Fidelity Files

  "You know that...well, skill I have?"

  "Men reading?" Sophie said promptly. That's what she and Zoë had endearingly nicknamed it a long time ago, when we first discovered I was blessed with it. Although tonight it seemed more like a curse.

  "Yes... that." I took a deep breath. "Well, recently it's been... let's just say 'enhanced.' And now it's more than just a...you know, party trick. It's...well, it's pretty damn accurate."

  I could feel a groan building up in my throat. I sounded like one of those crazy psychics on Venice Beach, trying to convince some gullible tourist to buy into my mind-reading abilities. It was pathetic.

  Sophie crinkled her forehead. "What do you mean?"

  I stammered, searching for the right words, but they wouldn't come. It was as if they didn't even exist. The English language just wasn't designed to explain something like this to your best friend. "Fuck it!" I finally said. "I know for sure that Eric's not the cheating type, and that's all there is to it."

  I released a heavy sigh and then watched Sophie's reaction carefully, waiting for any indication of conviction. She looked down and touched the frothy top of her Orange-Dream Martini with her fingertip.

  Her lack of words made me feel obliged to add more of my own. Lots more. "Just trust me on this one. Like I said, I'm hardly wrong about men...you know that! You don't need to go through with this fidelity-whatever crap. It's totally useless." I was starting to ramble. "He'll pass this so-called 'undercover test' with flying colors, and then you'll forever have to hide the fact that you sent out some professional to spy on him because you didn't trust him! You don't want to start this marriage out on the wrong foot, do you?"

  "You've never even met him. How can you be so sure?"

  I hesitated, scanning the room for help, any kind of help. "I... I...I've never met... that guy," I said, quickly pointing to a man at the bar who was attempting to chat up a tall, attractive Asian girl, and unsuccessfully at that. "And I bet I can read him."

  Sophie looked over at the man at the bar, then turned back and skeptically crossed her arms over her chest. "Okay, fine."

  I twisted in my seat and watched the subject in the dark pants and starched gray button-up shirt. I studied him exactly as I would study a client's husband or boyfriend. I looked for tiny details... small, unnoticeable mannerisms. There was usually no method to the madness; the answers just came to me somehow . . . almost magically.

  "Well, for starters, he likes Asian women."

  Sophie rolled her eyes. "C'mon... that's a little obvious. I could have told you that... and I know nothing about men."

  I held up my hand. "Yes, but would you be able to tell me that he's never dated one before?"

  Sophie's doubtful expression slowly morphed into masked intrigue, and I knew I had to keep talking. "This is a relatively new obsession for him. He's always liked classic-looking white girls. Blond hair, blue eyes, the usual. In fact, he'd never even given Asian girls a second glance. But he probably recently saw Memoirs of a Geisha or some other movie that had a beautiful Asian woman in it, and then suddenly he wondered why he'd never noticed them before.

  "So, very soon after, he decided he would start trying his luck with Asian women. Partly because he now saw how beautiful they were, but mostly because he just hadn't had any success with the blondes. He comes to bars at least twice a week to try to meet girls, but for the most part, it's a fruitless effort. Because he doesn't know how to talk to them. In attempting to impress women he ends up sounding either too anxious or too arrogant, because those are the only strategies he knows."

  I took a deep breath and sat back in my seat. I knew I was right. I only hoped that Sophie knew it too.

  She stared at me, her mouth gaping. "Have you been practicing or something?" She spoke slowly and cautiously, as if I were a crazy, volatile witch who had been known to chop people up and bake them into pies when aggravated.

  I took a sip of my chocolate mint martini and avoided eye contact. "No ...it's just something that has progressed with age, I guess. Like balding."

  Sophie continued to stare at the man, who was now standing alone at the bar after the Asian woman had promptly rejected him and moved on to work the next room. "But how do I even know that you're right?"

  And with that I was immediately out of my seat, with nothing to lose – except possibly my best friend if this plan didn't work out. "I'll prove it to you."

  Sophie skeptically observed from the booth as I walked over to the man, tapped him on the shoulder, introduced myself, and politely invited him back to the table with an unassuming smile. He followed me willingly, and I stood next to him in front of the booth.

