single women right here.”
“Maybe I will,” he said.
“Fine,” I said.
“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here, Zoe. This conversation could have gone a lot differently, but you led us here.”
“You’re the one on a date with another woman, Charlie.”
But he was right and I knew it.
“Whatever, Zoe.”
And then he turned and walked out.
In a city of eight million people, how was it possible that the first person I saw when I landed at LaGuardia Airport bright and early Sunday morning was Danny Marx, who’d asked me out at least a hundred times between junior high and high school?
I’d never said yes.
“Maybe that’s why my standards are high,” Danny said, grabbing my suitcase from the carousel the moment I reached for it. “No one I meet lives up to you. Not even my new girlfriend. And she’s spec-tac-ular.”
“How’d you know I needed an ego boost?” I asked, trying to suppress a yawn. The red-eye from L.A. to New York was a killer itself without adding a few hours of crying to the mix.
Six hours later I still wasn’t sure why I was crying: because Charlie and I had broken up, or because I was beginning to really wonder if something was wrong with me? I’d had a good guy. A great guy. Why would I just let him go?
Because there’s something wrong with you, that’s why.
“Geez, what do you have in here?” Danny mock-complained, hefting my suitcase as we walked toward the exit. “Dating Diva reference manuals?” He laughed. “And c’mon. Who are you kidding—Zoe Solomon needs an ego boost? Impossible.”
That was pretty much the reason I’d never said yes to Danny Marx. He’d put me on a pedestal in the eighth grade and I didn’t want to get knocked off.
Which meant I could never be myself around him.
Which was the real reason I’d never said yes.
“The Dating Diva in the flesh,” Danny said, wiggling his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “I read the article about you in L.A Magazine last year. I wanted to call you, but I also read about your boyfriend. You see how skinny I am—I figured he’d kick my ass if I asked you out.”
He might have, until eight hours ago.
Besides, Danny wasn’t all that skinny. He’d filled out. And he was tall. He was sort of cute, with his puppy-dog brown eyes and light brown mop of hair. But he’d always be Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen Candles to me. Sweet and goofy and immature, yet just slightly wise enough to make him tolerable.
“Well, Danny, you don’t have to worry about getting beat up. The boyfriend and I are history.”
I said it aloud to test out how it felt to say it, for it to be a true statement. It felt funny, sounded funny. A year was a long time for your life to suddenly change in an instant.
“One minute you’re married and your life is great or even just fine and status quo,” my mother had said a few months ago, “and the next, your husband is running around with a woman who was in diapers when he had his first child. Some people say that’s just the way life is. But I say screw that! Life is what you make it. Not what it is!”
My mother always made sense up until a certain point. And then you wouldn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Life wasn’t what it was? What?
“Let me put it this way, Zoe,” she’d said. “Someone drops a bomb on your life, what are you going to do? Live in a ruin? Or are you going to fight back?”
“What if there’s nothing to fight?” I’d asked. “What if you’re simply defeated?”
“That’s what seeking vengeance is all about, dear.”
And that was what my mother was up to this minute. I knew it. There was nothing and no one to fight, because my father couldn’t be less interested in having a casual or serious conversation with his ex-wife. That left my mother one option: retribution. What kind of retribution was beyond me, though. Phony phone calls in the middle of the night? Phony calls to Giselle claiming to be his gal on the
“Maybe I will,” he said.
“Fine,” I said.
“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy here, Zoe. This conversation could have gone a lot differently, but you led us here.”
“You’re the one on a date with another woman, Charlie.”
But he was right and I knew it.
“Whatever, Zoe.”
And then he turned and walked out.
In a city of eight million people, how was it possible that the first person I saw when I landed at LaGuardia Airport bright and early Sunday morning was Danny Marx, who’d asked me out at least a hundred times between junior high and high school?
I’d never said yes.
“Maybe that’s why my standards are high,” Danny said, grabbing my suitcase from the carousel the moment I reached for it. “No one I meet lives up to you. Not even my new girlfriend. And she’s spec-tac-ular.”
“How’d you know I needed an ego boost?” I asked, trying to suppress a yawn. The red-eye from L.A. to New York was a killer itself without adding a few hours of crying to the mix.
Six hours later I still wasn’t sure why I was crying: because Charlie and I had broken up, or because I was beginning to really wonder if something was wrong with me? I’d had a good guy. A great guy. Why would I just let him go?
Because there’s something wrong with you, that’s why.
“Geez, what do you have in here?” Danny mock-complained, hefting my suitcase as we walked toward the exit. “Dating Diva reference manuals?” He laughed. “And c’mon. Who are you kidding—Zoe Solomon needs an ego boost? Impossible.”
That was pretty much the reason I’d never said yes to Danny Marx. He’d put me on a pedestal in the eighth grade and I didn’t want to get knocked off.
Which meant I could never be myself around him.
Which was the real reason I’d never said yes.
“The Dating Diva in the flesh,” Danny said, wiggling his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “I read the article about you in L.A Magazine last year. I wanted to call you, but I also read about your boyfriend. You see how skinny I am—I figured he’d kick my ass if I asked you out.”
He might have, until eight hours ago.
Besides, Danny wasn’t all that skinny. He’d filled out. And he was tall. He was sort of cute, with his puppy-dog brown eyes and light brown mop of hair. But he’d always be Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen Candles to me. Sweet and goofy and immature, yet just slightly wise enough to make him tolerable.
“Well, Danny, you don’t have to worry about getting beat up. The boyfriend and I are history.”
I said it aloud to test out how it felt to say it, for it to be a true statement. It felt funny, sounded funny. A year was a long time for your life to suddenly change in an instant.
“One minute you’re married and your life is great or even just fine and status quo,” my mother had said a few months ago, “and the next, your husband is running around with a woman who was in diapers when he had his first child. Some people say that’s just the way life is. But I say screw that! Life is what you make it. Not what it is!”
My mother always made sense up until a certain point. And then you wouldn’t know what the hell she was talking about. Life wasn’t what it was? What?
“Let me put it this way, Zoe,” she’d said. “Someone drops a bomb on your life, what are you going to do? Live in a ruin? Or are you going to fight back?”
“What if there’s nothing to fight?” I’d asked. “What if you’re simply defeated?”
“That’s what seeking vengeance is all about, dear.”
And that was what my mother was up to this minute. I knew it. There was nothing and no one to fight, because my father couldn’t be less interested in having a casual or serious conversation with his ex-wife. That left my mother one option: retribution. What kind of retribution was beyond me, though. Phony phone calls in the middle of the night? Phony calls to Giselle claiming to be his gal on the
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