in his pockets for cash to pay the bill. I offer to pay, but he gives me a look that says “no way.”
“Yeah, ugh, okay, sure,” he says, taking a second to consider something. Then he gives me a strange exaggerated eye roll.
I sigh and try to cover up my disappointment with a huge smile. I plop my drink down, and we both get up and put our coats on.
“Well, uh, thank you for the drinks,” I say nervously, fidgeting with my coat as we wait for the bartender to come back.
“Yeah, we’ll do it again soon. Don’t forget to send me the blog link tomorrow!” says Ryan with a confident, eager grin, although behind it he seems a little worried. He flags the bartender down to pay. We walk out of the pub onto the rush of Eighth Avenue, and in two seconds he’s hailed me a cab. Once I get in, I look out and see he’s hailing one for himself. That’s weird; his work is only five blocks away. Great, maybe the work drama was just a cover. Maybe he has a girlfriend. This was just work drinks.
But still, for five quick seconds, I allow myself a daydream. One that has me by Ryan’s side on a film set and jetting around the world with him to interview people who are trying to make a difference. How sexy it all seems. It doesn’t feel like it has the weight of finding a PH. It feels like pure fun. I fish into my purse to check my phone, and there it sits. My second trimester. Shut the fantasy down, Buckley. Shut it down.
* * *
The next day at work, with thoughts of Ryan pushed far out of my brain, the realization of my impending doomed career, love life and incomprehensibly terrible baby scheme leave me with only one option: enter a state of total denial. Instead of using the rest of the afternoon to perfect my October lineup, then research new jobs, I spend the time reading a self-help galley that came to my inbox this morning: The New Super Mom: How to Effectively Balance Work Life and Home Life. Then, with about half an hour left before the end of the day, I brainstorm all new Shocking! Exciting! Glossy! stories, including an inspired “22 Ways to ‘Fake’ a Work-Home Balance,” then turn in my revised lineup with my fingers crossed.
I knew if I were Jules, I would have taken Cynthia’s feedback differently, making an Action Plan and plowing through it with complete aplomb. But I can’t motivate myself to do anything no matter how hard I try. My brain feels like a murky swamp. My nerves jangle left and right as reality starts to set it in. I know what to do. Putting aside the pileup for once, I head out the office door toward home, texting A and B.
Friday night, 7:30 p.m. A perfect mix of crowded, but not too crowded, sixty–forty ratio men to women fill out the space at our go-to gastropub, Sparrow and Crow. Cellar-like and glowing, it’s full of wooden farmhouse tables and candlesticks with wax dripping down the sides onto black wrought iron casters. Unfortunately the favorable conditions do nothing to help me push my current situation out of my mind.
As I enter the crowded bar, I see that Addison and Brie have already arrived and are already claiming their space in the spot we’ve deemed the “vortex,” thanks to its ability to bring in men from three different angles—the back table, the side closest to the door, and the way to the bathrooms. As we sidle up to the bar, the barman notices us and takes our drink orders.
Never one to miss an opportunity to show off her toned arms, Addison has shown up in her usual tight-black-cropped tank, skinny jeans, heels combo. Brie favors low-cut, feminine, belted dresses that reveal her killer cleavage and tiny waist. Tonight’s no different. We’ve all developed a formula for what works postthirty. Me, a loose, bohemian-style “with child” ready ensemble in case anyone I know should arrive.
Drinks in hand, Addison and Brie eye the room for possible prospects, goal-oriented and ready. So different from our midtwenties when these nights were just about having fun. I see Addison eyeing a cute group of youngish guys. Brie clicks into flirt mode, flicking her head back and running a few fingers through her hair, that is, when she’s not checking her phone.
Lately, I’ve noticed that most of our conversations center around assuring one another that we’re smart, beautiful and are going to be “okay.” It goes on and on until we’ve reached a fever pitch of feeling hot, smiling around the bar widely. Not a soul seems to notice.
“So, what happened with Brady?” I ask Addison. She’s eyeing the twentyish group of guys who seem to be playing fantasy football on their phones from their sporadic cheers and table slapping.
“Ooh, yes, the venture capitalist who met us out at karaoke?” asks Brie, intermittently checking her phone.
“How old is he again?” I ask, the only one fully attentive.
“Thirty. But it ended last night when I told him I needed more attention and he told me he needed a twenty-two-year-old,” she says. “I told him he’d never find one as good as me in bed, but he was welcome to try.”
“Aww, no. I’m sorry, that sucks,” I tell her.
“It’s okay. It’s his loss. I’ve decided I’m just going to have as much fun as possible this summer. What else can you do?”
“Well, plan Secret-4-the-One isn’t going as well as I’d hoped, either,” says Brie, shoulders scrunched.
“What happened?” I ask, worried.
“So as soon as I launched into online dating full throttle, I met this guy at a bookstore—can you believe it? It was like straight out of a ’90s rom-com. He’s been traveling around the world for years after getting laid off on Wall Street. Totally my type.”
“So? How did it go?”
“Okay,” she says, smoothing her hair behind her ears. “Until I decided to go back home with him, and discovered that he had a hoof hanging above his bed.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah. A hoof. Not even a dream catcher—I would have given him a pass on that one, but yeah, a hoof. He said it was considered a good luck charm to increase male virility. He said a town elder gave it to him in Burma.” She turns up her nose.
“So no date number two?”
“Uh, yeah, ya think?” she says, smiling. “It’s okay. The right one is out there, I know. I just have to clear a few more blockages in my love corner.”
I consider keeping my crush on Ryan under wraps. Once it’s out there, I know my friends will pick apart every detail, or “pinball” it. Brie and I’ve coined the term denoting the way in which your well-meaning friends can inadvertently send a nascent relationship straight into the gutter by commenting on each individual interaction and text too soon, before the blastocyst has fully implanted. One psychologically projected comment from Add or Brie, and I know I’ll be swayed to start thinking the worst about the whole Ryan situation.
“So remember the guy I worked with on the mega-multiples story? Ryan Murphy? I went out with him last night. Well, it wasn’t a date really. More of a work thing.” My face warms as I say it out loud, even though I’d just decided not to.
“The cute Gap Jeans Guy from karaoke?” My two friends stop staring around the room. I’ve now got their full attention. “Wait, you didn’t even text me?” says Brie.
“Yeah,
