The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (42 page)

Around three in the afternoon, I overhear Jessica telling someone, “Ms. Clark has no comment. She asks that you please respect her privacy during this difficult time.” She clicks over to the other line and repeats her statement. The Town Crier seems so happy in her unofficial role as my press person that I decide to leave her alone, at least as long as she sticks with the no comment script.

About an hour later, Sybil appears at my desk. She tells me she has a woman claiming to be Oscar’s sister on the line.

I sneak into an empty conference room to take the call away from my colleagues’ ears. Jennifer Thornton sounds more saddened than surprised by the charges against her foster brother. She tells me that she and her mom were always afraid Oscar was hopelessly screwed up by his demented childhood, but her father insisted from the start that Oscar was bright and innately charming enough to overcome his rough start. “Dad always said Oscar would go far, because he possessed an academic’s soul and a fanatic’s drive,” she says, in a mournful voice.

Jennifer catches herself sounding weepy, regroups, and tells me Oscar went through years of intensive therapy as a teenager. Multiple experts told her parents that he displayed signs of difficulty relating to women in a healthy way. She tries to explain what one physician labeled Oscar’s extreme Madonna-whore complex. “Anyway, the real reason I’m calling is because I plan to testify on his behalf, when and if his lawyers mount an insanity defense. I’m hoping I can convince you to do the same. What he did, if it’s true, is disgusting. But I still think, maybe because I’ve known him so long and watched him struggle, the whole situation is more tragic than anything. I spoke to him a half hour ago. He’d love to hear from you, to explain as best he can. I suppose he also wants to apologize. I know it’s a lot to ask, but please think about it. He’s not the monster they say he is on TV. You must know that.” She’s getting choked up again.

I promise to consider her request, but I know when we hang up that I won’t call Oscar. True, he’s a victim of an unspeakable childhood. That may explain why he lacks a moral compass, but it doesn’t excuse his actions. At least not in my mind. I’m shocked at how clear things suddenly seem.

And how unequivocally over.

Still, I’m surprised to feel no yearning for whatever explanation Oscar might offer. Nor do I crave an apology, though I suppose I deserve one. All I feel in this moment is an overwhelming desire to put him in the past, into a little box I can shove to some back corner of my brain, so that I can forge forward with my life.

Oscar’s attorney calls as I’m getting ready to head home. He leaves a message asking to arrange a time to talk. I take a deep breath, press delete, and close that calamitous chapter of my romantic life. I imagine if there’s a trial, I might be required to testify. Until then, I’m washing my hands of Oscar. There’s nothing I can do to change what he did or make any of it better.

“You totally blew off his lawyer?” Kevin asks incredulously on Thursday night. The three of us have gathered at Angela’s for pizza, because she’s been craving it almost every day since the baby news broke, and she says being in a bar or restaurant with everyone drinking around her feels like torture, not unlike electrocution or water boarding. Of course she’s being melodramatic, but I feel like it’s okay to indulge a pregnant woman. Even if she’s only very newly pregnant and can’t play that card with anyone but her closest confidantes.

“It was cathartic,” I say, as I take what I hope is a surreptitious sip of my Chianti. Staying out of bars in solidarity with Angela is one thing; she can forget about me abstaining altogether.

“So are you going to talk to the press?” Angela asks.

“I don’t think so, but I haven’t totally ruled it out.” The reporters who staked out my building mercifully disappeared after I gave them nothing but silence for two days, but I’ve received a couple of calls at work, from the producers of the major news shows, offering to pay me for an interview. The Town Crier has told them I’ll get back to them.

“Boss-zilla must hate that you’re the center of attention all of a sudden,” Kevin says.

“Fortunately, I’m in Carol’s very good graces these days.”

“How so? Did her precious Janice get into school?” Angela manages to pull her attention away from her third slice of pizza, which she’s been devouring like some starving orphan who’s never seen food besides gruel.

“Actually, yes, she’ll be going to Yale in the fall, but there’s so much more.” I fill them in on the job offer in Washington, and how I’m leaning towards accepting it. Truth be told, I know I’m going to take it, first thing tomorrow.

“So sad for me, but how fantastic for you!” Angela squeals. “And my sister’s already down there, so I’ll get to visit both of you for the price of one.”

Kevin, not surprisingly, sounds slightly less enthused. “It does sound like a big step up, but are you sure you want to become middle management? You’ll have way more interaction with Carol, even if it’s over the phone.”

“Maybe I’m a lunatic for being an optimist, but I think Carol and I understand each other a lot better than I thought we did. I have this Zen-like sense that it’s really going to be okay. Not that I don’t have a ton of stuff to do before January. Like finding an apartment, and figuring out the status of my place.”

“Whether you’re moving or not, you should get a lawyer. I bet you have a solid case that the apartment is yours. You didn’t do anything illegal, you just exhibited extraordinarily bad taste in men,” Kevin says.

I don’t want to escalate, so I laugh and stick my tongue out at him. Juvenile, I know, and not befitting someone who’s about to become management, but I do it anyway. It works. He rolls his eyes and laughs.

Angela has stopped to digest before reaching for a fourth slice. “Not so fast with the condemnation there, O’Connor. If the Oscar disaster hadn’t come to light when it did, Zoë might be tempted to turn down the best thing that’s ever happened to her professionally. So maybe everything happens for a reason.” She pats her non-existent belly as she says this, and turns to me. “The hot male attention was good for what was ailing you this fall, but it had to end unambiguously, not just fizzle or fade, for you to move on. So I think it’s all good, just like my news is all good.”

“What news is that?” I ask. She can’t possibly have anything that trumps the baby. Wait. She must mean the baby. Why did I have to say that?