  "Sophie, this is Brad. Brad, this is my friend Sophie."

  They shook hands, and Sophie shot me a look implying her lack of confidence in my sanity.

  "Brad," I began playfully, "Sophie and I were wondering if we might be able to ask you a question. You know, to get a guy's opinion."

  The man looked apprehensively from me to Sophie, unsure of what this was all about but relatively certain he didn't want to walk away from two attractive women who had, for some reason, handpicked him from the crowd to help appease their curiosity.

  "Sure," he responded warily.

  "Great!" I said, giving his upper arm a flirtatious squeeze. "Well, we saw you chatting with that beautiful Asian woman just a few minutes ago, and we started talking about guys who have a thing for Asian women. We were just wondering what that was all about. Is it because they're exotic looking, or because..." I trailed off, knowing full well that he would interrupt me.

  And he did.

  "Actually..." he started.

  "Mmm-hmm?"

  "I'm probably not the best person to ask. I've just recently developed a 'thing' for Asians, and judging by the way that one blew me off, I'm not sure how long it will last." He chuckled, trying to mask his feeling of rejection.

  I looked at Sophie with an "I told you so" expression and then returned my attention to my unassuming guinea pig. "Really? Why's that?"

  The man shifted his drink from one hand to the other. "Well, the truth is...I just rented House of Flying Daggers and..."

  I gasped and grabbed Brad's arm. "Isn't Ziyi Zhang breathtaking?"

  Sophie looked at me suspiciously, and then Brad let out an orgasmic sigh. "Yes! She's... amazing. In fact, don't tell anyone, but I just added Memoirs of a Geisha to my Netflix queue today."

  Sophie's mouth dropped open again, and she shook her head at me in disbelief.

  Brad continued talking. "It's not really the kind of movie I'd usually watch, but..."

  "Well, that's about all we wanted to know." I gave him a brusque pat on the back and slipped into the booth across from Sophie. "Thank you so much for your time."

  Brad watched us, certain he had missed something. He opened his mouth to speak but then on second thought decided he probably just didn't want to know . . . and he definitely wouldn't understand. In his mind he would chalk it up to "Women are from Venus" and that would be the end of it.

  He nodded. "Glad I could help," he said, slightly annoyed, and then headed back to the bar for another round of rejection.

  "So?" I said to Sophie after Brad was out of earshot.

  Sophie closed her eyes and surrendered a laugh. "Wow, Jen. All I can say is 'Wow!'"

  "So now you'll believe me when I tell you that Eric is trustworthy and you should reconsider this ridiculous test thing?"

  "What test thing?" Just then Zoë's voice came sailing over the top of the booth. I looked up to see her standing mere centimeters from where Brad the Bewildered had stood only moments ago.

  I checked my watch. Damn, she was early. "Nothing," I said quickly. "I thought we weren't meeting until ten."

  Zoë scooted in beside Sophie. "I'm sorry," she said, sounding insulted. "I didn't realize this conversation was IO." (Invite Only.)

  I sighed and glanced at Sophie. "It wasn't. Sophie and I just got here."

  Zoë smiled at
us, completely oblivious to anything that might have gone on before she arrived. She craned her neck around and scoured the bar. "Where's the server? I'm gonna order a drink."

  I tossed a pleading glance at Sophie.

  "I'll think about it," she said quietly.

  Zoë turned back around and immediately demanded to see Sophie's ring again, as if it might have somehow changed color or shape since she left it this morning.

  I knew that our private chat time was officially over. It was all in Sophie's hands now. I only hoped that I'd made an impact.

  One big enough to keep the secret.

  JOHN ARRIVED slightly past ten o'clock and after Sophie's over -exaggerated account of my "remarkable" men-reading story, the rest of the evening was spent pointing out random people in the bar and urging me to reluctantly recite their life history. I felt like some sort of sideshow act at the circus freak show.

  "She did it again!" Zoë exclaimed, after returning from the bar where she had been sent by John and Sophie to either confirm or deny my most recent analysis, of the tall and sexy bartender.

