ask. “And you do?”
“Yeah, isn’t that amazing? Just when things seemed bleakest, Mom and I went out for coffee and conversation.”
I groan inwardly. Looks like my coffee habit is spreading to the whole family. “How did it go?”
“It was awkward, but I have to admit it was also kind of nice. I don’t feel like I’ve ever really gotten to know Mom as a person, if that makes sense. She’s always just been my mother. But I feel like we’re really starting to communicate as adults.”
I blink in surprise. My brother never used to talk like this. He sounds mature. I guess a family fiasco will do that to you. “So, what did you talk about?”
“Oh, everything. Work, career goals, life, true love.”
“True love,” I say, feeling like a bashful teenager. “You and Mom talked about true love?”
“Yeah. We talked about her relationship with Dad versus her relationship with Jude.”
I’m in shock. “Was it weird?”
“Not as weird as you might think. It was good to be so honest for once.”
Honest. I gulp. That’s one area where I have a real problem.
“Mom says her relationship with Jude is nice, but it
lacks passion! We can make this work to our advantage.”
That is good news. “So all we have to do is convince her to go back with Dad and our problems are solved?” I’m twenty-eight, and maybe it’s wrong of me to be depressed about the possibility of my parents splitting up. But I don’t want to face two Christmases, two Thanksgivings. If I was twelve, it might make more sense. But I do care, and it is depressing. I want everything to remain the same.
“Now for the bad news.” He pauses. “And before I tell you this, I just want you to remember, things are really looking up for Mom. So don’t get too discouraged by this downturn. We’ll just consider it a bump in the road, okay? Unpleasant, yes, but our family can overcome it.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“I found some pretty upsetting e-mails on Dad’s computer.”
My brother’s turning into a regular sneak. “What did you find?”
“Dad erased the folder of Gretchen’s e-mails off the desktop. But I managed to run a recovery and pull up all the messages he tried to delete. I’m forwarding you the e-mails.”
“I don’t want them,” I jump in.
“Too late. Message sent.”
“I’ll delete them,” I warn, playing with the phone cord anxiously.
“No, you won’t.”
He’s right. I won’t. I pull the phone closer to me. “I don’t want to read Dad’s pornographic e-mails.”
“It’s not porn, but it’s pretty bad. I thought you should see them for yourself. Dad mentions us a bunch. Not by name, but he talks about his ‘daughter and son.’ He talks about wanting to introduce us to Gretchen. He also talks about . . .” Sean’s voice trails off. “Never mind, you’ve gotta read them for yourself.”
We chat for a few more minutes, and then I hang up the phone.
I wander into the living room and survey my surroundings. The refrigerator hums from the kitchen, and I consider digging into yesterday’s Chinese takeout but decide against it. There’s nothing I can eat, or read, or watch, or do that will change things. My laptop computer sits on my desk, taunting me to switch it on and read the recovered e-mails. Before I can change my mind, I sit down at my desk and turn it on. It hums to life. I log on to my Yahoo account and go to my inbox. Thirteen new messages. Three of them are advertisements for penile enlargement, Prozac, and loan-consolidation schemes, one’s from Krista, and all the rest are from Sean. My hand wavers for a second. I’m about to open the first of Sean’s e-mails when a new message pops into my account. When I see who it’s from, my heart skips a beat. Brady wrote! It’s only been a couple of days. I didn’t think I’d hear from him so soon.
From: “Brady K. Simms”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 2:35 a.m.
Subject: Testing, testing . . . 1, 2, 3
Hi, Dani.
I’m an idiot. I meant to get in touch with you over the weekend, but I lost your e-mail address. Actually, I didn’t lose it, I washed it. It was in my pants pocket when I threw them in the machine. Oops. Long story short, the ink got smeared and my khakis got ruined. Even worse, all I could make out was [email protected]. But never fear! My keen memory (and the yahoo directory) led me back to you. Let me know when you want to grab that meal sometime. . . . ~Brady Simms
I quickly type a reply and hit send.
From: “Danielle Myers”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 2:41 a.m.
Subject: RE: Testing, testing . . . 1, 2, 3
And here I thought you’d reneged on our bet, in which case I would have had to hunt you down. In light of the fact that Magnus did NOT move, you owe me one lunch. Seriously, I’ll check my schedule and let you know when I’m free.
Dani
P.S. Sorry about the pants. I’ll remember to use waterproof ink next time.
I don’t want to appear overeager, so I don’t suggest a firm date for us to get together. I’m not expecting to hear back from him, but a few minutes later, another e-mail comes through. I decide to focus my attention on Brady and ignore Sean’s e-mails of impending doom.
From: “Brady K. Simms”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 2:47 a.m.
