Going in Circles (11 page)

“It's okay,” I say. “Other people can be in love. It doesn't offend me.”

She finishes her text and puts her phone down but not away. “So,” she says, flushed and grinning. “Will you do what I tell you, if I promise it'll make you feel better?”

“I don't like promises.”

“You're not cool enough to get away with that sentiment,” she says, arching an eyebrow.

“I don't. Promises just tell you how someone's going to let you down.”

“Yes, I believe I read that on a Hallmark card.”

“You don't have to tell me you're going to do something if you're going to do it, but if you
promise
me, that means you know there's a chance you won't do it, and then you won't.”

“Are you talking about me, now? Or Matthew?”

“Everybody.”

“Fine. Can I guarantee? Is that the same thing?”

It makes me nervous to be forming a potential bond with a near stranger. One day it might be that she no longer wants to be in this, and I will have to separate myself from her.

“I guess you can guarantee. You're offering me a service, not a relationship.”

“Charlie,” she says, “I'm offering you both.”

“I don't know.”

Francesca opens a sugar packet and dumps it on the table. She dips in a finger and sucks on it. “Listen, rule number one is easy. I already said it. Go outside. All caps. You can't keep falling asleep in front of the television. That'll send you back to your husband because you feel pathetic, not because you want to be married to him.”

“I guess.”

“Do you want to be married to him?”

“Mostly.” I twist the end of the straw and form it into a
circle, tying a knot. I take her empty sugar packet and work it through the circle until it forms the shape of a bowl.

“If I were in your position, I'd be living the ultimate girl life right now. Have fun, have a fling, get drunk, go sing. And other things that rhyme. Do whatever it takes to become your own woman. Then you can decide if you want to share that person you are with someone else.”

“That sounds exhausting. And like I might need antibiotics.”

“I'm not saying skank out and get VD. Jeez. Isn't Matthew seeing someone?”

“I don't know.”

“If that guy was my boyfriend, I'd be totally stalking his house. And for the record, it's total bullshit that you don't live in that house anymore.”

“For the record, I'm the one who left.”

“You're the woman. You're not supposed to be out on your ass. He should be a man and find someplace to live. Because,
for the record,
you're only in this situation because his ass left you to begin with.” Francesca takes the last fry and drops it into her mouth. Ketchup hangs on her upper lip as she grins. “Having fun yet?”

I am. It isn't just that she has listened, but she has made me feel like things could be okay. She's in front of me because she has chosen to be, not because of an obligation. Over the months my other friends have been whittled down to just Andy, mostly because he's the only one with absolutely no connection to Matthew. And there's only so much more I can ask of his patience.

I take a breath. “Okay, Francesca. I will Go Outside.”

“Great. And once you master that, you'll learn the next rule.”

“Going outside is less of a rule, and more like a task.”

“
You're
more like a task,” she snaps back.

“Can the next rule be Do Laundry? My closet is a mess.”

“Yeah, it won't be that. We're gonna get you a life, Charlie.” She yawns. “Let's bounce. I'm finally tired.”

I hand her the straw miniature. She gasps, shaking her bangs out of her face as she balances the twisted white plastic on the tip of her finger. “It's a coffee mug!”

“You like it?”

“I love it. You're amazing.”

She pretends to take a sip from her tiny mug and then toasts my giant one.

“To new friends.”

“And to Going Outside.”

O
ne day I will find out who taught my mother how to send a text message, and I will force that person to read every text my mother ever sent me until he or she breaks down into a puddle of regrets and apologies. Because whoever it was didn't teach my mother anything about what kinds of messages are appropriate for texting. He or she must have said something like,
“It's easy, Elaine. You just push these buttons to write whatever's important, and then push this green button here, and as long as you make it sound like you're trapped in a flaming car, then the person you want to talk to will immediately call you back.”

More important, this person must have told my mother that she didn't have to worry about spelling or punctuation, and that you could make a word as short as you wanted and nothing about your message would be confusing.

It leads to moments like right now, when I'm walking into my office and I get this series of mind-jarring texts:

YOUR MOM WANTS 2 KNOW IF U R CUMMING
.

MATTHEW SHOULD CUM 2
.

FRIDAY. OLIVE GARDEN
.

CUM 4 MY BIRTHDAY
.

My mother's text messages are like spam from Mexican Viagra suppliers. It's beyond disturbing.

I send a message back to her: “
HI, MOM. WILL CHECK WITH MATTHEW, BUT I WILL DEFINITELY BE AT YOUR PARTY. LOVE TO YOU AND DAD.—CHARLOTTE
”

I know it seems weird to sign my text, but twice before my mother has replied with, “
R U REALLY MY DAUGHTER
?” and it was too tempting to write back, “
I HOPE NOT
.”

I call Matthew, but it goes to voice mail. I hang up before I leave what would only have been a babbling message that would no doubt have included an unfortunate tangent about my mother asking me about his orgasms. Instead, I opt to text him, letting him know the time and place, asking if he'd like to be there.

This time, I do get a text back: “
YOU STILL HAVEN'T TOLD YOUR MOTHER ABOUT US.
”

I can hear the accusation. This isn't a question. This is enough to let me know that he's told his family. Most likely he won't be able to attend my mother's birthday dinner, not because he feels awkward but because he'll have a previous engagement. Overjoyed by the good news, his mother must be throwing celebratory fests every night.

He sends another text: “
I HAVE PLANS THAT NIGHT. SORRY.
”

Plans.
Just “plans.” He's got plans. Things to do. Matthew's very important out there, with his
plans.
Matthew, who used to come straight home after work, do extra work in the spare bedroom until dinner, then watch exactly one hour of television before getting into bed with his nightly crossword puzzle, now is too busy with
plans
that keep him out on a Friday
night. Not to mention wherever he was last night when he wanted me to pick up my sewing machine.

