Family Affair (27 page)

“I do say so,” I say.

“Fine,” he allows, and then cracks a smile. “You’re not that hot, anyway. I was just seeing if I could get sloppy seconds and hold it over Brett’s fat head for the next ten years.”

“Please,” I tease back. “You were five minutes away from pulling out a mix tape.”

Scott laughs. “Yeah, that would have been
really
embarrassing.”

And as she gets up to hit the ladies’ room, I slip a perfectly good CD onto a passing busboy’s tray.

I wonder if it was Thanksgiving that did it. That, or Heather at the corn maze. Either way, it’s not every day you have your mother-in-law suggesting she fix you up with potential dates, so I’m certainly not taking her seriously, nor am I prepared when I answer my cell phone to find Eric Ehrlich—a would-be suitor—on the other end.

“Didn’t mean to catch you off guard,” he says, after the very long pause from my end. “Did Mrs. Foster mention that I’d be calling?” he asks.

“You know, she did, but I didn’t think it would actually transpire,” I reply.

“Hard luck with the gents lately?”

“No,” I say. “I mean, yes, I suppose, but not the way that sounded. It’s not like I can’t get a date or anything. I just haven’t been trying. I’ve been … not dating for a while. I only just recently got separated.”

“Sometimes you just gotta get back on the horse,” he says, and I can’t help but visualize all the many images this unfortunately conjures up.

“Right.”

“So when do I get to meet you?”

“I don’t know,” I say, and start to think about it. This is going to be the first date I’ve been on since … high school? The thought of this sends me into a conversational tailspin. “This is weird. Is this weird? I don’t know. I just haven’t dated in a really long time, and now that this is becoming a reality, I’m just thinking that maybe—no offense—but maybe my first date shouldn’t be blind.”

“Well, that’s good news for both of us because I have twenty-twenty vision,” he says, completely undeterred by my mini-meltdown. Which I’ll admit is slightly promising. Or slightly frightening. He’s either patient and understanding or desperate and ugly.

“That
is
good news,” I say.

“Good. We both feel better, then. How’s Friday?”

“Friday? As in
this
Friday?” I echo stupidly.

“Yes,” he says. “Friday, this Friday.”

“Um, yeah,” I finally spit out. “I think I can do Friday.”

After all, none of the shows I watch are on Friday. Then again, all of my shows are readily available on DVR, and I have enough shows right now to keep me busy for the whole weekend. But I suppose a few hours with Eric on Friday couldn’t be too painful.

“Great,” he says. “Do you like Greek?”

“Food?” I ask, and immediately regret it. What do I think he means, the language? Did I just make a very unfortunate sexual remark to a guy I just met? Of course he means food.

“Yes. Greek food.”

“I do like Greek food,” I say.

“You hate Greek food,” Trish says from behind me, and I wonder how long she’s been listening. I wave her off and turn to give her a dirty look.

“Greek sounds great,” I reiterate.

“Perfect,” he says. “I’ll touch base on Friday and we’ll arrange to meet.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “Thanks for … calling.”

I hang up. Big sigh. My mother-in-law is pimping me, and I’m sure she thinks it’s for my own good.

I spin back around to Trish. “Do you
mind?”

“Do you?” she asks. “You don’t like Greek food.”

“So what?” I say. “I was on the phone. That was a conversation between me and not you.”

“Greeks like to butt-fuck,” she says.

“Lovely,” I respond, but I cringe at the thought of the Greek-related sexual innuendo that transpired sixty seconds earlier. I forgo the riposte of a lesbian joke, knowing Trish’s sometime sensitivity.

“I’m just sayin’. So who were you lying to?”

“Eric?” I say, as if I’m asking a question rather than answering one.

“Eric Ehrlich?” Trish asks. “Yeah, I think that’s what he said.”

“Why were you talking to Eric Ehrlich about Greek food? Oh my God …”

“Oh my God
what?”
I ask, as Trish bursts into a laughing fit. “Your mom gave him my number. She’s fixing me up. Which is totally awkward. When Ginny said she had someone she wanted me to meet, I didn’t really think she was being serious.”

Trish won’t stop laughing.

“Why is that so funny?” I ask.

