Eleven

SO, DO YOU think I should call him?” This time I was getting Mel’s opinion. We were walking Toby along a path in a park not far from the university.

“Of course you should,” she said. “Aren’t you dying to know what he wants?”

“But what if he doesn’t want anything? What if he just wants to torture me by reminding me how sweet and perfect for me he was?”

“Colin wouldn’t do that. He probably has something to tell you—news about a mutual friend or something.”

“Do you think maybe . . .” I began, hesitantly, “he might want to get back together?” I knew Mel would give it to me straight, even if it hurt my feelings.

She thought for just a moment. “No, I doubt it. He’s probably got some kind of news... Or maybe you left something behind at his place. It might just be an excuse to talk to you again, but I don’t think he’s going to beg you to come back.”

Ouch. “No, I didn’t think so either.” I laughed, awkwardly. “One of the girls in my stitch ’n bitch club thought, you know... maybe . . .” I trailed off.

“I’m sure he still misses you, but you’ve been gone three months. He’s probably started a new life without you.”

Right. Okay. There was being straight with me, and then there was being completely oblivious of my feelings.

“I mean, you’ve moved on, right?” Toby chose this moment to take an enormous poo in the middle of the trail. “Good boy,” Mel cooed. “That’s a nice big poopy.”

I averted my eyes. “Uh . . . yeah, I’ve moved on: met some new people . . . got a new hobby... work’s going well . . .”

Mel proceeded to pull a clear plastic bag out of her pocket and, placing it on her hand like a glove, picked up the enormous pile of excrement. I turned away, trying not to gag at the sight of my friend with a handful of dog shit. She was being a conscientious and responsible pet owner, but that didn’t make it any less revolting. “Exactly,” she said. “Colin’s probably moved on, too. He might even have a new girlfriend by now. You’d be surprised how quickly men can rebound.”

God, why didn’t she just poke me in the eye with a pointy stick?

Mel summed it up. “Call him back, and find out what he wants. Be breezy, casual...Maybe have a glass of wine before you dial.”

We continued down the trail, chatting about Mel’s cousin in Maryland who’d just had gastric bypass surgery. But my mind was firmly rooted on the phone call from Colin. What if Mel was right and he had moved on? What if he was calling to tell me that he had a new girlfriend? That they were moving in together? That with her, he had no commitment issues and would I like to attend their June wedding? Maybe he was calling to tell me she was pregnant, and would I mind if they named the baby Emma? I suddenly felt nauseous—and not just from Mel’s recounting of how her cousin throws up if she eats so much as a Ritz cracker.

Soon we emerged at the street and headed to a coffee shop several blocks away. While my body was craving caffeine, I wasn’t sure I could stomach anything at the moment. But I waited patiently while Mel tied Toby up outside, kissed him on his dog lips, and then went in. Being in the U district, the café was littered with tables of students, most hunched over laptops or debating in animated clusters. We got our lattes, and found a table next to two women and a little boy colouring furiously in a colouring book.

“So,” I began, eager to change the subject, “have you heard from Nancy?” Nancy was a former coworker of ours who had recently married a wealthy widower from Berlin.

“Yeah, I had an email from her the other day. She says she’s starting to get over the culture shock, but she just can’t get used to eating so much fatty processed meat...” I nodded along, smiling in all the right places as Mel recounted Nancy’s trials with the German diet. But still, my mind drifted back to the predicament of Colin’s phone call and whether returning it would give me peace of mind, or a trampled heart. Suddenly, the little boy seated behind us called out loudly,

“Ewwwwww! Who farted?”

“Dylan!” his mother gasped, her cheeks turning pink. “Shhhhhhh! That’s very rude.”

“But it stinks!” Dylan insisted. “Someone farted.”

“Stop saying that,” his mother hissed, frantically.

But Dylan was right. When I didn’t have my coffee cup under my nose, there was a definite stench. Other patrons were noticing it, too, evident by a number of curled-up noses and sideways glances from neighbouring tables. Mel, on the other hand, was oblivious. She was still talking about the amount of nitrites found in a traditional German kielbasa.

I leaned toward her across the table. “God, do you smell that?”

“What?”

I was starting to feel slightly woozy. “I think I’m going to need some fresh air. It smells like a dirty diaper in here.”

“Ohhhhh!” Mel said with a laugh of recognition. “It’s probably this.” She held up the clear plastic bag full of Toby’s poo. “I forgot to throw it out. It’s been in my pocket this whole time!”

Oh god. My mouth was beginning to water menacingly, my standard precursor to vomiting. I was also more than just a little embarrassed. I mean, my coffee date was sitting in a crowded café with a bag of poo in her hand! Someone at the table to our left retched. I had to get out of there. I bolted for the door.

