If You Only Knew Read online

  There were days for me like that, when I was learning design, days when I opted to stay up till four in the morning rather than stop sewing, when my back would audibly creak when I stood up.

  Lately, not so much. Maybe it's just that I've been at it awhile and the thrill isn't new anymore.

  I take the hammer again and show Evander the next step.

  A half hour later, Evander's mom pulls up in a battered Honda, a dent in the front fender, a few rust spots near the wheels. "Hey, there, baby," she says, and Evander's face lights up. He runs inside to get his stuff, and Leo unfolds from the chair--the man is tall--and goes to speak to her. I don't hear what they say, but Mrs. James smiles and when Evander flies past me with a "Bye, Miss Jenny," I can't help the familiar ache of love and envy and longing.

  Yes, I want a child. A little boy like Evander, shy and a little strange and solitary and lovely. A girl like serious, smart Grace, or ebullient Rose, or gentle Charlotte. Even a girl like Renley. I could whip her into shape in a matter of days, I think. Teach her manners and kindness. I'd be a loving, firm, fun mom. I'd teach my kids that of course they're special, but no more special than any other child. My kids would go to bed early. They'd eat vegetables. We'd cuddle and read together, right in the second bedroom where the light comes in each morning like a blessing and my husband would bring me a cup of coffee, and he'd--

  "Jenny."

  "What?" I snap out of my reverie.

  Mrs. James is gone, and Leo stands in front of me. The fact that I'm on my knees makes things a wee bit awkward, since I'm staring right at his groin, so I clamber up.

  "You almost done?" he asks. "I have to go out."

  "Me, too, actually. And yes. All done." His eyes look gray today rather than blue. A reflection of the sky, probably.

  "You have that date," he says.

  "I do. Yep." He doesn't say anything. "My sister fixed me up with a friend of theirs. We're going to St. Arpad's in Ossining." It was Jimmy's suggestion; he lives there, though his ex-wife and kids live here in COH.

  "St. Arpad's?" Leo asks.

  "Yeah. It's Hungarian."

  "I know. That's where I'm going, too."

  "Really! Do you have a date, Mr. Recreation Only? I thought you were more of the booty-call type. A date!" Yeah, yeah, I'm jealous. "Great! I can check her out. Or we can double, how's that? Want to drive together? Maybe we should have a code word if things go south." I may be trying a little too hard here.

  Leo is not amused. "It's not a date. Just someone I used to know." He's not looking at me. "Listen, do me a favor, okay? Don't talk to me at the restaurant. And don't wave, okay?"

  My head jerks back. "Wow. Nice, Leo."

  "She's kind of...difficult. If you could pretend not to know me, that'd be great."

  "Sure. I won't make direct eye contact, either. And I'll back out of the room, bowing. And maybe I can scrub your toilet for you, since the dog ramp is already built."

  "It's complicated. I just don't want you to meet her."

  "Oh, shut up." I drop the hammer on the flagstone and stomp up my stairs. Slam the door to emphasize my point.

  Don't talk to me. Why would he say that, huh? I'm a tenant in the building he manages--badly, I might add. He hasn't fixed a damn thing here, and the water in my shower is still either scalding or ice-cold. I thought, given the number of times he's dropped in, the number of times we've talked this past month, that we were kinda sorta friends.

  I guess not. Not if I'm not allowed to wave.

  *

  St. Arpad's is dark and muted and old-world, with stooped, white-haired waiters in three-piece suits muttering in Hungarian (I assume), shuffling silently past with fragrant trays of food. Jimmy and I are already in a banquette booth, and he kissed me on the cheek in the foyer. He's quite good-looking, which I already knew, thanks to Twitter, Facebook and Google. But in person, he's even better. Brown hair, blue eyes, medium height. He smells nice, too. Armani, I think. His hands are clean.

  That being said, I'm not sure I could pick him out of a lineup, because five tables away is Leo, deep in conversation with a woman whose hair is beautiful and straight and blond. She's quite pretty, I noted as I walked past, and she's wearing red. Someone I used to know, my ass. Red is such a date color. Otherwise, I can't see much, thanks to the fat guy with the shiny bald head who blocks my view of her, but not of Leo, who is facing me--but not making eye contact, of course. That might intimate that I matter.

  He looks wretched. Even when he smiles, he looks like his dog just died. And even though I've been forbidden to acknowledge him, that stupid sad beautiful face does something to me.

