Kat Fight (2 page)

After ten self-indulgent minutes on the floor I walk to the kitchen, give Curtis a can of Fancy Feast, and decide to call Julie. If anyone can help get my confidence back to the elevated state where it should be, it’s her. Julie Duncan and I have been friends since grade school. She has a long mane of strawberry blond curls, a fiery personality almost as big as her ego, and a voice that any ringmaster would envy. She’s like a motorcycle gang: you always know when she’s arrived, and she can command a room like no one else I’ve ever met. She’s funny, loud, abrasive, and a little scary, to be honest. People either love her or hate her.

“I did it,” I say almost as quickly as she answers her phone.

“If you went and got the Brazilian…” she begins to reprimand me.

“I broke up with Marc.” The words are equally empowering and difficult to say.

“And?”

“And nothing, it’s over,” I say to her and to myself. “We ended things Friday night and I haven’t heard from him.”

“It’s only been two days,” she chides me.

“I realize that, but he normally would’ve called by now,” I tell her.

“Are you okay?” she asks and coughs away her hoarse morning voice.

“I’m conflicted I guess. I set out to make a statement, and I got what I asked for,” I conclude and begin to make some coffee. “I was really only looking to ruffle his feathers, but he didn’t seem interested in arguing.”

“I thought you were making dinner for him?” she questions me.

“He blew me off.”

Julie sighs. “He’s unbelievable.”

My friends have tolerated the good, the sad, and the ugly when it comes to my relationship with Marc, and they’re more than used to our routine. They always predict that we’ll be back together sooner than later, and they’re usually right.

Julie yawns. “He’s going to call you and come crawling back; he always does.”

I grab a mug from the cabinet, shaking my head as if she can see me. “I think it’s different this time,” I say. “It feels different, and even though it’s only been two days, this is the longest he’s gone without a text or anything.”

“He probably wants to make you call him.”

“He knows I won’t,” I say flatly and retrieve the amaretto-flavored Coffee-mate from my fridge.

“Then call him if you want to,” she suggests.

“He completely blew me off! I even bought a bone-in filet for him and borrowed a cast iron pan from Adam. I won’t be calling him,” I declare and then wipe up the coffee that spills out the sides of the glass coffee carafe every morning without fail.

“Okaaaaay, are you upset?” she asks, trying to feel me out. “You’ve been frustrated for some time now, Kat.”

“I’m sort of numb. I thought he’d at least put up an argument or make some effort to defend his selfish behavior, but he didn’t.” I pause to relive my conversation with him. “It was so quick, Julie. He didn’t even hesitate.”

“Maybe he’s been unhappy too?”

“What does he have to be unhappy about?” I screech. “It’s not like the Anheuser-Busch factory is under quarantine.”

“I have no idea, but if you’ve been miserable, and he hasn’t done anything about it, then perhaps he’s been wanting a break too.”

“Well, then why hasn’t he said anything?” I ask and hop up onto my kitchen counter where I sit and sip my coffee, legs dangling.

“How should I know?”

I sigh. “Don’t roll your eyes at me—because I can’t see them anyway—but do you think it’s me? Do you think it’s something I’ve done?” Cue my insecurity.

“No.”

I shake my head. “That’s it? ‘No.’ I’m going to need more than that.”

Julie releases an annoyed, breathy noise into the phone. “No, I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. You’ve been supportive of him in every way, you go above and beyond to make him happy, and he’s been a complete ass for no apparent reason.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh, you know, so absolute?” I wonder.

“Don’t let this shatter you, Kat. I know you hate to be alone, but just go and do something nice for yourself today. Are you cocktailing yet?” she asks in all seriousness.

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Kat,” she refocuses, “I have a hard time believing this breakup will be different than any of the others, but
if
in fact it’s over between you and Marc, maybe it’s for the best.” She pauses for effect before continuing. “Enough with his crap. You’ve been hoping for years that he is going to materialize into this prince charming who’ll appreciate you and reciprocate your kindness at the altar one day, but I honestly don’t think his ego will ever let that happen. You deserve better and everyone knows it. Maybe even you are beginning to realize it.”