“Because Eric is not your type. He’s not anybody’s type. Well, I suppose that’s not fair and he’s gotta be
someone’s
type, but he’s certainly not my type, and Mom tried to fix me up with him when I first started dating women.”

“Wow. Didn’t you start dating women freshman year of college?”

“Yup.”

“And he’s apparently still single.”

“Yup.” She laughs. “And he took me for Greek food, too!”

“Terrific,” I say. “So back up a bit. Why is he ‘not anybody’s type’?”

“He’s pear-shaped,” she says. “Come on.”

“Seriously. He’s pear-shaped. We know how unfortunate it is when a woman is pear-shaped, but it’s far more devastating when it’s a man. If anything, that date pushed me even further to the other side.”

“Okay,
how
pear-shaped?” I ask.

“Like a big, giant, humongous, gargantuan pear.”

“That’s very pear-y.”

“Very pear-y indeed, my friend.”

Our doorbell buzzes, and I’m glad to be excused from the conversation. I walk to the front door and see a midforties blond woman in a navy pantsuit barking into her cell phone. “I’m here, I gotta go, I gotta go!” she says, and then hangs up. “Hi, I’m Debbie.”

“Hi there, Debbie,” I say, and can’t help but look expectant because she seems to be missing the one thing we need for our photo shoot. “Come in.”

Debbie walks in and answers her phone as she does. “I told you I had to go,” she hollers into the phone. “What?”

I look at Trish, who shrugs, and we both stand there and wait for Debbie to finish her call.

“No, I’m at the photo place!” she screams. “I’ll call you later.” She hangs up and looks at us blankly for a long moment. Neither of us knows what to say, because we’re both uncomfortable about this woman yelling at whoever keeps calling her, and we don’t see a
pet
to photograph, so we’re kind of at a loss.

“I’m Layla,” I say. “This is Trish.”

“I’m so sorry,” Debbie says. “It’s been one of those days.”

“We all have ’em,” Trish says.

“I forgot Charlie,” Debbie realizes. “My dog.”

“That’s new,” Trish says, and looks at me.

“Dammit!” Debbie yells, and then looks apologetically at us. “Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself.”

“And
whoever was on that call,” Trish jokes, but Debbie doesn’t find it funny.

I clear my throat. “I’m sure we can fit Charlie in later if you want to go home and get him. We can wait a little while for Charlie if you want to—”

But Debbie flips open her phone and calls, I’m assuming, whomever she was just on the phone with. “Do you know that you got me so upset that I left without Charlie?” she seethes. “I’m here at the place to have my dog photographed and I’m without a dog. Without a dog!” There’s a pause when I think the poor person on the other end is answering, which is quickly interrupted. “Yes it
is
your fault. Yes it
is.”

“Do you notice anything about this crazy person in our midst?” Trish asks me under her breath.

“Besides the fact that she’s insane?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t notice anything else. It’s hard to notice anything else.”

Trish laughs and leans in closer. “She’s pear-shaped.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I say to Trish, because she knows I’m going to start laughing and there’s no good reason for me to be laughing, and of course we both start laughing uncontrollably.

“And now they’re laughing at me,” she bellows.

“No, we’re not laughing at you,” I say, and motion to Trish. “I was laughing at something
she
said. We’re not laughing at you. This is … this happens all the time. So you forgot the dog. It’s no big deal.”

Debbie squints her eyes at me and then at Trish, then she turns on her heels and leaves. We can still hear her making the person on her phone call miserable for a solid thirty seconds after the door closes behind her.

“I’m going to guess that she’s not coming back,” I say. “We kind of
were
laughing at her,” Trish corrects. “No, I was laughing at you. For commenting on her shape. And pear-shaped is kind of funny.”

“Fine,
I
was laughing at her.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Beware the pear. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

• • •

When Eric calls me that Friday I tell him I’ll meet him at the restaurant. He picks The Great Greek, which is actually a pretty good restaurant and would have been okay if it didn’t involve me driving to the Valley. For Greek food. With a pear-shaped person. But honestly, it’s been years since Trish has seen him. He could have grown out of that shape and into something else. And who cares if he
is
pear-shaped.

