Ten

SO, DO I call him back, or what?”

“What’s the point?” Angie said, dipping a chip in guacamole and popping it in her mouth. We were knitting at Martin’s apartment tonight, which was not quite what I had anticipated. It was tidy and functional, but I always thought the gay had more design flair. This could have been a straight guy’s apartment. Not that it was overrun with sports paraphernalia and empty beer cans, but it was just so . . . utilitarian: black leather couches, IKEA coffee table, enormous TV and stereo system in one corner. The only remotely effeminate accoutrement was a large pillar candle.

“The point is,” Nicola said, carefully knitting a fuzzy mauve stitch, “that it would be terribly rude not to. You can’t just not phone him back.”

“Of course she can,” Angie said, shifting the needles and silky aquamarine yarn in her lap. She was making herself some sort of wrap—although, she would be more likely to turn it into a nice granny shawl since, at her current pace, she would be about ninety when she finished it. “He broke her heart. She has every right to blow him off.”

“Martin, what do you think?” I asked.

“Call him,” he said, his fingers working furiously on the navy scarf that appeared to be seconds from completion. “Be cool, casual . . . Show him how over him you are.”

“But what if I’m not over him?”

“Of course you are,” Angie blurted. “What about that old guy?”

“I told you, I’m not interested in him,” I shrieked. “And can we please call him something other than ‘that old guy’? His name is Jim.”

Sophie sighed heavily. “Men are more trouble than they’re worth, anyway.”

“Uh-oh,” Angie said, refilling Sophie’s glass of Cabernet. “Trouble with Rob again?”

“Oh, just the usual.” She rolled her eyes. “He hasn’t been home before nine all week, and tomorrow he’s going to a friend’s bachelor party in Vegas. I just feel like Flynn and I are so far down his list of priorities.”

“I’m sure he loves you both very much,” Nicola said, sympathetically. “He probably just gets wrapped up in his work. That happens to Neil sometimes, and I just have to gently remind him that our relationship comes first.”

Sophie looked at her blankly for a moment. It was obvious that gentle reminders didn’t really work on Rob. “Yeah . . . on my husband’s list of priorities, I fall somewhere after perfecting his golf swing and maximizing the usage of his PDA.”

“Oh, Sophie,” Nicola said. “That can’t be true.”

“Oh, enough about that...” Sophie waved her hand. “I agree with Martin, Beth. Call Colin back and regale him with tales of your fabulous life without him.”

Yeah, right. Oh, hi Colin. How are you? Me? I’m simply fabulous! I have this awesome new writing gig where I get to expense my lattes. It’s true! Sometimes, I even have two of them! I certainly don’t need love or commitment now!

“What if he wants to get back together?” Nicola said, placing her mauve scarf project on her lap and reaching for her wine.

“He might,” Sophie agreed.

“Maybe,” I muttered, “but if he does, it would definitely be on his terms. He’d want me to come back and be his semi-serious girlfriend for the rest of my life.”

Nicola countered, “Maybe he’s had a change of heart?”

“I doubt it.” I deliberately changed the subject. “How are the wedding plans coming along? Have you decided how you’re going to wear your hair?”

Nicola launched into an excited account of the afternoon spent at her hairdresser’s over the weekend. They’d tried a sleek up-do, romantic waves, and a classic chignon. I nodded along politely as did Sophie and Martin, but Angie seemed really intrigued, commenting on Nicola’s bone structure and asking about the neckline of her dress. I was perplexed by her sudden interest in wedding hairstyles. She couldn’t be thinking about marrying this Thad character already, could she? She had only recently broken her more than three dates rule! That would be just great. My social life would wither away to nothing but the stitch ’n bitch club and movie nights with Mel and Toby.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll be beautiful whatever you choose,” Martin said, sincerely.

“Oh, you’re so sweet.” Nicola blushed. “Thank you.”

“Of course she will,” Sophie agreed. She turned to Angie. “Okay... Thad update please.”

