The Last Place She'd Look Page 11

  Frightened by her tantrum, I worried about what was in store next. Was she inconsolable, ready for a rant or rage, a night of opera without resolution? Should I knock and try to resolve her concerns? Or just let her be? Maybe we should both get a good night's sleep and start fresh in the morning, I thought, deciding to heed the locked door. I took a breath, got my bag, then found another bedroom. On my way, I admired the view out of every window. I was in a beautiful place with a gorgeous woman—and hopefully, tomorrow morning, April would be herself again.

  I found a room where the walls, dressers, and bedding were all pale, beachy colors. Giant seashells decorated the walls. Exhausted, my mouth felt as if it were filled with sand, so I finished my drink and got ready for bed—alone.

  Fresh sheets and a firm mattress felt good after a long day of writing, driving, and arguing. Turning out the lights and settling in, my head sank into the pillows. Blankets caressed my chin. I drifted off to sleep, lulled by the sound of the ocean.

  Three hours later, I awoke to something that sounded like trash cans being turned over. But it wasn't. The tide came in, waves crashing on the beach, piercingly loud, and so close to the house that I thought water would burst through the windows.

  This moment would feel so much less scary if I were holding April—and she was holding me. I got out of bed and walked to her room. The door was still locked. Agitated, I tiptoed back to my room and got back in bed.

  I couldn't fall back to sleep. It was as if the ocean were a noisy neighbor holding a block party until dawn. I finally fell asleep around 6:30 a.m., only to be woken by April two hours later as she clattered around in the kitchen.

  Out of bed, I brushed my teeth and hair, put on shorts and a shirt, and walked to the kitchen, hoping I'd meet the “old” April. “Good morning. How did you sleep?” I said cheerily, trying to muster every ounce of congeniality my sleep-deprived self could find.

  “Shit, everything is shit,” she shouted. “Who can sleep in this place? The coffee is shit. I feel like shit.”

  I moved to comfort her. “If we were together in the same bed last night, we both would have slept better.” I kissed her neck. She hesitated. I buried my head there, smooching, tightening my caress around her. April finally calmed. She just needed some warmth, I said to myself, confident I'd soothed her.

  She puttered around the kitchen wearing a salmon-colored silk kimono. Beautiful and making breakfast right in front of me, April mixed vitamin powder, soy milk, honey, and fresh fruit into the blender. As the pale concoction whirred in the glass container, I thought of the past night's events. April poured a glass and offered it to me with a warm, girlish smile—and I chose to erase the evening's outbursts from my mind.

  After breakfast I went to my room and called Julia. “Women can be more challenging than men. April has a Hyde side of her Dr. Jekyll that's frightening.”

  “You told her you love her? Things are past teen-age lust and honeymoon sex. You need to work on growing your relationship,” Julia insisted. “Go work.”

  “Okay, I needed to work harder. Here goes.”

  April and I put on bathing suits and walked to the beach. As we stepped closer to the ocean, I remembered our first beach kiss, brimming with electricity, shyness, and the thrill of the new. Now, it was different. After last night, seeing April's underbelly of neediness and insanity, I felt cautious and guarded.

  We romped on the sand like kids, running into the water, then jumping back out. The waves whooshed back at us—a lot like the way I'd behaved in most relationships before now. Was I afraid of getting close to someone? I needed to believe I was more evolved now, capable of building a lasting rapport.

  After a glorious day on the beach, we relaxed on the deck, sharing a bottle of champagne, pate, and crusty olive bread. April was quiet most of the time, speaking only when the last drops of bubbly hit the glasses.

  “You haven't said anything about last night,” she began. “There's a lot of male energy in your behavior. I like it.”

  “What should I say?” I asked, hoping she'd feed me the lines for this play.

  “We should talk about our love, our love for each other,” April said, insistently grabbing my arm. “Where is our love going?”

  Her hand was an annoying clutch, like when Will touched me—an older man's need to hang on to youth, or a vampire's hunger to feed on new blood to stay alive.

