Wishful Thinking (27 page)

“I gotta go to the bathroom,” she said, making her escape. When she emerged, however, Norman was there, standing next to the vending machines.

“Jen,” he said, “do you have a minute?” He gestured to a bench in the hall, covered in sweatpants and coats, and cleared a space for the two of them.

“You got that last e-mail from my lawyer, right?” she said, reluctantly taking a seat beside him.

“Yes,” he said. “This isn’t about that.” Then his face broke into a grin, the sight of which made her toes curl. “There’s something we’re going to tell the boys tonight, but I wanted you to be the first to know. So that you don’t feel, you know, ambushed.”

“Okay,” she said.

“We’re getting married,” he said.

“Good for you,” Jennifer said quickly. “Congratulations.” She stood up, a little shakily. “Can I go now?”

“There’s something else,” he said, touching her on the arm, motioning for her to sit back down. He did it gently. He was being gentle with her. And then she knew.

“She’s pregnant,” she said flatly, sitting down next to him in a little heap.

“How did you know?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

Because I know you
, she wanted to say. Instead she asked, “How far along?”

“It’s just six weeks,” he said. “I know it might not take, but—”

“You’re not going to tell the boys
that
,” she said. “Not until she’s further along.”

“No,” he said. “We’ll wait.”

They were silent for a minute. Looking over at the parent pen, Jennifer searched for Tara, wanting to meet her eyes, looking for a lifeline, something, anything, to pull her out of that moment. Why did she care? she wondered. She didn’t love him anymore. And Dina loved her boys. Vinita was always reminding her—gently, and sometimes not so gently—how much worse it could be. What if Norman had chosen a woman Jennifer thought was cruel, or thoughtless? Someone she didn’t trust? What if it was a different woman every weekend, sleeping in Norman’s bed? Dina was good with the boys, and Norman was better with them when she was around. But something was hurting her. Something was making her feel really, really sad.

A baby.

“It’s my birthday today,” she said, almost to nobody.

“Oh my God!” Norman said. “Happy birthday!” He turned toward her, giving her an awkward but affectionate little hug. Pulling away, he added, “That’s so weird. I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten your birthday before. Not for twenty years.”

“Twenty years,” Jennifer said. “That’s scary.”

“You’re finally forty,” he said. “Welcome to the club. You look great, you know.”

It cost him nothing to say it, she could tell. And that was the moment she knew that Norman, finally and for good, was over her.

J
ENNIFER LEFT SOCCER EARLY
, before Dina got there. The boys weren’t happy about it, but she wasn’t ready to offer her congratulations—not yet. Not in front of all of the other moms, who were likely to notice a new diamond ring in their midst, and ooh and aah over it while rubbernecking to see the look on Jennifer’s face.

When she got home, she permitted herself a good cry. Then she stopped. Then she went running. She hadn’t gone for a run in years, it seemed—she hadn’t used Wishful Thinking for that—and cruising through the wintry air on the path along the Hudson, even though she got winded faster than she’d wished, cleared her head a little.

A few hours later, when Owen arrived to pick her up, she was no longer puffy-eyed, but she wasn’t dressed for dinner, either. In fact, Owen found her curled up on the sofa, showered but still in her bathrobe.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” he said, walking over to join her. He sat down, lifted her chin, put a hand on each of her cheeks, and pressed his forehead firmly into hers. She really
hated it when he did that. It made her feel like she was in an affection vise. She pulled away. “Birthday blues?”

“Norman’s marrying Dingbat,” she said. “And she’s pregnant.”

“With a baby dingbat?” Owen asked, smiling. “Awww,” he said, pulling her into him and doing the forehead thing again.

“Stop it,” she said, “please?” And then, “Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “That must be really hard. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you to have to see him all the time.” Relaxing a little, she snuggled up next to him. “For all I know Rachel is married by now, back in North Carolina, living a whole new life.” Neither of them said it out loud, but it went without saying that Rachel almost certainly wasn’t pregnant. She’d never been able to conceive, even after years of treatments that a music teacher and a restaurant sommelier could hardly afford. Owen had been open to adoption, too, but Rachel had refused to consider it. It was one of the main reasons their marriage had ended.

