Chapter 12
I’m holding my vibrating phone in my hand, staring at the screen.
It’s John.
Really, universe? Right now, right at this second?
It’s Thursday afternoon, after a full morning of dropping off résumés and checking in with the places I’ve already been, and
John is the last person I want to talk to.
I just left a microbrewery that’s apparently looking for a hostess. After going in with my brightest, happiest face screwed
in place, the manager, who could not have been a day over twenty-five, took one look at me, leaned over and said something
to the young woman standing next to him, and left.
It was obvious that “middle-aged mom” was not the vibe they were going for.
Something about this particular rejection felt . . . personal.
So there’s that.
Now, John.
I take a deep breath, put on my mental armor, and click the green button.
“So you’re still in Chicago,” he says, forgoing any kind of greeting.
“Hello to you too.” I sigh.
Silence.
“You’re still there?” he repeats. “How are you even surviving?”
“Yes, John, I’m still here,” I deadpan. “I’m doing just fine. I actually live here now.”
The condescending noise he makes has me wishing someone would invent a new type of phone where a person—say, me—could reach through and slap someone with their own hands on the other end.
“I’m calling to make sure you legally changed your name back to Karadec,” he says.
“Why?” I ask. “Are you concerned that a woman over the age of forty might be running wild with your family name?”
“No, it’s just that . . . Misty wants to be the only Mrs. John Wellesley,” he says.
“Ha!” The laugh/scoff is out before I can stop myself.
I stop at a crosswalk and wait for the light, the sound of traffic and conversation filling the air around me. On the other
end of the line, it’s completely quiet.
“Has Misty met your mother?” I ask, annoyed. “Mrs. John Wellesley?”
John starts to say something, then pauses like he hasn’t actually realized this, then says, “You know what I mean, Claire.”
I’m downtown on the Magnificent Mile, and I pause to admire the thousands of tulips blooming on Michigan Avenue. They’re so
bright and cheerful, I almost forget it’s my ex-husband on the other end of this call. If it were anyone else, I might switch
to FaceTime just to share the view.
The light changes, and I join the foot traffic crossing the street like I actually know where I’m going.
“You can tell Misty she can have your name,” I say. “I got rid of it months ago.” She can also have his snoring, his cigar smoking, and his inability
to put dirty clothes in the hamper, but I don’t say that part out loud.
“Great!” he says, like we just finalized a low-interest loan at a bank.
Silence.
I absently wonder if they’ve set a date for the wedding but decide I don’t care enough to ask.
I shift my weight. “Is that all?”
He sighs. “Uh . . . how’ve you been?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the dammed-up reservoir of choice words pooling at the front of my brain.
“Seriously?”
“Well . . . yeah,” he says. “You know, I’m just . . . wondering how . . . it’s all . . . going. There. With you.”
The last bit of my patience is about to hop on a plane. I know there’s more. Something he’s not saying. Something he undoubtedly
needs.
“John, just say what you want to say.”
There’s another pause. And then, “I, uh . . . I need a favor.”
I slow my pace, trying to figure out if I heard him right. “I’m sorry—did you say you need a favor? From me?”
“It’s work, Claire. Don’t make a thing of it.”
I half laugh. Is he serious?
“Are you serious?”
“We’re trying to land that company—Oleander? You remember?” he asks.
“Oh. I remember.” It’s a high-end line of women’s spa products. The kind I can no longer afford.
“Well, the pitch isn’t coming together.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “There’s not a single female ad exec at the table, is there?”
“I mean, no, but the guys have all talked to their wives about it,” John says.
I don’t need him to say another word. I know what he’s saying, and it’s shockingly empowering. Because even though he’d never
admit it, he’s realizing that I contributed a whole lot more to his success than he ever gave me credit for.
And now he’s stuck.
“I just wondered if you’d think about it,” he says. “We were really good about kicking around ideas together. I don’t know,
somehow you always said the right things to jump-start my creativity.”
I refrain from correcting him. I said things and he wrote them down verbatim and then passed them off as his own ideas.
“I can send over the talking points,” he says. “Maybe we can spitball, you know? Brainstorm? Like old times?”
Right. Old times. Back when I thought we were a team.
Back when I thought he was faithful.
I hear his office phone beep in the background, then the voice of his secretary says, “Mr. Wellesley, Misty is on line one.”
“Babe, I gotta go.”
My muscles tense at the “babe,” and John stutters almost immediately.
