I’ve wasted years feeling content and settled with Adam, and now I have nothing to show for it. I don’t like being single, not because it’s un-fun, but because it makes me feel off-balance. Like a bike with one tire flat. And yet, when I think of dating anyone, it’s the last thing I want to do.
I’m about to turn into my driveway when I remember it’s midday on a Friday, meaning the gym where Lizzy and I learned Tai Chi has an open sparring hour.
I am so going to that.
I do, and it feels good, and afterward I’m driving home when Lizzy calls. She’s in Vegas, where she’s been shacked up with her fiancé, Hunter, for the last few weeks. She claims to be happy at the casino where Hunter has a penthouse, but today I can tell something’s bothering her.
“Suri…hi. What’s up?”
“Driving home from Tai Chi.”
“Oh, the happy hour thing?”
“Yep. Felt good, too.” I don’t tell her it felt good because I imagined I was sparring Adam. I haven’t told anyone what happened that night at the pool. No one except my cousin even knows he had—has—a drinking issue. It’s not that I never plan to tell…it’s just I can’t bring myself to talk about it yet.
“I’m jealous,” Lizzy says, and I remember we’re talking about the gym.
I wipe a trail of sweat from my temple and stick my tongue out at the phone. “Maybe you should come see your BFF, then.”
“Maybe you should come see me. Like, say, tonight?” I know Lizzy, and despite the on-its-face simplicity of her suggestion, I can tell something’s up.
“Tonight? Have you been deserted by your man folk?”
“Yeah, he’s got that charity hearts tournament I mentioned the other day.” Hunter West is a professional poker player. I wonder how he does at Hearts.
“So you’re looking for a girls’ night?”
“Something like that.” I can practically see her chewing her lip, the way she does when she’s nervous.
I’m about to press her for details, but she says, “What do you think? Could you come short-notice? We could try the slots. I could even take you to Love Inc. to meet the girls.”
I make a face, and I guess she’s as good at imagining my face as I am hers, because Lizzy says, “Just kidding. Kind of.”
Love Inc. is the high-end brothel where she auctioned her virginity. It’s owned by this guy named Marchant Radcliffe, who happens to be Hunter’s fratty best bro from Tulane.
I’ve glimpsed the guy at a party or two, and he always seems so…pimpish. Don’t get me wrong: He’s got amazing clothes, and from what little I’ve seen of him, he’s not hard on the eyes—wild, brown-blond-red hair he wears kind of spiky, and a sexy beard—but he’s got a certain swagger I just can’t tolerate. Like he has sex with a different woman every night and he’s just so…proud of himself. Like he owns two huge brothels, filled with women willing to satisfy any man’s sex fantasies.
Oh wait—he does have two huge brothels filled with women willing to satisfy any man’s sex fantasies!
I wrinkle my nose. “No thanks on that part.” I’m sure Lizzy’s new escort friends are nice and all, but…they’re escorts. “But I’d love to come see you at the casino. I finally let the cat out of the bag about Adam to my mom today, so I’m sure the jet will be ready at a moment’s notice. She’ll probably think I need some girl time.”
“Oh my God, you finally told Gretchen…”
And so begins an hour-long conversation, during which I tell Lizzy all about my day and she tells me absolutely nothing about hers. In fact, the longer I talk to her, the more convinced I am that something’s going on. I consider asking her outright, but while we’re on the phone I send my mom an e-mail, which she answers immediately from her iPhone, letting me know the jet can be ready in an hour. She hopes I have a wonderful weekend, where I focus on just me! Smilie face!
Soon I’ll be in Vegas, and I’ll find out what Lizzy is hiding.
*
My mood plummets as I pack. My iPhone’s calendar alerts me at exactly four o’clock that it’s time to take an ovulation test. If I were going to ovulate this month, my doctor thinks today would be the day. Actually, I can’t believe I haven’t taken the test already. It’s a testament to how scattered I am lately. For the last six months, since I’ve been working with an expert OB-GYN in Beverly Hills, I haven’t ever forgotten to take the test on O-Day. Of course, there hasn’t ever been an O-Day, so maybe I forgot today because I’ve finally given up.
My reproductive system is a lemon. I’ve got two ovaries, but they don’t release eggs monthly. I got my period for the first time when I was sixteen, and I had it until I turned nineteen, when it disappeared, never to return.
I drop a strapless bra and a blouse into my suitcase and trudge into the bathroom, where a quick test confirms what I already knew: I’m not ovulating today.
Woohoo.
Most months, I spend hours obsessing over what this means for me; what this meant for Adam and I. Today, I just don’t have the energy.
I toss the test in the garbage can, push my purse onto my shoulder, hoist my hang-up bag over my other shoulder, and drag my rolling suitcase to the elevator.
Arnold gives me a ride to my family’s airport, not much more than two hangars in a giant field between Napa and the valley. On the way, I make like Adam and pop the cork on a bottle of Pinot Noir. Stupid Clomid. Stupid all the other drugs I’ve tried. Stupid Dr. Haynes. Stupid ovaries.
I guess it’s a good thing I’m single now. I’m never going to give any man children.
I shut my eyes and take a few deep swigs straight out of the bottle. And when we arrive at the airport, I stuff the bottle into my purse—probably just like Adam, too, if he carried a purse.
I focus on the feeling of my legs moving as they carry me from the limousine to the blue and grey Boeing Dad bought when I was in high school. I pay attention to my arms as they clutch my luggage. I clench my stomach underneath my shirt. I think about my ovaries below my stomach.
What’s wrong with me? So far, nobody knows. Maybe I don’t care, I think as I hike up the plane’s fold-out stairs. Maybe I’ll be an old maid with a hundred cats. Or dogs, because cats are just difficult.
Even the thought of a hundred darling dogs depresses me, and as soon as I see our family’s long-term flight attendant, Esmerelda, I realize that, just like at Julian’s earlier, I must be wearing my mood all over my face. She throws her arms around me and leads me to the most comfy, recliner-style seat on the jet, and starts a movie on the flatscreen right in front of me: Finding Nemo.