Better Than None Page 2

  Plus, Marty had made it clear that he didn’t invite everyone. As nervous as I was, I was also flattered to be included in the inner circle, even if it was just so people could figure out the new girl. Regardless, I felt like an invitation to the boss’s house for poker night with fewer than a dozen people was like the gold wrapper to Charlie. That invitation was exclusive, hard to come by and not to be squandered.

  “Steph! I’m so glad you could make it!” Marty exclaimed as he opened the door and welcomed me into his house.

  I couldn’t help but return his smile, but stood there awkwardly as he held one arm. I wasn’t sure if it was just a sweeping gesture pointing towards the house, or an invitation to a hug, so I fumbled with my purse and then turned to look past him, into the house.

  “Thanks for having me, Marty. I really appreciate the invite.”

  “Just wait until we take all your money, you might not be so appreciative then.” He winked and ushered me inside lightly putting his hand on my shoulder.

  It was nothing, but it made me flinch. Silly that such an innocent touch could make me feel more than I had felt with most men I’d done far more with. Marty obviously mistook my reaction.

  “Hey, I was just kidding. We play for nickels, dimes and quarters. Don’t worry, no one’s gone home broke from one of these parties. Perhaps a little humbled, but never broke.”

  “Well, that’s a relief!” Nice recovery, Steph. Head in the game. He’s your boss.

  “What can I get you to drink? We’ve got beer, wine, harder stuff. What’s your poison?”

  “So you are trying to take my money!”

  Marty laughed and then rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist as he twirled an invisible mustache. “That’s my secret plan. Rob all my employees of their hard earned pocket change so that they’ll be indebted to me for life!” And then he laughed maniacally.

  That made me giggle.

  “You have a nice laugh, Stephanie. I think that’s the first time I’ve heard it.”

  I stopped in my tracks, my face warming with a flush. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if Marty was flirting with me or just being nice. Thankfully, Tom, one of the copywriters walked up at that exact moment.

  “Hey, Steph, good to see you! I mean, I know I just saw you like a couple hours ago at work… but, well, it’s good to see you outside of the office. I mean, not that it’s not good to see you inside… Um, you know what I mean…”

  Tom and I were already paired up on a project and he was a sweetheart. A little awkward and emo, but a nice guy. For someone who made his living working with words, he was often tongue tied and uncomfortable. So it must have been the beer that emboldened him to hold out his arms. This time, there was no confusion on my part. I gave him one of those non-committal tent hugs before he led me into the living room where a half a dozen or so familiar faces were talking and laughing.

  I felt like I was in high school again. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in a social situation without a little lubrication. Everyone at the agency so far had been nothing but friendly. Still, I was jonesing for a drink, something, anything to quiet the pounding in my heart. Of course, it made no sense. I’d talked with these people in the office. But being here was so new to me that I felt like I was having an out of body experience. I forced myself to smile at the group. I was sure I looked like the Joker, my smile felt so big and fake, but it was all I could focus on.

  Just smile, Steph. You can do this. They’re just people. People you work with. People you’re not going to get drunk with. And most definitely, people you’re not going to sleep with.

  I had never really considered that I might be an alcoholic or an addict in any way. I could go weeks without having a drink and never once miss it or even feel any sort of need for it. Of course, those were weeks that didn’t involve being social. Standing there in the midst of this setting, I realized that I’d never approached any social function without having something to drink. In my youth, drinking was often accompanied by drugs. Basically, whatever made me feel better before I ultimately ended up feeling worse.

  I wasn’t sure how much time had passed with me just standing there like a grinning idiot, but I forced myself to take a few steps forward to join the group, say hello and try to be normal. When Tom offered to get me a drink I temporarily froze again and then regained some sense of composure.

  “I’ll just stick with water right now, thanks.”

  “You don’t drink?”

  “I do.” I smiled. “I just want to be able to count up all my winnings!”

  Everyone chuckled and I finally relaxed a bit. Perhaps I really could do this, remake myself. I was so petrified that if I did have even one drink that the situation might spiral out of control all too quickly, and I really liked my new job. I didn’t want to screw it up. I didn’t want to start over again. Given everything that was going on with my mom, I needed stability in one area of my life. So I stood there and chatted, but mostly listened. I wasn’t the life of the party by any means, and that was okay. In fact, it was a good thing. Better that my coworkers think I’m boring than a drunk slut.

  Plus, it was safer this way. Not nearly as easy, but definitely safer. I was the new me. I wasn’t the girl, I mean, woman, who got loaded, picked out a guy, and took him to the closest available room, surface, car, area… and fucked him. That wasn’t me. Not anymore. But it was so hard not to be that person when that was all I had ever known. It was like being a recovering alcoholic. Not that I believed in the notion of sex addiction. At least, not for me. I wasn’t addicted to sex. Not at all. It was just my go-to move. It was just easy to do. It was a hell of a lot harder not to get sloppy drunk and have meaningless, not-pleasurable sex than it was to make polite conversation. And not just polite conversation, but it was such an effort to try to give my co-workers just enough information about me that they didn’t think I was a total recluse with no life experience, no fun… and not a drop more.

