Triangles (14 page)

WHO IS THIS MAN?

In the glass, he is a stranger,

yet his scent is familiar

and the hand at your elbow

feels proprietary there.

What

this means, you do not know,

so you walk a little faster. But

he keeps pace. The hair at

your collar pricks, though you

are

not in danger. The hour

is busy, the sidewalk

crowded. All you have to

do is scream. But before

you

open your mouth, his velour

voice calls your name, stirring

leaves of memory, coaxing

them to float, and now you’re

afraid

they won’t. When you turn

to study his face, something

in the way he looks at you

makes you search for the us

of

you, buried in the deep

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of his eyes. Yes, you knew

him once, but he is a changeling.

Metamorphosed. And you run.

Andrea

THE

PROBLEM

WITH

HEALTH

KICKS

Is they work best if everyone living under the same roof shares them.

Honestly, I’m proud of Harley and

how she dove headfirst into the whole eat-right-and-exercise-daily thing.

We even found her a special summer

program: Healthy Eating + Exercise =

Live Longer, or HEELL, which is

supposed to read “heel,” not “hell.” And hell is kind of what it’s become.

Because the thing about programs

is someone has to facilitate them.

And for Harley, that someone is me.

I am her HEELL sponsor, I guess.

Which means trying to fulfill her request that we eat all organic. But Sak ’n Save is between work and home, while

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Whole Foods is twenty minutes out

of my way, not to mention out of my budget. Hope she never discovers

I’m saving containers and bags marked organic and putting regular produce inside them. Hell hath no fury like a scorned farmers’ market devotee.

MY SECOND JOB

As her facilitator is helping her

count calories, fat, and sodium

content in every foodstuff that

goes into her mouth. Oh yeah,

and into my mouth too. Who knew,

in a regular one-patty fast-food

cheeseburger, with condiments,

a person consumes:

Calories

359

Fat calories

178

Total fat

19.8 grams

Saturated fat 9.2 grams

Sodium

976 milligrams

And you don’t even want to look

at french fries or a Big Mac.

Fast food is now officially excised from our diet, as is “anything white.” Meaning potatoes, pasta, rice, or bread, except for whole-grain particleboard.

Dessert? Sure, as long as it’s sugar-249/881

and fat-free. I’ve taken to keeping a big bag of M&M’s in my desk.

Hiding candy from my kid. Nice.

AND THE BEST THING OF ALL

Is the exercise program.

Harley is up before dawn

every morning so she can walk

or take a long bike ride before

it gets too hot. Worse, she wants

me to come along.
Please, Mom.

You could drop a few pounds

too. And exercise is more fun

if you don’t have to do it all by
yourself. Anyway, I want you

to live a long, healthy life.
That one got to me a little. I do breathe too hard after an uphill chug,

and my heart beats way too fast.

So I’m awake with the sun,

trying my level best to keep up

with my thirteen-year-old

daughter. My only hope seems

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to be that she’ll grow tired

of the rigid routine. It’s only

been a couple of weeks. Right

now, she’s still going strong.

RIGHT THIS MINUTE

She’s going strong at her summer

program and I am on my lunch

break. I brought a nice chicken

salad from home—low-cal dressing

and all. But because I can’t help

but rebel at least a little, I am at Starbucks, where I will indulge

in a “Caramel frappuccino …

Okay, make it light and … skip

the whipped cream.” Damn. Good

habits will rub off on a girl, if she isn’t careful. I take my change

and am putting it away when

someone behind me says,
Hello,

Andrea. It’s been a while.

The voice—Geoff’s voice—tugs

on a string of emotions. None

I can’t smile my way out of,

however. “Yes, it
has
been a while.” I move sideways to let him order,

and as the barista pours his

large coffee, the darkest roast
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you have,
I collect my too-sweet dessert-substitute frappuccino.

MOMENTS LIKE THESE

Are awkward. I don’t know what

to say. Whether or not just to turn away, find a seat, and expect him

to leave me alone. He saves me

worrying about it.
May I join you?

I’d love to catch up a little.

I shrug. “Sure.” He leads me to a table for two by the window, and it feels all déjà vuish. Except he’s drinking Seattle roast instead of Grey Goose.

We sit, studying each other for

several hushed seconds. He looks

clear-eyed, and somehow softer

around the edges, like he’s shed

an armored shell. Someone has to

break the silence.
How have you
been? And how is your daughter?

Nice of him to ask about Harley.

“I’m fine, thanks. And Harley is

thirteen. Which pretty much tells

you all you need to know.” Chitchat 255/881

definitely sucks. “What have you been up to?” Go ahead. Ask him. “And

how’s your wife?” A Russian transplant.