Forty minutes later I was home in my vacant apartment. Mel had been slightly annoyed by my abrupt ditching of her. When she met me on the sidewalk out front, I’d apologized. “I’ve got a really strong sense of smell and a bit of a queasy stomach,” I tried to explain.

She shrugged. “Not everyone’s a dog lover, I guess.”

I like dogs fine, I wanted to retort. I like people, too, but I’m not about to fill my pockets with their shit.

But instead, we made idle chit-chat as she drove me home in her station wagon, Toby in the back seat, drooling over my left shoulder. When we pulled up in front of my apartment, Mel turned to me. “Good luck with Colin,” she said. “And remember, you’re strong and you’ve moved on. You’re going to be fine.”

Now that I was home, alone with the telephone, I was not entirely sure that I would be fine. What if he really did have a new girlfriend? What if they were getting married or having a baby? Could I handle it? I would have to, of course, but it wouldn’t be easy. Remembering Mel’s suggestion, I poured myself a glass of wine. It was barely noon. God help me if Kendra came home early with a sore throat. She’d have me carted away to Betty Ford in no time. But I needed the calming effects of the alcohol or I’d be a jittering, stammering mess when I tried to speak.

The phone rang, sounding like a fire alarm in the silent apartment. Oh shit! I wasn’t ready! Not yet! Greedily, I began to chug the glass of Merlot, red rivulets running down the sides of my mouth like I was a vampire. Oh god, oh god. One more ring and the call would click over to voice mail. I could feel the wine burning in my stomach, sending its warmth through my body. I couldn’t delay the inevitable any longer. I had to answer.

“Hello?” Casual. Breezy. Only a tiny bit shaky.

A male voice said, “Is Beth Carruthers there, please?”

It—it wasn’t Colin! I’d gotten myself all worked up for nothing. This guy was probably doing a customer satisfaction survey for my bank, or he was a telemarketer trying to sell me a newspaper subscription. “Uh . . . this is she,” I replied, coldly.

“Hi, Beth. This is Jim Davidson calling.”

Jim Davidson! Jim Davidson was calling! I’d sent him a copy of our completed interview. Hopefully, he was phoning to tell me what a great job I’d done. “Hi, Jim,” I said. God, I hoped I didn’t sound drunk. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks.” He sounded very businesslike—almost abrupt. “I was wondering if we could meet to discuss your article?”

“Uh . . .” Shit! He didn’t like the article! I’d been so confident that he would that I’d left virtually no time for editing. The magazine needed it handed in by the end of the week. “Okay,” I said weakly.

“I’m in Seattle today and tomorrow. Would you be free for a drink tonight? To discuss my concerns?”

Concerns—plural. “Sure,” I said, dejectedly. My old boyfriend was getting married and now I was going to miss an important work deadline. Word would get around the publishing community that I wasn’t reliable and—well, you know the drill. “Where shall we meet?”

There was no way I could phone Colin back now. My angst over the Jim Davidson interview would undoubtedly be evident in my voice. I couldn’t sound all breezy and over him while I had this meeting with the disgruntled architect looming. Colin would think I was still pining away, crying myself to sleep every night clutching an old T-shirt of his. Gee, he’d think, I was going to invite her to my upcoming wedding, but maybe she can’t handle it? Maybe she’ll go psycho and try to attack my beautiful bride? I can’t risk it. No, I couldn’t talk to Colin now.

At four o’clock, I put on a black turtleneck and a charcoal knee-length skirt. Slipping into a pair of tall black boots, I surveyed myself in the full-length mirror on my bedroom door. Stylish, yet conservative and businesslike—just the look I was going for. There was no way I was going to risk any wardrobe malfunctions this time. I was mortified to think of our last encounter. My boobs had practically been popping out of my blouse, and I gave Jim a peep show any time my knees relaxed for a second. He probably thought I was some kind of bimbo trying to use my feminine assets to distract from the fact that I was a complete hack. Well, there’d be no chance of that at this meeting. I pulled my hair back into a severe ponytail, as an added measure.

When I arrived at the bayside bar, I took a deep, fortifying breath. Perhaps I was blowing this all out of proportion? I mean, this was an awfully nice location for Jim to select just to berate me about my crappy article. And really, my article was not that crappy. Why had I suddenly lost confidence in my work? The magazine had called me to do this job. They obviously thought I was good at my craft. Jim Davidson probably just had a few minor concerns about some of the content. I’d probably got some of the technical stuff wrong—like that ground pump heating thingy.