  “Our love is here right now.” I said, barely convincing myself. “Where does it need to go?” In this moment, feeling like a caged animal, I recoiled.

  “I n-e-e-d to know your commitment level,” she said pointedly. “I need to know about our future. Otherwise, I'll always be holding back, not feeling free to be myself.”

  I looked at her, perplexed. April was so strong – yet her insecurities signaled a deep neediness. I'd wanted someone to need me. Is this what neediness looked like, and I just hadn't experienced it? Is this what working at a relationship looked like—and it had been so long since I'd been there I forgot how to recognize it? If I worked at being open-hearted and loving, could I melt her fears? Or had this relationship become like a pair of jeans left too long in the dryer—and would no longer fit?

  “I don't think you can ever love me enough,” she said.

  “I love you. I touch you, I tell you.” I stroked her wrist, a weak attempt to reassure her. The moment felt overwrought. I was fatigued from the day in the sun and boosting April's ego. “What do I have to do to love you enough?”

  “Be with me more. Spend more time with me.”

  “I'm with you every spare minute I have,” I responded defensively.

  “The thing I like about you is that you have your own life. The thing I dislike about you is that you have your own life.”

  “What do you want?” I pleaded, desperate for resolution.

  “My last girlfriend moved in, gave up her job, helped me in the office, and was with me all the time,” April smiled, confidently speaking her truth.

  Her wants appalled me. They were the opposite of anything I could offer. “That's not me, or anyone I want to be. That's a housewife in someone's shadow. Is that the only way you can feel loved?”

  April was silent. She nodded, “Yes.”

  “If you are willing to work this through, maybe we've been going too fast and need more time and patience with one another,” I said.

  “To me working together means being together, a lot,” she restated.

  “My time to myself, especially for my writing is very precious to me,” I explained. “I can't love if I feel I can't breathe, or if compromise feels like dread instead of sharing. For me to open my heart and be happy, I need to feel safe to exhale and be myself. If the price of loving you is every minute of my day, that's more than I can pay.”

  I stood, dazed. “I need to take some breathing time.” I collected the empty glasses, bringing them into the kitchen. Gazing out the glorious dining room window I saw the blazing sun. It looked like a bloody fingertip in the sky, pointing at me to make a move before it got ready to set and wash the beach with darkness. I cleaned the glasses. I rinsed my hands, and then walked towards April. She was still on the deck, watching the sun, looking sad and dejected.

  It felt wrong to stay. I realized that I'd never be enough for April. I lived a lifetime with a mother like that, feeling tremendous guilt in not measuring up. Afraid of a romantic relationship with those ingredients, I knew whatever I did, I would only disappoint April. I had to leave, smart enough to see that this wasn't going to work out because of fundamental incompatibility.

  “I'm going. It's the best thing for both of us,” I blurted, suddenly eager for a hasty exit. I saw her head turn. But I raced out the door before she could catch me.

  I jumped in my car, turned up Elvis Costello's My Aim Is True as loudly as possible, and prepared myself to brave beach traffic with all the other sunbathers returning to their landlocked lives.

  This was the first time I ever walked out on a relationship. Usual
ly I was the one who got dumped and rejected by men. They wanted wives too. Yet I entered into liaisons with them knowing of that possibility, hoping the right one wouldn't feel like strangulation. She wanted me to give up my life for her and I still hadn't met her son.

  Was my role in relationships with women to be the cold-hearted prick? Have I developed the male energy April said excited her? Where did my newfound confidence come from that let me take charge, choosing to leave an affair that threatened to strangle me? I felt saddened in hurting April, but energized by my ability to do something right for myself. Would I call April after the weekend and ask for another chance, like I'd done in most relationships before?

  Being with a woman brought as much opera as romance with a man, only with less chest hair and curvier waists. My ambivi-sexuality raged on.

  Chapter 19

  What Now?

