The Dating Bender Read online

  Beyoncé’s “Run the World” ringtone interrupted my visions of grandeur, which included Frankie and me on the cover of Wired, he as Superman, I as Wonder Woman. I pushed off my satin pink sleep mask to grab the screaming device, but not before knocking my white noise machine to the floor. I prayed that someday soon the love and snuggles of Ryan would replace my need for electronics to lull me to sleep.

  “You two were fucking brilliant!

  “Hey, Nate, morning,” I said.

  “I just got off the phone with Apple. We’re taking our company public thanks to you and Frankie. Welcome to your new post of VP of Marketing. You’ve earned it,” he said.

  There was only one person I wanted to revel in the excitement with. I dialed without hesitation.

  “Hey, I have some amazing news. Hang onto your boxers. I got promoted to VP. Can you believe it?”

  “Sam, you more than anyone deserve this. Your time has come,” Frankie said.

  “Wait, you mean you knew about this and you let me rattle on about my divorcée woes all night? You bastard,” I said.

  “Nate wanted to wake you up with the news. He made me promise to hold off on telling you.”

  “Yeah, wow, this has been crazy. Too bad we have to go back home today, I feel like celebrating.”

  ***

  Left with no other alternative, Frankie and I got sauced on the flight back home. The adrenaline and booze buzzes ran as high as the sky.

  “I blame my family. I needed out of that house and Sheldon was my ticket. He was my best friend, but I’m not so sure I would have married him if my parents hadn’t been on my back about getting serious with my life. With each beer my father swilled, he reminded me that I was not living up to my potential. Then he would burp at me between curses.”

  “Sam, he sounds like a bad role model.”

  “My mother forced me to go to church and confession every Sunday as if I were the only sinner in the house. Afterwards, we would share a caustic family meal and my father would remind me that I needed to get a job or a husband. He would not respect me until I did. I just wanted out from under them, so marriage seemed like the easiest way.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You did what you needed to do to free yourself from that toxic situation. You’re doing just fine. Excellent, actually, Ms. Vice President,” he said, bowing his head as if I were royalty.

  “Thanks, Frankie. Nobody has ever really seen the good in me until you came along. I think I may be bound for greatness, or at least goodness. I feel so fortunate to have you as a boss, and a friend,” I said, toasting him with my plastic cup.

  The leggy flight attendant looked down her nose at me as she passed our row. Not even her snotty attitude would curtail my happiness. No one could. I looked out the window as we flew above the marshmallow clouds, comforted by the thought that Frankie hadn’t judged me for marrying young and divorcing myself out of a bad relationship.

  “Since we’re being airplane-honest, Sherry and I were best friends too, but I don’t think we were ever in love,” Frankie said. “I’ve stayed with her all these years because of the kids. And like the Catholics always say, divorce is never an option.”

  He tilted his head and gazed at me so intently I felt my ears sizzle.

  Turbulence broke his stare. A wobbly-voiced co-captain warned us to brace for a rocky ride. Seatbelts clicked on in unison as our flying boat ricocheted between the clouds that went from cotton-puff white to gun-metal gray.

  This was not the way I wanted to die, having poured out my sad life story on a plane for anybody within earshot to hear.

  I gripped my seat and the barf bag, trying to calm my tousled body. That last glass of bubbly may have been a bad idea.

  Frankie looked more terrified than I felt. When he grabbed my arm for support, all I could think about was the fact that I was about to die on a plane seated next to a pleated-pants-and-sweater-vest guy. It would paint an uncool picture in the Denver Post. After all I had endured, was this God’s fate for me?

  Thankfully, after a few more minutes of threatening turbulence, the plane leveled out, though the cabin remained in a silent stupor for the duration of the flight. It was only when we slid onto the snow-covered runway that I began to feel safe.