  Throughout the evening, everyone got a little more buzzed, a little louder, and laughed a little harder. I felt like I was conducting a sociological experiment, and obviously, I wasn’t the first sober person amidst drinkers, but it was fascinating for me to see the progression as the night wore on. The more that everyone around me drank, the less desire I had to have anything and the more relaxed I became, though I was still rather guarded. I just so desperately wanted to finally have boundaries in my life that I wasn’t ready to share personal information with them just yet. So I gave them crumbs. Little pieces. I shared that I had two dogs and some of them knew about what was going on with my mom. I told them how tough it was, especially given how close we were. Most of the group acknowledged how lucky I was to have a good relationship with my mother, and I agreed. It wasn’t perfect, but many people had no relationship with their parents. Hell, I was one of those people when it came to me and my dad, so I knew what I had with Barb was special. Unconventional, but I was old enough now to truly be friends with her. She was the only person I ever let in, and even then, there were still parts that I held back.

  Regardless, I shared more about Barb. In fact, I told them more about her than I did about me, which was an easy diversion that I doubt any of them noticed. I gave them those bits to form a picture of who the new girl was. They could determine if crumbs were better than nothing.

  Perhaps it was odd that over all the years, and all the guys, as close as my mom and I were, talking every day, and yet, with all those conversations, all that closeness, she still never really knew all of me, the real me. I hid what I did with men. It wasn’t just because she was my mother. Of all people, she always wanted to talk about sex, always sharing way more details and information than anyone ever should have been privy to. I think that perhaps, if I had ever said out loud what I did that it would validate it. If I kept it hidden, it would be like a tree falling in the forest that no one heard. Perhaps it never fell.

  She never understood why I never, in neither my teen no
r adult years, brought a guy home. I couldn’t count how many times I heard some version of “honey, a cute girl like you, you should have guys banging down your door!”

  I think that’s why I knew I could try to remake me. If I could fool my own mother, my best friend, if I could lie to her, lead her to believe that I just never found the right guy—which wasn’t a total lie at all—if I could be the Steph she saw, then I could easily recreate myself with strangers.

  Then again, so much of her focus was always on herself that if she had ever really taken the time to look a little deeper, she might have seen what was hiding in plain sight. But I was an adult now. I’d tried to stop blaming my mom for who I had become. At a certain point, I had to take responsibility for who I was. Which was exactly what I was doing. I was old enough by now to know that most people didn’t get a second chance. For whatever reason, I had. When I was feeling confident, I would tell myself that I chose to make a second chance. I think all the screwing around finally got so bad that I could answer that question that was posed by her so many times when rationalizing her own failing relationships. “Is half a loaf better than none?” The answer, for me at least, was no, because I never even got half a loaf, so now, I opted for none.

  ****

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night, Mom, but I, um, had plans.” I hesitated telling her, afraid she’d jump to her usual conclusions, hoping I was out on a date.

  “Plans?” She asked excitedly.

  “Yeah, um, my new boss invited a few of us over for poker and dinner. No big deal…”

  Naturally her next question was, “Oh, honey that’s great! Is he cute? Single?”

  “Mom! He’s my boss.”

  “So? You’re always so defensive about men, Stephanie. I don’t understand you.”

  I just shook my head and rolled my eyes. As much as I hated this line of conversation, I think it helped make my mom feel more like Barbara and less like Barbara the potential cancer patient. So I indulged her, sharing about Marty’s house and the range of people who were there.

  “Well, was there anyone else there that you’d be interested in?”

  “Ma! I work with these people. Jesus.”

  “What? How do you think you’re ever going to meet anyone? Work is a great place to meet a boyfriend.”

  “I don’t need a boyfriend, Mom.”

  “Honey, of course you do. You need a man in your life. I don’t know why you’re always alone. I worry about you.”

  “I have you, mom.” I felt guilty using flattery to change the subject, but I was so tired of this conversation. We had it over and over again and were never going to see eye to eye. I knew that with my mother, flattery got me everywhere.

  “Oh, honey, you know what I mean. It’s not the same. Plus, I’m not going to be around forever.” She paused.

  For the first time ever, I realized the gravity of those words. She must have too, but it was clear she was enjoying talking about men and dating rather than her upcoming appointments, so, as if she hadn’t stepped on the landmine that she’d placed, she went back to the topic at hand.

  “You know, when I was working, there was nothing wrong with a little flirting at the office. I remember that one guy. Oh gosh, what was his name? At the agency in Santa Monica, you know, the accountant who was so handsome?”

  There had been a lot of guys in my mom’s past, and I think I heard about all of them.

  “Darren?”

  “Yes! I can’t believe I couldn’t remember his name. You know, he was the one who—”

  “Ma!” Before she could continue and give me some detail that was wholly inappropriate, I cut her off. “I don’t want to talk about guys you slept with.”

  She huffed. “Oh, you’re such a prude. I don’t know how a daughter of mine could be so uncomfortable talking about sex.”

  “Ok, Ma, whatever you say.”

  “All right, let’s not fight. What time are you picking me up?”