“I m-mean, uh—shoot. I’ll send that info over and talk to you later? We’ll figure it out—okay, bye—”
He doesn’t wait for me to say goodbye. Just hangs up.
I stare at the phone in my hand as the screen goes black. Everything about that phone call irritated me.
The most frustrating part is that I have yet to make John understand what a jerk he really is. He’s simply too entitled. Every attempt
I’ve made to explain the pure, unadulterated rage I feel toward him and Misty is always overshadowed by bigger, more present emotions.
Sadness. Frustration. Disappointment.
Shame.
Why can’t I just lay into him and hang up the phone?
Why can’t I, just this once, take a detour off the high road? Indulge in a little verbal vehicular manslaughter?
I’m still gritting my teeth at my phone when I look up and find I’m standing in front of the upscale mall I visited when I
first moved here. It’s several floors of designer shops, full of clothes and shoes and bags I can no longer afford and no
longer wish to buy.
I never got used to spending money the way the Colorado Wellesley crowd spent money, even when I had it at my disposal. Probably
because I grew up clipping coupons and making my own jam.
Which tastes way better than what you get in the store. Just saying.
I didn’t—and don’t—see the point in a five-thousand-dollar pair of shoes.
Not that I’m judging how anyone else spends their money—it was just never my thing.
Window shopping, though? That I can do like it’s my calling. With the exception of baking, nothing is more calming, more interesting,
or more daydreamy than walking around looking at mannequins, and doing some people watching . . .
But as I step inside the building and take the escalator up to the second floor, my mind drifts to my list.
After that phone call and that non-job interview, I need to cross something off.
So instead of getting off on the second floor and heading into one of the overpriced stores, I ride the escalator to the seventh
floor and find myself standing in the upscale food court.
When I say “food court,” I’m really not painting the right picture. It’s an eating area on the seventh floor of a tall building
near Lake Michigan. There’s a bar in the middle, staffed with several people in black shirts, and it’s surrounded on either
side by open-air, watch-them-cook mini restaurants. Aloha Poke Co., Hot Chi, Lucky Cross, and The Fat Shallot sandwich shop,
just to name a few. The food looks and smells amazing.
You won’t find Sbarro here, that’s for sure.
The first time I was here, I didn’t even stop to grab food, but now? I’m going to sit, and I’m going to eat.
By myself.
And who knows, I might even strike up a conversation with a stranger.
Two things under number eight crossed off.
Take that, John.
I walk over to one of the restaurants and take a look. The girl behind the counter watches me expectantly, then smiles and points over to a bank of kiosks.
Oh. Everything is high-tech now. You don’t give your order to a human—you punch it into a computer. I nod at the girl, feeling
old, then walk over and scroll through the different restaurant options. I could order from any of the different places just
from one kiosk.
Well, that’s dangerous.
There’s a bunch of stuff on here I’ve never heard of before, and my recent need to taste new things is taking over my brain.
I swipe through the options, overwhelmed with possibilities, but I finally settle on the Aloha Bowl with pineapple, cucumber,
scallions, and Maui onions. But then I add a Ramen Wrap from a place called Art of Dosa. Noodles, sriracha mayo, and something
I’ve never heard of called katsu, plus there’s something on it called a black “gunpowder” spice blend.
Sounds spicy. And new. And different.
I scroll to the drinks and select a Dr Pepper, hoping the twenty-three flavors will be enough to handle the gunpowder.
Once I pay, I take my printout and wait over by the ramen counter, scanning the airy, modern space as I do. There’s a man
on a laptop, diligently working. Beside him are two men who appear to be in deep discussion. In the corner, there’s a group
of four older women playing mahjong, and beside them, a woman about my age is sitting alone reading a book.
I notice that her plate is full, like she just sat down, and she’s at a large table with three empty chairs.
I could eat alone in a public place or talk to a stranger. But as a man calls my number and I pick up the tray with my food
on it, I’m still not sure which one I’ll choose.
I bring the tray around to the other restaurant’s window, and as soon as I’ve got my wrap and Dr Pepper, I turn around, inhale
a deep breath, then start off in the direction of the woman.
Maybe she needs a friend as much as I do.
At that moment, I’m transported to the first day of kindergarten and Gram’s advice on how to make friends. Gram was a sturdy
woman, and not the warmest person, but she was a fierce friend. She and her best friend, June, had known each other practically