I spot him from behind as soon as I walk in. He said he’d be wearing a purple shirt, and that he is. But it’s not a purple shirt as much as an eggplant-colored shirt. And he’s not just a pear. He’s an eggplant-sized pear. I curse Trish for saying anything. Maybe I wouldn’t have noticed. Now all I can think about are fruits and vegetables. I walk over and tap him on the shoulder.

“Eric?” I ask.

“Layla,” he says. “Great to meet you.”

“You, too,” I say.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Do you like beer? Wine? Mixed? Something fruity?”

I choke on my own spit and start to cough. “Water,” I say through wheezes, then add, “Please.”

Once we’re seated at the table, I ask him how long he’s known Ginny and almost confess to knowing someone else she fixed him up with but think better of it.

“I’m her podiatrist,” he replies.

“A doctor,” I say.

“Indeed.” He nods proudly. He’s a foot doctor. Of course we need them in the world, but I can’t help but think it’s a kind of odd choice for a profession. I immediately feel guilty and decide not to judge.

“What made you … How did you get into that? Did you always know you wanted to do that?”

“I love feet.”

I start to judge again.

“Well, then, I guess it’s a good fit,” I say.

“I knew I wanted to be a doctor—and a specialized one at that—and I didn’t want to spend seventy years in school, so I explored a bunch of avenues, and when it came down to it, it was just a no-brainer. Feet really spoke to me.”

“That’s… Wow,” I say, thinking I really don’t want to talk about feet any more than I want to talk about fruit. “It’s great that you love your job.”

“I do. Feet are so amazing. When you think of it, they carry your whole weight. What would you do without feet? You couldn’t
walk.”

“No, you sure couldn’t,” I admit, as I check my watch only three minutes into my date. I start counting how many times he says “feet,” and it almost becomes like he’s speaking another language. Feet language. And “feet” stops sounding like a real word.

“There are seven thousand, eight hundred nerves in our feet.”

“So tell me something else,” I say, begging to change the subject. “Do you play any sports? Watch any sports?” Why am I asking about sports? All I’ve lived and breathed with Brett for our entire life is sports. Enough sports.

“I don’t play sports, or watch them, really, but funny story: I’ve treated some famous athletes, and believe me when I tell you that they have the worst feet you’ve ever seen.”

“I believe it,” I say, trying to head him off at the pass.

No such luck. “The wear and tear from all of the vigorous
activity does quite a number on their feet. Once I treated Michael Jordan.”

“Sports injury?”

“Plantar wart. Routine, really,” he replies. “Isn’t that something,” I say.

And finally our waiter comes to our table, and I’ve never been happier to see someone in my life. “Are you ready to order?” he asks.

“We’ve been so busy gabbing away that we haven’t even looked,” Eric says. “Give us a few minutes.”

“I think I can wing it,” I say, my eyes darting around the menu, desperate to find something to order and move this evening closer to its end.

“Nonsense,” Eric says. “We’re in no rush. Give us some time.”

I smile miserably at the waiter and watch him walk away like I’m twelve years old and seeing my best friend in the world leave for summer camp. It’s dramatic and heartbreaking.

• • •

The next day, as I’m recounting each unfortunate moment from the previous evening—every second of my life that I will never get back—I’m constantly interrupted by
me toos
, nods of recognition, and uncontrollable laughter from Trish.

“How is it that you let me go out with him?” I ask.

“Don’t even go there. I warned you.”

“You kind of did,” I admit.

“Thank you,” she gloats.

“I can’t do this,” I say, head in hands. “I don’t want to date a bunch of random men. I thought I’d dodged that bullet. I was
married
. To someone great. At least he
was
great.”

Trish sighs. “You can always come out with me tonight. I guarantee no men will hit on you where I’m going.”

“Because no men will be there? That sounds refreshing.” Better
than sitting at home watching the DVR, at any rate. Or waiting for the damn bank to call about our possible loans for the PETCO project, which is simply waiting for that final step to move forward.

“Though I will warn you,” Trish continues, “your drunk lesbian can rival an aggressive frat boy any day of the week.”

“I can handle that,” I say, and I look forward to a girls’ night. Me and Trish. A bunch of lesbians. And no stress.

• • •

We get to The Abbey and it’s decorated for Christmas, since it’s the first week of December. There are both men and women there, but the men are gay, so they have no interest in me, which is just what the doctor ordered.