Chapter 5 #2
January would feature the fifty-something, high- school-soccer coach who stuck his tongue down Erica’s throat at a metal concert.
Mr. February would be the twenty-three-year-old firefighter who claimed to be forty so that he could satisfy his fetish for older women.
Erica might have been okay with the age difference, as a youthful firefighter romp didn’t sound so bad, but then he took her home to his unkempt apartment where she met all three of his videogame playing roommates.
He made them late night Kraft mac and cheese.
Then there was the guy who cried throughout their date, missing his ex, who’d run off with his cousin.
Another who thought sending nude pics after a first date would seal the deal.
The toothless felon was the real kicker.
Faked everything about himself and lured Erica to a table at TGI Fridays where he tried to seduce her with the spinach artichoke dip.
She’d made it exactly two minutes with him, then called me from the parking lot to come grab her. He’d be Mr. December.
or elsewhere, I never thought she’d find anyone again. In fact, seeing her frustrations with the dating scene supported my case that I could never leave Rory. I didn’t want to be alone forever.
Then, one day, Erica met the love of her life. Well, the second love of her life. Her son even liked him. I could go on, but this story isn’t about Erica. You need to know about her, though. If you get to know me well enough, you’ll hear plenty of great Erica stories.
Together, we’d been visiting this same nail salon for years. It shares a parking lot with Target, Marshall’s, and a few other great spots where we could enjoy a full day of therapy.
I stepped up into the chair next to Erica. “Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t get any work done. Oh, my God.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Erica said, both of us knowing she was full of it.
When I’d first met her, she had been so prim and proper, but after her divorce, she had done whatever she’d wanted to do.
It was like her husband had kept her on a leash, and when she broke free, let me tell you, she broke free.
She’d vacationed in Vegas by herself. She’d go on rock ’n’ roll cruises.
She’d spend tons of money on makeup, perfume, and any number of girlie things.
And she’d gotten a few body parts tucked, pulled, and stretched, if you know what I mean.
She hadn’t gone overboard, but she was getting there.
Between her alimony, child support, and her new profession of selling real estate, she apparently had plenty of spending money on hand.
Erica was my age, but with those nip and tuck procedures she pointlessly denied, some subtle changes had been made to her appearance, and I suddenly realized I’d been wrong in my earlier assessment that the aging process can’t be slowed down.
Looking at Erica, it was evident that at least the appearance of slowing down the aging process can be achieved, but I thought it could still come back to bite her in the end—perhaps with a vengeance.
I had no intentions of having plastic surgery.
Besides having read about people actually dying as the result of plastic surgery procedures having gone wrong, I worried that I’d turn out to look like one of those celebrities who’d had one too many procedures and showed up on the covers of magazines on the racks in the grocery store checkout lanes.
They looked younger, but they might as well have tattoos on their faces that read: I had work done because I wasn’t comfortable with who I truly am.
Some of them almost looked like caricatures of their former selves, because the procedures had been so badly botched.
So is it really necessary to blurt out or deny the “work?” Don’t you love the word “work” in this instance?
There’s something so trendy about it. No, I don’t get “work” done, but I don’t judge anyone who does. You do you, as Jasper likes to say.
Erica was dyeing her hair. I’d seen those grays disappear a few years ago, giving way to a much darker brown.
Sometimes she wore too much makeup, which was another thing I wasn’t afraid to point out.
She must have been more terrified than I was of getting old.
I guess she’d already gotten a feel for divorce and had no intention of letting that happen again.
Her “work” had been tasteful so far, and I so hoped for her sake that she didn’t lose control.
“I haven’t seen a forehead with fewer wrinkles since Jasper was four years old,” I said.
Erica fluttered her brown eyes. “The dear Lord blessed me with fine skin.”
I rolled my eyes. “And a very fine doctor.”
She smiled devilishly. “Very fine, indeed. If my new husband ever leaves, I know who I’m going after next. The man has magical hands the size of tennis rackets.” I knew she was joking, so I let her cheating reference slide.
One of the technicians welcomed me with a glass of sparkling wine.
Do I sound like I drink too much? I feel like I’m oversharing my weaker habits.
For the record, I used to go to the gym—occasionally.
But why go to the gym? If I lost any more weight, Rory wouldn’t “see” me because I’d disappear.
Oh, I meditated—as in, I used to. I read self-help books—as in, I read them in college.
You see, I was healthy—as in, healthier than some.
I picked Big Apple Red nail polish, and the technician went to work.
Turning to Erica, I said, “Dare I ask how your love life is going?” I already knew her answer would make me jealous, but not like Kim-in-Rory’s-office jealous.
It was okay to be a tad envious of your best friend.
Erica smiled at me with explosive eyes. I waved my hand at her. “Maybe I don’t want to hear about it.”
“Oh, you do, my friend. You do. I can’t believe I’ve gone all these years without satisfaction. Like Mick-Jagger satisfaction. Honey, he does things to me that, honest to God, make me shiver. If I keep screaming like I do, there’s a good chance we’ll be kicked out of our neighborhood.”
I shook my head. Did I need to hear this right now?
“Well, you need to tone it down. You look like you’re having sex all the time.
Might be time to act your age.” I made a motion of twisting a knob to the left.
“Dial it down a notch before one of us women in our sexless marriages violently kills you.”
“. What can I say? Only one click away.”
“One click and a divorce away.”
Erica turned toward me. “How is the Dream Killer, anyway? Still a hard ‘no’ on the bed-and-breakfast?”
