Milkrun (5 page)

“You're practically a Brahmin by now.” Another joke!

He laughs. Yay! “Not quite. I haven't moved up to Beacon Hill just yet.”

Pause. One-second lapse. Two-second lapse. Uh-oh. What do I do now? Wait, I've got an idea. “So, what are you doing in Boston?” The ultimate crowd pleaser—giving men the opportunity to talk about themselves.

“I'm a doctor.”

Reee-lly.

“What kind of doctor?” A pediatrician? An E.R. resident? A heart surgeon?

“A podiatrist.”

“A what?”

“A foot doctor.”

I know that. I'm an editor. Someone who cares for and treats the human foot. “That must be…interesting.” C'mon, what else was I supposed to say? How about that athlete's foot? At least I have nice feet—they're a size 6 1/2 and very cute, if I do say so myself. My pedicurist even says they're a pleasure to work with, although she's probably just buttering me up for an extra tip, which is ridiculous because she owns her own place. You're not supposed to tip the owner, everyone knows that, but I once saw a fake-nailed snob leave a four-dollar tip for a twenty-dollar manicure and then I had to leave four dollars, too, and now every time I go I have to leave twenty-four dollars instead of twenty. As far as I'm concerned, she should say, “Don't be silly! Take your four dollars! You're insulting me! I'm the owner,” but instead she just takes it. It's all so absurd.

Anyway.

“So I guess you went to med school here?”

“Tufts. What about you?”

“I'm an editor.”

“Really? Where?”

“Cupid's”

“Cupid's?”

“We publish romance novels.”

“Oh, my mom reads those! Do you know Fabio?”

I giggle my oh-that's-so-clever-and-original flirty-laugh (I've been friends with Nat for long enough) and pat him on the shoulder. “Unfortunately not. Do you?”

“He's actually a patient of mine. He has really nice feet.”

“You're kidding, right?” I ask.

“Right. But you know what they say about people with nice feet.”

“What?”

“Nice shoes.”

Can I handle feet jokes? I do the laugh again.

“You have quite a pair of shoes on,” he says, looking down.

“Thanks. Fresh purchase. Single-girl boots.”

“Why is that?”

“Because they're notice-me boots.”

“I'm noticing.”

He's noticing?

“Good.” I smile demurely.

“You've certainly grown up.”

“You haven't seen me since I had pink braces and crimped hair.”

“You look great, Jackie.”

“Thanks. So do you.” You're a hottie. A total hottie with a little less hair and a little more love handles…but still very, very hot.

“So you're not dating anyone?” he asks.

That's what I've been trying to tell you. “No. What about you?”

“Single as charged.” His hand is suddenly on my shoulder. Hello there.

“Jackie! Jackie!” Nat is yelling in the background. I'm not sure how I hear her over the thumping
boom, boom, getting laid, boom boom,
but I do. And it's very distracting. Her arms are flying over her head now.

“Can I have your number?” At last. The magic words have escaped his lips.

“Sure.” I feel a bit like Cinderella, although my fresh-purchase single-girl shoes are definitely a lot funkier than glass slippers. Although I have always wanted a pair of those, too. I ask Ms. Cleavage for matches, and reach into my purse for a pen. She gives me the evil eye but no matches.

He takes the pen from my hand, and little tingles kind of like little ants, the black kind not the poisonous red ones, scramble up my arm. “Shoot.”

I recite my number, and good God, he writes it across his hand.

“Jackie! Jackie! Jackie!”

“I have to go,” I say, motioning to Natalie. He sees her. This is good. It looks as if I have friends.

“Great,” he says. “I'll call you.”

Please do.

I spend the rest of the evening being introduced to anyone who's anyone, but mostly posing so that Jonathan Gradinger can see how sexy I am. I'm also watching him carefully to see that he doesn't smudge my number up against any potential rivals. Mind you, I'm being very discreet; no more overt stalking for me.

