Why I Love Singlehood: (26 page)

“Wow,” I said. “I had no idea you had such faith in me.”

I didn’t ask her why we’d drifted apart or suggest that we pick up where we left off or do a better job of keeping in touch. Perhaps it was because our lives were different. She had a husband and a kid on the way, after all. Or perhaps I was afraid she’d say she’d rather not keep in touch with a coffee shop owner whose latest literary achievement was a sporadic blog about being single.

After I got off the phone with Jenna, I called Ed and left a message on his voice mail.

“You got yourself a sub,” I said, “and I’m charging you double for your mocha hazelnut coffees from now on.”

25

Failure to Thrive

BAD THINGS HAPPEN
in threes; everyone knows that. You just never know when and where they’re gonna happen.

The first happened to Jan and Dean. Like Kenny, they had disappeared from The Grounds, and their Facebook statuses hadn’t been updated for days. The other Originals and Regulars speculated on their whereabouts.

“I say they eloped,” I said.

“Maybe they ran off to Fiji,” said Norman.

“Nah, Eva’s right. They eloped,” said Minerva.

“Without telling anyone?” asked Tracy, who was worried.

“That’s the whole point of eloping,” said Spencer.

“But what if it’s something serious? Her dad’s not been well lately.”

“If you’re that worried, hon, then call her.”

Tracy pulled her cell phone from her miniscule purse (I always envied women who could fit everything in a purse that size), opened it and scrolled down to Jan’s number, then waited as she mouthed to us, “Voice mail.”

“Jan, it’s Tracy. We’re all here at The Grounds and are worried since we haven’t seen or heard from you in a week. Please call and let us know you’re not lyin’ in a ditch somewhere.”

Spencer made a face at her. “Did you really have to mention the ditch thing?”

Two days later, Tracy came in looking pale and shell-shocked.

“What is it, sweetie?” I asked. “They broke up.”

“Who?”

“Jan and Dean.”

Norman nearly dropped the plate he was carrying. “Jan and Dean broke up?” he said loudly enough for the entire café to go quiet.

“Holy shit,” said Scott.

“What happened?” I asked.

“She didn’t get into specifics with me—she was too upset, crying on the phone the whole time. We both were, actually. She just said it was over between them and she couldn’t trust Dean and he was never as in love with her as she was with him.”

I knew that crappy truth all too well.

“Did he cheat on her?” someone asked.

“She didn’t say.”

The café was hushed, and everyone slowed down, their movements sluggish and automatic. It remained that way for the rest of the day. Like Spencer and Tracy, who had been here since day one, literally, Jan and Dean were more like one entity than two separate people. Losing them was losing something familial, the kind of loss that made you question the people and things you thought you knew.

That night, after my shower and before dinner, I opened my laptop. It was time.

Eva Breaks Silence

Readers, I apologize for my disappearance from cyberland. A lot has happened during the past couple of months, and the writing well had temporarily gone dry. I know this is news to few of you, but surprise: I am seeing someone.

What I like about seeing someone:

The company.
I like having someone to come home to, looking forward to the possibility that someone will be there, waiting for me, happy to see me. I like having someone to curl up on the couch with after a long day, someone to share a plate of french fries with at a diner at 10 p.m.

Not dating.
The verdict is in: I do not like dating. Rather, I don’t like going out on dates. Especially first dates. Especially bad first dates. Seeing someone is different—it’s comfortable, it’s routine, it’s safe. But dating—the stress of the unknown, the effort to impress, the inevitable tension—I don’t miss any of that.

But here’s the thing: what I love about singlehood is that you never have to worry about losing what’s good. You never have to look at your significant other and wonder if he’ll be gone tomorrow, be it physically, emotionally, mentally, whatever. You’ll never be blindsided by a crushing blow to the head or the heart. You never have to wonder if it was all a lie and you’ve been a fool all along. Some will tell you that singlehood is a false kind of security, the kind that comes with bars on the windows, a self-made prison, shutting you in from a fabricated fear. But singlehood is safe. Because you can’t keep the ones you love. There’s no such thing.

If only knowing so was enough.

Thirty minutes later, the phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and answered.

“Hey, Scott.”

“I just read your WILS post.”

“Already? Geez, the ink’s still wet—metaphorically speaking, that is.”

“Jan and Dean really shook you up, huh.”

I sighed sadly. “Yeah.”

“I know. Me too. I’m really bummed out about it.”

I didn’t respond.

“You want me to come over?” he asked. I was surprised that he was asking since he’d told me earlier that he needed the next few nights to prepare for an upcoming conference in Denver.

“Sure,” I said. “Why? Don’t you want to?”

“Of course I do. I just…I don’t know. I thought you might want to be by yourself.”

“I probably should, but no. Come over. Bring ice cream.”

“OK.”

