snorts. “I mean, what’s the one thing that makes us best friends?”
“Your love of shoes? Imitation of Life ? Our shared passion for words?”
“Well, yeah, all those. But I was thinking more along the lines of our rotten luck with men. I think we’re both getting to the age where it’s easier and easier to just say ‘screw it; who needs a date?’ on Saturday night and just call the other up. Get together, order in Chinese, binge watch Orange is the New Black on Netflix.” She shrugs. “I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking I could do a lot worse than a very handsome and charming fifty-five-year-old homo.”
“Well, you might want to withhold judgment on that one until you get the cat.”
“Oh, you! I guess the selfish part of me wants to keep you all to myself.” She takes a quick gulp of her wine and stares down at her food.
I’m touched. What Jules says is true—we do have a very comfortable relationship. Last year, we even took Christmas vacation together and rented a condo in Maui. And it was nice. I didn’t feel deprived.
And I can see by the way she’s refusing to meet my eyes that the idea of me finding this man who was so special to me, even though our time together was, like, a millisecond, is scary. I reach out and cover her hand with mine. “You do know there will always be a place for you in my life, don’t you?” I say softly.
She knocks my hand off her own and looks up at me, smiling even though I can’t help but notice the tears standing in her eyes. “Oh, shut it, you. You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Looks like you already are.”
She laughs and brushes away the tears. “I am not. This food is spicy.” She lifts her paper napkin from her lap and then blows her nose into it to prove her point. She takes a deep breath and, now more composed, continues. “Listen, I know the supportive thing to say is go for it. Who knows? Maybe the rest of the story is out there, waiting to be finished, just as romantic as the beginning.”
I beam.
“And—” She holds up a finger. “—maybe it’s not. The mom in me feels compelled to warn you. Carlos could be, I hate to say it, dead, or worse, Republican. He might be married to a guy or even a woman. Who knows? He might be a woman. He may not want to see you. You might have broken his heart back then with your not knowing who you were.”
I nod, knowing she’s right on each and every point because I’ve considered them all myself. Well, maybe not the transgender thing. “I know, I know. I could be setting myself up for heartache or disappointment or worst of all—not finding out anything .”
“Hey, don’t let me rain on your parade. Google him. Maybe he’s got a Facebook page or a LinkedIn that’ll pop right up.”
The possibility, I have to admit, excites me. I have to restrain myself from throwing a twenty on the table and running out of the restaurant so I can get back to my condo—and my computer’s keyboard.
“So say you find him,” Jules said. She pushed her plate of half-eaten food away from her and took up her wine more seriously. “What are you gonna do then?”
I finish up with my food, and the waiter, a cute kid with spiky black hair, comes over and clears our plates away. He smiles at us both and asks, “Save room for dessert? The baklava is awesome.”
He gives me time to think about Jules’s question. “I think we’re both pretty full.” I look at Jules for confirmation, and she nods. “Just the check, please.”
He wanders away. “I don’t know. I guess I really hadn’t thought things out that far.”
“It is something you might want to consider before you launch into this.”
“Ever the pragmatist,” I say. “I’ve just kind of been of two minds about this. One is preparing myself for disappointment—any of those scenarios you so kindly pointed out, putting him at squarely unavailable. Or that I just won’t find anything . I don’t know which is worse. Then the optimist
“Your love of shoes? Imitation of Life ? Our shared passion for words?”
“Well, yeah, all those. But I was thinking more along the lines of our rotten luck with men. I think we’re both getting to the age where it’s easier and easier to just say ‘screw it; who needs a date?’ on Saturday night and just call the other up. Get together, order in Chinese, binge watch Orange is the New Black on Netflix.” She shrugs. “I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking I could do a lot worse than a very handsome and charming fifty-five-year-old homo.”
“Well, you might want to withhold judgment on that one until you get the cat.”
“Oh, you! I guess the selfish part of me wants to keep you all to myself.” She takes a quick gulp of her wine and stares down at her food.
I’m touched. What Jules says is true—we do have a very comfortable relationship. Last year, we even took Christmas vacation together and rented a condo in Maui. And it was nice. I didn’t feel deprived.
And I can see by the way she’s refusing to meet my eyes that the idea of me finding this man who was so special to me, even though our time together was, like, a millisecond, is scary. I reach out and cover her hand with mine. “You do know there will always be a place for you in my life, don’t you?” I say softly.
She knocks my hand off her own and looks up at me, smiling even though I can’t help but notice the tears standing in her eyes. “Oh, shut it, you. You’re gonna make me cry.”
“Looks like you already are.”
She laughs and brushes away the tears. “I am not. This food is spicy.” She lifts her paper napkin from her lap and then blows her nose into it to prove her point. She takes a deep breath and, now more composed, continues. “Listen, I know the supportive thing to say is go for it. Who knows? Maybe the rest of the story is out there, waiting to be finished, just as romantic as the beginning.”
I beam.
“And—” She holds up a finger. “—maybe it’s not. The mom in me feels compelled to warn you. Carlos could be, I hate to say it, dead, or worse, Republican. He might be married to a guy or even a woman. Who knows? He might be a woman. He may not want to see you. You might have broken his heart back then with your not knowing who you were.”
I nod, knowing she’s right on each and every point because I’ve considered them all myself. Well, maybe not the transgender thing. “I know, I know. I could be setting myself up for heartache or disappointment or worst of all—not finding out anything .”
“Hey, don’t let me rain on your parade. Google him. Maybe he’s got a Facebook page or a LinkedIn that’ll pop right up.”
The possibility, I have to admit, excites me. I have to restrain myself from throwing a twenty on the table and running out of the restaurant so I can get back to my condo—and my computer’s keyboard.
“So say you find him,” Jules said. She pushed her plate of half-eaten food away from her and took up her wine more seriously. “What are you gonna do then?”
I finish up with my food, and the waiter, a cute kid with spiky black hair, comes over and clears our plates away. He smiles at us both and asks, “Save room for dessert? The baklava is awesome.”
He gives me time to think about Jules’s question. “I think we’re both pretty full.” I look at Jules for confirmation, and she nods. “Just the check, please.”
He wanders away. “I don’t know. I guess I really hadn’t thought things out that far.”
“It is something you might want to consider before you launch into this.”
“Ever the pragmatist,” I say. “I’ve just kind of been of two minds about this. One is preparing myself for disappointment—any of those scenarios you so kindly pointed out, putting him at squarely unavailable. Or that I just won’t find anything . I don’t know which is worse. Then the optimist
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