Will he call? It's Friday, so maybe he'll call tomorrow. Maybe tonight? Maybe he'll call me the second he gets home. Maybe he'll say he can't sleep until he hears the soft, inviting lilt in my voice.

“Having fun?” Natalie whispers, as much as one can whisper over the music. We sit at a table with the Armani guy and three of his friends. One of them keeps talking to me with a thick French accent. I keep nodding, not really understanding anything he says. The only words I can make out are, “More drink, yes?”

Definitely yes. What a wonderful night. I am going to have the most perfect boyfriend in the whole world. He'll want to get married, and because he's a doctor I probably won't have to start with the
No dear, that's not the clitoris
thing, and he'll want to get married, and he's brilliant and the rest of my high school class is going to kill themselves with envy, and he'll want to get married. I particularly like the envy part of this whole fantasy. Hmm…snotty Sherri Burns thought she was so cool.
Oh, look at me, I'm the only freshman cool enough to get cast as a pink lady; oh, look at me, I'm so cute; oh, look at me, I'm going to wear my pink lady jacket every single day.

I can't wait 'til she hears about us. I'm sure she had a thing for my Jonathan, but what does it matter now? I can be big about the whole thing. Maybe I'll call her tonight and let her know about my engagement, although I don't even know where she lives. Maybe I should plan a reunion; it's been at least eight years since we graduated. I'll just let it slip out: “I'll be coming with my fiancé. You might remember him, Jonathan Gradinger?” Maybe I'll wear pink.

Or I could send a picture of us to the Stapley alumni Internet site. I'll just have to remember to bring a camera on our date.

I like that idea better.

“Tomorrow, we're going to hit The G-Spot, 'kay?” Natalie says, grabbing my hand. I assume she's talking about a bar.

“Sounds good.” I answer, wondering if I can get away with wearing this outfit again.

M
Y FIRST THOUGHT THIS MORNING
is about Jonathan Gradinger. It is not about 
.

Therefore I am officially over him.

Actually, my first real thought is
djjfhskakd
—why, oh, why, is my phone ringing at 9:15 on a Saturday morning? Someone had better be on fire. Secretly, it's only six minutes past nine. I set my huge clock (oversize so that I can see it without my contacts in) nine minutes fast in the hope that somehow this deception will make me on time.

“Hellooo?” I say.

“Fern!” It's my dad. “Are you still in bed?”

“No.” I always say I'm awake when I'm asleep. Don't know why.

“But you're wasting the day!”

“I'm awake.” Eyes…heavy. Mouth…can't open.

“Good. What's new?”

Uh. “I forget.”

“Do you want to call us back when you wake up?”

“No, now's good. Nothing's new.” Okay, okay. I'm sitting up. I'm awake. I'm going to have dark circles under my eyes and I'm practically out of concealer and no man will fall in love with me and it'll all be your fault.

“If nothing's new, why have you been too busy to call us back?”

Whoops. It's not that I ignore them on purpose. I am just constantly forgetting that they exist and that I should call them. “I've been busy at work.”

“Work is good. What have you been editing?”

“A book.”

“A book about what?”

Did he wake me up to learn more about
Millionaire Cowboy Dad?
How come he's not a millionaire daddy? “A romance, Dad. Same story as every other story.”

“What's that?”

“Girl meets boy. Girl loves boy. Boy screws over girl.”

“That's the story?”

I must really not be paying attention if that's what I just told my father. Why is he calling me so early? This I don't ask either, afraid to risk another lecture on how the early bird gets the worm. “No, that's not the whole story. Boy apologizes and they get married and live happily ever after.”

“That's nice, dear. But you know what they say, all work and no play makes for a dull life. And what about you? What's happening with the boys? Are you still seeing Jeffery?”

“No, Dad. He's screwing girls in Thailand right now.” I don't really say that. I don't want to give him a heart attack; he thinks I'm still a virgin. “It's Jeremy. And no, I'm playing the field right now.”