“Yeah, maybe, I don’t know. Thanks, Julie,” I say. “Who knew you could be so sensitive at this hour?”

“Well, you know I limit myself to one compliment a week, so that’s going to have to hold you,” she adds. “But knowing Marc, I’m sure he’ll call. And knowing you—you’ll run right back to him.”

But he doesn’t call, and I don’t have the chance to prove her right or wrong. I appreciate Julie’s advice, but I know deep down that it’s over between Marc and me. And it’s not due to infidelity or long-distance or anything I can put down on paper. It’s just over. And regardless of what anyone says, I am stunned by his indifference. After years of convincing myself that marriage was in the cards for us, there’s a significant amount of fear now that my safety net has been removed. I hang up the phone with Julie and spend the next two hours crying it out with Curtis in my lap.

Today is July 1
^st
, and exactly three weeks have passed since I told Marc to lose my number and never call me again. Prior to that, our relationship had been four years of emotional highs and lows, a never-ending roller coaster ride that began in college and followed me into my adult life. But despite everything, I thought Marc was the one. I loved him, I wanted to marry him, and I’d imagined our future together.

Being without him has given me time to reflect on the decision I made to end our relationship. A decision that was curiously and painfully undisputed by Marc. Some days I feel like a child who chose to misbehave in order to get her parents’ attention, without fully understanding there would be negative consequences to her actions. And other days I feel giddy for taking a stand, and for proving to myself that I can thrive on my own.
I haven’t seen him or heard from him since the day we broke up.

That’s all about to change, though, because our friends Rob and Emma are getting married at the end of the month, and Marc and I will both be at the wedding. As the date gets closer, it’s all I can think about, and I’m not sure I’m emotionally prepared to bump into him at a wedding of all places. I’ve snubbed him a thousand times before, but those were very calculated events. I’d known how to push his buttons and hold his attention back then. He’d love it when I played hard to get. He thrived on it. But after four years, when I wasn’t so hard to get anymore, that’s when he really started to pull away.

With Rob and Emma’s wedding upon us, I’m looking forward to seeing him, and my hope is that this break has made him appreciate what we had. It’s been hard to understand why he hasn’t reached out to me.
And if he considers for one second about bringing a date to this wedding, I will not hesitate to throw blue cheese olives in her hair.

So I guess time has not completely healed my wounds but it certainly has numbed the pain. And although the frequency at which I check my phone for a message from Marc hasn’t lessened much either, emotionally I’m making progress. Of course, the minute I begin to accept my status as a singleton, my friends start pestering me to meet someone new. However, while I’m actually stronger and more optimistic lately, I can’t say that meeting someone new is my first priority. I enjoy going out with my friends, but since I’ve been with Marc for so many years, I’ve never had to put much effort into dating; unlike Julie, who’s constantly on the prowl and never without a male companion… or two.

Tonight she and I have gathered at her apartment to drink wine, watch reality TV, and discuss my options.

“I’m setting you up with someone,” she declares while pouring me a glass of cabernet.

Julie knows that I’ve never liked being set up on dates, but she always tries, regardless. Even when Marc and I were together she would try and get me interested in the friends of whichever guy she was dating at the time.

“Lovely, a blind date,” I cheer, unenthused, and fold my legs under my butt.

“He has his sight,” she snaps, annoyed at my lack of appreciation.

I smirk.

“Come on, Kat, get over yourself. It’ll be fun. We’ll double with you.”

“Who will double with me?” I look at her curiously.

“Me and The Chef,” she says and pours a glass for herself.

I can’t help but laugh. “Who on earth is
The Chef
?” I ask, eager for her answer.

She sets the bottle down on the coffee table in front of us. “My new guy, the one from Trader Joe’s,” she clarifies and plops down on the floor next to me.

“He works at Trader Joe’s?”

“No, you piece of shit, I stalked him at Trader Joe’s; he works in advertising like you,” she adds with a tone that indicates I should be intrigued. I’m not.

“What agency is he with?” I peer at her over the rim of my glass before taking a sip.

“I don’t know, who cares, but he says he has a guy from his office to fix you up with.”

