See Jane Date (26 page)

Okay, back to earth. Things weren't perfect, but they weren't supposed to be. Wasn't that what I'd learned from my lack of reaction to Jeremy's engagement to Ms.
Vogue
? Loving someone you couldn't have was perfect. That way, you only hurt yourself, because you were having a very intense relationship with your own heart and dreams, instead of with another person. I'd already begun putting my little epiphany to use. For example, when Timothy had told me before he left early Sunday afternoon that “dating a doctor ain't all it's cracked up to be—sometimes I'm so busy that my closest friends don't see me for weeks,” I didn't go ape and call Eloise and Amanda and ask for an analysis. My instincts had told me that a statement like that was cause for mini-alarm.
His closest friends?
What was I? Chopped liver (as Aunt Ina would say)? And, although I only had three dates and one sleepover to go on, I had noticed that Timothy could
be a tad impatient, like the way he'd acted last Saturday night when we couldn't make love.

And, while I was going over his every flaw and fault and driving myself bonkers and triggering my own whopping desire to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes, I might as well throw the biggie into the fray: He didn't call me until Wednesday. Did I sound childish? Like a teenager? I wasn't sure if I was allowed to quibble about this. But it seemed like another warning signal. How much could he like me if he didn't call Sunday night to tell me what a wonderful time he'd had, that he couldn't wait to see me again and, in fact, how about a date Tuesday or Wednesday? He hadn't called Monday either. I'd thought about calling him on Monday night to say hello, but I didn't want to seem too clingy. Same for Tuesday. Eloise had instructed me to call him, that this wasn't the 1950s if I hadn't noticed, and since when did I give control of my life and my relationship to the guy? Why did he get to call the shots? I didn't know the answer to that. I just knew I couldn't call him. I wanted to be
called.
Did that make sense? By Wednesday I'd been jumping out of my skin, but then he'd called! I'd been reading Natasha's revision of Chapter Two, which was really juicy and well-done, when the phone rang. I'd said my mini-prayer that it would be him and not Aunt Ina, and God was on my side.

Sort of. Timothy told me he was so sorry he hadn't been able to call, but busy, busy, busy, rotation, rotation, rotation, the William Remke of the hospital was on the warpath, busy, busy, busy, blah, blah, blah, he didn't think he'd have a chance to get away from the hospital other than to sleep for the next week, maybe even two weeks, things were that bad, blah, blah, blah, he wished
he could stop by even to say hi, but busy, busy, busy, blah, blah, blah.

There was nothing worse than being beyond disappointed and not being able to be upset at the source. How could I quibble with the working life of a resident? Everyone had heard the horror stories of interns and residents working thirty-six hours straight, four hours a day for sleep and barely half a day off. Who was I to complain that Timothy couldn't come over to watch
Who Wants To Be a Millionaire
with me? The guy was busy for real. He wasn't playing squash with his friends or going to strip clubs or watching televised sports. He was working. And I'd better get used to it if I wanted this man in my life. Which I most certainly did.

I'd been hoping to whine about these matters at the Flirt Night Roundtable this past Friday, but it had been canceled. Amanda had a “thing” to attend with Jeff (business related) and Eloise was fighting a cold. So I'd made myself busy by finishing up my comments for Natasha's revised Chapter Two (which needed only minor tweaking) and making marginal notes on the first draft of Chapter Three. I'd read Natasha's work with a very different eye than I had when I'd first taken her on as an author. And with a very different heart. A heart, period. After spending so much time with her, learning so much firsthand about her, witnessing her mother's coldness with my own eyes, I had a context for everything I read. Natasha had called in a few times to report on her progress on the outline, which she was developing into a chapter-by-chapter masterpiece. She was also on page 120 of
What To Expect When You're Expecting.
She'd sounded okay—not her usual effervescent self, a tad subdued, but not depressed. I'd called her last Sunday afternoon after Timothy left to ask how she was doing. She burst into
tears at the sound of my voice. I asked if she wanted some company, I felt so bad for her, but she said no, she needed to be alone and try to work her mother's words out of her system. I believed she would be okay. She'd proved she could handle quite a lot. At least she had the Houseboat Dweller. It wasn't like she was all alone in the world. She had the proposing boyfriend and the baby, and that surely brought her a large degree of comfort.

The phone rang. Timothy?
Please, please, please.
Nope. This time it was indeed Aunt Ina, checking in with her thrice-weekly hello. Uncle Charlie had a sore throat, Grammy was just fine and guess what that nice Ethan Miles next door did the other day? He was nice enough to hang up the new needlepoint duck-pond scene that Grammy had had framed. Dana was arguing with her florist, and Aunt Ina was the queen of her building now that the wedding was coming right up. “Marla in 4K wants to know how much the wedding is costing us,” Aunt Ina tsk-tsked. “Do you believe her nerve? I was going to tell her that Larry's paying, but what is it her business? I told her it cost plenty.” And of course Aunt Ina asked how things with Timothy were, to which I'd replied with an enthusiastic “Great!”

As Aunt Ina and I said our goodbyes and hung up, I realized that I wasn't breaking out in hives over the fact that the wedding was just over a month away.
Why
wasn't exactly a million-dollar question. I knew it was because of Timothy. In just four mere weeks, my life had changed so much. I'd gone from boyfriendless to boyfriendfull, smoker to nonsmoker, ignored by Jeremy and Remke to applauded for my efforts, and I'd even admitted my true status as lowly assistant editor to Natasha. And it didn't even hurt. Thanks to her, and to Gwen and Jeremy and Remke—and even to Morgan Morgan—my worth as an
editor had been validated enough to make me feel appreciated. So title, schmitle. Well, okay,
not
title schmitle. I wanted to be an associate editor so bad I could—I didn't know what I could do. I only knew I wanted it. I'd have to wait until late January, when the complete manuscript of
The Stopped Starlet
was due. That was when Remke could read for himself just how much I deserved to be an associate editor—and deserved a big fat raise.