He winces. Sips his coffee. Finally says,
Marina and I split up.

She couldn’t take the drinking …

or how I acted when I drank,

I guess.
He pauses at the way my head is bobbing.
I’m six weeks sober.

When Marina walked out, I had

a come-to-Jesus.
He stops again, perhaps hoping to find me still

nodding. “I’m sorry about your wife, Geoff. Are you sure it was …” I’m

embarrassed to finish it. Or even

admit I might have played a part

in their breakup. But he says,
It had
nothing to do with you, if that’s
what you’re thinking. She never
found out about you at all. No,
she left because of how I treated
her. I’ve had a lot of time alone
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to think about things, and I realize
I wasn’t very nice to you, either.

Now he reaches across the table,

slides his hand over the top of mine.

Looks into my eyes.
I’m sorry.

HE SOUNDS SINCERE

But liars often do. I pull my hand

away. “It’s okay. I’m over it.” Mostly true. Except for that annoying voice inside my head that keeps insisting the only part of me men want to

cherish is the welcome mat just

south of my belly button. And this

man was instrumental in making

me feel that way.
Look. I said

some really ugly things, but I hope
you know it was the booze talking.

Alcoholics tend to be assholes.

That makes me smile. “Can you

please tell that to my ex? He doesn’t seem to get it.” He definitely didn’t get it on the Fourth of July, which Harley insisted we share with

him, Cassie, and Chad. Poor young

man had to escort a thirteen-year-old sort-of-but-not-formally stepsister, not to mention one who’s really

crushing on him and is so too young 258/881

to be seen with, to and from the food and drink stands. Meanwhile, Steve

and Cassie were tying one on,

while I (who wished I could)

got to play the adult in the group.

Considering how childish Steve

and his girlfriend acted, somebody

had to. But it wasn’t exactly my job.

Next year, fireworks will just be

Harley and me. Please, God.

I thought your ex was pretty

much out of the picture,
says Geoff, interrupting the unpleasant

flashback.
Is he bothering you?

“Well, yeah. I mean, he bothers me

a lot. But he’s not messing with me, except he moved back to Reno and

Harley wants to see more of him.”

He grins.
Does that mean you

might have a few more spare

evenings for things like dinner
and dancing?
Is he actually saying he wants to ask me out?

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Apparently, he is.
I know I don’t
deserve another chance. But I hope
you’ll consider giving me one.

ANOTHER AWKWARD SILENCE

I really don’t know what to say.

So I glance at my watch. “Oh.

I need to be back at work in, like, five minutes …” True statement.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” I stand, and he does too. “I am sorry about

your wife. But I’m happy it made

you take a look at yourself. Be well.” As noncommittal as I tried to make

it, he asks,
So, can I call you, then?

“Uh …” Be firm. “I guess so.”

Wow, way to be firm. “But no

promises.” Okay, a little better.

Out the door. Into my car. Drive

six blocks to work. All the time

remembering his alcohol-fueled

rages. The awful names he called

me. The way he lied to me. The way

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he lied to his wife. His lust-filled eyes. (Okay, that was kind of a turn-on.) But turn-on or no, the rest counted more. There will be no second chance.

TURN-ONS

Are personal. One woman’s

Adonis is another’s Puck, and

a few open-minded fairies

might even find him to their

taste.

Curly hair. Straight hair. Zero

hair. Chest hair? A must for

some, and yet for others it

is

a deal breaker. Younger lover?

Older? On one hand, youthful

stamina is a powerful lure;

on the

other, experience might trump

it, especially in matters

regarding proper use of the

tongue.

Scent? Is sweat disgusting or

intoxicating? Cologne—leather,

forest, some exotic spice, or a hint of the

sea? And as for flavor, a swift

lick of salt may be repellent or

aphrodisiac. It’s all up to the

taster.

HOLLY

WHAT’S ROTTEN

About uncovering a child’s deception is that no matter how much you’d

like to overlook it, you really can’t.

Which wouldn’t be so bad, except

when you’re not exactly innocent

yourself. Regardless, poor Mikayla

is liable to stay grounded all summer at the rate she’s going. Catching her with Dylan at the game was unfortunate.

I thought about letting it go, and might have, except when Dylan noticed me

watching them and sputtered their kiss to a stop, Mikayla looked at me with such defiance that it basically pissed me off. I’m only human, and a human parent at that. Dylan read me

perfectly. Gave her another quick

kiss. Evaporated into the crowd.

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When I gestured for her to come

with me, I thought she just might

follow Dylan instead. But she chose obedience. Not sure if she thinks