  ****

  It was an odd dynamic with the two of us. We both thought our relationship was special, unique, and we were both proud of it. Especially when describing it to anyone else. Perhaps like any other relationship, the description and what outsiders saw could be far different than what really went on. I knew she was proud of me, extremely proud, and bragged about me to all her friends. I had become a successful art director and was making good money. Whenever we went to any dinner party, holiday party, event, really any type of function, Barb literally showed me off. As much as she could be so focused on herself, when we were together with her friends, she displayed me with such pride. I was her greatest accomplishment. While flattering, I couldn’t help but hear how even her pride in me tied back to her. I was her doing.

  Now at 37, I was attractive and in good shape. Even in her compliments, she somehow brought it back around to her. This Saturday was no exception. For as long as I could remember, really for my entire life I guess, Barb and I spent every weekend together, whether it was doing errands or clothes shopping or helping her around the house.

  “Those look great on you honey. Get them. I used to be able to wear pants like that.”

  It wasn’t what she said, like so many things, it was how she said it. Like these pants were a symbol of who she no longer was.

  “Mom?”

  “I just want to find out what’s wrong. Look at me, I look like I’m five months pregnant!”

  Even though she was typically prone to hyperbole, this time she wasn’t exaggerating. Her belly was distended.

  “It’s disgusting! I can’t stand looking at myself!”

  While I understood her vanity, I couldn’t have cared less about what she looked like. She’d hardly been eating anything and this obviously wasn’t right.

  “We’re gonna figure this out, ma. Together.”

  Barb’s eyes teared up and she swallowed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you honey.”

  All I could think was, I don’t know what I’d do without her either.

  CHAPTER 3

  The next week at work, those who had been at Marty’s were a little friendlier, stopping by my office to chat and even inviting me out to lunch. I accepted, realizing that I couldn’t keep putting people off and still want to be welcomed into their world. I did really want to finally fit in somewhere. Plus, I had proven to myself that I could be social, a normal person. I could talk with people. Guys even.

  But it was amazing just how measured I’d become. Calculated. Not in a shrewd negotiator kind of way. I still would probably get taken if I were to set foot on a new car lot. But calculated insofar as I made sure the image that people were seeing was who I wanted to be. I didn’t want to be who I was. I didn’t want to be her when I was living it. I wanted to be someone no one talked about. I didn’t want to be the slut that just pulled some random guy from the bar and banged him in the alley almost as much as I didn’t want to be the prude wallflower who kept to herself and never went out.

  The balancing was already becoming a challenge. This must be what it’s like to be in witness protection. Dramatic much, Steph? Okay, so maybe not WitSec. No one was after me trying to kill me. But I imagine, there were a lot of similarities. I had created a new identity and had chosen to live this new life for self-preservation. I kept telling myself it couldn’t be any more painful, or numbing, than what it was before. Ironic that I could, at the same time be in pain, and be numb. Actually, those two feelings never really coexisted. I was numb when I was doing what I did, who I did. The pain only came after. The guilt. The shame. The embarrassment. The feeling of wanting to curl up into a ball and roll far, far away. Of course, if the pain was all that bad, then why did I keep doing it? Ah, the conversation of many therapy sessions. I still had the card from one therapist, the card that I was supposed to put on my bathroom mirror so that I saw it every day, that read, “I deserve a healthy, happy, loving relationship.”

  I didn’t believe that then, and it was awfully hard to now. Especially after
all that I’d done, how could I possibly deserve that? Does anyone ever really deserve anything other than what they’ve created for themselves? I created the life I lived. Regardless of what pushed me there. Whether it was my mother or the times or the circumstances, or even my DNA, I knew it was on me. Just as much as I knew it was on me to try to create my new life. My starting over.

  I was smart enough to know that if it didn’t work out, if who I was is really who I am, then I could always revert back to my old ways. But I wanted to try something new. I wanted to see if I could feel something, those things I read about in the romance novels I devoured. Another irony. Someone who was as unromantic as I was, I somehow became a complete and utter sucker for romance. Any kind. I loved them. It didn’t matter if the main character was a teenager or a grown woman, historical or contemporary, rough or sweet. I guess it’s not that hard to figure out why I loved them so much, or why, no matter what, I almost always teared up. Even when I knew that the boy would get the girl in the end, I mean, I could see the storyline a mile away, but even then, I fell for it hook, line and sinker. I’d get excited and couldn’t wait for them to consummate their passion, and I’d get choked up when one of them pulled away, and even more tears flowed when one of them, usually the guy, came back, declaring his undying love, expressing how he didn’t care what he had to give up if he could just be with her. Yep, I fell for it. Every God damned time.

  And of course I wanted those girls in the books to be me.

  ****

  The next week felt like it couldn’t come soon enough. Both Barb and I just wanted to get to our appointments with the surgeon and the gastroenterologist to get some news. Each day that went by she was in more and more discomfort and pain. When Thursday finally came, it had been almost a week since I’d seen her even though we’d talked every day. I’d taken the day off from work as we were scheduled to have an endoscopic CT scan in the morning with the GI doc and then see the surgeon in the afternoon.