It was not a direction in which Jennifer wanted their conversation to go. Owen still wanted a baby, she knew, and he could have one—tests had confirmed that Owen was fertile. But a baby was something she could not begin to imagine right now. Hoping to preempt the possibility the conversation would head in that direction, she kissed him.

They kissed for a while. It was just what she needed. She could feel the life coming back into her body, his arms around her sending a feeling of well-being flowing through her, until her body hummed with warmth and she was present and alive again. Now
this
was a birthday, she thought, as she slipped one of his hands inside her bathrobe. Home alone, no kids, with her hunky man rising to the occasion on the couch. She put her hand on his inner thigh and began to walk her fingers upward, caressing him as she went.

“Wait a minute,” Owen said. “I’m taking you out tonight! For your birthday! Remember?” She looked at him petulantly.

“Do we have to?” she said. “Wouldn’t it be so much nicer to stay here and do the things we do? Like this? And then, like, nothing?”

“We never do hang out at your place,” he said, pulling away and looking at her a little reproachfully.

“Not because I don’t want you here—you know that. You have a bed. I have a pullout couch.”

“Sometimes I feel like my place has become a little hideout from the world,” he said. “I mean, I think it’s great that Norman has moved on. Good for him, right? Don’t you think it’s time we talked to the boys? Maybe introduced them to the idea of my being around?”

She cut him off. “No,” she said. “I don’t.” He held her gaze for a minute. He seemed to be deciding something. Thankfully, he decided, apparently, that it was not the time for that conversation. She couldn’t have agreed more. He stood up. “All right, missy,” he said. “It’s time for you to get your ass up off of that sofa bed and put something sexy on. Tonight I am taking the hottest piece of tail north of the Rio Grande out on the town, and I cannot have her in her bathrobe.”

Grateful to be let off the hook so easily, Jennifer jumped off the sofa and started hunting for something fabulous. She wasn’t going to let Norman’s announcement ruin her birthday, she told herself. She was going go out and have a good old time with her man.

A
N HOUR LATER
, wearing her pleather pants for nostalgia’s sake, Jennifer was walking with Owen somewhere in Chelsea, following him to a restaurant the name of which he refused to disclose. He was checking his phone more than
usual as they walked, receiving a barrage of texts.

“Who
is
that?” Jennifer asked, trying not to sound annoyed but instinctively reaching for her phone, too.

“It’s just Johnny,” he said. “Somebody wants to use one of our songs on a soundtrack, and he’s wigging out about it.” Glancing up as he put his phone away, he saw Jennifer fiddling with hers. Suddenly he reached over and grabbed her phone from her hand. She stared up at him indignantly and then lunged at him to get it back. He didn’t let her have it.

“Hey!” she said. “Give it back to me!”

“No,” he said, using his considerable height to keep the phone just out of her reach. He was laughing, but she wasn’t. A feeling of panic had shot through her the minute he’d torn the phone from her grasp, and she was angry, disturbingly angry, at his having taken it, even as a joke.

“I said give it back,” she said, stopping on the sidewalk.

Stopping too, he looked at her, knitting his brow a little. “You actually look pissed off,” he said.

“Just give me my phone back,” she said.

“Don’t you want to unplug for tonight?” he said. “You sleep with this thing under your pillow, you know. It isn’t healthy.”

“It’s in case something happens to my kids,” she said sharply. “I’ve told you. I need it.” Slowly, Owen lowered the phone. As soon as it was within reach, she grabbed it.

“Touchy,” he said. “Someday,” he added, taking her in a conciliatory bear hug, lifting her off her feet, “I’m going to whisk you away to a tropical island, and you and I will both throw those things in the Caribbean.”

“How romantic,” she said, pulling away and stroking her phone surreptitiously as she returned it to her pocket. “Now, where are we going, Mr. Romance? I’m hungry! I want to stuff myself on a huge dessert and test the limits of these pants!”

Owen checked his phone again, studying the GPS. “Here,”
he said, looking up at a nondescript building on Ninth Avenue. It looked like the kind of place that would house an off-off-Broadway performance space, or a bunch of artists’ lofts. It was hard to see how it could contain a fortieth birthday–worthy restaurant.