“There’s no more discussion. He didn’t even leave room to revisit the topic.”
“The Dream Killer strikes again!”
You can see why Rory didn’t like her. Because she sure as hell didn’t like him.
“I am working on chickens, though.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “You’ve been talking about chickens for forever.”
“You know how he is. I have to ease him into these big decisions.”
“Big decisions? Getting a few hens is a big decision? I wouldn’t even ask him. Find a carpenter—might as well get a cute one—tell him what you want, and while he builds the coop, go find some hens.”
I wanted to say thinking like that was why she was divorced. Not only was that not true though, but my words would have been plain rude. We don’t have boundaries, but we tried to respect each other.
“He thinks I couldn’t handle them dying,” I admitted.
Erica cocked her head. “He has a point there.”
“Yeah, but I’ll figure it out. You can’t live if you let the fear of death stand in the way.”
“Oh, I didn’t know I was speaking with my other friend, Plato.” In a higher voice, she asked, “Mrs. Philosopher, have you seen Margot? She was here a minute ago. The very tiny woman with First Lady hair who eats air now.”
I gave her an obligatory chuckle. “Funny. You’re hilarious.”
She plowed on. “If you can convince him to see a couple’s therapist with you, you might win some of your battles.
You can’t give him whatever he wants and not get anything in return.
” Erica was ignorant of my pressure-cooking salvation, which is good evidence that a big part of me knew how crazy I was being.
“I know, I know,” I said. “I don’t want to nag him about therapy yet. We’re getting better.”
“Are you? Are you really, Margot? Getting better?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of isn’t good enough for my best friend. You deserve so much better than Rory Simpson. You deserve better than I have. You’re such a catch. That’s why I don’t want you hanging around my new husband. He’ll see what he could have gotten.”
“Oh, hush,” I said. “You’re such a catch.”
She fluttered her eyes. “I am, aren’t I? Please, keep going. Tell me more.”
I looked at the Vietnamese women working on us and wondered how much they could understand. They knew some English, and I could only assume they’d been listening and comprehending most of what we’d been saying for years. Needless to say, I appreciated their discretion.
The cheap wine flowed as the technicians finished our feet and started on our fingers. Erica and I laughed with each other until both our eyes were full of tears. What would I have done without her? No matter where our lives took us, she would always be my soul sister.
I eventually told her about my latest episode with the Dream Killer, adding, “I touched his ding-dong last night.”
Erica’s jaw dropped. “The Dream Killer has a ding-dong?”
I cracked up. “Believe it or not.”
Wrinkling her nose, she asked, “What does it do? Does it move? I’m imagining a kind of ferret. With red eyes.” Tapping into an evil cartoon voice, she said, “I’m coming after you, Margot.”
I laughed, because I couldn’t help it. Then, with a tone that would be perfect for breaking the news of a loved one’s death, I muttered, “He pushed me away.”
Erica raised her voice. “Margot Simpson, if you don’t get a handle on this marriage, I will disown you. Seriously. That ferret-dicked jackass belongs in the zoo.”
“Hold your voice down,” I said, smothering another grin but worried about a potential eavesdropper a few chairs down. She had her head buried in a magazine, but she might have been able to overhear our conversation if we weren’t careful.
As I often had to do with my loudmouth friend, I reminded her in a whisper, “We’re public figures. I don’t want to read about us in some gossip column.”
Erica lowered her voice. “You touched his ferret, and he pushed you away? That is Page Six material. I’ll tell you right now.
He’s either batting for the other team, or he’s getting his knob shined by another gal.
Actually, maybe he’s batting for the other team and running around on you.
You need to watch how he looks at other men.
Look at you, Margot. You’re so hot even I could go after you, and I’m twenty miles from being a lesbian. ”
“Twenty miles? What does that even mean.”
“Who knows, I’m on a roll. Anyway, what was he thinking? You’re way out of his league. He’s lucky to even breathe the same air.”
“He’s distracted, that’s all. You know, this talk of running for the senate.”
“Don’t you follow the headlines? Politicians love sex. All of them. If they’re not getting it from their wives, they’re getting it somewhere else.”
I turned toward her. “Oh, don’t be silly. Rory?”
Erica crossed her arms. “Yes, Rory. Believe it or not, there are women out there who crave being with someone in power. They want the mayor slash Dream Killer’s furry ferret inside their bodies. They don’t care that he’s a selfish imbecile who hates chickens and B&Bs.”
“Okay, okay. Settle down. He is my husband.”
She flapped a hand through the air, really getting amped up. “I’m sorry, Margot, but I’m serious. You need to hire a private investigator. Just see what’s going on. Unless he’s decided he likes men, there’s something going on. Men need sex. That’s it, period. End of story.”
“It’s not always as simple as that. I don’t even think he can get it up most of the time. I’m telling you, sex is not even on his mind. For him, pleasure is cleaning out his inbox or securing his next vote.”
She gave a skeptical groan. “I hope you’re right, Margot, but I don’t think men have changed since the beginning of time. I bet Adam cheated on Eve.”
“They were the only two people on earth back then.”
“Then Adam was screwing a donkey. Trust me.”
I shook my head. How do you tell your best friend that in a real marriage you know what’s going on with your partner at all times?
Her last marriage wasn’t like mine with Rory.
They had real issues. They weren’t even right for each other.
Rory and I were destined to be together, and despite our current situation, we were deeply connected.
I knew what was going on with him. Yes, many men since the beginning of time have craved sex. But plenty of men simply crave power.
Rory craved power.