I was suddenly struck with the desire to clean house, to vacuum my rug with Carpet Fresh and Windex my windows and mirrors and fold all my underwear, which was currently strewn all over in the top drawer of my dresser. I wanted my apartment to gleam the next time Timothy came over, not that I knew when that would be. Perhaps this coming week? The following week? Anyway, I knew exactly where to begin my cleaning frenzy: by getting rid of my cigarette paraphernalia. I was ready to throw the ashtrays and lighters away.

The whole sorry mess in a D'Agastino's supermarket plastic bag, I opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink and tossed the bag in the trash. Goodbye, smoking career—

“But you said you love me, El-weeze!” Serge bellowed one floor below. “You wear my ring. We are engaged to be married!”

“Serge, I do love you, it's just that I'm not ready to get married.”

“To me!” he shouted. “You mean you are not ready to get married to me!”

Silence.

“If you loved me, El-weeze,
me,
you would marry me.”

“I'm sorry, Serge. I'm so sorry.”

Silence. And then the door slammed.

I finally took the hand away from my mouth. I ran to the window and stuck my head out. A half minute later, Serge stormed out of the building and up the street. I flew downstairs to Eloise's. “El? It's me.”

She opened the door, her face tearstained. She held up her left hand. The tiny diamond ring was gone. I pulled her into a hug and she collapsed against me.

“I'm not engaged anymore,” she said through sniffles.

“What happened?” I asked, walking to the futon and sitting her down.

“I guess it started the night we held the Flirt Night at Bloomies,” Eloise said. She hugged one of the red pillows to her stomach. “I'd been so psyched to pick out all the stuff I wanted for my apartment. And then I realized I wanted the
stuff.
I wanted the plush towels and hundred-dollar coffeemaker and a talking scale. I wanted to walk around waving my ring. And then I realized I wanted everything you got to have for getting engaged—” Eloise broke down in tears and crushed her face against the pillow.

“Except Serge?”

Eloise lifted her face and nodded. She reached for her cigarettes. “Now I really blew it.” She lit a Marlboro and sucked in a deep drag. “Now I'm not only
not
engaged, I don't even have a boyfriend.”

“But, El, now you'll be able to meet the right guy. The one you'll want even more than the stuff.”

“I guess.” She exhaled a stream of smoke away from my direction. “I miss the feel of the ring.”

“Let's go shopping for friendship rings in the East Village,” I suggested. “C'mon. Let's go right now.”

“Okay,” Eloise said in a small voice.

“And let's stop by St. Monica's and light a candle for your empty finger,” I added. Eloise sniffled and nodded.
“It's gonna be okay, El.” I handed her a tissue. “You're now free to meet the guy of your dreams.”

“Is it really ever gonna happen?” Eloise asked. “Are either of us ever gonna get married?”

What was going on here? Eloise was the most independent woman I knew. Now she was focusing on marriage as an end? That wasn't like her.

“Of course it's going to happen,” I told her. “For both of us. But I'm a little surprised to hear you talking like this, El. You've never been hunting for a husband. You're so your own person—”

“I'm full of shit is what I am.”

“That's not true,” I shot back. “You've built a career, you have this amazing apartment, you've dated so many different types of guys. You're finding what you want. By the time you're really ready to settle down, you'll marry exactly the right guy for you.”

Eloise gnawed her lower lip, then she jumped up and covered her face with her hands. “The right guy? Who wants the
right
guy, Jane? Are you kidding me? You of all people should get it.”

“Get
what?
”

“What's the fucking point?” Eloise shouted. “Who wants to love some guy who's just gonna leave you, anyway?”

Oh. Now we were on the same page. I got up and took Eloise's hand and led her back to the sofa. “El, you can't look at it like that. Your mother wouldn't want you to. How would she feel if she knew you were scared to commit to someone because you were afraid you'd lose him, too? She'd feel like that was her fault.”

“It was her fault!” Eloise screamed. “She died on me. Just like yours did—after your father did on her and on
you. You should know how I feel. Instead, you sound like some fucking therapist.”

I noticed she didn't bring her father into the equation, and that could only mean whatever had become of him was too painful to talk about. Had she been thinking of him when she'd said,
Who wants to love some guy who's just gonna leave you, anyway?

I wasn't going to bring up her father, but I felt the need to say something, so I started in. “But, Eloise—” But, Eloise, what? She wasn't wrong. She wasn't right, either. But she wasn't wrong. “I don't know what I mean, okay? I just know that if we don't try, we'll be alone. Isn't that worse?”

“No, because at least we'll be alone and
not
miserable instead of alone and heartbroken or grief stricken.”

“Alone and not miserable?” I asked. “Isn't that an oxymoron?”

“We can be happy and alone,” Eloise said, blowing her nose. “We have so much going for us. Both of us. Our careers are going really well, we're totally on our own, we're doing really interesting things, we live in the greatest city in the world—”

I laughed. “Yeah, our lives
really
suck.”

“Stop making sense,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I hate when you do that.”

“Everything is really going to be okay. I'm beginning to think that everything will be okay when it's supposed to be. Does that make any sense?”

“Yeah. I think so.” She tucked a Jennifer Aniston layer behind her ear and took a deep breath. “Enough of this melodrama. Let's go shopping. We have to get you something hot to wear for July Fourth. You're gonna spend the Fourth with Timothy, right?”

I shrugged. “Maybe. He didn't mention it. He might have to work.”

“Well, how about if we make plans right now,” Eloise said. “If Timothy has to work, it's you and me. If he doesn't, I'll hang out with Amanda and Jeff and his six thousand friends.”