  The tiny waiter, who looks to be about ninety-seven years old, comes over and wheezes through what I assume are the specials. Szabolcs, his nametag says. I can't understand a word he says. He may be telling me that his great-great-grandchildren are in the kitchen being gnawed on by a pack of wolves. I nod and smile. "I'll have the chicken," I say. Szabolcs asks something that has a lot of sht and tsz and ejht sounds in it. "Sounds good," I tell him. This is how people end up eating cats, I believe.

  "Goulash for me," Jimmy says.

  Szabolcs creeps away. I'd offer to carry him, but I don't want to make a scene.

  "So you're divorced," Jimmy says.

  "Yes. Yep. About a year and a half now."

  "Sucks." He pours himself more wine; I've barely touched mine. We ordered a bottle. It was cheaper, Jimmy said.

  "No, it was all very civilized. But thank you." I smile awkwardly.

  Jimmy reaches across the table and takes my hand. "Something incredibly sympathetic and sensitive yet masculine," he says--forgive me, my imagination isn't really having its best night. The touch of his hand sends a tingle down my arm. "I feel the exact same way," I answer, and for the rest of the night, we can't look away from each other, and we laugh and he walks me home and says he can't believe we hit it off like this, and--

  Nope. It's not working. Not with Leo sitting across the way.

  All of a sudden, I miss Owen so much it's like a knife wound. Somehow, I haven't thought of him in a day or two, not consciously, and I ache for him, his funny, boyish hair, his sweet smile. Yearning for my old life reaches up and slaps me hard.

  I wonder what he and Ana-Sofia are doing right now. Owen was--is--a great cook. He's probably making dinner while his wife nurses Natalia, who undoubtedly hasn't cried once since her birth and is in fact mastering her third language. Because Ana-Sofia is from a country less constipated than my own, she'll accept a glass of wine--so funny that these provincial Americans think everything is bad for you!--and Owen will kiss her gently upon the lips.

  When we met, Owen wasn't that great a kisser. I taught him a thing or two.

  Jimmy drinks. I grope around for first-date conversation and come up empty. "Nice place," I say.

  "Mmm," Jimmy answers.

  Leo coughs. I don't look over.

  Eventually, Szabolcs brings our dinners, and lo and behold, mine smells like heaven, chicken swimming in a golden gravy, heavily sprinkled with cheerful paprika, a mountain of mashed potatoes to one side like an island. Jimmy digs right in to his goulash.

  Thus, cheered by food, as always, I have a burst of conversational energy. "And what about you, Jimmy? You're also divorced, right?"

  "Yes." He says nothing more, just washes down a mouthful of stew with his wine. That's his entire answer. I sigh and take a bite of the chicken dish, which is unbelievably rich and succulent and delicious. I wonder if I could somehow drink the gravy. I wonder if Jimmy would notice if I did.

  I ask if he likes to read. No. (Seriously? And he admits that?) I ask if he watches TV. Yes, mixed martial arts. He doesn't ask what I watch. I ask if he has siblings. Yes. Does he like any sports, I ask? He guesses so.

  Shit.

  Meanwhile, I can't stop looking at Leo. It's not my fault! He's right in my line of vision. Short of holding up my hand to block him, I almost have to see him.

  His hair loo
ks beautiful. It's ridiculous that a man can have hair as beautiful as his, golden brown with the close-cropped curls, like a Roman emperor or something. It grows straight off his forehead, and he keeps it short. If he let it grow, he'd have Disney princess hair, I swear to God. He's not eating much. Doesn't seem to be drinking, either, just listening to the woman in the red dress and nodding occasionally.

  Jimmy, on the other hand, has just poured the last of the wine into his glass. "You gonna drink that?" he asks me.

  "Yeah," I say, moving the glass closer to me.

  "Figures." He chugs half of his wine. "So your sister's the one with the triplets, right?" he asks, his voice a little loud. Will have to make sure he's not driving. Sigh.

  "Yes. Three girls. They're the light of my life." I smile pleasantly.

  "Oh, great."

  "How about you? Any nieces or nephews?"

  "No, I mean great, another woman who wants kids. I mean, isn't that why you're here?"

  "Um...excuse me?" I glance around, aware that several tables of diners have gone silent.

  "You want kids?"