Oh, here we go. Before she’d even opened her mouth, Angie had become all rosy-cheeked and giggly. “I went to see him in Vancouver last weekend.”

“How was it?”

“Amazing! I mean, he had to work a lot, but on Saturday night, we drove out to this park with this lighthouse—it’s called Lighthouse Park, I think. And we took flashlights and walked down this trail and along this cliff and then we . . . we totally had sex, standing up against the cliff!”

What—was she seventeen?

“It was really meaningful and spiritual to be commingling in nature like that.”

Come on! Screwing in a public park was meaningful and spiritual? Oh, I’m sorry—commingling in a public park was meaningful and spiritual? My eyes darted around the circle to see if anyone else was sharing my distaste. But Martin was chuckling, Nicola had a sweet smile pasted on her face although she looked a little uncomfortable, and Sophie said, “Oh my god. That sounds like such a turn-on.”

“It was!” Angie gushed.

“Isn’t that a bit risky?” I sniffed. “I mean, you could have been arrested and thrown in a Canadian jail.” Of course, I knew nothing about Canadian jails. They were probably clean and nice and offered French lessons. But for impact, I intoned as if I were saying, Turkish prison.

Angie looked at me for a moment, her eyes narrowed. “Well, it was worth it.”

There was an awkward silence brought on by our overt hostility. Everyone pretended to be focused intently on their knitting, but I knew the tension between Angie and me was palpable. I wasn’t sure why I was being so unsupportive of Angie’s new relationship. Okay—I could think of a few reasons:

1. Thad was a Hollywood type, so probably very vain and flaky.

2. He was into Kabbalah, so probably very vain and flaky.

3. Angie was trying to change herself to please this guy. She wasn’t spiritual and deep. She held the record for tequila shots at a number of local bars! She had dated (or just blown) half of the Seattle Mariners! She should be with someone who loved the real, spirited her, not this illuminated nouveau spiritualist!

But deep down, I knew that my negativity stemmed from my own issues. I had to get to the source of the ugly feeling that rose in my stomach any time Thad was mentioned. Was I just jealous that Angie had someone to love and I did not? Resentful that Angie was too busy commingling up against a lighthouse to support me in my time of need? Surreptitiously, I stole a glance at one of my oldest friends. She was painstakingly wrapping her aquamarine yarn around her needle. The shawl she was knitting demonstrated by far the least progress in the group. I suddenly felt incredibly guilty for my lack of support, and just a little bit sad. I wanted to say something to show her I still cared about her. I wanted to say something to cut through the tension—but what?

Martin beat me to it. “I’m done,” he said, holding up his completed blue scarf.

“Oh my god!”

“Already?”

Martin shrugged. “I switched to the Continental method. It’s much faster.” He addressed me. “You should try it, Beth. You use your left hand so it would be perfect for you.”

“Mmm,” I murmured with feigned interest. I had barely gotten the hang of my current knitting style; I wasn’t ready to learn a whole new method!

We all hurried over to admire his work. The purls lined up perfectly with the purls, and the knits with the knits, creating a flawless ribbed pattern. “You’re amazing,” Nicola said, inspecting the navy weave.

“You are,” Sophie said, beaming at him. “Have you always been this good with your hands?” There was something ever so slightly flirtatious in her tone. But that was crazy: married Sophie flirting with gay Martin? I’d had too much wine—again.

“This calls for another drink,” Angie said. “We must toast the stitch ’n bitch club’s first completed project!”

“I’ll pour,” I offered, giving my friend a conciliatory smile. Somewhat grudgingly, she smiled back. I felt something akin to relief as I refilled the glasses. I hadn’t blown it with Angie completely, and I vowed to work on my negative attitude. When all the glasses were full (but just a tiny, tiny smidge for Nicola, who had to meet her parents to discuss the seating plan), I held mine up in the air. “To Martin,” I said. “And his amazing hands.”

“To Martin’s amazing hands,” they chorused, and we all drank.