How Do You Know? Page 2

  I smile back. “Perfect. Wanna split the sandwich with me?”

  “You only want half? I promise you won’t get fat from eating the entire sandwich, and you’d still have a hot body if you did. I’d still ravage you.” As he says this, he runs two fingers up and down my arm and then rubs the constellation of freckles around my wrist—he calls it my “freckles bracelet.”

  I let out an involuntary giggle—my wrists are very ticklish—and squirm from his touch. “It’s not about the calories. I’m in a generous mood is all.”

  Walking back to the refrigerator, he says, “Aren’t you sweet?”

  He prepares my sandwich, carefully spreading the crunchy peanut butter on both sides, just the way I like it, without getting any peanut butter or jelly on the counter. I woke the poor guy out of bed with my drunken loud footsteps, and rather than complain, he’s making me a snack. I adore this man and am acutely aware of how lucky I am to have him in my life. I want more than anything to accept him as the one for me. I walk over to him and stand on my toes to kiss the back of his neck. “I love you,” I whisper.

  Doug turns around and smiles. “I love you too.” Handing me my half of the sandwich, he raises his own half in the air. “Bon appetit.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich. “How was your day?”

  I am charmed by Doug’s boyish love of chocolate milk and observe him beguilingly as he downs an entire glass without taking a breath. “Like any other day, except better since it was my girl’s birthday.”

  “I like being your ‘girl.’ It makes me feel nice and young.”

  “I prefer ‘lady.’ You’re my lady. Has a nice ring to it.” He winks. “Except it makes me want to break into song. You’re my lady. Of the Morning.”

  Laughing at his off-key rendition of the Styx song, I say, “I thought you were going to say, ‘except you’re no lady.’”

  “I’m hoping you won’t be much of a lady come morning, if you know what I mean.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

  I roll my eyes. “You’re so corny.”

  “But you love me.”

  “That I do.”

  As I lay in bed later, wrapped in Doug’s arms, I try to push aside the stubborn streak of doubt that lingers in my gut. I remember the day I met Doug almost three years earlier on the subway. I was meeting Amanda to watch post-season baseball at a bar uptown when I instinctively touched my left ear and noticed the absence of the diamond stud I wore almost daily. My mom bought me the pair for my thirty-fifth birthday, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing them. I got up from my seat and paced the train car, praying I had lost it while confined in that small space. Doug, ever the gallant guy, asked me why I was so troubled, and when I told him, he solved the mystery of the missing earring almost immediately. It was actually still on my body, dangling miraculously from the collar of my trench coat. It was the first of many times Doug helped me find lost items. If Doug isn’t the one, where do I go from here? Forty is like a train approaching me at warp speed while my shoelace is caught in the track.

  I wake the next morning to a dull headache from too much vodka and Doug’s erection against my back. Despite my mild hangover, I’m feeling amorous, and I flip over to face him and plant a kiss on his collarbone. He gives me a lazy grin as if he’s still half-asleep. “How’s the birthday girl feeling this morning?”

  “No complaints.” I scooch closer to him and wrap one leg over his. “How are you?”

  Doug adjusts his body so he’s hovering on top of me. “I’m good, too.” He slides down the length of my body, taking my panties down with him. “What’s this?” he asks, tapping the Spider-Man bandage on my knee with his thumb.

  “It’s nothing. I fell last night.”

  Doug looks up at me. “You fell last night? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it was nothing.”

  “Seriously? Aren’t you a bit old to be falling down drunk?”

  His assumption irritates me and I sit up. “I wasn’t drunk.”

  Doug raises an eyebrow. “Pardon me. I meant ‘buzzed.’”

  Pushing him off of me, I vault out of bed and face him, hands on my hips. “I’ll have you know, Mr. High and Mighty, I fell before I even had one drink. I tripped on the street. And I assure you, it was not a result of inebriation. Apparently klutziness is not an attribute I’m apt to grow out of in my advanced age.” It’s true most of my nights out include indulging in alcoholic beverages, but Doug knows I rarely drink enough to catch more than a light buzz.