“Claudio and I are moving in together. He came over last night and we had a long talk, and I really think he wants to give us a try. He’s going to come live here for a couple of months, and if things go well, we’ll start looking for a bigger place in time for the baby’s arrival. He says it’s his life, and if his parents are scandalized, that’s their problem, and anyway, they’ll come around when
il bambino
makes its entrance. He says he won’t even mind sharing the bed with Ernest and Algernon.”

“Wow.
You’re
going to do the domestic bliss thing and I won’t be here to witness this earth-moving event.” Angela’s beaming as I say this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so content. It’s strange how fast things can be turned upside down. Mere weeks ago she was single-mindedly career obsessed.

“I know. Tragic, isn’t it? But I don’t care how driven and successful you become, I need you to swear to me, on a whole stack of Bibles, that you’ll come up and host my baby shower. I can’t bear the thought of one of Mom’s friends running with it. It would be so suburban. And there’s no way I’m allowing any dumb games or measuring of my girth. I want a classy, champagne cocktails type of affair.”

“Don’t lose sleep over that. I wouldn’t dream of letting anyone come near your stomach with a measuring tape. And if someone tries, you can always knock them out with one good swing of your favorite Fendi.”

Kevin says, “Alright, this is getting way too girlie, even for me, and I’m kind of used to you guys. Do you have any beer, or did you purge it when you got the big news?”

“There should be a couple hiding in the back of the fridge. By all means, take them off my hands. I don’t need Sam Adams calling me in the wee hours of the night.”

“Do you believe everything happens for a reason?” Kevin asks as we’re walking home. It’s an unusually warm and pleasant night for early December, so when he suggested saving six bucks and stretching our legs I was fine with that. Especially since Angela was ready for bed well before ten. She may be a happy, glowing pregnant lady, but she’s a sleepy one, too.

“I suppose. Believing that gives a certain sense of order to all the chaos.”

“Because I didn’t want to say anything tonight, and I’m not sure exactly why not. Maybe it’s because I don’t have an offer in hand yet, but now I feel like spilling my news.”

“Well?” We’re paused at an intersection three blocks from our building, waiting for the walk sign.

“I’m interviewing in Washington. I’ve got appointments next week for three Congressional chief of staff spots and another for communications director for the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee.”

“Wow. That’s great. And here you were, all worried you’d be banished to the northern reaches of the great State of New York to run a campaign for some creepy gun-toting county coroner.”

He grabs my arm and turns me to face him. It’s obvious he’s got something else on his mind. “I think your offer from Carol is a sign. Maybe we should move together, try to make a go of us.”

The light finally turns and gives me a legitimate reason to look away, because I’m really not sure whether he’s going to make me scream or cry.

“Not even a week ago, you were proposing to Angela,” I remind him, and yes, I mean to say it every bit as snidely as it comes out.

“Temporary insanity?” he asks, with the hopeful and ever-so-slightly goofy grin that’s won him his way with countless women in the past.

“It sure was insane,” I agree. “And we’re all entitled to a little bit of crazy from time to time, but it still didn’t feel so nice for me to hear that news.”

“I’m so sorry for any pain I caused you, Zoë. You have to believe me. The last thing I’d want to do is hurt you. But it was making me crazy, thinking that you’d never want me, and it feels like high time to stop sleeping around, and Angela needed someone. And while I’m apologizing, I might as well add that I feel awful about all the digs I’ve made at your career over the years. It would be totally wrong for me, but it suits you and that’s awesome. There are worse things than finding jobs for lawyers. In fact, it appears I wasted a good chunk of my time trying to fulfill the political aspirations of a liar, thief and pervert.” We’ve stopped at our building and I start fumbling in my bag for the keys. He puts his hand on mine and says, “Wait a second. Let me get this out.”

We step aside to let the elderly couple who live in the penthouse pass. Interesting. We’re home from a night out at the same time as a pair of octogenarians, one of whom totes an oxygen tank.

Once the door shuts behind them, Kevin takes both my hands and says, “I love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone, and I’m pretty sure, based on your behavior at and after Angela’s birthday party, that you at least feel something for me. We’ve been friends for so long, and we’re so in tune to each other. We owe it to ourselves to give us a chance. What better way than a fresh start in a new city?”

“A fresh start sounds almost divine to me, and I’m really happy that you’re probably going to live there, too...”

Before I can devise how to phrase what I need to say, he kisses me. Despite my best intentions, I find myself kissing him back, and it feels right and comfortable and tremendously exciting, all at the same time. Even though he tastes not-so-faintly of winter lager. He pulls away for a moment, and looks at me as if trying to read my reaction before cupping my face in his hands and kissing me again. For a second, I let myself go and enjoy the moment. He somehow manages to extract his keys from his pocket and let us into the building. He leads me up the stairs, hand in hand, and I start to think, maybe this feels right because it is right.

It could be the insistent and utterly unromantic fluorescent lighting in our hallway, or perhaps it’s the little voice in my head shrilly shouting, “Brakes! Brakes!” Or perhaps I just reach somewhere within myself and find the resolve I had ten minutes ago on the sidewalk.

We’re standing in the hall, between our apartment doors, and he’s clearly waiting for an invitation into mine, because he’s put his own keys back in his pocket. He looks at me with slightly confused eyes and I think, he is
so
adorable. And smart and kind and loyal and an extraordinarily adept kisser, among many other great things.

But he’ll also be all those things in a month or two. And, the little voice in my head says matter-of-factly, he’ll still have all his not-so-wonderful points, like he’s a workaholic, and he’s moody, and his relationship track record isn’t anything to write home about. I tell her to shush and kiss Kevin again. He holds me close and I feel the bulge form in his pants.

I force myself to pull away.