No rash decisions. I could do that. At the moment I didn’t want to makeanydecisions.
“Are you sure there’s nothing we can do to help?” asked Rachel.
“I—”
The words wouldn’t come out.
“Don’t know,” the two of them finished with me.
My giggle turned into a snort. I had my own Greek chorus. Maybe they could follow me around and moan “she doesn’t know” after every line I said.
Doubtful, former drama geek.
With my luck, they probably took away the Greek chorus option after twenty-plus years of not being a thespian.
“You okay over there?” asked Abi, her look suggesting she thought I was losing my mind.
“No,” I said as my laughter went back to tears.
“Wanna sip your wine in silence?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Want some cheese with your wine?” asked Rachel.
“Maybe. If you have Manchego.”
“For you, I’d look up that fancy dry-aged Monterey Jack that you like so much,” she said as she patted my knee.
Eventually, Rachel laid me down on her basement couch and draped a blanket over me. She also left a bottle of water out because she was nothing if not thoughtful. I closed my eyes, but they popped back open the minute she and Abi left the room and turned off the lights.
Something about the hazy feeling from the pinot noir led me to a postmortem of my marriage. At this point I couldn’t even remember life before Mitch. As a sophomore in college, I’d been ready to swear off all men. Not only was Mom about to get divorced for the third time, but I had just been dumped by a university football player. He said we didn’t have chemistry. Loose translation: you’re pretty, but you’re not putting out.
My roommate dragged me to that fateful frat party on homecoming night, and there was Mitch. I didn’t want to believe in love at first sight, but then he’d walked me home. Then he’d kissed my hand, for heaven’s sake.
Over the next three months, he’d been so attentive, showering me with gifts. He used to kiss me for an hour and would actually accept “not yet” without whining about blue balls. Sad that he was the first boy I’d encountered who would do that.
In retrospect, maybe my expectations and standards were a bit low.
One night we went to an Italian restaurant in the Old City, one with flickering candles and red-and-white-checkered tablecloths. Mitch’s hands shook, and I was fairly sure he was going to ask if we could finally have sex for the first time.
My pulse quickened at the thought.
I was ready.
He ordered a bottle of wine, and the waiter checked his ID but not mine. I’d been such a Goody Two-shoes up until that point. I couldn’t stop smiling from the euphoria of breaking the law. Or maybe it was that I was finally going to have sex, which felt like breaking the law.
We picked through our salads and tried to make small talk about the most recent football game. He drummed his fingers on the table, and his leg jerked up and down even after they cleared away the salad plates.
He muttered something under his breath, and then he was kneeling beside me. A violinist appeared behind him playing “O Sole Mio.” So did two confused waiters holding plates of spaghetti. Was this some kind of elaborate way to ask me to go steady? No, he produced a small diamond ring and said, “Vivian, not only are you the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, but you are also the loveliest person. Will you do me the honor of being my bride?”
The restaurant spun around me.
Marriage?
No way could I get married right now. If Mom had dated all those guys for at least a year and then still ended up divorced, what hope did I have of making a marriage work with some guy I’d dated for only three months?
Maybe that’s the secret.