  Doug doesn’t respond as he releases a heavy sigh and drops his gaze to the floor. Casting it back on me, he says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

  I grab the blanket we had thrown on the floor last night and toss it back on the bed. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

  Doug pats the bed next to him. “Have a seat.”

  I sit and let my feet dangle over the edge of our bed. I can’t look at him. I’m too bothered he jumped to conclusions, and I’m hurt he suggested birthday drinks should be reserved for the younger crowd. As if there’s an age limit for having fun on your birthday.

  Rubbing my thigh in a circular motion, Doug whispers, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Finally, I turn to him. “And if I had fallen down because I was drunk? Would it have been the worst thing in the world?”

  Doug slowly shakes his head. “No. Of course not. I just worry about you.”

  I stand up. “I’m a grown woman. You’re supposed to be my boyfriend, not my dad.” As the words come out of my mouth, I’m fully aware I tend to fall for men who want to take care of me. Maybe because my own father did the bare minimum. Mitch, the guy I dated before Doug, was ten years older than me. At over six feet tall, he would always lean down and lovingly button my jacket when we went out, while I beamed up at him, inhaling his spicy aftershave. I often wondered if I saw him as a lover or a doting father figure. We broke up amicably after about nine months when his job relocated him to London. I might be attracted to men who watch out for me, but judging my social drinking habits at my “advanced age” is not the same as removing crumbs from my hair or fixing my remote control.

  Doug stands up and places his hands on my shoulders. When I refuse to meet his gaze, he lifts my chin, forcing eye contact. “I know. Let me make it up to you.” He motions toward the bed.

  I have completely lost the mood by then and am grateful to see it’s already eight thirty. I shake my head in regret. “Gotta get ready for work. Rain check?”

  “Of course.” Doug regards me with sad eyes. I know he’s sincerely sorry for upsetting me. I kiss him on the cheek and head to the bathroom.

  As I walk to work later that morning, I keep thinking, “I’m thirty-nine. One more year in my thirties. One more year until I can no longer call myself a “thirty-something.” One more year until I’ll need an annual mammogram and will be considered a cougar for dating a younger man. I approach the revolving door of my office building and exhale loudly, resulting in a funny look from another woman walking inside. I give her an apologetic smile and bite my lip. I wonder how old she is, and if she’d think I was a complete freak if she knew what I was thinking.

  “It was good, Mom.” I put my office phone on speaker after my neck cramps from cradling it.

  “Who all went?” my mom asks.

  “Me, Jodie, Melanie, and Amanda.” I try to multi-task by reading through the list of potential taglines for my law firm’s rebranding efforts, but I can’t concentrate.

  “I’m glad you had fun. We’ll see you guys on Sunday night, right? I bought lamb chops. Helen and Cheryl are coming as well. With the kids.”

  “We’ll be there,” I chirp happily. My mom always makes my favorite meal for my birthday, and I’m excited to see my Aunt Helen, my cousin Cheryl, and “the twerps.” After my dad left my mom and fled to the other side of the count
ry when I was six, my mom and I moved in with Aunt Helen (my mom’s older sister) and her now-deceased husband, Walter. We lived as one big family until I left for college and my mother purchased her own small house. Only two years older than me, Cheryl is the closest thing I have to a sister. At the sound of knocking, I turn my attention to Philip, one of the firm’s partners, who is standing at my door. “Mom, I have to go. Love you.” I wait for her to say bye before hanging up. In a bright voice, I say, “Hey, Philip.”

  Philip runs a hand through his thick dark hair and gives me a sheepish grin. “You didn’t have to hang up on your mom for me.”

  “Not a problem. We were finished anyway. She wanted to know how my birthday was.” I gesture to my guest chair. “Have a seat.” As the partner in charge of the rebranding committee, Philip weighs in on the legalities of using certain taglines and logos—for instance, if they’re too similar to phrases used by other companies. “I was going through the short list of available taglines before my mom called.”