  "He's a grad student?" Sophie asked eagerly.

  Zoë nodded. "Getting his master's in psychology at UCLA."

  They turned and stared at me in awe. "How did you know it was UCLA?" Sophie asked in amazement.

  I suddenly wondered if sharing my improved "superpower" with Sophie had been such a good idea. I had intended it to be simply a persuasive tool to convince her not to hire...well, me to test her fiancé, but now it was getting out of hand. I was starting to worry that my friends knew too much and might start to get suspicious.

  "And how did you know he's not just an actor?" John quickly followed. "I thought all bartenders in L.A. were actors?"

  I exhaled loudly and started in on another explanation. My fourth for the evening. "Just look at him. He's definitely not an actor. Watch the way he carries himself. He's not here just for show. He's here with purpose. He has much more to offer the world than a nice face and the ability to take off his shirt for the camera. Bartending is also the perfect gig for students because it allows them to work at night. And he's too old to be an undergrad. That leaves grad school."

  In unison, all three of my friends turned and watched the bartender as he poured a drink for a male patron.

  "And the fact that he works here," I continued, "in Brentwood as opposed to downtown or Hollywood, means he's probably not studying at USC. Too far of a commute if he wants to make it to work by six P.M. That leaves UCLA."

  They all turned back and looked at me again.

  I attempted to downplay it. "It's just a basic process of elimination, really."

  "WTF, mate?" Zoë shook her head in disbelief.

  Sophie looked to me for a translation.

  "What the fuck," Zoë clarified with an impatient raise of her eyebrows. She hated having to speak in complete phrases; it wasted too much precious time. Acronyms were much more efficient. Well, assuming that everyone else knew what they stood for.

  "I mean, I always knew you had a knack, but this is really something," Zoë continued, her eyes wide and wild with inspiration.

  I shrugged and tried to think of a clever way to change the subject. But judging by the dumbfounded expressions on my friends' faces, I knew it wasn't going to be easy. "Something I just picked up, I guess." I tipped my head back and poured the rest of my martini down my throat.

  "If only there was a way you could make money doing that," Zoë remarked, the wheels in her head turning.

  I laughed weakly. "Yeah...if only."

  "Or at least find a date once in a while." John sipped his Bahama-Mama Martini and winked at me.

  "Ha! Like I have time to date."

  Sophie reached across the booth and placed her hand gently on top of mine. It felt warm against my cold and clammy fingers. "He's right though, Jen. We're actually starting to get worried."

  The mood of the conversation suddenly took a very somber turn as I looked up to see each of my friends nodding their heads in agreement. I had a sneaking suspicion that an ambush was coming my way. "What do you mean, worried?"

  Even Zoë's voice lowered to a tender lull. "We mean, you never date. As in never ever, and we know it's not for lack of opportunity. I've seen the way guys look at you." She motioned to the rest of the group. "We all have. And we're starting to wonder if it has to do with something more than just not having the time."

  I immediately turned defensive. "Like what?"

  Sophie shrugged innocently. "That's what we've been trying to figure out."

  I could feel anger boiling up inside my stomach. I was beginning to think I knew exactly how George Washington felt when it was discovered that Benedict Arnold was working for the British. "So what, you guys just sit around discussing why I don't date? And then toss out ideas like a goddamn team of sitcom writers? Don't you have anything better to do with your time than analyze my lack of a dating life?"

  Sophie eyed Zoë, indicating she had suspected I might react like this.

  "I have a very busy schedule...as you all should know," I defended. "And my work is very important to me. Dating is, by far, the last thing on my mind."

  "Jen, darling, we're only looking out for you because we care." John jumped in with his soothing, gay-man-in-a-straight -woman's-world act. "And it's our job to make sure you don't end up an old maid."

  Zoë stifled a giggle as I sighed in frustration and rolled my eyes.

  "Seriously," Sophie urged me. "You haven't been on one date since... since...well I don't even remember."

  I lowered my eyes and stared at the soggy cocktail napkin under my glass.

