My oldest friends, Amanda and Steph, were my home away from home. The sisters I never had. The bitches in my back pocket. We roomed together in college then moved to Boston over six years ago, where we shared the darkest, dampest subterranean apartment in town. It earned every ounce of its nickname, The Dungeon. Over the years, we celebrated successes big and small, and endured heartaches in careers and friendships and relationships. We grew up together—the growing up you did when it was time to figure out life.
And now we were growing apart.
Amanda was engaged, pregnant, and moving with her fiancé, Phil. We always knew Phil’s job as lobbyist for a consortium of cutting-edge pharmaceutical firms took priority in their relationship, and that his work would eventually take him and Amanda to Washington, DC. Expecting it to happen didn’t mean it wasn’t leaving a cannonball-sized hole in me.
We also knew Steph and her husband Dan intended to return home to Chicago when they started a family, and I was surprised they stayed so long after Madison’s birth. Steph’s pregnancy was difficult, her labor was complicated, and baby Madison struggled with reflux and colic and ear infections right from the start. We pitched in to provide Steph with meals, help around the house, and babysitting, but Steph and Dan needed their big families back in Chicago, and I wanted them to have that.
But like I said: cannonballs.
And if I was being honest with myself, we’d been growing apart by feet and inches since moving out of The Dungeon. Marriage, careers, babies—these things changed us, and our relationships with each other were evolving, too. It wasn’t bad; it was just different.
“No, it’s not that,” I said. “I mean, yes, it’s going to be tough, but life is taking them on some new adventures. It’s what they need to do and I shouldn’t be sad about that.”
“Sounds like a new project would be good for you. Something to mix up your routine. You need a man in your life. Men are great distractions.”
I laughed at my mother’s suggestive tone but couldn’t ignore the image of Matt Walsh and his broad shoulders. Or that chest. Give me some dirty laundry and a shirtless Matt, and I’d happily spend my day testing out those washboard abs.
My mother would love his dark, wavy hair and blue eyes, and she’d make plenty of naughty comments about his lean body. He’d meet her criteria for beefcake status. I used to turn seven shades of red when she’d thumb throughPeoplemagazine, telling my friends she thought Brad Pitt and George Clooney were hunky, and that she wouldn’t mind a weekend alone with either. Or both.
I didn’t understand the part about both until my twenties, and for everyone involved, that was probably best.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I murmured. “I do have a bunch of travel for conferences over the next few weeks, so I’ll be busy and finally spending some time in classrooms again.”
“Enjoy it! When I was your age, I was pregnant with Wesley. All I knew was the base, and the other wives in the unit. Will was crawling, and your father was deployed on one of his missions. I had no idea when he’d be back. If he’d be back,” she added, her voice turning somber. “You have so many options, so much freedom. Enjoy it.”
“I do, Mom.”
“Good. Now, if you do want to spend some time in Mexico, email us. Your father says we can’t rely on cell service in Mexico, but what does he know?”
I laughed. “Have you heard from Will or Wes recently?”
“Yeah, your father spoke to them when we were leaving home. He has some theories about where they’re stationed at the moment, but didn’t mention specifics. Says they’re both well, keeping their heads in the mission.”
“Okay,” I murmured. I couldn’t understand how my mother accepted the dangers my brothers confronted on a daily basis. I didn’t truly, deeply, fully understand the nature of my father’s work until after his retirement, and was shocked when my parents wholeheartedly supported Will and Wes when they joined the SEALs after graduating from UC-San Diego. “Let me know if you hear anything new.”
“Of course,” Mom said. “I’ll be updating our little website with photos from our journeys. I can’t wait to hear what you think of my new posts!”
“I will, Mom,” I laughed. My mother, the travel blogger. A few years ago, she kicked off their retirement road trip with a new camera, and hasn’t stopped photographing since. What started as Wes’s suggestion to post her shots to a blog rather than crashing our email accounts with a terabyte of attachments each week was now a thriving blog complete with voracious followers and advertisers.
“I’ll let you go, it’s late. Sleep tight, sweetheart. Love you. Daddy says he loves you, too.”
“Love you both.”
“Find a distraction, Lolo. Men are the best kind.”
I leaned back and drummed my fingers against the book’s cover, dismissing my mother’s comments. No time for men. No time for distractions. Not even time to read this month’s book.
The book club was a throwback to our days in The Dungeon, and grew over time to include Phil and Dan’s friends’ girlfriends and an assortment of colleagues and acquaintances. We came together each month but spent most of the time guzzling wine and catching up.
Was it crazy that I faithfully read the books—even if I hated them, even if I lurked in a few online forums to borrow insightful comments—or was it crazy that we didn’t simply retitle the event?
Hanging out and drinking wine without the pretense of literature sounded superb, but I doubted I’d continue going without Steph and Amanda. It was our thing, and without them it didn’t hold the same appeal.
And it wasn’t as if I needed anyone else trying to fix me up.
The old ‘always a bridesmaid’ adage wasn’t lost on me. I dated plenty but finding The One was the least of my worries. I was as single as single could be: not seeing anyone, no compatibility matches from dating portals, no singles mixer booze cruises on my calendar, and I liked it that way.
Regardless of sad-faced inquiries, the singleton life worked for me. It was my prerogative to shave—or not shave—my legs. I could go on last-minute trips to Martha’s Vineyard or New York City or back home to San Diego without including anyone else in those decisions. Dinner often consisted of sliced cucumbers and carrots dipped in chipotle ranch dressing, and there was no one to complain about that.