  “We’ll get to that later. Happy birthday.” He smiles, revealing a straight, slightly crowded row of top teeth, and slight laugh lines appear at the corners of his warm brown eyes. With long eyelashes completely wasted on him, he could pass for Anne Hathaway’s older brother. Or maybe her dad. How old is Anne Hathaway these days?

  “Thanks. It was yesterday.” I wonder if he knows how old I am. Most people peg me for early thirties. According to his firm bio, Philip graduated law school in 1997, placing him at approximately forty-five, but I still hope he won’t ask my age. A gentleman never would.

  “Well, happy belated birthday.”

  “Thanks aga—”

  Interrupting, Philip says, “We’ll have to celebrate. Drinks after work?”

  I eyeball Philip in surprise. I glance at his left hand, and the wedding band on the finger he is currently tapping along my desk. Does he mean just the two of us? I clear my throat. “Sure.”

  “So, which taglines survived the search?”

  I slide the list to Philip. As he studies it, I stare at the top of his head, noting the hints of gray in his hair. How come gray hair on handsome men makes them distinguished and sexy, while gray hair on a pretty woman means she’s getting old and should head to the stylist for a two-hundred-dollar touch up?

  Philip looks up at me. Either not noticing I was staring at him or pretending not to, he scratches his jaw. “I don’t like any of these. I want something catchy. ‘Large law firm capabilities. Small law firm rates’? Not so much,” he says. I typically prefer clean-shaven men and don’t like when Doug lets more than a day’s scruff accumulate, but Philip carries his closely-trimmed beard well—less Rolling Stone and more GQ.

  “I agree with you. That sucks.” We had asked the employees to suggest ideas, offering a five-hundred-dollar American Express gift card to the winner. So far all of the suggestions had been losers, and the taglines I’d personally thrown into the mix were already used by someone else.

  Philip chuckles. “Back to the drawing board.”

  “I’ll keep thinking over the next few days and touch base with you after the weekend. There must be something both original and not already taken. Should I send another firm-wide email asking for more suggestions?”

  Standing up from his chair, Philip says, “I’d like to see what you come up with first. You could save us five hundred dollars.”

  “I guess since it’s part of my job description to be creative, it would be unprofessional of me to accept the gift card if the winning tagline is one of mine?” In a display of exaggerated disappointment, I push my lips into a pout.

  Philip hovers over the desk and locks eyes with me, then whispers, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  I feel a blush creep across my cheeks. “I can live with that.”

  “Happy birthday again. I owe you a drink.” Philip winks at me and walks out.

  After he leaves, I open a new document and start brainstorming. Midsize Law Firm, Huge Results. I shake my head. Another loser. My heart beats rapidly, and I close my eyes as I think about Philip’s drink invitation. I wonder if he means it. Then I wonder why I care so much. After all, he’s married, and I have a boyfriend.

  As I stroll up and down the aisles at the grocery store, absently throwing items in my shopping bag, I decide I will absolutely not have drinks with Philip unless it’s a group thing. Although our banter has never crossed the line, it borders on flirtation. At least on my end.

  My body’s reaction to him is not simply that of an employee to her supervisor. Being alone with him under the influence of alcohol is asking for trouble, and I won’t risk it. I would never cheat on Doug, and I’m definitely not a homewrecker. At the same time, having the feelings in the first place is disturbing. I don’t believe being in a relationship with one person means I’ll never be attracted to someone else, but I wonder why being in Philip’s company evokes bodily responses that are not always present with Doug, whom I love with all my heart.

  * * *

  I take a final peek in the mirror and pretend to pick something up off the ground to confirm I can bend down in my dark blue, low-cut skinny jeans without showing the crack of my ass. It’s Saturday night, and Doug is taking me out for my birthday dinner.

  “Ready, babe?” Doug calls out from our living room.

  I brush a layer of rust-colored shadow across my eyelids to make my blue eyes pop. “Five more minutes. Five more minutes for you to finish watching last night’s episode of The Late Show with Stephen Colbert.” Doug loves the show—one of the only ones we don’t watch together—so I figure it will buy me the extra time I need to get ready.