When he pulled into the driveway, I opened the door, having been standing and waiting there nearly the entire time, and watched him galumph up the walkway and the porch carrying two pints of Ben & Jerry’s (Cherry Garcia for him, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough for me). I practically strangled him as I threw my arms around his neck and squeezed him, the door still open for my neighbors to see. He squeezed back, and I could feel the cold containers on the small of my back.

Hours later, in the darkness of my bedroom waiting for sleep to come following sex, Scott said very softly, almost in a slur, “I’m glad you think this is a relationship, Eva. I want it to be.”

“Me too,” I murmured, nuzzling him like a cat does its owner.

I really, really wanted it to be.

Surprisingly, since outing Scott and myself on WILS, no one commented much, but the vibe had definitely softened up at The Grounds. I hadn’t realized how tense I’d been trying to cover it up for so long, and how tense they’d all been pretending not to know. It was as if the air were breathable again.

We all missed Jan and Dean, though. Jan kept in touch with Tracy, but my guess was that neither came back to The Grounds for fear of running into the other. Or maybe it was just too hard. After Shaun and I had broken up, I had all but stopped going to the places we frequented.

Since deciding to give the reading room a facelift, Norman perused Craigslist every day looking for used couches and chairs, and he and Scott would take Scott’s pickup truck to check them out when one looked promising. An awkward moment came when it turned out that one of the sofa-loveseat sets had belonged to Jan and Dean. Despite it being in near-mint condition, perfect for our space, Norman had turned it down, and I knew why: it was too painful a reminder.

The reading room makeover was keeping us all busy—both employees and clientele were pitching in, whether it was cleaning the floors, giving the space a new coat of paint, looking for rugs and accessories at garage sales and flea markets, or just plain staying out of the way when necessary. It was a family affair. The sense of community warmed me; I’d had that at NCLA as both a grad student and a faculty member, and it was nice to feel the same thing so fully in this capacity.

Still, I found myself missing Kenny with each day he didn’t show up. I missed our silly exchanges and his amiable smile. I missed seeing him perched in his corner with a book or his laptop, simultaneously removed from the crowd yet as much a part of the gang as Spencer or Tracy or Scott or Minerva. The space somehow seemed quieter, emptier without him there even though he hardly made a sound when he was.

The second bad thing happened to Minerva.

It was one of those gorgeous fall days—the kind that makes you want to bask in the sun, shop, and eat a pumpkin muffin all at the same time. In short, a busy day at The Grounds. By midafternoon the stream of customers was still flowing, and I’d barely had time to glance at the photos of Jan’s new apartment on Tracy’s BlackBerry before rushing back to the counter, where Norman was fighting with the blender.

A man in a well-tailored brown suit ordered a tall, extra-extra iced mochaccino. I forgot the
iced
and was busy apologizing to him when I saw Minerva slip in. I waved to her, forgetting the extra-extra, and corrected the drink a final time before giving it to Brown Suit on the house out of guilt. Meanwhile, Tracy hailed Minerva to gush over Jan’s sun deck.

“Later,” she said. As I assisted the next customer, I watched her fold herself into what had always been Kenny’s chair in the far corner, tucking her feet in like a cold cat.

After bidding the customer a good day, I grabbed a Cookie of the Week (the one that Min dubbed the “Chocolate Orgasm” cookie), popped it in the microwave for seven seconds, and headed her way.

“Hungry?” I asked when she didn’t look up.

She shook her head.

“Rough exam or something?” I tried again, scanning my memory for exams she’d mentioned recently.

“Not now, OK?” she said, still not looking up.

She looked like death warmed over. Something was
wrong
.

“OK,” I said, trying to be amiable. I held out the plate. “Cookie? It’s Chocolate Orgasm.”

“No thanks,” she replied, almost in a child’s voice.

No to a Chocolate Orgasm cookie?

I left the cookie on the table next to her and went back to work. We were so busy that afternoon that I didn’t see Minerva leave, the cookie untouched, and by the time I got home I was so exhausted that she’d totally slipped my mind until I checked my e-mail.

E-mail to: [email protected]

Subject: FTT

Eva,

I’m sorry to dump this on you, but it’s just too much for me.

I had my first FTT today. Failure to thrive. Convenient how the medical world sterilizes everything isn’t it? “Ceased to breathe.” “Failure to thrive.” As if it somehow makes it cleaner, less soul splitting.

It wasn’t unexpected, but it wasn’t easy, either. Almost worse, I think, is knowing it was all in vain. As I was standing there, the assistant in this birth (if you can call it that), I couldn’t help thinking about the first birth I’d ever seen. I was four, and my sitter (who was also our herd manager) came in while I was eating a peanut butter sandwich. She told me to go on out to the barn because one of the cows was having a baby. And I remember thinking how odd it sounded. Did she think I didn’t know the difference between babies and calves? Taking one last bite, I abandoned my sandwich and made my way to the barn.