* * *
Alva: Now you’re talking. Anyway, so . . . what’s next?
* * *
January: With Liam? What’s next is we are neighbors, nothing more.
* * *
Alva: *sigh* I was hoping for a good story. Make one up for me, will ya?
* * *
January: Does that mean fifteen years of marriage and three kids is getting a bit dull?
* * *
Alva: On the contrary! I was hoping your story would be all I needed to jump my hubs after a long day. And hey, it worked. K, thanks, bye.
* * *
January: I didn’t even tell you a story!
* * *
Alva: I made one up in my head, and now I’m going to pretend I’m sixteen again and sneaking across the lawn to bang my high school sweetheart.
* * *
January: I hate you and your perfect love life.
* * *
Alva: Sorry, not sorry! Love you madly too. See you at B&B night next week!
* * *
January: Board games and booze. I never miss it.
* * *
Alva: And I never miss sex with the hubs. Gonna go chase me some Os!
* * *
I close the text thread with my bestie, glad she’s still happy, glad she’s still in love and lust with her guy after all these years.
Glad for her, since I don’t want that for myself.
Even though I am keenly aware of a fourth fact concerning Liam.
I’m the slightest bit jealous of the women he’ll date, and the slightest bit annoyed that I’m not in the market.
Because I’m absolutely not shopping. Not at all. Not one bit.
I’ve only now gotten through a divorce and come out on the other side of sadness.
I won’t tango with my next-door neighbor, a man who wants more kids.
I resolve to be the best of friends with him.
And only friends.
9
Liam
A few days later, while Ethan is still asleep, I hop on my bike at the crack of dawn and ride.
The sun climbs above the hilly terrain of this edge-of-wine-country town, warming my shoulders as I crest the final slope of a long, hard climb. Reaching the top, I flash back to my conversation at IKEA with January.
As the glorious descent calls out to me, my legs and lungs crying for relief, my mind zooms in on the possibilities of dating.
After all, dating isn’t new to me.
I enjoyed my twenties in New York, thank you very much. My early thirties too. And my mid-thirties. Hell, it’s not as if I stopped dating when Ethan appeared on my doorstep. Scheduling became more complicated, but I still went out from time to time, enjoying the city—dining in new restaurants, attending ball games, checking out the top-ten small-batch ice cream shops.
Ice cream is a priority.
Love?
Not so much up until now.
I came close a few times, or at least I think I did.
I’m pretty sure it was love with my college girlfriend, Anna. Though I might be basing that mostly on the stepped-barefoot-on-a-Lego pain I felt when she dumped me.
My first broken heart had me wallowing in misery so deep that my dad took it upon himself to comfort me, assuring me that it wouldn’t last forever and that someday I wouldn’t be sad over that girl.
And it was true. I stopped being sad about Anna long before I stopped feeling outraged that she left me for a long-haired, flannel-wearing bloke who fronted for a band called Tirade, which sounded like Soundgarden imitating Alice in Chains imitating Pearl Jam imitating Nirvana.
And Anna thought Tirade was fantastic.
Who was this girl? Had she always had such horrible taste in music? Had she only pretended to like the bands I’d introduced her to, bands like Snow Patrol, Radiohead, and the Foo Fighters?
So maybe it was less of a broken heart and more of an existential crisis.
Later in my twenties, there was Brittani with an I, who ran a dog rescue in the city. I handled all of their spays and neuters. We bonded over a love of animals and sex with an O, but eventually realized we had nothing to discuss outside of bed besides dogs and cats.
There was Stella, a baker I met through my friend Summer. It started as a match made in sugary heaven—she needed a taste-tester for her recipes, and I needed calories to burn as I trained for the centuries I was riding. We fell into friendship and wound up the best of mates. In fact, I took my next girlfriend as my date to her wedding.
Now, as I fly down this California hill on my bike, hugging the curves of the road, I look back at my serial monogamy without regret. There are no dreadful mistakes in my romantic past. No clingers or crazies, no one who cheated, stole, or banged my best mate.
Sure, I haven’t met the one, but I’m fortunate to have met plenty of women I liked. And if I managed that without trying, then the search for Ms. Right should be a piece of cake.
