She, Myself & I (3 page)

“Don’t do that. Don’t try to set me up,” I said.

“Okay, fine, I won’t. But just so you know, I already gave him your number.”

“You what?”

“Why are you yelling at me? Your work number, I mean. He has a custody issue he’s dealing with, and he needs an attorney. I told him that you’re the Terminator of lawyers.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I thought you’d be happy about the referral,” Sophie said.

“Yeah, that’s just what I need. Another obnoxious client,” I said.

“Well then, if he calls you, tell him you’re not taking on any new clients. God, why are you acting so weird? You’re even twitchier and more argumentative than usual,” Sophie said.

Why did I allow my mother to manipulate me into coming over here? I wondered. I could be home right now, watching the Home Shopping Network—my secret guilty pleasure—and painting my toenails instead of putting up with this abuse. I was going to be so glad when Sophie’s hormones stabilized and she stopped being such a complete pain in the ass.

“Nothing. It’s just . . .” I paused. “Mom was on a tear yesterday about wanting me to start dating again, and I told her it’s not gonna happen. I thought maybe she was trying to enlist you in her campaign.”

“Oh, yeah, she told me about that. Something about how you’re planning on staying single forever.”

“Don’t roll your eyes, I’m serious. Ever since I made partner, I’ve been buried in work, so I don’t have time to date. Besides, why is it so wrong to want to focus on my career? Men do it all the time. Why can’t a woman do the same thing?” I asked.

“They can. Being a single woman in your thirties is very hot right now. It’s all about amazing shoes and cocktails and sex without consequences,” Sophie said.

“Yeah, right,” I snorted. Sophie and Aidan had met in college, so she had no idea what it was really like out there now. “Dating in your thirties is just as bad as dating in your twenties, only the men have a lot more baggage. Ex-wives, custody disputes, and impotence. Trust me, I know. A stream of newly single men file through my office every day. And I think Austin is worse than most other cities. If I see one more guy clinging to the revolting ‘I’m an evolved man’ uniform of little John Lennon glasses, a goatee, and Teva sandals, and referring to everyone as ‘dude,’ I’m going to lose it,” I continued.

“Your clients tell you they’re impotent?” Sophie asked.

“No. I’m just guessing about that part from all of the Viagra commercials I keep seeing on television. There seems to be an epidemic.” I smiled without humor, remembering Scott’s constant stream of excuses for not wanting to have sex. He kept claiming it was natural for a couple’s sex life to wane after being together for a few years. “I suggested to Scott that he try Viagra. I couldn’t figure out why an otherwise healthy thirty-eight-year-old man wasn’t able to maintain an erection.”

Sophie grimaced. “Not your fault, Paige. You know that, right?” she said.

“Well, I’m not stupid. I know I didn’t turn him off of women. But I’m tired of being told not to take it personally,” I said, shrugging.

“I think you should see someone. A therapist. Your divorce and your job are making you bitter,” Sophie said.

“I’m way past bitter,” I said. “Way, way past it. I’ve also zipped past disillusioned, cynical, and distrustful.”

“I’m serious. This whole thing about how you’re not going to date anymore—I’m sure that’s a very normal reaction after what you’ve gone through. And anger is healthy. But withdrawing from life is not, especially since it’s been two years since you split up.”

“I’m not withdrawing. I have my work and my family and friends. That’s enough. Not all people have to take the same path, you know. Not everyone is cut out for marriage. In fact, it’s offensive and sexist to assume that I have to be attached to a man in order to be a whole person,” I said.

“I’m not saying that! I just don’t think it’s healthy to embrace a monastic lifestyle just because you were married to a gay man. The relationship was doomed to fail from the start,” Sophie said.

I considered this. “Monastic” wasn’t a particularly appealing adjective to get slapped with.

“Maybe . . . ,” I said slowly.

Sophie brightened. “Really?” she said eagerly. She was so transparent, I could practically hear her mentally reviewing the list of guys she could set me up with.