  “I finished already.”

  I turn around to find Doug standing in the doorway of the makeshift frosted glass wall we built in our large studio to turn it into a one bedroom. He’s wearing his nicer jeans, i.e. the ones that fit him snugly in the butt and don’t have frays on the bottom, and a green and white gingham shirt that brings out the color of his eyes. He’s shaking his head at me in what I know from our years together is mock annoyance. I quickly transfer my necessities (comb, license, credit card, lipstick, and keys) from my larger handbag to my smaller evening bag. Grinning, I say, “Then what are we waiting for? Let’s get outta here.”

  An eight-minute cab ride later, we are sitting across from each other at a small table at Alta, a Mediterranean/Spanish tapas restaurant we have wanted to try for a while. The one time we attempted to get in with Melanie and her husband, we hadn’t made a reservation and were told we’d have to wait until eleven p.m. to eat. We weren’t cool enough to dine so late and opted to go elsewhere. This time Doug made a nine p.m. reservation, and surprisingly we are seated immediately. I order a glass of Cava, a sparkling wine from Spain, while Doug orders a Hennessy and tonic, and we drink quietly while perusing the menu. When Doug reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, my first impulse is to pull it back. I try to cover by scratching my arm as if I have an itch. I smile at him. “Thanks for making the reservation.”

  “I’m glad they weren’t booked months in advance. I want to make you happy on your birthday.”

  “You always make me happy, Doug.”

  I look at him fondly. It’s true. He always makes me happy. But…I’m scared something is missing. I shake my head.

  Noticing the gesture, Doug asks, “You all right there, camper?”

  I nod, thankful when the waitress comes over to take our order before I have to answer. I stifle a giggle as she blatantly leans her chest into Doug’s face when answering one of his questions about the menu options. I’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so clueless when other women flirted with him. While Doug orders the bacon-wrapped dates, fried goat cheese, crispy Brussel sprouts, braised short ribs, and lamb meatballs for us to share, I try to steady my nerves by taking small sips of Cava. It’s my birthday dinner, and I want to live in the moment. I know Doug and I
will have a great time, and although forty feels like a deadline by which I need to come to terms with my doubts, I still have almost three hundred and sixty days to go. Practically an entire year. I don’t want to waste it worrying. Everything will unfold naturally. I bring my glass to my mouth, already feeling much better.

  “It might be an odd time to bring this up, but are we okay?”

  Choking on my Cava, I cover my mouth with my hand. I swallow hard. “Why would you ask that?”

  Doug does a half shrug. “I don’t know, Mags. You seem restless lately.”

  I chew on my bottom lip, feeling sick to my stomach and not at all excited for the feast the waitress will soon deliver to our table. I don’t want to discuss this now, but I’m a horrible liar. When I was nine years old, I accidentally broke the leg off one of Cheryl’s Barbie dolls. I had been playing with a classmate of mine while Cheryl was at a Little League softball game. I left the Barbie doll in the room we shared, praying she wouldn’t notice since she claimed to be too old to play with Barbies. My prayers were not answered, and she confronted me later that day. Too slow on my feet to come up with a good excuse, I blamed it on my friend, and then immediately confessed it was not, in fact, my friend who was the guilty culprit, but me. I suck.

  “Maybe I have been. I’ve been thinking too much.”

  Doug smirks. “You? Think too much? No.”

  “Ha ha.”

  Doug reaches across the table and squeezes my hand again. This time I don’t let go. He studies me. “What have you been thinking about?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, contemplating how to say it. I finally blurt out, “Turning forty, us, turning forty, my life, turning forty.” I avoid eye contact. I hate that I’m so single-minded on turning forty and know Doug hates it too.

  Doug removes his hand from mine. “Okay. I get the ‘turning forty’ part, but the ‘us’ part concerns me.”

  I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “I love you, Doug. I really do. But…aren’t you ever uncertain about, well, the future?”