my eyes and dug my heels in further: Trust me, Raj. If this is going to be about who’s more stubborn, you’re not going to win. You’re not gonna negotiate your way through this one with me. So don’t even try it.
How can you be so unreasonable? He had gotten flustered. You aren’t even prepared to discuss it! Am I going to be a part of this marriage?
The thing about me is, I don’t tolerate weakness well—in men or animals. It’s the lawyer in me I’m sure, but basically I think that if you’re dragging the pack down, you should probably be shot or left behind. That’s why I reacted so…poorly. I knew it was a bad idea even as I did it…called him the adjective to end all adjectives: melodramatic.
That was the day I learned that even though both parties are usually well-aware of who’s more emotionally involved, nobody wants it announced out loud. Whereas a woman would have taken it as an observation, a man hears it roughly translated as: you’re the woman.
I might have tried to smooth things over, but his silence on the drive back to Los Angeles gave me no choice but to twist the knife. If this was how we were going to start our married life, I reasoned, then I had to set a precedent. So I slipped the ring off my finger and onto a chain around my neck, and it had remained there ever since. Later that night we agreed that we didn’t want to fight; everything didn’t need to be settled in a day.
Mistakenly, I assumed that refilling both of our wine glasses was Raj’s way of putting an end to our Mexican standoff over Thai food that night.
Thank God for reliable Raj, who never ever let things spin too far out of control.
“Actually, I have some news.” He spoke in between shoveling heaping spoonfuls of chili-doused pad thai into his mouth. “McKinsey has offered me a one-month assignment in London. They requested that I be on the team since I worked with this client on another project a few years back.”
“Mmm-hmm…” I played along, tipping back my glass and dropping my shoulders a bit. “And when would it start?”
“I could leave as early as tomorrow or as late as next week.”
“Oh.” I rubbed my ring between my thumb and forefinger, concentrating hard on the plate before me.
“A client requesting someone specifically is always good news, so it might even lead to a promotion if I can get enough visibility for the project. Could you imagine if it turned into a full-time offer?”
I’ll admit it. I actually laughed out loud. Through a mouthful of green coconut curry.
He glanced up without moving his head.
“Oh, yeah,” I joked, “because this is the 1920s and all women have to quit their jobs and follow their men across the ocean.”
“So you wouldn’t even consider it?” He spat out the words and his nostrils literally flared. Not sexy. A little scary, actually.
“Well, I mean…come on…” I was quite the articulate litigator. “It’s not really an option. They haven’t made you an offer, so we’re talking hypothetically here.”
“And you won’t even consider it hypothetically?” he asked, sucking at his teeth.
“Raj,” I said.
“Monica, has this whole thing always just been about you?”
“No, of course not.”
“I knew what I was getting into when we became friends. Partially this is my fault because our friendship was based on me helping you talk about losing your dad. And it was understandable when we started dating that the focus was originally going to be on you. But I always thought that…in time…in time, things might change. They might become more equal. But they haven’t, Monica. And I don’t know if that’s because of how I allowed this relationship to center around you, or if it’s because that’s who you are.”
“I resent that,” I began, but then stopped when he held up a hand.
“Oh, crikey!” He choked and dropped his fork, pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.
I was actually shaken by the sound of his yell. Never before had I heard him raise his voice.
“There’s sodding peanuts in the goddamn pad thai, Monica!” he said laughingly in disgust, while he shook his head. “And I just lost my appetite.”
He stomped straight into the bedroom, leaving me alone to think about what I had done. He didn’t help me clear the table, and he didn’t face me that night as we slept. When I awoke in the morning, he was gone.
His text message from the airport read:
Decided to leave this morning. Will be in London for at least two weeks.
We need a break anyway. This may be good timing.
It was cold, to the point, and exactly what I deserved. Not at all like him. For the first time since we had gotten together, I thought maybe he wasn’t the one with more skin in the game.
And I haven’t heard another word from him since.
All right, maybe you can never be certain of anything. But I am at least as certain that I am heterosexual as I am that some hot teen-queen celebutante under the age of thirty will one day make use of Steel’s promise that After your first four divorce proceedings, the fifth one’s on the house!
Still, even I couldn’t help staring at the buxom Angelina Jolie look-alike wiggling her way across the intersection of San Vicente and Bundy about twenty minutes later. Unlike most men in my position, I wasn’t wondering what it might be like to sleep with her. Instead, I was wondering if such a woman had any idea what it felt like to stare at a cell phone all day, willing it to boil.
Ring. Whatever.
Anyway, I was guessing the answer was no.
But mine did ring, a few seconds later. I sucked in my stomach, straightened my back and plastered a beauty-school-dropout smile across my face. It’s instinct. Seeing a woman like that reminds me Raj might be aware of her existence. This forces me to admit that no one will ever be anything but repulsed by the vision of my sweaty, spandexed self huffing to cross the street. Which makes me want to eat an entire bundt cake.
In my closet.
With my hands.
Also, I’m sure that being engaged means he can see me through the phone.
As I pulled over, rummaging frantically through my purse to catch the call before it went to voice mail, I realized that this wasn’t like me. I didn’t watch other women run. I didn’t do somersaults at the possibility of a boy calling. I didn’t smile without reason any more than I said my name as if it was a question. All of which meant one thing; my period was coming. Because unlike some women I knew, I only ever spent twenty-four hours each month—the day before my period—curled up in my bed licking trans-fats off my own fingers, watching reruns of The Golden Girls, and being convinced that I was fat, inarticulate and incapable of sustaining a normal relationship.
I made a mental note to pick up a pizza, a milk shake and a valium on my way