“No rush, dear, no rush.”

Most parents would be bugging you to start thinking about getting married, or at least tell you to find a boyfriend by the time you're twenty-four, but not my dad. He still thinks I'm fifteen. Whenever he goes on business trips, he still buys me those “Welcome to (insert name of visited state here)” T-shirts in children's sizes. Janie, on the other hand, constantly reminds me that she does, in fact, “want to be called Gramma someday.” If I ever do have kids, I might insist they call her Janie. Just to annoy her.

“What's new with you, Dad?”

“I joined a new jogging group.”

“That's good. How's work?”

“Good. I'm only working four days a week now.”

“How come?”

“I want some time for myself. Life's not a dress rehearsal, you know. I have to live for the moment. I can't waste all my time working.”

Definitely Bev's influence. I may have even heard her use the exact phrase “Life's not a dress rehearsal,” followed by “We only have one life to live.” My dad used to be a workaholic, especially after the divorce. Since Bev got him into psychoanalysis, he's become more of the how-does-it-make-you-feel and listen-tome-recite-clichés type of guy.

I hear Bev's voice in the background. “Tim, is that Fern? Can I talk to her?”

“Bev wants to say hello. Love you, bye.” He passes off the phone.

It's far too early in the morning to talk to Bev. It's not that I don't like her. I do, really. I just have a few minor issues with her. Bev is a fanatic; she's addicted to talk shows. Specifically
Oprah.
And instead of working like a modern woman in the twenty-first century, her calling herself a part-time travel agent is a euphemism for “she plans her own vacations.” When she's not traveling, she spends all her time watching
Oprah
, doing Oprah makeovers, and cooking low-fat meals from Oprah's recipe book. Verbs like share and discover are too often combined in her speech pattern with nouns like soul and self.

“Hi, Fern. How's your spirit?”

“My spirit's fine, thanks. How's yours?”

“Wonderful, wonderful. Quite phenomenal. How's therapy going?”

“Great.” Bev has convinced my father to give me seventy-five dollars a week for one-hour therapy sessions. She's convinced that kids never get over divorce and that my sudden move to Boston might throw me over the edge. The money has been very therapeutic so far; I've bought new sunglasses and my hooker boots, and I'm saving up for a CD player for my car.

“So what have you learned about yourself this week?”

“Not much,” I answer. It's way too early for psychoanalytical babble. “What's up with you?”

“Oh, the usual. Power walking. Writing in my gratitude journal.”

I refuse to ask her what a gratitude journal is.

“And I just read the most amazing book last week,” she says. “I'm sure you'd love it.”

“What is it?”

“Oh, um…um. It's about an underprivileged girl who was a victim of incest. Gosh, I don't remember the name, but the story hit home.”

I don't quite see the relation between the unidentified novel's protagonist and my Manhattan-born stepmother, who spends Saturday at the hairdresser, Sunday at the manicurist, and Monday through Friday at the mall when not watching
Oprah.
However, we've never quite reached the level of intimacy that would allow me to point that out. “Let me know the name of the book when you remember it, and I'll buy it, okay? I gotta go now.”

“Okay, bye. Remember your spirit.”

“Of course.” I hang up the phone and fall back asleep.

When I wake up at 1:30, I have my first coherent thought. It's 1 A.B. (After Breakup), and I have already kindled a relationship with my future husband.

I may have a date. Soon.

Yay!

With Jonathan Gradinger. The thing is, once we get married, I'll have to stop referring to him by his full name. I'd sound like a character in a Jane Austen novel: “Good morning, Mr. Gradinger. Please pass the newspaper, Mr. Gradinger.”

Why hasn't he called yet?

I'll admit I'm being a bit crazy. According to
Swingers,
he has to wait at least three days. Or is it five days? How am I going to wait five days?

I must call Wendy.

I dial her number at work. How pathetic is that? It's Saturday afternoon and I don't even bother trying her apartment.

“Wendy speaking.”