  Disembarking, I realized that Frankie was still holding my hand, which seemed odd, so I intentionally dropped my Coach knock-off purse so I’d be forced to unlock my hand from his. While I picked up my lip glosses that had tumbled out, I realized that not once during the bouncy flight had I thought about Ryan. I may have actually experienced a stomach flip for Frankie, and it wasn’t an airsick tic. It was the thing your tummy did when you met somebody who you thought might be the one. It must have been a near-death fluke because Frankie was someone else’s one and technically so was I, for that matter.

  Thankfully after he helped me collect the rest of my belongings he picked at his pleats all the way off the airplane—a big turn off, or at least it should have been.

  We didn’t utter a word as we drove away from the airport. Frankie’s thick fingers looked nice on the black leather steering wheel of his Volvo station wagon, the quintessential family mobile. The threat of nausea bubbled. Probably post-traumatic airsick disorder, or I still couldn’t handle booze with the same stamina as my parents. My mind drifted, right along with the falling snow, as a slew of thoughts boomed in my brain.

  As we pulled up to the office parking lot, we skidded in the snow that had accumulated during our ride and bumped to a stop against the curb. Frankie unloaded my belongings. As I awkwardly shuffled about, Frankie caught my eye and leaned in toward me.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ’Tis the season to be jolly! Keep telling yourself that, dear. I’d been going bonkers ever since the San Francisco trip until I decided it was best to ignore the memory of Frankie’s glistening eyes and bizarre lean-in. Odd behavior was to be expected when people survived what felt like a near-death experience.

  Meanwhile, I buzzed along at work, and things were going better than ever with Ryan. In a month’s time, we had successfully transitioned from best friends to a full-on exclusive relationship. To avoid awkwardness, I orchestrated my interactions with Frankie so that we were never alone together. Ryan made me ecstatic, yet I was still riddled with anxiety.

  To temper the angst, I resurrected a tradition from my marital past—a Christmas shindig. Ever since Sheldon and I wed, I had stopped feeling the Yule, but this year felt different. One e-vite later, and I had reawakened a glimmering part of my former life.

  Candy and I bonded in the break room during lunch. As I sank my teeth into a gooey salt bagel, she said, “Sam, I know I don’t say it enough, but I’m really proud of you. You’ve really turned your life around. You’ve advanced your career and your personal life. Bravo to you.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Things are fantabulous. I just hope I don’t do something to muck it all up.”

  “Oh, shut it. You have to stop torturing yourself. Your parents have killed your self-esteem, but it’s time to get over it. You’re in a responsible relationship, which will stabilize the rest of your life.”

  I considered that maybe I should trust that Candy knew what she was talking about. She and her husband had been together since high school. Sure, I’d taken my knocks along the way, but maybe it was possible for a kitty to change her spots.

  At the end of the day, I charged out of my office to head home for party prepping. Frankie appeared and blocked my way. His eyes glistened.

  Oh Christ, what now?

  “Is everything all right between us? I feel distant from you ever since our trip.”

  I fumbled for the right words and channeled my mother by avoiding all eye contact and fixating on the bird that sat on the ledge of my window. He tried to force me into direct eye contact, but I remained in a glare-down with Tweetie until he gave up.

  “We’ll be at your party tonight. Looking forward to it,” he said.

  “Okay. Feel the Yul
e!” I breezed past him and out of my office toward the elevator.

  I felt flushed. Was it possible to have hot flashes at my age? That would make me a gynecological rarity since I wasn’t even old yet. No, no, it was probably just the erratic heating system in the building.

  ***

  Back at my house, I whipped up my favorite winter party treat—eggnog, a feel-good serum—especially when laced with spiced rum as my mother always made it.

  Snow flurries dropped, Nat King Cole hummed, and the house smelled like sugar cookies. The party spread would have made my granny proud. As I twirled around my gingerbread-style home to Christmas carols, my eggnog high was interrupted by Ryan’s “You’re the One That I Love” ringtone.

  “Coming, Snookie,” I screamed. “Are you feeling the Yule, baby?”

  “Hey, Sammy, I hate to break this to you right before everybody shows up, but I don’t think I’m going to get out of this client meeting anytime soon. Superstar is insisting that we hit the tit-bars with the clients. Boobs are the way to our future. His words, not mine. Your boobs are the best.”

