Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bestie to the Rescue
JAMIE
Jamie found herself elbows-deep in paraffin wax, as suggested by her Vietnamese nail technician at Angel’s Nail Salon he constantly looked effortlessly stylish.
He sat comfortably in his chair while another nail tech buffed his toenails to a high shine.
She had to admit as she looked down at her chest, he was right about the sports bra.
“Your mother’s latest bombshell is a doozie,” Derick said with a hint of empathy in his voice, which quickly dissipated. “Although if I’m perfectly honest, it is time. You’ve wasted a whole child-bearing half a year on that dipshit Chaz. Have you thought about freezing your eggs?”
Jamie shuddered. Good God, is this how far gone she was? Not even eligible for conventional child-bearing? Was egg-freezing Defcon Two on the Spinster Scale? She started sweating. “Ease up, ease up. No talking of freezing anything. I’m not that far gone yet.”
“You’re forty-one years old. The tests they give on pregnant women your age are terrifying. It’s time.”
“I need a minute to regroup.”
“Regroup from what? Chaz?”
Jamie grew silent. Derick looked over at her, as if suddenly realizing.
“Ah, Nathan and his load of bullshit has reared his ugly British head in your direction again, hasn’t he?”
“I saw a post. He’s with a new woman and she’s pregnant.”
Derick reached over and touched her arm and gently said, “Wanker.”
Jamie nodded.
“You’ll get there, honey. You will. Day by day. Tell me about the dates.”
Jamie thought back to the last two weeks in which she’d gone on three first dates in fourteen days.
Swipe right. Quick chat. Meet for a drink.
It was her version of online speed dating.
This excluded Theo the Pet Embalmer, her incredibly unfortunate creepy first date.
At Derick’s prodding she shared the details with a low-grade level of agony.
“There was Ted, the baggage handler who showed up with a boner.”
Derick’s expression remained placid. “That’s a compliment in some cultures like Fort Lauderdale, but I see how that could off-putting. Go on.”
“The artist, Vincent, who was working on a modern version of a Walt Whitman play. He said he was helping his parents out by letting them live with him, but—”
“Let me guess, Vincent still lived with his parents.”
“Correct.” Jamie sighed and then said, “And finally, there was Preston. Aimless, just returned from a surf trip to Baja. Played a Jack Johnson song for me on his ukulele.” Jamie grew quiet.
Derick looked over at her. “Please tell me you did not lie with a ukulele player.”
“I might have slipped and fell into bed with him.”
It was Derick’s turn to sigh. “Oh, dearest. You do have a type. Well, we can chalk that one up to collateral damage. Patterns, Jamie, patterns. Your job is to break them. You need a proper man, not a boy-child with a porn addiction and a surfboard,” he implored.
“I know, I know. But uncomplicated men are just easy. Chaz was easy.” Jamie felt a shadow cross over her mood. Memories haunting.
Derick rubbed the bridge of his nose, exasperated. “Do not let the woeful inadequacies of your ex-shithead fuck buddy throw you into a love-doom loop. Let me ask you, what did Chaz live off of while he was unemployed?
“He was furloughed. Got half his salary.”
“Any chance he saved any of that money?”
“He went surfing in Samoa because it was ‘going off.’”
“Good God. Uncomplicated men will lead you to poverty and madness. Good riddance, Chaz. Onto new horizons,” Derick said as he waved away the memory of Chaz like the smell of bad cologne.
“That’s easy for you to say. You just happened to meet your soulmate.”
She and Derick had been friends since their midtwenties and single for most of it.
Being single together with Derick was one of the great joys of her life.
They shared secrets, truths, and dating horror stories over endless bottles of chardonnay as they navigated their own turbulent, hilarious romantic disasters.
As with all good things, those times had come to an end.
She was at ease because the love between Derick and a dashing Swede named Martin was the real deal.
She was genuinely overjoyed for him. Even though it amplified her own loneliness.
“Well, it did help that I’ve kept myself up.” He waved a hand in the direction of Jamie’s head. “What’s going on with your hair?”
Jamie touched her unevenly cut hair, which was a shade too dark. “Cut and color by yours truly.”
“That explains it. I’m making you an appointment with Tana today.” He started tapping his phone. Derick gave her good, long look and shook his head, expression filled with scorn. “Where did you get that sweatshirt?”
Jamie looked down at her bright, multicolored sweatshirt purchased online from a shop that sold fair-trade goods. “I love this sweatshirt. It was handmade by destitute children in Peru. Half the proceeds go to an education fund.”
Derick rolled his eyes. “How am I supposed to get you married off if you wear clothing from shantytowns?”
“It’s good for the world!”
“It’s hideous. I’m ordering you a style box. What size are you now?”
She frowned. She’d put on a couple pounds in the last year.
Derick raised his eyebrows at her. “Have you been working out?”
“Does masturbation count as cardio?”
“Anything that gets your heart rate up counts,” Derick said, and snickered. “Done. Your box arrives in three days. So. What is the plan for Elaine Cromwell Frisco’s looming wedding?”
Jamie loved that Derick called her mother by her entire name. It made her sound more like a corporation: bloodless, ruthless, uncaring. Depressingly accurate.
“I’ve been active on three dating apps,” Jamie said as the nail tech removed her arms from the wax and began wiping it off.
She looked down at her hands and was genuinely surprised.
“Oh my God, I have the hands of a twenty-year-old.” She inspected them more closely before freely giving the left hand back to the care of the nail tech, who obviously knew what she was doing.
She continued, “Online dating is the hellscape I imagined it to be, but there are some interesting prospects.”
“Really.” He cocked his head and looked over his glasses, his voice heavy with skepticism. “Do share.”
Jamie located her phone and scrolled through her saved profiles. “I am chatting with a guy named Seth. He’s an IT manager who loves fantasy board games with friends and has a shy smile.”
“That means he plays Dungeons & Dragons in his mom’s basement and is probably missing some teeth with no hope of a dental plan. Next.”
Flustered, Jamie opened another app. “Okay, there’s Joe. Recent transplant to SoCal. Works as an executive in waste management, makes a mean lasagna, and loves the New York Giants.”
“Veto. You’re not mob wife material.”
Jamie desperately hit another button and stared into her phone. “Um, okay, that leaves Dorian. A guy who lives in the desert, completely off the grid. Even has his own goats. Eats cactus.”
“Great. You’ve connected with the Unabomber.”
Jamie set down her phone and said, “I can’t do this.”