“Hi!”

“Hello,” she says. I hear her rummaging through some papers. “So? How was it?”

“Wonderful. I'm completely over Jeremy.”

“Sure you are,” she says. Do I detect sarcasm?

“I am. I ran into my future husband.”

“That's good. Do I get to be the maid of honor?”

“No. You can be a bridesmaid. Iris made me swear she'd be the maid of honor. But you can plan the bachelorette party.”

“Seems fair. But you still have to be
my
maid of honor. If I ever have time to date again, that is.” Wendy has been unwillingly practicing abstinence since she started her job.

“Of course I'll be your maid of honor! I've already written my maid of honor speech,” I tell her. Well, not all of it. But sometimes really funny things happen, and if I don't write them down right away, I'll never remember everything I should have said and then…fine. I'm a geek.

“I'm sure you have. So, who's the future Mr. Norris?”

I pause for effect. “Jonathan Gradinger.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“My God! Where did you see him? Are you sure it wasn't a dream?”

“Yes, I'm sure.” It wasn't a dream. I'm pretty sure it wasn't a dream. Was it a dream? I look around my room for evidence of the Orgasm excursion. My black skirt is lying on the floor where I dropped it last night. I grab it. It smells like smoke and Sex on the Beach.
P-hew.

“How did that happen?” she asks.

“He saw me at the bar.” I leave out how that came about. “We talked. He asked me for my number.”

“That's amazing! Is he still a fox?”

“Of course. Maybe not
the
fox, but still foxy.”

“Has he called yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh.”

Oh? What does she mean, oh? “He wouldn't have, Wen. What guy calls the next morning? He'll probably call tomorrow night. At 8:30. After
The Simpsons
.”

“Not if he wants to go out tonight.”

“He's not going to ask me out for tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because then he would look desperate. Trust me, Wen, that's not the way the game is played.” Dear sweet Wendy. Dear sweet, naive Wendy.

“How do you know how the game is played? You've been on the dating scene for one day.”

Hey, I can remember L.B.J. (Life Before Jer). I did have a life, you know. “He'll call me on Sunday and ask me out for Tuesday, so he can see me on Tuesday and ask me out for next Saturday. See?”

“I see. Where do you think he'll take you?”

“On Tuesday or Saturday?”

Wendy doesn't answer. I can tell that all this is getting a little too complicated for her. Not dating in over a year has started to melt her brain.

“Sherri Burns is going to die,” she says.

“I know! Isn't it wonderful?”

“Would she ever find out? Besides by reading the wedding announcement in the
Times,
of course.”

“I was thinking of taking a picture on our date and posting it on the Stapley Internet site.”

“Not a bad plan. Uh-oh. I have a meeting. Gotta go.”

“A meeting? Who else is in the office on Saturday?”

“Who's not in the office?”

“Poor you. You sure you don't want a normal job?”

“I am far from sure. We'll chat later.”

“Bye.”

What should I do now? Probably get up. It's already two.

“Hello?” I call from my bed. “Anyone home?”

“Hi!” Sam hollers. “I'm cleaning the bathroom.” I'm pretty sure she cleans her bathroom every day. I've seen her sneak into the bathroom with disinfectant after a guest uses it. She's just as psycho with the fridge. She has a bit of an expiry fetish. She spills out her milk exactly three days after it's been opened. It doesn't matter what the expiration date says, either. For some reason I can't seem to convince her that the expiration date refers to the date you buy the stuff, not when you have to throw it out. “You're not really going to eat that?” she asked me yesterday, staring in disgust at my six-day-old package of sliced turkey. Um…I was. If I did things Sam's way, everything I own would be in the trash can or down the toilet.

I throw off my duvet and slide my feet onto the floor. The cold floor. Where are my slippers? Do I have slippers? No, I do not have slippers. Why don't I have slippers? Where are my socks?

I slip on some shorts. Not even Sam wants to see my Granny panties. I walk into her room. “Morning.”