  “Are you serious? Can’t you learn to say no to him? He knows my party is tonight. Just bring the clients here,” I said.

  As much as I wanted Ryan at the party, I knew that intimate soirées were not the way to lock down a deal with power players. Damn Superstar.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he said.

  As much as Ryan was a dreamboat, I wished he’d grow some cajones.

  “No worries, I’ll lead the holiday festivities, alone. Enjoy the tits!”

  I tried not to sound too bitchy. At least the booze had given me some cojones.

  As I laid out the last cookie, the doorbell rang.

  “Coming!”

  This was so exciting. My very first post-divorce holiday extravaganza! The house was decorated to the extreme with three mini-Christmas trees and an elaborate snowman village. All of my trees were short and fat, which was exactly how I loved them. Sheldon hated plump squat trees.

  The entire NetSocial team stood at my stoop singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” wearing Santa caps. Yes, it was a smidge goofy, but the schmaltzy sentimentality brought me to tears.

  “Aw, guys! You are too much. Thanks for making it. Come on in, eggnog awaits.”

  Candy led the pack of cheer-givers wearing a stylish Santa-style minidress, black fishnets, and lace-up boots. This explained how she and her husband kept the love alive. She continued to sex things up, just like Glamour suggested.

  I ran around the house like a dog in a meat shop serving up food, eggnog, and cider, and then pouring champagne for a toast.

  “I just want to take a moment and thank you all for sharing this special occasion with me,” I said. “It’s been a rocky year, but I can honestly say I finally feel like I’m home. Okay, I’ll shut up. Wait, thanks to the Internet gods for blessing us with a date to take our company public!”

  “Oh, Sammy, get over here before you get the cookies soggy with your boohooing,” Candy said. “Where’s Frankie? It’s strange he’s not here since you guys put the whole deal together.”

  “I don’t know. I saw him right before I left the office and supposedly he and Sherry were coming. Something must have come up.”

  I was relieved. I’d been feeling progressively uncomfortable around Frankie. I knew there was no reason for it, but I still felt awkward in his presence.

  After several more rounds of cider and cookies and one too many work stories, we gathered around the piano to sing Christmas carols. The crowd didn’t dismantle until midnight.

  It was a fantastic night. I would have a huge headache in the morning, but it was worth it. I had officially ended the reign of Sheldon McScrooge.

  The team headed out in the same way they had arrived, singing. They were corny, yes, but they were people to call my own.

  After months of post-Superstar drama, my professional life was thriving and I’d garnered an amazing circle of friends. Even Boogie had been pleasant enough. Someone must have finally spoken to him because his nostrils were almost booger-free at the party. That was the thing about the holidays: they really did bring people together. As I bustled about cleaning up the remains of good cheer, my doorbell rang. Yay! Ryan must have escaped the tits.

  I popped on the hot pink Santa hat that Candy brought for me and slipped out of my clothes into a skimpy rose-colored robe.

  “I’ll be right there, Snookie,” I said.

  On my way to the door, I tripped over a pile of presents. “I’m feeling the Yule, baby,” I said as I opened the door.

  “Hey, Sam.”

  Horrified, standing in my doorway half-naked, I stammered, “Wow, F-Frankie I-I wasn’t expecting—you. I thought it was, well, I don’t normally come to the door this way.”

  What in the hell was Frankie doing here in the middle of the night with a big bottle of champagne and a bundt cake?

  “Make yourself comfortable,” I stalled. “I’ll be right back.”

  He must have expected everybody to still be celebrating. That would explain his antler headpiece…but who brought bundt cake to a party? It wasn’t 1950. And he still donned his stupid glassy-eyed stare.

  I had to pull myself together. This was not the time to get paranoid. I had just hosted a smashing soirée.

  I ran upstairs and changed into a non-sexy college sweatshirt and baggy cargos. I peeked in the bathroom mirror to make sure I looked presentable yet frumpy. I rubbed my nose abruptly before heading downstairs to try to get rid of Frankie.