  "Did you ever think that your lack of dates might have to do with something else?" Sophie asked.

  I cupped my chin in my hand. "Like...?"

  She looked to Zoë, who gave her an encouraging nod. Sophie took a deep breath. "Like your parents."

  A lump formed almost instantly in the back of my throat. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes. I quickly looked away, blinking them back. She had hit the sore spot. The core. And she didn't even know it. She didn't even know what it really meant. If I was going to win this argument I would have to steer them clear of all things relating to the truth. To that fateful day when my normal, preteen life morphed into something else. Something I had never even dreamed of.

  I heard the faint sound of my cell phone ringing, and I immediately dug into my bag to silence it, annoyed by the rude interruption. I could feel my hands start to shake. I reached up and held tightly to my empty glass to steady them. "This has nothing to do with my parents," I said softly but sternly.

  We all knew it was a lie. A transparent, unmistakable diversion from the real story. But only I knew how far the lie really went.

  "Just think about it, Jen," Sophie began. "Three years ago your mom sits you down and tells you your dad cheated on her and they're getting a divorce. And suddenly you have no time for dating. It's a textbook case of—"

  "I'm telling you, this has nothing to do with them," I interrupted her, my voice hardening.

  Sophie reached out and grabbed my hand again. "Jen, not all men cheat."

  "This is coming from you?" I exploded, pulling my hand away.

  "Well, at least I dated!" she shot back, the amplified level of her voice taking me by surprise. "At least I got out there and opened myself up to the possibility of being vulnerable to someone."

  "Yeah, you're vulnerable, all right. So vulnerable that you have to hire someone to prove to yourself just how freaking vulnerable you really are!"

  Zoë and John had officially been kicked out of the conversation. Out of the corner of my eye I could see their heads bob back and forth like spectators at a tennis match. They were no longer oblivious; they had definitely missed something important. But now it was pretty obvious that neither one of them really wanted to know. You'd have to be an idiot to want to get in the middle of whatever this was.

  "What about you?" Sophie yelled back. "You haven'
t even kissed a guy in...I don't know how long!"

  I groaned and bit my tongue. To my displeasure I was still able to taste the traces of Andrew Thompson from only a few nights ago.

  Sophie lowered her tone. "Jen, what are you so afraid of?"

  "Apparently, not as much as you're afraid of," I mumbled, slightly under my breath.

  "Well, whatever it is, I think it's keeping you from being truly happy."

  I could feel the anger and resentment and frustration continue to well up inside of me, and the worst part was, I knew I couldn't even utter one tenth of what I really wanted to say. "How do you know what makes me happy?" I growled, thankful for the humming background noise of the bar to soften my seemingly unwarranted outburst. "Just because I don't live for a rock on my finger like you did doesn't mean I'm not happy!"

  Sophie bowed her head and stared down at the table. I worried that maybe I had gone too far... said too much. And just as I was about to open my mouth to mumble some sort of apology, she whispered, "Jen, you don't even speak to your own father..."

  "This conversation is over!" I stood up and squeezed my way past John until I was clear of the booth. My three friends stared up at me in bewilderment, as if they hardly recognized me. But I didn't care. I had a much bigger problem on my mind: I hardly recognized myself.

  "For the last time. This has nothing to do with my parents."

  And with that I stormed out of the bar.

  I sat in the parking lot in my Range Rover, wondering if I should go back in and apologize for my outburst. Apologize for what I said to Sophie. After all, they were only looking out for me, right? They couldn't possibly know what was really going on, because I didn't tell them.

  I watched the front door through my spotted windshield, waiting for a familiar face to exit, race across the street to the empty parking lot, and hop into my car, demanding an explanation. Demanding the truth.

  And I had a sneaking suspicion that at that moment I would give it to them.

  But no one came.

  A group of drunk girls stumbled out, followed by the newest member of the Ziyi Zhang fan club, and then nothing. No one.

  I guess there was an option three, after all: Scream at Sophie in front of everyone, accuse her of being overly vulnerable and afraid, and then hope that somehow the tough love approach would get through to her and she would change her mind about wanting to seek outside "help."