  After a long, soul-searching drive from Malibu, I threw down my bags and jumped in the shower, hoping the currents of water would wash away my feelings of rage, confusion, and disappointment. The only way I could move on with April would be if I let her control my life. That was a deal killer. What was there about her controlling, clutching behavior that I didn't see? Or did I notice it and just ignore the signs because someone desired me? Speaking of ignoring, I knew I didn't want to deal with my relationship issues just yet. I thought I'd avoid them, like postponing doing laundry, until the last minute when there's nothing left to wear. What was in my future?

  Lucky for me, the following Thursday began a three-day writing seminar on Marketing through Blogging and Social Networking: strategies for marketing yourself on the web, including why and how to create a blog, using social networking effectively for self-promotion, e-newsletters, and more! I'd get out of the house and yet be able to hide in my work. A great Band-Aid to help heal all of my dilemmas.

  Driving to Orange County, I was eager to learn new things. Out of the house and out to make first impressions with real people, so I wore a tasteful black pants suit, light makeup, and sensible shoes. The seminar was at a Hilton Hotel, freeway close. As soon as I arrived, I learned that many events were happening at the hotel that same day. I found the room for my seminar, picked a seat not too close to the lecturer, not too far, with easy access to the exit and the coffee area. I poured a cup, took my seat, and removed a pen and brand new notepad from my giant bag— I read the hand-out that was placed on each desk, eager to learn about:

  - Why Blog? (Blog vs. Website)

  - Initial Decisions, such as Branding, Content, and Which Blog Site to Use

  - Creating a Blog (one lucky attendee will have their blog set up during this seminar)

  - Promoting Your Blog - Extending Your Reach

  - Social Networking

  I wanted to learn as much as I could. Maybe if I put more focus into my career, my earnings would increase, new opportunities would arise. Anything was possible. The first day's class was taught by a bearded former screenwriter who was now teaching seminars and doing online coaching for writers. The following day he tag- teamed with a perky recent college grad who spoke in finely tuned Twitter bites.

  Her parting words for the day were, “Be brief, but to the point.” Go home and search the web. Go to every site you know with new eyes.”

  That night, under the guise of doing my homework, my fingers found their way to the dating sites I thought I knew too well.

  Sure, I knew I wasn't ready to date, but this was class and job-related research. It couldn't hurt to look and see who was out there, so I revisited my Match.com account. “As an ambivi-sexual, should I turn back to men?” I asked myself while heating my Lean Cuisine dinner, just days after my beach blanket disaster.

  I remembered what comedian Dana Gould said, “I keep dating the same person over and over again: Mandy. I loved Mandy. It stands for My, Another Neurotic Disappointment…Yes!”

  Let's try to weed out neurotics. Since single men online seemed so plentiful, I started the search with “Men seeking Women aged 43 to 60.” Photos helped. I avoided anyone who looked evil or insane – like Rasputin, Satan, or Dave Navarro.

  There were many men, the majority of their descriptions were unmemorable, or as dry and officious as business briefs. They sought a young, spirited, longhaired, affectionate soul, eager to share their lives and ride on the back of their Harleys. Many listed sarcasm as a turn-off. Between my hair, sense of humor, and lack of motorcycle agility, it looked like few from this club would want me as a member.

  I remembered what Aldous Huxley said: I want love, I want poetry, I want danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin.

  Get out of my mind, Aldous. If you're going to rummage through my head, please do some light dusting and fluff the pillows. Online dating takes a lot of energy, resilience, perseverance, and sanity. I had none of that. I was like a dieter who fantasized about cake. I knew I shouldn't be there. I was recuperating from a break-up and needed time to heal. Internet dating would be waiting for me when I was sane enough for it…and not a moment sooner.

  “Lift your fingers and step away from the computer!” I repeated to myself out loud, until I left the room.

  Saturday, my last day of class, focused on creating our own websites and blogs. I was eager for that knowledge, hoping I'd now have the tools to stand apart from other freelance self-help writers and zero in on my audience.

