“It’s Lou and Coco’s final Saint Anne’s track meet on Friday. They asked if Simon could cook their favorite dinner to celebrate, and he barely has a hot plate at his apartment,” I offer as an explanation of why I have not gone full-on, unhinged wife on my half-hinged husband. The last two months Simon has happily carpooled Lou and Coco to and from every practice and track meet, plus he bought them new running gear. Truth is, I haven’t presented him with the divorce papers yet because his stepping in without complaint and doing more than his part with the kid load has allowed me time I have never had before to work on Brown Butter, Baby! Dad guilt has really been working in my favor, and I am not quite ready to disrupt our tenuous arrangement of Simon’s driving mea culpa and my swallowing my wrath in the name of newfound free time.
“Still weird Simon’s coming over.”
“Back to Ash,” I redirect. “He’s married, remember.” Sometimes I do have to remind Zwena that marriage is a huge hurdle when engaging with the opposite sex. She’s a little less convinced.
“Yes, you have mentioned that to me. And may I point out that you, too, are married.”
“It’s different.”
“Different how?”
“I doubt his wife ran off to an ashram in India.”
“This is California, maybe she did too. And anyways, who cares? Ash runs a company that gives out cash to start-ups, and his grandmother is a bajillionaire. You’re just having coffee, not sex.” Zwena’s understanding of venture capital is as elementary as it gets, but this is not the time to give her a lesson in finance. “Here, give me your phone.” She grabs it from me while she’s demanding.
5:23 p.m. (Toni)
Can’t do a drink, I’m working, but can meet you at Green Beans Coffee in the International Terminal in 15. I will take you up on that drink offer another time ...
Whoosh. . .
Zwena hands the phone back to me. “You move too slow.”
“Z!” I yelp. I knew I should have gone straight to Krish on this one, not someone still in her twenties whose idea of a relationship is posting on Instagram about every conquest.
“What?” Zwena says with mock innocence. “He can afford to take you for coffee and a drink. Then sex.”
I huff at Zwena as if put out by having to meet up with Ash.
“Toni, you’re not fooling anyone. You and I both know you want to go.”
“Are you going to let me buy your coffee this time?” Ash jokes, which comes off a little stiff dressed as he is in heavy-framed glasses and a navy suit, pulling a titanium-gray hard case. I’ve now seen sporty, simple, and suit guy. All three are enticing. If I were looking.I mean, if I cared, of course I would look.
I decide against coffee to avoid any caffeinated oversharing. “I’ll have mint tea, and yes, I’ll let you buy.” I can’t have Ash thinking he knows what to order for me.
Hunting for a table, Ash veers ahead of me to an available space tucked in the far corner. He pulls out a chair, waiting for me to catch up.
“Who’s helping out with Mrs. Eisenberg while you’re out of town?” I ask, starting with an easy topic of conversation as well as an easy way to casually inquire about his wife.
“Livy is on Bubbe duty. I’m back to frequent work trips to LA over the next several months. Down on Mondays, back on Thursdays.”
“Ah. Sounds familiar.”
“Oh, do you travel a lot for work?” Ash wonders, looking confused.
“Uh, no. I just spend a lot of time transporting people who work the same commute schedule.” I gesture to my cart, which is parked just outside Green Beans, to point out the obvious. “I know your type well. You are usually late for your plane, barking orders into your phone at some assistant cowering on the other end.” Ash averts his eyes. I’ve maybe struck a chord a little too close to home. Backing off a bit, I add, “I love LA.”
“You know the city well?” Ash asks, meeting my eyes again and trying to discover a common connection other than his grandmother.
“I went to UCLA for a couple of years. I actually took two of your classes.”
“I remember,” Ash confirms with a head bob.
“No, you don’t,” I laugh, not wanting any of his professor pity.
“How could I forget? Student ID 84742-88.”
I am dead! I only remember the first four digits myself.