“I’m through with serious relationships. But that doesn’t mean I should have to give up sex, right? Confirmed bachelors don’t. They have their swank apartments with mirrored ceilings and their little black books, and date all kinds of women without ever getting serious about anyone,” I said, my enthusiasm for the idea growing.

Sophie looked at me blankly. “Mirrored ceilings? You’re kidding, right?”

“Well, yeah, maybe about that part. But I think I’m onto something here. You were just saying that there’s a renaissance of the thirty-something single woman. I could be a part of that. Why not? I could get out there, meet some new men, have some completely anonymous sex—what did Erica Jong called it? The zipless fuck? It’s a fantastic idea. Maybe I’ll even start with your handyman,” I said, just to needle her.

“Zack? I thought you weren’t interested in him.”

“I’m not. That’s the point. At least, I’m not interested in his mind. His body’s a different story. . . .”

“Paige! You’re not serious, are you?”

“What? You were just telling me I need to get back out there. Do you think Zack would be up for a fling?”

“Not Zack. I know he’s a hottie, but he’s a really nice guy. Way too nice to be treated like he’s disposable,” Sophie protested.

“Hottie,” I repeated, and snorted. “Who says that? Are you auditioning for
The Real World
?”

“That’s an idea. Do you think they’d be interested in casting a thirty-two-year-old married pregnant woman? But really . . . you’re just joking about Zack, right? Right?”

She looked so anxious, I couldn’t bring myself to torture her any longer.

“Don’t worry, I won’t seduce your man candy. I meant what I said—I have no intention of ever dating again. Now, what’s for dinner?” I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

“Whatever you go pick up,” Sophie said, lolling back on her side, one hand resting on her huge belly. “I don’t have a kitchen, and I’m too tired to move.”

Chapter Three

I first met Owen Malloy in law school when he lived in the other half of a duplex I rented near campus. He was a pale-skinned, freckle-faced smart-ass with coppery red hair, which had thinned considerably in the nine years since we graduated. Owen was now an assistant district attorney for Travis County, and had worked his way up from prosecuting shoplifters to major felonies. He was also gay, and the only person outside of my family whom I’d told the real reason why Scott and I had divorced.

“I heard some gossip about your ex-husband,” Owen said, looking keenly at me.

We’d met for lunch at P.F. Chang’s, a Chinese restaurant near my office. I was having the Szechuan Beef, and Owen was scarfing down the Orange Peel Shrimp.

“Let me have a bite,” I said, my fork hovering near his plate.

“No, go away. You know I hate sharing,” Owen said. “So, you don’t want to know my Scott gossip?”

I shrugged. I did, of course, but I also didn’t want to seem too eager.

“Don’t tell me . . . he’s changed his mind and decided he’s straight again,” I said.

“No, it doesn’t work that way. Once we turn them over to our side, they never go back,” Owen said, rubbing his hands together with Machiavellian glee.

“So, tell me your gossip.”

“Yeah, I knew you were just pretending you weren’t interested,” Owen said. His appealing grin appeared, and I thought, as I often had in the past, that while Owen was not a handsome man, his face possessed a homely elegance. “Anton saw Scott out at Club DeVille the other night. He was with Kevin Stern—the pastry chef at that new restaurant, Versa. It’s very hot right now, and Kevin is considered to be quite the catch. I know four different guys who’ve been trying to hook up with him.”

I digested this. While my love life had been labeled “monastic,” my ex-husband was now sleeping with someone who could whip up a postcoital Baked Alaska. And who was considered a catch by most of the Austin gay community. I wondered if I’d ever been considered a catch, and thought probably not. I know that on days when I make an effort with my hair, makeup, and clothes, I’d be considered pretty, but my angular face and prickly nature would forever keep me out of the beautiful range.