  The first part of the class was a recap of the last two days. My mind wandered, and I found myself taking many trips to refill my coffee, then leaving the room even between designated breaks to visit the ladies room.

  Surprisingly, a wave of sadness and loneliness hit me as I pushed open the ladies room door. Moving to the sink to splash my face with cold water, wishing I could wash away my melancholy, I verged on tears. In this moment I thought I had never felt more alone. Soap in my eyes, I fumbled for towels and bumped into another woman.

  “I'm sorry, I couldn't see,” I said wiping my eyes, still not seeing.

  “Don't worry, take another towel,” she said, handing one to me.

  I finished drying my face, opened my eyes, and saw her smiling at me.

  “I'm Jessica,” she said, stretching out her hand for me to shake it.

  She was about 45, with long, thick, wavy hair, strong shoulders, a small waist, and dressed for a party.

  “I'm Sara, here for a wedding?” I was joking.

  “I'm here for my parents' 50th anniversary. They're celebrating half a century. I can't make a relationship last more than a year.”

  “Me either,” I responded.

  “Do you ever feel like everyone is happy but you?” she offered.

  “All the time.”

  “Really? Maybe soon will be our time,” she added.

  “I hope so.” I was trying not to stare at her beautiful face. I knew I should reapply my makeup and go back to class, but I was captivated.

  “My girlfriend moved out last week,” Jessica said, sadly.

  “Your roommate?” I inquired, eager to know.

  “No. She and I were involved romantically and as soon as she moved in, everything good about us died,” she explained. A tear came to her eye.

  I got a tissue and wiped her cheek. She smelled of roses and French soap. The nearness of her was a sensual delight.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her eyes looked into mine and I felt seen and understood. A warm rapport was building. Just then, the bathroom door opened and another woman entered, bringing the outside world into our moment. “I guess I should go back to being a good daughter.” She turned away to leave, and then turned back again. “You know, I'd love to continue this conversation. May I call you sometime?”

  Surprised, I enthusiastically chimed, “Please do.” I reached into my purse, pulled out a card, and gave it to her.

  Jessica held the card in one hand and read it. With the other she moved to shake my hand, again. “Thank you, I'll be in touch.” She left.

  I stayed another minute to comb my hair, reapply my lip
stick, and cool down from my quasi-flirtatious encounter, not sure what to make of it. I went back to class feeling a lot more cheerful than when I'd left. The rest of the day in class they showed us templates for websites and blogging. I thought about Jessica, and how odd it was to meet someone like that, and how just like Will, and all the other people who said they'd call, she never would.

  Class ended at four o'clock. I got into my car, back to Los Angeles. Traffic was bad; the sun was hot. I chewed gum, played the radio loudly, and wiped sweat from the back of my neck.

  I arrived home and eagerly peeled everything off, leaving it in a pile on the bathroom floor. Naked, I scurried to the kitchen for an aspirin and a tall glass of water, to cool me down. As I was gulping and glugging water, I glanced at my phone. The message light wasn't on. Nobody ever called me. I made my way over to the bed, pulled at the blankets, crawled in, and grabbed for the remote control. Another Saturday night alone—just me and my cable channels.

  The following day Jessica called. Conversation flowed, as we talked about everything: growing up, our parents, what we were like when we were teen-agers, and if we ever felt cool or geeky. At the end of our two-hour phone conversation, we agreed to meet the next night for coffee and dessert.

  She arrived first, looking eager and gleeful. Without makeup she was incredibly beautiful. Jessica saw me and waved. We hugged and shared a self-conscious cheek kiss. After we ordered our tea and brownies, we settled into our cushioned chairs, exhaled, able to relax and take each other in. She wore a sea green halter top and looked girlishly braless. Her tan, muscular arms accented her overall healthiness. Jessica's smile lit up her face, revealing endless cheekbones and wise, understanding eyes.

  “Have you recuperated from the anniversary party?” I began.