I'm just saying that you're too picky."
"What do you mean? I'm not picky."
Angela tilted her head, and said, "Okay, you don't think you're picky. Fine. Most people don't think they are. But let's consider this: How many men have you given a chance since Pete?"
Reese paused to think, and within a couple of minutes managed to calculate the grand total of one. "I rest my case," Angela said.
"But that's not because I'm picky," Reese said defensively. "I just never like anyone." Saying it out loud made her realize that was pretty much the same thing. "Okay, you have a point." She started shredding her napkin. "Let's face it, the real problem is, I'll never find anyone who can measure up to Pete." Sighing wistfully, she mused, "Pete was perfect."
Angela let out a laugh. "What are you talking about?"
"What?"
"Pete was not perfect—he used to drive you crazy!"
Reese squinted, trying to remember (and also, the Laughing Frog's warm lighting suddenly seemed too bright). "He did? I don't remember that."
"What do you mean?" Angela asked, scrunching her eyebrows. "Don't you remember how he never had enough time for you?"
"Um..."
"You used to complain about it all the time."
"I did?"
"Yes," she said emphatically. "Remember, he used to volunteer nights campaigning for the environment?"
"Oh, yeah..."
"And organize those monthly church retreats?"
"Oh, yeah..."
"And what about how you barely saw him on the weekend because he was assistant conductor of the youth group chorale, and that was when they practiced?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"Reese, it drove you up a wall when you were dating, don't you remember?"
"Yes, yes!" Reese said excitedly, sitting upright, perversely thrilled by the revelation that Pete—for all his rites of sacrifice—hadn't been a spectacular boyfriend, after all.
Angela leaned forward with the same momentum. "And remember when he brought that homeless person with him to your anniversary dinner?"
Reese slapped her palm to her forehead. "Omigod, that was insanity. He shows up at the restaurant, and is like, 'Honey, meet Bo-Bo.' "
Angela laughed, and Reese said, "What was I thinking? I was dating a freaking saint!"
Smiling, Angela said, "See? It's not you—it's them."
Reese smiled back. "Yeah, maybe you're right."
"I am."
"Yeah... I feel better. Thanks."
"Good. No problem."
Reese sighed. "I still miss the sex, though," she said after a pause.
Now Angela sighed. "Me, too."
The waiter returned and set the receipt and credit card down. "Thaaanks, ladies," he said. He knocked twice on the table before winking, and adding, "Come again."
Angela rolled her eyes after he left, and Reese giggled. "So you're not gonna go back to work today?" Reese asked.
"I don't know. What are you doing?"
Reese made a gagging gesture, then converted her nausea into words. "More crap for Kimble."
"Oh, that's right." Expelling a breath she mumbled, "Well, I guess I will go back to the office. I've got nothing else going on."
Reese looked at her watch. "Hey, Mom should be home from the market by now—you can always help her prepare an elaborate, fatty dinner that no one can pronounce."
She'd meant it only as a joke, of course, so she was surprised when Angela's face lit up. "Yeah, that sounds fun." She signed the receipt, and then they stood to go. As they headed through the cozy bar and grill, Angela asked, "So what are you gonna do about Brian? I mean if he comes to the house tomorrow night."
"Oh... I don't know. Explain, definitely. Try not to say anything stupid."
"Good plan."
"What are you gonna do about Drew?" Reese asked, as they approached the door.
"What else?" Angela said. "Ride it out till I explode."
The words hit Reese hard. God, she really missed the sex.
* * *
Later that night, her dreams demonstrated exactly that point. Over and over. They were hazy dreams—the kind she couldn't fully remember afterward, but that left their imprint all the same. Images that were incomplete but still tawdry. A tiny
"What do you mean? I'm not picky."
Angela tilted her head, and said, "Okay, you don't think you're picky. Fine. Most people don't think they are. But let's consider this: How many men have you given a chance since Pete?"
Reese paused to think, and within a couple of minutes managed to calculate the grand total of one. "I rest my case," Angela said.
"But that's not because I'm picky," Reese said defensively. "I just never like anyone." Saying it out loud made her realize that was pretty much the same thing. "Okay, you have a point." She started shredding her napkin. "Let's face it, the real problem is, I'll never find anyone who can measure up to Pete." Sighing wistfully, she mused, "Pete was perfect."
Angela let out a laugh. "What are you talking about?"
"What?"
"Pete was not perfect—he used to drive you crazy!"
Reese squinted, trying to remember (and also, the Laughing Frog's warm lighting suddenly seemed too bright). "He did? I don't remember that."
"What do you mean?" Angela asked, scrunching her eyebrows. "Don't you remember how he never had enough time for you?"
"Um..."
"You used to complain about it all the time."
"I did?"
"Yes," she said emphatically. "Remember, he used to volunteer nights campaigning for the environment?"
"Oh, yeah..."
"And organize those monthly church retreats?"
"Oh, yeah..."
"And what about how you barely saw him on the weekend because he was assistant conductor of the youth group chorale, and that was when they practiced?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"Reese, it drove you up a wall when you were dating, don't you remember?"
"Yes, yes!" Reese said excitedly, sitting upright, perversely thrilled by the revelation that Pete—for all his rites of sacrifice—hadn't been a spectacular boyfriend, after all.
Angela leaned forward with the same momentum. "And remember when he brought that homeless person with him to your anniversary dinner?"
Reese slapped her palm to her forehead. "Omigod, that was insanity. He shows up at the restaurant, and is like, 'Honey, meet Bo-Bo.' "
Angela laughed, and Reese said, "What was I thinking? I was dating a freaking saint!"
Smiling, Angela said, "See? It's not you—it's them."
Reese smiled back. "Yeah, maybe you're right."
"I am."
"Yeah... I feel better. Thanks."
"Good. No problem."
Reese sighed. "I still miss the sex, though," she said after a pause.
Now Angela sighed. "Me, too."
The waiter returned and set the receipt and credit card down. "Thaaanks, ladies," he said. He knocked twice on the table before winking, and adding, "Come again."
Angela rolled her eyes after he left, and Reese giggled. "So you're not gonna go back to work today?" Reese asked.
"I don't know. What are you doing?"
Reese made a gagging gesture, then converted her nausea into words. "More crap for Kimble."
"Oh, that's right." Expelling a breath she mumbled, "Well, I guess I will go back to the office. I've got nothing else going on."
Reese looked at her watch. "Hey, Mom should be home from the market by now—you can always help her prepare an elaborate, fatty dinner that no one can pronounce."
She'd meant it only as a joke, of course, so she was surprised when Angela's face lit up. "Yeah, that sounds fun." She signed the receipt, and then they stood to go. As they headed through the cozy bar and grill, Angela asked, "So what are you gonna do about Brian? I mean if he comes to the house tomorrow night."
"Oh... I don't know. Explain, definitely. Try not to say anything stupid."
"Good plan."
"What are you gonna do about Drew?" Reese asked, as they approached the door.
"What else?" Angela said. "Ride it out till I explode."
The words hit Reese hard. God, she really missed the sex.
* * *
Later that night, her dreams demonstrated exactly that point. Over and over. They were hazy dreams—the kind she couldn't fully remember afterward, but that left their imprint all the same. Images that were incomplete but still tawdry. A tiny
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