“A catch,” I repeated. I pushed my Szechuan Beef to the side, and Owen—who had no problem sharing other people’s food—dug in. “And what’s Kevin like? Gay all along, or did he suddenly decide to switch sides, too?”

“I don’t think straight people just decide to be gay,” Owen said.

“I know. That was my lame attempt at a joke, to show that I don’t care anymore.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“When did you first know? We’ve never talked about it,” I said.

Owen shrugged. “As far back as I can remember. It never occurred to me to pretend to be something I’m not. But I know that’s not true for everyone. There are men who stay in the closet until they’re in their forties or fifties or forever. Just be glad that Scott didn’t wait that long.”

I tried to decide whether or not I was glad. I’d gotten past grieving for my marriage—and it obviously wasn’t something Scott was dwelling on—and anyway, now that I knew he preferred men, it wasn’t like that cat could ever be stuffed back into the bag. If I was still upset about anything, it was that I hadn’t figured it out before he told me, before we made the enormous mistake of getting married. Because, really, how could I
not
have known Scott was gay? I was his wife, his partner, his lover. How blind could I have been?

And short of leaving around stacks of gay porn, there had been plenty of signs that later, once I knew the truth, seemed obvious in retrospect. Scott had been depressed for months, had started to shy away from any physical contact with me. And then there was the big clue, the one that should have hit me over the head like a cartoon frying pan: he’d admitted to me that he’d been with a man before, back when he was in college. Scott had laughed it off when he told me about it early on in our relationship, before we married, while we were lying in bed together and playing the dangerous game of confessing past exploits. He said it was a one-time thing, it had happened when he was drunk, and it embarrassed him to talk about it now. The way he explained it, it had sounded natural, normal even—the result of overactive hormones, too much to drink, and the hard-partying college lifestyle.

I had felt squeamish when he told me. I’ve always abhorred homophobia in any form, and I never thought I would be bothered by the story of a homosexual encounter. But when one of those two men was my boyfriend and later husband . . . well, it had bothered me, even if I hadn’t wanted to admit it to Scott or even to myself.

I broke open my fortune cookie and read the message out loud: “ ‘The greatest danger could be your stupidity.’ Very nice,” I muttered, crumpling it up in my hand. “Just what I was hoping for today, a hostile fortune.”

“Maybe you were meant to have mine: ‘All is not yet lost,’ ” Owen read.

“Ha-ha.”

“Seriously, Paige, you need to cheer up. I haven’t seen you crack a smile in months. And are you ever going to start dating again?” Owen asked.

“That’s all anyone seems capable of talking about lately. My mother, Sophie, now you,” I said irritably.

“There’s a reason why. It’s time. You can’t spend the rest of your life moping around over Scott,” he said.

“No, it’s not that. It isn’t about him.”

“Then what is it?”

I shrugged. It was my new favorite gesture and pretty much summed up how I felt about every aspect of my life.

“Ah, our little Paige seems to be suffering from ennui. And for that, there’s only one cure,” Owen said.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“You have to get laid. You have to fuck Scott and the entire sordid mess that was your marriage out of your memory,” Owen pronounced.

“Nice mouth,” I commented.

Owen snorted. “This coming from the woman who could curse a sailor under the table. But all kidding aside, it’ll really work. Trust me, I’m a gay man, I know these things.”

“What things?”

“Sex things.”

“No, you know gay sex things, but you don’t know anything about straight sex things.”

“That’s not true. I went through a phase in middle school where I read through all of my mother’s bodice-ripper romance novels. And let me tell you, if I wasn’t already gay, those things would have scared me off of women for good. All of those petticoats they had to wade through just to get to third base,” Owen said, shaking his head in disbelief that any man—swashbuckling pirate or other—would want to attempt such a thing.

I stared at him. “Is there a point anywhere in there?”

“Yes. The point is, you need to reconnect with your sensual side. So go forth and find a hot guy, preferably a dumb one so you won’t have to make conversation with him, and lure him into your bed. It’s a surefire cure for your ennui.”