“Trust me,” he said, noting her skeptical expression and winking. She loved it when he winked. So few men could wink without looking like idiots. Someday she was going to convince him to wink at her from under the brim of a cowboy hat, though she’d had no luck so far. (“Cowboy hats are for kickers,” he’d said, though he had neglected to explain just what that meant.) Softening, and eager to see where they were headed, she followed him inside, smiling and holding his hand as they boarded a gigantic freight elevator. He pushed 10.

“This better not be anything weird,” she said. “Like some kind of spanking club or something. Don’t get the wrong idea just because I’m wearing pleather.” Giving her a playful swat on the rear, he grinned. A moment later, the elevator doors opened onto a darkened room. And then she heard it. The unmistakable sound of several dozen adults waiting with bated breath. And then the lights flipped on and she saw it: Vinita, Tara, Alicia, Tim, Caroline, and a whole bunch of other people she knew, some of whom she hadn’t seen in years, gathered together under a big H
APPY
40
TH
B
IRTHDAY
, J
ENNIFER
! sign.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“SURPRISE!” they answered.

“Happy birthday, baby,” Owen said.

It was all she could do not to kill him right then and there.

I
T WAS
J
ENNIFER’S WORST
Wishful Thinking nightmare: everybody she knew together in one room. The room, however, was a dream sprung straight from Vinita’s head. Vinita had always fantasized about opening a restaurant specializing in the North Indian food she’d grown up with, and Jennifer knew this was what it would look like, awash in richly colored fabrics, draped from the ceiling to the floor and sweeping across the windows of the loft, with music from one of her favorite Bollywood movies playing in the background. Dozens of mango-colored paper lanterns hung so low that Owen was in danger of hitting his head on them. To Jennifer’s left was a long table laden with platter after platter of the food she’d stuffed herself with so many evenings at Vinita’s house: yellow dal, curried chicken,
saag paneer
, and more, accented by hundreds of golden tea lights housed in rosewood carved with a paisley pattern.

It was beautiful.

Vinita stepped forward immediately to greet her. She was dressed for her part as hostess, her hair up in her signature
shiny black French twist, her body wrapped in a dark crimson sari accented by dangling earrings of ruby and gold.

“Happy birthday, Jay!” she said, leaning in to hug her. “Please don’t kill me,” she added, as soon as her mouth was near enough to Jennifer’s ear to whisper. “I didn’t know how else I was ever going to meet this guy.” Pulling away, she beamed at Owen, apparently her new best friend, and added, “And besides, I’ve always wanted to throw you a big Bollywood birthday party!” Gesturing to the room behind her, Vinita smiled radiantly, and Jennifer gave her an extrabig kiss, a smile spreading across her face, too, in spite of herself. She was touched.

“You outdid yourself, Vinita,” Owen said, greeting her with a kiss. “This place smells amazing.” Jennifer tried not to react to the strange sight of Vinita and Owen on seemingly intimate terms, given the fact that she had never been in the same room with them together.

Sean then appeared at Vinita’s side, wearing his impish man-child grin. “What’s up, rock-star girlfriend?” he said teasingly, sizing up Jennifer’s outfit and making her blush. (What was it about the frat-boy investment-banker types that made them so uniquely capable of doing that? It was infuriating.) Turning to Vinita, he said, “Where are your hot pants?” Vinita rolled her eyes. At this, Owen, the rock star in question, put a hand out, introducing himself to Sean, who promptly whisked him off to get a drink. Jennifer could see Owen’s little sister, Sarah, cat-eye eyeliner in full effect, standing by a massive window and taking in the view with Johnny. She waved hello.

Taking Jennifer’s arm, Vinita led her to the bar. “You are the belle of the ball, of course,” she said, “which I know you hate as much as you hate surprise parties.” Vinita gestured to the bartender. “So, to help you through it, how about an
Indian martini?” Jennifer raised her eyebrows skeptically as Vinita handed her a glass rimmed in rose-colored sugar, displaying it with a little Vanna White flourish. “Saffron vodka,” she added, and sipped her own. “Indian enough for me, Indian enough for you.”

Jennifer laughed and took a sip of her martini too. Now that the initial “surprise” blast had dissipated, little groups had formed all around the room, each composed of the friends and colleagues she’d so carefully kept apart during the last six months of her Wishful Thinking life. Vinita seemed to read her mind.