Subject: RE: RE: Testing, testing . . . 1, 2, 3
Wow! Another night owl. I’m an incurable insomniac. What’s your excuse? ~Brady
From: “Danielle Myers”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 2:53 a.m.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Testing, testing . . . 1, 2, 3
There’s an all-night Ted Danson marathon on TV. I couldn’t resist.
Dani
From: “Brady K. Simms”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 2:59 a.m.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Testing, testing . . . 1, 2, 3
Ted Danson, eh? I didn’t know you were such a big fan. Ha, ha! You made me laugh so hard I spewed Coke out of my nose. The drink, not the drug. I don’t do drugs. Not that the image of me spewing Coca-Cola is all that pleasant. Now, on a much more appealing topic—have you got an ETA for our food date yet?
~B
I note how his signature has evolved from Brady Simms to Brady to B. I’m doubly glad things didn’t work out with Sophie. . . .
From: “Danielle Myers”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 3:03 a.m.
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Testing, testing . . . 1, 2, 3 So it’s a food DATE now? Interesting. How about tomorrow?
D
I hit send and immediately start second-guessing myself. Am I being too forward? Was it a mistake to comment about the “date”? And why did I capitalize the word? That’s like screaming out: “I’m so desperate for a DATE that I’m latching on and not letting go!” And what was I thinking, suggesting tomorrow? What is that saying? Absence makes the heart grow fonder. In that vein, shouldn’t I be putting him off for five days or something? As I debate this in my head, nearly twenty minutes pass and there’s no return e-mail from Brady. I refresh my inbox several times a minute, hoping to see a new message. At long last, he responds.
From: “Brady K. Simms”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 3:22 a.m.
Subject: (No subject)
Sorry, got sick of all the RE: RE:s. Yes, tomorrow sounds great. Name the time and place. ~Brady
P.S. Finished reading High Fidelity the other day. Terrific book. Thanks for the tip.
Hmm . . . first the long response time, then he completely ignores my “date” question. And now he’s back to signing his e-mails Brady instead of B. Well. If he’s signing his e-mails “Brady,” then I’m signing mine “Dani.” Wait, screw that. “Danielle.” Maybe he thinks I’m really hard up, suggesting we go out tomorrow. Of course, he’s free, too, which says something about him. Am I overanalyzing this? I type out a response but decide to hold off on sending it. I wait ten minutes, then press send.
From: “Danielle Myers”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 3:33 a.m.
Subject: Lunch
What do you say, should we go with tried-and-true? If yes, how about we meet at Au Bon Pain near the Four Seasons around 1:30? Glad you enjoyed High Fidelity.
Danielle
P.S. What does the “K” stand for?
From: “Brady K. Simms”
To: [email protected]
Sent: Monday, June 6, 3:38 a.m.
Subject: Great!
I’ll see you there.
~Brady
P.S. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.
I log out of my Yahoo account and shut down my computer. I was online for an hour and I mana
ged to ignore Sean’s e-mails the whole time. My lying, cheating father can wait until tomorrow. I’m going to grab a few hours of sleep before work. As I crawl into bed and snuggle down beneath the covers, I can’t help smiling. I have a Sort-of Date tomorrow with Brady Simms.
Maybe things aren’t so bad after all.
22
SODS, SOBS, and SOS
Sort-of Dates—SODs for short—have their advantages. Unlike an Actual Date, which generally includes some kind of ceremonial activity—dinner and movie, dinner and a play, etc.—SODs are easy to get out of. The guy doesn’t pick you up; you meet him there. There’s no time limit to how long the date should last, so you can duck out if things get hairy. SODs never take place during the weekend, and the guy is under no obligation to pay. The two most typical SODs are quickie lunches and casual coffees.
The downside to Sort-of Dates is that they tend to produce Sort-of Boyfriends—guys who sometimes call, sometimes don’t; who take you out on a Friday night, then wait three weeks before asking you out again; who are happy to hang out with you, sleep with you if you’ll let them, but who don’t feel the need to give you gifts on Valentine’s Day or introduce you to their parents. It’s no coincidence that the abbreviation for Sort-of Boyfriend is SOB.
I hope that my SOD with Brady won’t lead to SOS—Sort-of Sex. The more I think about it, the more worried I become. If he really liked me, he’d ask me out on an Actual Date, wouldn’t he? What if Brady really wants to get together so he can pump me for info on Erin Foster-Ellis? What if he’s backsliding, trying to get with her again?
I’m careful not to let news of my SOD leak to Craig; he’d flip.
He’d also kill me if he found out about Krista and Jason Dutwiler.
However, I rationalize, the particular rule he cautioned me to start following was rule #5: Do not get personally involved. This is the cardinal rule and must be followed above all others! That rule doesn’t really cover my situation, does it? I mean, it isn’t like the rule reads: Do not give your e-mail address out to a hot ex in the hopes that he’ll ask you out for a Sort-of Date.