I know I'm probably not supposed to care, or at the very least it's supposed to make me want to make my own plans and have my own fun. But right now, I just want to know what Matthew's doing with his post-Charlotte life. How can I find that out?

Crap. I'm gonna Google my husband.

You know how you have to click through a million things to get online, to get a new version of iTunes, to buy a book on Amazon? Since there's already a million clicks and agreements you have to go through, there might as well be one more. One giant pop-up window that says:

ARE YOU SURE YOU AREN'T GOOGLING AN EX
?

But there's no pop-up, no warning, nothing that keeps me in check. Nothing that adds an extra second to decide if this is really what I want to do. So right now, in front of me, I have found Matthew's Facebook page.

That's new.

Matthew doesn't usually bother with online social networks. He doesn't really bother with any kind of social network, if I'm being honest. His core group of friends goes back to the third grade. They all still hang out, play fantasy football together, and get dressed up once a year for a wedding or funeral.

I'm not exactly sure where to start being angry about this site. Okay, the easy one right off the bat is the photo he's using, the one right next to his name. It's a great picture of him—he's laughing, leaning against a wall with his hands in his pockets. He almost looks like a model. I know why he looks this good. Because
I took this picture.
Right before I snapped the shot, I said, “Okay, give me Hot Model.” At first
he tried to get me to get rid of it, because he thought it made him look like he liked boys. Someone must have informed him that I wasn't the only one who found the picture to be hot.

Matthew has a few fun facts listed about him. He graduated from Harvard Law. He loves football, beer, and “chicks who can whistle using their fingers.” Didn't know that. Also: I can't do that.

“Is that him?”

I jump in my chair with a yelp. Francesca has a way of walking into my office without making a sound. I suppose it's because she's so tiny, but honestly, I don't know how she can get herself through what's basically a crack in a doorway, just sliding into a room like an envelope under a closed door.

She pushes me aside, leaning over to grab my mouse. “No offense, but I really thought he'd be cuter. What with the way you're going on about him all the time.”

“He
is
cute.” I sound entirely too defensive.

“I thought he'd be taller. And it says here he likes jazz music.”

“He does.”

“I just can't imagine you sitting next to this short dude all the time, listening to jazz music.”

“He's not short. His knees are kind of bent in that picture.”

“Well, what's with the ‘chicks who can whistle' thing?”

“I don't know.” I feel resigned. “I didn't know about this page. I just found it.”

“You mean it's new?” Francesca's leaning closer to me now, leaning onto my arm as she pores over Matthew's page. The collection of metal bracelets on her wrist jangles as she moves the mouse, making her sound fairylike and magical. Her eyes
dart back and forth, making the tips of her eyelashes catch on her bangs, the dark hair jolting in spurts like spider legs across her brow. Her mouth hangs open as she memorizes all this information.

I rub my eyes, suddenly feeling how long I've been staring at my monitor. I'm not sure how much time has gone by, but I think I've missed lunch. “Yes, it's new.”

“Do you know all these people he's linked to? All his friends?”

“Some of them. Not the girls.”

“There's a lot of girls.”

“I know.”

“They're young.”

“Yes, I see that.”

Francesca lowers herself to her knees in front of my desk, her chin resting just behind the keyboard. “This is why Jacob and I have a no-Facebook policy. We only share ourselves with each other.”

Turns out Jacob is kind of a long-distance boyfriend. He's based here in Los Angeles but goes to New York every other month for weeks at a time. So while they've been dating for six months, it's really more like three. They spend much of the day sending and waiting for communication. It's why she's always got her cell phone in her hand. She says it's hard but worth it. He takes naps when he gets off work so that he can talk to her through the night. That's such a great time in a relationship, when someone will still organize his sleep patterns around a chance to hear your voice.

“Do you want my chair?” I ask, but she shakes her head. She clicks through Matthew's other photographs, his friends, all the messages they've left each other. She goes through
everything I've been doing for the past couple of hours, but much more quickly. Still, she comes up with the same questions I have.

“Who is this girl who says she likes his eyes?”

“I don't know.”

“And who the hell is this bitch who put up a picture of her undercleavage?” Francesca cups her breasts and poses at me, face twisted in mock innocence. A spot-on imitation of the girl in the picture.

“Also don't know.”

She turns back to the computer, apparently determined to click through the entire Internet. “How's Going Outside working for you?”

“It technically hasn't happened yet.”

“Okay, maybe that was too difficult a first rule for you,” she says. She rubs at her wrist as she stares at the monitor, wincing. “You need to change your focus. It isn't about how you feel
with
Matthew, it's about how you feel without him.”

“Do you write self-help books in your spare time or something?”

“New rule: Quit the Internet. Think you can do that?”

I don't, actually. So I try to change the subject. “You okay?” I ask, nodding toward her arm where she's been rubbing.

She points at the screen. “Look. This is the damn truth, right here. Did you see this?”

Under “Relationship Status,” Matthew has: “
IT'S COMPLICATED
.”

She's still nursing her wrist as she leaves my office. “You both seem to love that word,” she says. “Quit the Internet.”

I
'll quit the Internet tomorrow. Tonight, I've poured a giant glass of wine and created a Facebook profile, complete with a fake name so that I can get to the bottom of Matthew's Undercleavage girl. It comes as no surprise that she's so desperate for attention she “Friend”-ed me back immediately, giving a complete stranger access to her profile.

I head straight for her photographs.

Predictably, Undercleavage is a skinny girl with huge fake boobs and a bad blond bob. I didn't even know they still made colored contact lenses, but I'm pretty sure this chick wasn't born with lavender pupils. She likes her jeans low-slung, her eyeliner blue, and—if there's a camera around—her tongue pointing down toward her chin.