  "Well, I... Yes. I do. Yep. But that's not why--"

  "Fucking A." Jimmy hiccups. "So. You want me for my fluids, is that it?"

  "What? Um...no!"

  "Yes, you do! You want me for sperm!"

  "Can you keep your voice down, Jimmy?"

  "You know what? I'm a person, okay? A flesh-and-blood person!"

  "I'm aware of that."

  "Are you? Because it sounds like you just want me for my sperm. You've been on my Facebook page, haven't you?"

  "No!" I mean, I have, but there was nothing about sperm, for the love of God.

  "How about a little romance first, huh? Can we at least learn each other's last names before you ask for a genetics workup?"

  It appears I've hit a nerve. Or, more likely, Jimmy is both drunk and an ass. "Okay." I stand up. "Lovely meeting you. I'll leave my half for dinner with the maitre d'."

  "And I'll leave you a tissue sample so you can see if I've got what you're looking for."

  "You don't," I say. It's a good line, but he's still ranting, so no one gets to hear it. Too bad.

  I walk to the front of the restaurant. One of the busboys wiggles his eyebrows at me. Great. I am now that woman who wants sperm. Indeed, there is a murmuring as I walk past. Leo, however, fails to acknowledge me. He certainly doesn't come to my rescue. Not that I need rescuing, but if he jumped up and said, "Hey, Jenny!" and kissed my cheek, that would sure be nice.

  The maitre d' isn't at his station. I wait, feeling the eyes of the entire restaurant on me. Ah. Here comes someone. Zoltan, the nametag says. He makes my waiter look like an adolescent.

  "Everything delicious, yes?" he wheezes.

  "Yes. Thank you. I just need to pay for my half of our bill."

  He sighs. "Your waiter? Who?"

  I have no freakin' idea how to pronounce my waiter's name. Indeed, trying to picture his nametag just results in a blur of consonants. "I'm not sure. His name had a C in it. And an S. And a Z."

  Meanwhile, Jimmy is delivering a fiery speech on how men are no longer needed or valued in society except for their tiny little swimmers, and how if women had their way, all men would be chained in cells and only taken out when a woman was ovulating. Which actually sounds pretty good about now.

  "How about if I leave sixty bucks?" I suggest. "Will that cover it?"

  "I come back soon," Zoltan whispers, then shuffles away.

  Yeah. I forgot how bad dating sucked.

  And now Leo and Red Dress are approaching. I stare stonily ahead, hoping Leo can read the "piss off" message I'm trying so hard to convey. I scratch my nose with my middle finger in case he misses the point.

  "Well, it was so, so great to see you again," Red Dress says. "You look good."

  "You, too," Leo says. "Uh, why don't I walk you to your car?" He darts me a look, which I pretend not to notice.

  "Just go to a sperm bank, why don't you?" Jimmy shouts.

  The blonde puts on her raincoat (Burberry, so boring, and does she have to be so damn pretty?). Then she takes Leo's face in her hands and I stiffen, bracing for their kiss.

  They don't kiss. Leo takes her hands and sort of holds on to them, keeping her from moving in closer. She doesn't seem put off, just gazes at him. Tears fill her eyes.

  "Leo--" she says.

  "I know," he interrupts. "Thank you. Beth, thank you. Really. I'll walk you out." He gives me another look and holds the door for her. Who cares? I don't care.

  "Get a turkey baster, bitch!" Jimmy shouts. Several elderly Hungarians have Jimmy by the arms and are slowly dragging him toward the back, where hopefully they'll beat him with rubber hoses or empty sour cream containers or whatever other weapons they may have at their disposal.

  Szabolcs, my old friend, creeps up to the desk. "Dinner on house," he whispers.

  "Okay. Great. Thank you." So standing in front of the entire restaurant, being shouted at, that was just for fun.

  I go outside, where the rain cools my hot face. I take a few deep breaths, then get into my car.

  You know what? A turkey baster is looking better and better.

  I've been on five dates since my divorce. Two guys were very nice, said they'd love to see me again and failed to call. I waited the appropriate amount of time (six days, according to my dating books), then called (but didn't text) John, and then later, Marcus, and told them (again, according to the dating books) that there was (in John's case,) an exhibition at the Museum of the City of New York on subway tunnels (male-friendly topic), and (in Marcus's case), a craft beer-tasting (same), and I was going to go, (demonstration that I had interests outside of work), and would they like to come?