I place my glass on her table and cross my arms. “You and some cook I’ve never met have a guy for me?”

“Yes… and it’s
Chef
. He’s apparently a self-taught gourmet cook, even makes his own pizza dough from scratch,” she proudly informs me.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Of course not.”

“I don’t know, Julie,” I waver.

“There’s nothing to know; he promised me his friend is good-looking.” She takes a sip of her wine and stretches her legs out in front of her.

“Oh, please, they always think their crotch-itching co-workers are worthy.”

“I told him you were super cute and had been off the market for a while, and that he had to
promise
me a good-looking guy or he was in trouble,” she tells me and leans back against the base of her couch.

“What exactly did you say about me? And yes, I’m fishing for compliments.”

“I said you were petite, okay, short… had long brown hair… and that you work in advertising too,” Julie says and reaches for the remote.

“There’s a reason you’re not in sales.” I shake my head. “Fine, I’ll go.”

The fact that he works at one of the local agencies isn’t exactly the bonus Julie thinks it is. Advertising is a pretty incestuous industry, and I have always scoffed at those who date amongst themselves.

“Good, because it’s all set for next Saturday.”

“Next Saturday, already?”

“Yes, why all the gasping? You and I will grab a drink somewhere first and then we’ll meet them for dinner. No big thing.” She shrugs.

No big thing to her because she’s a dating pro. But I’m not as familiar with blind dates or picking up men out in the wild. It’s not that I resist blind dates for the typical reasons that people resist them; it’s just that it’s been a few years since I’ve had the opportunity to welcome them into my world, and my comfort level is nowhere near Julie’s.

A few of my other friends have enjoyed lucrative set-ups before, and one or two of them have even become engaged after surfing the web for love. I imagine Julie will make Internet dating my next move if I fail to impress anyone in person. But she’s right—I need to stop hoping for something that may never happen, and take a chance on finding someone new. I decide to embrace my newfound optimism and set my 20/20 sights on a blind date.

“Sounds like a plan,” I agree and Julie extends her arm as though a handshake means there’s no backing out.

Julie called me twice a day during the week to plan our agenda for Saturday, and now that the day is actually here, I can honestly say that I’m not dreading the evening entirely. My nerves, however, are not quite on the same page as my mind. I woke up this morning with an uneasiness I haven’t felt in years. That first date anticipation, a combination of fear and excitement—often confused with fear and loathing—but I’ve chosen to be at least partially optimistic this evening. And even though I’m clever enough to keep my expectations in check, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to make a good impression. My frustration kicks in as I survey my closet and realize my floor is littered with rejected outfits and accessories. There is an overwhelming theme amongst the wire hangers, and that is: solid colors. Lots of black, lots of navy, and almost nothing with a pattern can be found for miles. My choices are frighteningly limited, so I decide on a navy top, dark jeans, and a beaded necklace. Once the outfit is laid out on my bed, I hit the shower. It’s been a long time since I’ve prettied myself up for anyone, because honestly, ordering pizza and watching a ball game with Marc and his roommate was hardly a cause for clean hair. I dry myself off, blow out my curls with a roll brush, and have to fight off the urge to throw it all up into a ponytail. Hair down is a first-date must, regardless of how many times I will run my fingers through it during the course of the evening.

Clothes and sparkly imitation baubles. Check.

Hair. Check.

Perfume. Check.

Emergency cab fare. Check.

Nerves… getting there.

Julie and I have decided to hit P.J. Clarke’s for starter cocktails and then meet our dates at Gibson’s Steakhouse afterward. If nothing else, I am content to get a good meal out of the evening.

When we arrive at P.J.’s around eight o’clock it’s predictably overcrowded. Luckily Julie knows the bartender and he has saved us two stools behind the bar, which he hands over as soon as we see him. P.J. Clarke’s is a hot spot known mostly for attracting single, khaki-wearing working stiffs—and for having cute bartenders. It’s a Chicago landmark of sorts, a real old-school type of place. There is an expansive oak bar against the wall with a long brass footrest around it and wood-paneled walls surrounding the entire place. An enormous antique mirror hangs directly behind the bar, and shelves of assorted spirits flank both sides. It has been around forever and people still clamor to get in.