  Instead of making a graceful reentrance, I tumbled to the bottom of the staircase. Being clumsy at all the wrong moments was another trait I’d inherited from my mother. Frankie ran over to help me off the plush mauve carpet. Thankfully, I had purchased the more expensive padding, so it broke my fall.

  Frankie’s hand lingered on mine.

  I smoothed my pant pockets and hair, willing my face to return to its normal shade of pale. It rebelled by remaining firebomb red. My cheeks could’ve burnt toast.

  “So, what brings you over this late without your wife?” I said, striving to counter my mother’s inability to give straight answers by being overly direct in my questioning.

  “I wanted to salute our success on the IPO. In the craze of the last week, we never got a chance to celebrate together,” he said, ignoring the significant part of my question.

  Perhaps the lack of partying had something to do with the fact that he’s married.

  Ignoring my awkward pause, he blundered on.

  “I come bearing good news,” he said.

  “Oh, really? I can’t imagine what in the world there could be left to celebrate because we have been celebrating all night long. To be honest, I’m pretty pooped,” I said as I tried to shoo him out of my home as quickly as he had arrived.

  “Trust me, Sam, this is one thing you didn’t celebrate.”

  “Oh. Well, who am I to stand in the way of a new cause to celebrate? What, did Nate finally decide to fire Boogie?” I asked as I fumbled with the tip of my nose.

  “No. I asked Sherry for a separation.”

  I scratched my beak more feverishly than ever, causing a small droplet of blood to trickle off and onto my sweatshirt. Thank God I’d changed out of my sexy robe.

  “How nice for you. Could I get you a sugar cookie and some eggnog?”

  Before he could answer, I ran into the kitchen. After all these years, I understood the method behind my mother’s food-offering madness. Suggesting edibles in the midst of an awkward situation gave you a justified reason to flee.

  When I returned, Frankie shared his plans to move out of his buckling marital home. Half of him looked like he was going to skip to the rooftop with glee to join Santa and his reindeer. The other part appeared to be crying. I was not prepared to handle either. I paced and began cleaning up the party wreckage. I attempted to guide him toward the front door with my rum-soaked dishcloth. He ignored my histri
onics.

  Giving up, I headed back to the kitchen and said, “Frankie, I’m going to get myself a slice of your cake. It looks amazing. Can I grab you a piece while I’m at it?”

  I fumbled in the drawer for cutlery and fished out the biggest knife I owned. I cut the sugary delight with a surgeon’s precision and flipped it onto a plate as Frankie walked into the kitchen. I waited for him to adjust his pleats, but he just assaulted me with one of his ridiculous glassy-eyed stares.

  He stopped moving when he was a few inches from my butcher’s knife. I stabbed into the cake to cut another piece. He placed his hand on mine and directed it to the countertop, causing me to release my weapon. He turned me away from the sink and pulled me into his personal space. Then he stared at me, his full lips puffing in my presence. Did he bite them when I wasn’t looking?

  I suddenly understood why my mother never made eye contact in times of crisis: denial. I tried to put her signature move to good use by looking out the window and focusing on the gigantic snowflakes. They seemed almost as huge as Frankie’s lips.

  “Samantha, did you hear what I said? I just told you I left my wife and kids and all you can think about is bundt cake. What’s wrong with you?”

  Sweat ran down my back. It became near-impossible not to hurl in the stench of my own BO, or maybe it was Frankie’s declaration that was making my stomach sick.

  “Well, you brought the dumb cake. It would be rude not to offer. Martha Stewart always says when people bring food to a party you serve it on the spot.”

  Countless glasses of champagne and eggnog later, Frankie had confessed the unabridged story of the disintegration of his marriage.

  I should have kicked him out before his waterworks flood started. If you ask me, coming over and crying got the rude prize regardless of what Martha said. I should have been the one bawling, not him.

  He ended his depressing tale by telling me he loved me. Then I cried, inside.