  Both times, I got their voice mail. They never called back.

  The other three dates consisted of a man who told me, in great detail, about the first time he saw his mother naked and how it made him feel--way, way too good, for the record. Guy #2 was nice enough, but our date took a nosedive when, right as we were finishing dinner, he found a tooth in his fettuccine. A human tooth. That was enough to have me dry heaving, but I had to give him credit. He was very cool about it, and the restaurant comped our meal--not that we were eating anymore--and even gave him a gift certificate for $250 to apologize. When we were about a block from the restaurant, my date started laughing and told me it was his tooth, and he did that all the time. He'd had a molar pulled and kept it for just this purpose. And Guy #3 came in, sat down, took a long hard look at me, then checked his phone and left.

  And now we have Jimmy of the Fluids.

  I have to wonder sometimes how I ever got Owen.

  We met at a party; he was a resident, I'd just gotten hired by Vera Wang and was so buzzed on the fact that Vera Wang hired me, I would've hit on Robert Downey Jr. I was feeling so confident and fabulous. There was Owen, handsome and funny and so cute, so normal, so kind! He listened when I talked, laughed at my jokes, called when he said he would, and I had no idea how rare and wonderful such a thing was.

  I'm thirty-six years old. I was twenty-eight when I met Owen. Maybe it's that. My age.

  At the moment, I don't even care.

  Except, of course, I do.

  Leo's lights are off when I get home. Fine. Good. Let him go get laid. Looking the way he does, he's not gonna be celibate. I get that. He's recreation only. He's not interested in me. Not like that. He's gay where I'm concerned.

  And you know, that's great. Look at my sister. Look at me. Look at my mom. No one has a great marriage. No one.

  Okay, yes, yes, my aunt Angela does. And so does my best friend from grammar school. And my neighbors in the Village, they were fantastic together.

  But still. You know what I mean. No one is happy except those three.

  I'll just adopt. Or, you know what? I'll go to the sperm bank and take a picture of myself there and send it to Jimmy Grant with a note: Thanks for the great idea!

  It may be time to get
a dog.

  There's a knock on my door. I can see through the windows alongside the door that it's Leo. "I'm not home," I call.

  "Oh. Okay." A second later, the door opens. "I have a key," he says apologetically. "I'm the super."

  My throat tightens. It's not fair that he can be this way and not want to sleep with me and marry me and father my babies, and I know this is stupid, but these are the thoughts that run through my head. "Well, you suck as a super."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "Take a class, why don't you? It's not rocket science."

  "I'm sorry about tonight, I mean."

  Damn. An apology. I'm back to my stupid crush. The juvenile hatred was easier.

  Then he comes over to me and takes my hands, and my heart becomes gooey, warm caramel. "Jenny," he says, "trust me when I say you don't want to get involved with me. You're great, but--"

  "Oh, shut up," I say, yanking my hands free. "I'd love to get involved with you. You're the one who's chicken."

  He smiles, that sad, beautiful, happy contradiction. "Trust me."

  "Why would I? I don't even like you anymore."

  "Yes, you do. You have to. You're my only friend."

  Then he kisses my forehead, and I feel the faint scrape of his five o'clock shadow, and I want to stab him in the heart and climb him like a tree at the same time.

  And then he turns and goes out the front door, taking my dopey heart with him.

  At 3:00 a.m., I decide to Google him.

  I stalk Owen online. I'm not proud of it, but everyone needs a hobby, right? I've got Google alerts on both him and Ana-Sofia. I could dig around in Leo's past and see why he says he has no friends.

  And then, I decide against it. For one, those damn Google alerts bring me no joy when I read again about how selfless and perfect Owen and Ana-Sofia are. For two, they don't exactly help the cause of me moving on.

  And for three...for some reason, it feels as if Leo Killian deserves better.

  Because I may be his only friend.

  Rachel

  I'm sleeping with Adam again. Sleeping with. Not having sex with. It got too exhausting, all that righteous anger, all that "I'm still sleeping in here, because of what you've done." Laney has asked me what I'd like Adam to do to show me he's sincere. Be sincere, was my answer. "Forgiveness is difficult," she said, making me feel small-hearted and brittle. "You don't have to trust Adam again, not right away, but it does mean you have to accept what's happened and start to take steps away from the infidelity."