But when I walked toward Jim Davidson’s window table, and saw him seriously perusing a piece of paper (obviously, my crappy article), any confidence I’d bolstered seeped out of me. Jim looked just as dashing and sophisticated as he had at our first meeting, and I suddenly felt awkward, inept, and about fourteen years old. My discomfort was exacerbated by the initial attraction I’d felt toward him. God, did he know? It had probably been really obvious—especially after that flirtatious “I’ll buy the next drink” email. I’d even told the stitch ’n bitch club about him. They’d called him my old geezer boyfriend! I was so immature! So unprofessional! So—

“Beth...” Jim noticed my hovering presence. “Thanks for coming.” He didn’t smile, just stood and pulled out my chair.

“Yes, hello,” I said formally, taking my seat. Immediately I withdrew my notebook and flipped it open to a clean page. “You mentioned some concerns with the article I wrote about you?”

He chuckled. “How about a drink first?” The waiter appeared.

“I’ll have a soda water with lime,” I said, ever the professional.

Jim cocked an eyebrow at me. “How about a nice Cabernet? You’re wearing black.”

I would not succumb to his charm. “No, I—” I could really use a drink, though. “Well . . . I suppose I could have a glass.”

“Make that two,” Jim ordered. When the waiter had gone, he said, “It’s nice to see you again. Sorry I had to rush off so quickly last time . . .”

“Not at all . . . I’m sure you’re very busy,” I said, maintaining businesslike decorum. “I’d like to get your feedback on the interview right away, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a tight deadline.”

“Oh... okay.” He shifted in his seat. “Well, I read the article, Beth, and I thought it was really good, but...” He trailed off.

“But . . . ?”

“Well...I did have some concerns...one major concern really—”

The waiter chose this inopportune moment to deliver the wine. “Yes?” I prompted, when the server had departed. “Your major concern . . . ?”

“Right . . . well . . .” Jim suddenly seemed uncomfortable, almost nervous. God, was it really going to be that bad? Was he going to tell me I was the worst writer he’d ever encountered? That I should find a new career immediately? I reached for the wine and took a long sip. “Okay,” he said, with a heavy sigh. “I was concerned that...” He was looking at me intently now. “I was concerned that if I told you the article was good to go, I’d never get to see you again.”

What? The pen slipped from my hand and fell onto the blank page. What did he just say?

“I know this isn’t very professional of me but I just . . . I just really wanted to spend some more time with you... I wanted to talk to you—and not about green architecture.”

I glanced at his hand resting on the base of his wine glass. No ring! There was no ring! I picked up my wine. “I’m really glad you called,” I said, looking at him coyly over the rim of the glass. “I was hoping we’d have more time to talk, too.”

Three glasses of Cabernet later, I trundled out of a cab in front of my apartment. I was a little bit drunk, but I was a lot high. Jim Davidson had been so desperate to see me again, that he had made the whole “concerns with my article” thing up! There was nothing wrong with my article. It had all been a ploy! I really was a good writer—maybe even a great writer—and obviously, extremely attractive to handsome, sophisticated, top-of-their-field architects. And Jim Davidson wasn’t wearing a ring! That’s because he wasn’t married! Oh, he was married, once, a long time ago, but he let his career get in the way. He regrets hurting her, of course, but they weren’t right for each other anyway. They never had children—he didn’t have time then. But now—now he had mountains of time. He’d do things a lot differently if he ever had the chance again. He seriously said that! God—had I just met my destiny?

“What about you?” he’d asked. “Why isn’t a beautiful, successful woman like you married? You’re a catch.” I had shrugged. “Just haven’t met the right guy, I guess.” And for the first time, I realized it was true. I no longer thought of Colin as the right guy with the wrong attitude. We just weren’t meant to be.

Letting myself into the apartment, I was immediately met by the sounds of the TV. Kendra was home (of course) watching another chick flick—the one where Kate Hudson inherits some dead relative’s kids. I knew that Kendra was a Cancer and therefore a nester and homebody. But would it kill her to go out just once in a while? I couldn’t help but worry that my roommate might smell the alcohol on my breath. It was only 7:50 and I was half-loaded! I decided a brief hello was in order before I scurried off to my room to make the nonexistent edits to my article.

“Hi, Kendra. I’ll be in my room making some edits to an article I’m working on.” She yawned and nodded in response. “And I’ve got to make a couple of work-related phone calls,” I said, moving into the kitchen and grabbing the phone. Of course, there were no work-related phone calls to be made, just like there were no edits. I was dying to tell Angie about my date with Jim Davidson. Could I call it a date? It was, sort of, a date. Yes, I think we’d just had our first date!

No sooner had I closed the bedroom door behind me than the phone rang in my hand. Oh! I hoped it was Angie, or maybe Mel, and not Kendra’s mom calling to give her an update on her new knork. I pressed talk. “Hello?”

“Uh, hi, is that Beth?”

Oh, shit. “Yes,” I croaked.

“It’s me . . . Colin.”