As soon as we sit down, a trio of guys starts checking us out. They appear to be younger than we are, possibly still in college, and I immediately zero-in on the one wearing a baseball cap. For some ungodly reason, I am a sucker for any remotely cute guy wearing a backward baseball cap. Not something I’m proud of, yet not something I can seem to resist either. Julie has just disturbed the three of them by shoving them out of the way with her hip in order to make room for our stools. Her rude intrusion leaves me obligated to apologize for her. Lord knows the thought to do so would never cross her mind.

“Can we buy you a drink?” I make eye contact with my favorite of the three and ask.

Julie raises a hand and comments before they can answer. “That’s a great idea,” she butts in with her signature pub-crawl charm. “We’ll buy the three of you one drink to share.”

I smile sheepishly at them and ignore her. “Seriously?” I ask again.

“We’re good, thanks. As long as you two are comfortable, that’s all that matters,” Backward Baseball Cap replies.

Julie pats him on the shoulder. “Funny, now I like you. You can stay,” she declares.

“Are you sure? It seems like you have some clout around here, and we wouldn’t want it to take any longer than it already does to get a drink,” he says gesturing to the bar.

“Well, young one, thank you for knowing your place,” Julie jokes with him.

He extends his right hand. “I’m Scott, and this is Trent and Jacob.”

“Nice to meet you, fellas. You can call me Julie.” She nods and takes a sip of her drink before shaking his hand.

“Hi, I’m Kat,” I add with a mini-wave and adjust the purse strap on my shoulder.

“So, I guess ‘come here often’ seems like an inappropriate question?” Jacob asks.

“Trust me, it’s nothing I brag about,” Julie says with a smile. “But if it scores my lazy ass a seat at the bar then I’ll suffer through the reputation.”

“What do you brag about?” Jacob smiles back at her.

She lifts a brow and grins, but gives no answer.

“So, cutie, what are you up to tonight?” Scott asks me. Instantly reminding me of how much I loathe the word “cutie.” Just because I top out at a measly five feet two inches does not automatically make me cute. My whole life people have referred to me as cute. Never sexy, never stunning, never statuesque (obviously), always cute. I smile at him, knowing he means it as a compliment. At least he didn’t say “kiddo.”

Julie interjects. “I’m setting little ‘cutie’ here up on a blind date in about twenty minutes.”

The three of them nod at my misfortune. “Nice,” Scott says. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

I blush.

“Like you might know him?” Julie replies.

“Just trying to make conversation so maybe you two will stay here instead,” he explains.

Personally I like Scott’s idea at this point. It isn’t often that we encounter three charming guys within the first ten minutes of being anywhere, let alone P.J.’s on a Saturday night. I give Julie a pleading look that indicates I approve of his suggestion. Maybe we should just stay camped out on our backless swivel stools and get to know Scott and his cap a little better. What did I owe this other advertising guy anyway? I decide my new plan is to convince Julie to stay.

“Nice try, we’re leaving in five minutes,” she snaps at me and puts a hand in my face.

Plan thwarted.

“Sorry, boys, if there’s any chance of you getting laid tonight, it’s not going to be with us,” Julie graciously informs them, causing me to shake my head in embarrassment.

“Ouch,” Jacob winces.

I roll my eyes. There goes my fantasy of getting looped and making out with B.B.C. at the bar as “Wanted Dead or Alive” plays on the jukebox.

“Nice meeting you ladies,” Scott says as he and his friends grab their Bud Lights and disappear into the crowd.

Julie opens her wallet and pays for our drinks. She never lets me pay for anything. Ever since we were young, and she had to listen to me complain about how my mom would make me ask my father for the child support checks, Julie has been my sugar daddy. She comes from married, wealthy parents, who always make sure she has enough cash on her. Enough to charter a helicopter if necessary. Even now that she’s an adult, her father still gives her a monthly stipend, which she and I now refer to as our child support.

“Aw, come on, they were funny,” I comment. “Let’s stay.”