I count out the timing on my fingers. That’s only six months away.
“Do you have any interest in trying a Pilates class with me?” I ask Lisa while handing her an ice-cold beer slushy, hoping catering to her boozy proclivities will persuade her to say yes. “There is a two-week intro offer at CorePlus over by Target. My treat.”
“That sounds hard,” Lisa concludes, snuggling deeper into my oversize outdoor sofa cushions.
“Maybe, but you get to work out lying down, so how hard can it be?” She does not look one bit convinced. “I mean, it’s not that much different from what you’re doing now.”
“What I’m doing right now is free. And tastes good,” Lisa asserts, toasting herself before taking another long draw of her beer. Both legitimate arguments, but my need to get moving has now grown tenfold. Not only am I marching toward an early death, according to Dr. Kwan, but I’m now also expected at a wedding where my attendance, alongside other friends from college who actually have their lives in order, is mandatory. My vast time frame to pull myself together has shrunk significantly.
“’K, then let’s go on a walk.” We both know Lisa’s long naturally toned legs are her best asset, so maybe she’ll be up for showing them off around the neighborhood.
“To where?” Lisa asks, picking up the copy of Marcus Aurelius’sMeditationslying on my coffee table. I should have known this conversation was not going to go my way when Lisa strutted through the front door in a T-shirt that saysDon’t F*ck with Perfection.
“Nowhere in particular, just ... I don’t know, around.” All I need is someone to get me out the door and moving, today. I’ll worry about tomorrow, tomorrow.
“You reading this?” Lisa flutters her fingers across the multiple passages I’ve marked with Post-its to fan herself.
“Rereading it. Marcus Aurelius is my favorite Stoic philosopher.” After getting off the phone with Quinn, I pulled the book from my shelf, still stickered withPrinceton University Storeon the spine. A cornerstone of Stoic philosophy is to be strict with yourself but forgiving of others, and I’m praying I can read my way back into being a disciplined person before December 31.
“Looks dull.” Lisa yawns, reaches her arm over her head, and drops the book on the side table behind her.
“Ancient Rome isn’t everyone’s cup of tea,” I say defensively, and if I’m being honest, with a hint of intellectual judgment. “My college boyfriend and I would sit across from one another in the library and pass quotes from our favorite philosophers back and forth on scraps of paper torn out of our notebooks.”
“Aha. Let me guess.” Lisa flips over, intrigued. “He was closeted, and you were his beard through the confusing years. You were in love, he was in hiding, and now he and his husband sell antiques in Michigan to fellow gays escaping Chicago on the weekends and you hear from one another once a year through holiday letters. Please, that’s a college tale as old as time.”
“I think you are mixing up antiques with antiquities, and no, he wasn’t gay. He was perfect, but I do give you credit for on-the-spot world-building.” I still remember everything about the evening in Firestone Library when Porter slid his hand over to my side of the table without looking up from the paper he was drafting, a quotehidden under his large palm. His hair was still dappled with water from showering after football practice, and we had already been hushed a half dozen times as we excitedly debated whom we preferred, Aristotle or Socrates, before settling down to work on the essay that was due the next day for Ancient Roman Philosophy. Porter lifted his hand and, without looking up, nodded for me to pluck the rough-edged paper from the table. On one side it said, “This Aristotle quote reminds me of us.” On the other side it said, “Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” Porter kept on writing, but I couldn’t focus for the rest of the night. That paper ended up being the only C I earned in college.
“So whatever happened to Princeton’s philosopher king?” I look at Lisa, shocked by her Plato reference. “What, you elitist! You don’t think I’ve heard of the concept before?”
“Well, uh ...” Lisa has been working fifty-hour weeks in the tech world longer than I’ve lived in Sacramento, so I assumed she didn’t read much. Lisa is fun and easy to be around, but I mostly keep our conversations light, simple, and focused on neighborhood gossip, a topic we’re both not above getting dirty in.
“Relax. My favorite movie isThe Matrix. It’s loosely based on that old dude’s writing.” Well, there you go: Lisa taught me something about Plato I never knew. “So, then, what happened to the guy?”
“He disappeared.” I shrug.
“Who, Thomas? Duh, I’ve been here for the whole thing, remember?”
“Not Thomas, the college boyfriend. I have no idea where he is.”
“Well, you definitely have a type. Vanishing.”
“Clearly, I do.” I chuckle. Over the last week or two, there have been moments I’ve been able to laugh at the absurdity of Thomas’s middlescence departure rather than cringe and crumple every time his name is mentioned. That small bit of progress has to be better for my cortisol levels. If only I could stop stress eating.
“What’s not vanishing is my appetite. Come on, I’ll drive us to get Mexican at Tres Hermanas.” Lisa switches the topic from self-improvement to something she’s more interested in: self-indulgence. “If we hustle, we can make it in time for happy hour. I’m craving a margarita and nachos.”
I look at my watch. It’s true, we only have fifteen minutes to drive, park, run in, and order. Can I count the sprint from the parking lot to the bar as exercise? “Okay, but we need to get the sour cream on the side.”
“Really, why? That sounds like a terrible idea,” Lisa decides.
It’s not easy to make changes.
Chapter Eleven
October 1990
“Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Porter. Porter Beaumont.” I loved using the wordboyfriendand did so as often as I could. I had dated a bit in high school, but while I wanted the labelgirlfriendbelonging to aboyfriend, my first public attempt to use the words in my one teen relationship was met with my first public breakup. Though I was convinced after three months of making out while getting frozen yogurt earned me that title, it turned out fifteen-year-old boys don’t enjoy such gushing declarations.
When Porter reached his arm out to shake my father’s hand, I could see the blazer he borrowed from Charles stretch at the shoulder seam. In his back pocket was a copy of Ernest Hemingway’sThe Sun Also Rises. I worried Porter was going to read at dinner and leave me to entertain my folks as well as his at our first Parents’ Weekend together.
