spy Josie through a wall of people. I grab Jack’s hand and push my way past gesturing limbs, wafts of perfume, and hoards of jewels until we land smack in front of her.
“Oh good! Jillian! Perfect timing,” she exclaims. “The Coke team is right over there, and I want to introduce you.”
“I’ll be at the bar,” Jack says, winking and flashing a grin. He’d befriend more people there by the time he’d ordered his drink than I would at this entire party.
Josie pulls me by the crook of my arm to a group of forty-something-looking men who appear nearly interchangeable, with their navy pin-striped suits and their freshly shaven cheeks that glow with a hint of Hampton’s summer sun and their cackle of laughter that implies that someone just told an entirely inappropriate joke.
“Gentlemen, excuse us,” Josie says. “I want you to meet the brains behind your new ad campaign. Jillian, meet the men for whom you’re about to make a lot of money.”
She smiles, and I notice for the first time how pretty she looks tonight. Less washed out, with just enough blush to illuminate her cheekbones and a smattering of lipstick to fashion a pout. Her hair, normally tied back into a floppy bun, cascades below her shoulders and over her red A-line dress that’s staid enough for an executive but flashy enough for a still-under-forty woman who wants to be noticed.
I hold out my hand and grasp the bear claw grips of the senior Coke managers, regaling them with my ideas and delightful small talk and filling the silences with witty double entendres that easily outmatch their macho humor that was being batted around before Josie and I burst their boys-only bubble.
They finally beg an exit to hit the bar, and Josie and I watch them go.
“You know Bart, the one you just met with the purple tie?” she asks. “I dated him in college. We broke up when he moved to San Francisco after we graduated.”
“Oh,” I reply because I have nothing else to say. Then I add, “He’s cute.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Her voice is too wistful for a woman who doesn’t have regrets.
“Where’s Art tonight? Home with the kids?” I ask.
“No.” She shakes her head. “He got a last-minute gig in San Jose.” She half snorts but the anger behind it belies her mock amusement. “Emergency on an opera set out there.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“No, really,” she says. “You know: faulty candelabras and curtains that just won’t behave themselves.” She starts to laugh, slowly, sadly at first, then accelerating until she’s curled over her left side, holding up her rum and Coke in her right hand so it won’t topple on the floor, shaking, shuddering uncontrollably until she finally rights herself and wipes away her tears. “A fucking opera set emergency! Can you imagine?” she sputters again, but pulls herself in and tucks away any remnants of laughter with a firm sigh. “So yeah, there’s Bart—here, now, reminding me of . . .
so much . . .
and then . . .” she pauses, “there’s Art.”
“Separated by only a ‘B,’ ” I offer, trying a little levity.
“If only,” she responds dejectedly while scanning the crowd in hopes of catching Bart’s eye all over again. “So what about you and Jack? Engagement anytime soon?”
No,
I think, then remind myself that this future is yet untold.
“Maybe,” I say instead. “We’ll see. I guess it’s up to him.”
“Why would you say that?” Josie tenses and turns toward me. “It’s up to both of you.”
Not really,
I want to burst.
Last time I gave myself to him for two fucking years and yet nothing, just more of the same old Jack, coasting along comfortably at cruising altitude. No ring, no hints, no squat, so when it finally became apparent that we were treading water rather than swimming toward something, I bolted. Because that was my only choice, my only say. I left him before he could leave me or at least until I wasted the better part of my misspent adult years,
“Oh good! Jillian! Perfect timing,” she exclaims. “The Coke team is right over there, and I want to introduce you.”
“I’ll be at the bar,” Jack says, winking and flashing a grin. He’d befriend more people there by the time he’d ordered his drink than I would at this entire party.
Josie pulls me by the crook of my arm to a group of forty-something-looking men who appear nearly interchangeable, with their navy pin-striped suits and their freshly shaven cheeks that glow with a hint of Hampton’s summer sun and their cackle of laughter that implies that someone just told an entirely inappropriate joke.
“Gentlemen, excuse us,” Josie says. “I want you to meet the brains behind your new ad campaign. Jillian, meet the men for whom you’re about to make a lot of money.”
She smiles, and I notice for the first time how pretty she looks tonight. Less washed out, with just enough blush to illuminate her cheekbones and a smattering of lipstick to fashion a pout. Her hair, normally tied back into a floppy bun, cascades below her shoulders and over her red A-line dress that’s staid enough for an executive but flashy enough for a still-under-forty woman who wants to be noticed.
I hold out my hand and grasp the bear claw grips of the senior Coke managers, regaling them with my ideas and delightful small talk and filling the silences with witty double entendres that easily outmatch their macho humor that was being batted around before Josie and I burst their boys-only bubble.
They finally beg an exit to hit the bar, and Josie and I watch them go.
“You know Bart, the one you just met with the purple tie?” she asks. “I dated him in college. We broke up when he moved to San Francisco after we graduated.”
“Oh,” I reply because I have nothing else to say. Then I add, “He’s cute.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Her voice is too wistful for a woman who doesn’t have regrets.
“Where’s Art tonight? Home with the kids?” I ask.
“No.” She shakes her head. “He got a last-minute gig in San Jose.” She half snorts but the anger behind it belies her mock amusement. “Emergency on an opera set out there.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“No, really,” she says. “You know: faulty candelabras and curtains that just won’t behave themselves.” She starts to laugh, slowly, sadly at first, then accelerating until she’s curled over her left side, holding up her rum and Coke in her right hand so it won’t topple on the floor, shaking, shuddering uncontrollably until she finally rights herself and wipes away her tears. “A fucking opera set emergency! Can you imagine?” she sputters again, but pulls herself in and tucks away any remnants of laughter with a firm sigh. “So yeah, there’s Bart—here, now, reminding me of . . .
so much . . .
and then . . .” she pauses, “there’s Art.”
“Separated by only a ‘B,’ ” I offer, trying a little levity.
“If only,” she responds dejectedly while scanning the crowd in hopes of catching Bart’s eye all over again. “So what about you and Jack? Engagement anytime soon?”
No,
I think, then remind myself that this future is yet untold.
“Maybe,” I say instead. “We’ll see. I guess it’s up to him.”
“Why would you say that?” Josie tenses and turns toward me. “It’s up to both of you.”
Not really,
I want to burst.
Last time I gave myself to him for two fucking years and yet nothing, just more of the same old Jack, coasting along comfortably at cruising altitude. No ring, no hints, no squat, so when it finally became apparent that we were treading water rather than swimming toward something, I bolted. Because that was my only choice, my only say. I left him before he could leave me or at least until I wasted the better part of my misspent adult years,
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