Hugo leans back and puts an arm over the empty chair next to him. “What doesthatmean?”
“Hugo,” I say. “The paper was blank.”
Hugo is the only one who knows about this love-life oddity, this strange anomaly in the cosmic universe of which I am the recipient and participant.
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious.” I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. I haven’t let myself think about what this means, not really, not entirely. Not yet.
I see Hugo’s face react. Surprise to confusion to something else that I do not wish to identify. “Wow.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Wow. He seems great. His name is a Jake. He’s a television executive for Warner Brothers.”
“Of course he is.” Hugo thinks anyone who works in entertainment is “low speed.”It’s an industry full of people who are semi-available eleven to four and think they’re brokering world peace.
“Hey,” I say. I point my finger at him. “Be cool.”
“What do you think this means?”
I shrug. “Only one thing it can mean, right?”
Hugo nods. “I sort of thought if it would happen it would say, like, forty years.”
I swallow down some more tequila. “I guess no second marriages here.”
“Blank space,” he says. “Like forever?”
I clear my throat. “Or until time runs out. Dependent on how you look at it.”
“How uplifting.” Hugo leans forward. He holds up his glass. He’s drinking Scotch or whiskey—I never know the difference. “Daph, do you like him? Like, is he who you imagined for yourself?”
I consider the question. I didn’t realize there was a pattern to the notes until well into high school. After the third one it became clear—what they meant, what they were telling me. I looked back and thought,Huh, and then,Oh. But I still wanted forever love. I still wanted my perfect mate, my smiling husband. I’d picture the white tulle dress and the lace veil and a man who was kind and attractive and who my parents loved, because why not.
But as time went on, the fantasy got stale. I tried to update it, keep it fresh. Sometimes we eloped to the cliffs of Capri. Sometimes we went to Vegas and I wore a tight white minidress. And the man evolved from being kind of amorphous to being specific, detailed. Mariah Carey and Frank Sinatra replaced Disney tunes, and then we rounded the corner into Van Morrison. What can I say? I wanted a love story thatsung.
Sitting here with Hugo now, talking about Jake, I can’t help but feel like he’s a little bit of a throwback, that he belongs to a Daphne who didn’t quite understand her life yet. Or who maybe believed more was possible than any thirty-three-year-old woman has any right to.
“He’s really nice,” I say.
Hugo snorts. “He’snice.”
“Nice is underrated.”
“You’re probably right.” He sets down his drink. “Well, look, I’m happy for you. When do I get to meet him?”
“We should go on a second date first.”
“You mean before you break the news to him that he’s your soul mate and also your best friend looks like this?” Hugo gestures a hand down his torso.
“Right, something like that.”
His cell on the table rings. “It’s her.”
“Pick up.”
He does. “Hey, babe, how are you?”
I can hear her through the phone. I can’t make out her words, but the tone is clear—she’s not happy.
