Seventeen
SORA
I need to date myself, and practice on me, because how else am I ever supposed to get better at dating? And by better, I just mean not being so terrible at it.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
I spend the next couple of days wishing I’d handled everything differently.
I text and call Jack, feeling rotten, but he doesn’t return my texts. Or my calls. It’s full-on radio silence. The more he ignores me, the more frantic I get. I can’t help feeling in my gut that I’ve blown it. Just when I’m sure I have, he answers my call.
“Hey, I just want to say sorry about…” I begin in a rush. I’m in bed, Larry at my feet. Snow falls outside my window, white against the darkening February sky.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Jack says, but he still sounds a little … off. A little guarded. I’ve made him this way, too. This is my fault.
“I had to keep up appearances. In front of my boss,” I try to explain.
“I know.”
“Hey … I…” I should just tell him I like him. Because I do. Maybe more than like. But there’s also the problem of his award show at the end of the month. “I just wanted to talk to you because…”
“You can’t go with me to the Golden Chef Awards,” he finishes, sounding resigned. “I saw the Let’s Talk! segment. Don’t need a date. Don’t want one?”
“Jack, I was just … it was for the show. It’s not that I don’t want one with you. It’s—”
“I get it.” Jack is quick to answer. “Say, how about we just take a little time. I won’t bother you anymore until March.”
“Jack, you don’t have to—”
“I think it’ll be best,” he says, sounding more definitive. “I just … I’d rather see you when you’re truly free to be in a relationship. It kind of feels like you’re … I don’t know … embarrassed of me.”
“I absolutely am not!”
“It just feels like I’m a secret you have to keep, or that I’m someone you’re seeing on the side, and it doesn’t feel that great,” he admits.
Shit. I get what he’s saying. I am hiding him. Hiding him from all the Solo February fans.
“You’re not on the side. Not at all. And I don’t want you to feel that way.”
“I know. That’s why I just … think it’s best if we wait until March. Then maybe it won’t be weird.” Jack sounds sad, but firm. He’s thought about this. He’s come to a decision. It’s now I realize that holding off on seeing each other until March isn’t an ask. It’s a firm statement. He’s drawing the line. Not me.
“Okay,” I agree, reluctantly. It’s just two weeks, but as I hang up the phone, suddenly, it feels like two lifetimes.
For the next ten days, Jack’s as good as his word. There’s no texting. No calls. I try texting him a few times, but only get responses like a thumbs-up, or none at all. He’s serious about the March deadline. Ugh. What is wrong with me? Why do I let other people in my life constantly set the boundaries? If I think about it a second, that’s very likely the root of all my problems. Instead of taking responsibility for my own lack of real self-control or lack of action in key moments, I’d let Dad rein me in with his temper, or Mom with her body issues. I should’ve been the one to just be honest with Jack. To tell him we did need to wait. But I didn’t.
And even as more and more missives from Solo February pour in from fans, I just feel emptier and emptier reading them. Can I tell them all that going solo is right? So many of them seem to have found someone they want to date. Who am I to stand in their way? Should I really be telling Gabrielle, or any other Soloist, who to date or not to date? Why did I ever think I was qualified to give anyone else advice in the first place?
As I’m considering this, a new message dings on my phone from Nami. She’s been texting me about the bridesmaids’ dresses, so I know that’s exactly what this is about. And I’ve been avoiding trying on my bridesmaid’s dress like the plague because I’ve been chowing down on bacon and retaining water like the Hoover Dam. I’ve not gotten anywhere near a scale for fear I’d step on it and it would scream bloody murder.
Why haven’t you come to the shop yet?
I sigh. I will, okay?
When?
Soon.
How about today?
Bossy much?
I’ve got a lot to do today, I text, hoping she’ll let it slide. She doesn’t.
OMG, Sora! Please! I ask you to do ONE thing!
Okay, bridezilla. Technically, she didn’t ask me to do just one thing. She also asked me to bring a date, and not dance with an elderly great-uncle during the couples’ dance.
Fine. I’ll come today.
I think that will be the end of it. But it’s not.
Great. I’ll pick you up in an hour.
It’s only when I’m in the dressing room and attempting to try on the dress that I realize I might have gone overboard on the bacon this month. I’m starting to sweat bullets inside the tiny gray dressing room in the fancy bridal store downtown. It’s the kind of expensive shop where the salesclerk offers you champagne the moment you enter the door, because the markup more than covers the cost, and because you’re going to need alcohol when you look at your first price tag.
Currently, I stand inside one of the enormous, cedar-lined dressing rooms, which just might be bigger than my bedroom at my apartment. I am guzzling down all of my free champagne in hopes that somehow, the alcohol will save me. I stare at myself in the mirror, hair a mess, dress only halfway on, just up to my hips. I haven’t even tried zipping the zipper yet. There’s miles of light blue fabric, and why, oh why, did Nami pick such a fitted dress? I begged her to go flowy. Begged her. She went suck-to-your-skin fishtail flare because the other bridesmaids loved it, the ones who wear a double zero on a bloated day and consider a kale smoothie a “splurge.”
I give the dress another hard tug. Nope. No way. I can’t get my hips in here. No matter how hard I try. This isn’t fitted. It’s more like a physical assault. I want to press charges against this dress.
I hear a gentle rap on the door.
“Do you need any assistance?” asks the saleslady, concern in her voice.
I grab the dress firmly and suck in with all my might and yank. Amazingly, it gets over my hips. Now I need to try to get my arms in the tiny little arm holes that seem too small for my wrists.
Wish I had more champagne.
I’m starting to really sweat now, which does not, as I hope, help me slide my arms into the arm holes. But eventually I do it, and now, I must tackle the zipper at the side.
“Uh … just give me a minute,” I pant, glaring at my bare skin, and the two full inches that damn zipper is going to have to swallow if it’s going to make the teeth meet. I might need more than a minute. I start tugging at the zipper and it gives a high-pitched, terrified squeak.
A harder knock comes now. It’s Nami.
“Sora.” That’s her WTF tone. “Let me in.”
“No,” I cry, tugging at the zipper. Come on, baby. Come on. You can do this, zipper. You can. My fingers, slippery with panic sweat, lose their traction on the tiny zipper handle. Damn it. I knew I should’ve brought pliers.
I get the zipper at least up to the bottom of my rib cage, but my girls revolt. There’s no way they’re going to get sucked into this. They’ve grown bigger, too, as it seems they like bacon. Quite a lot.
Damn it.
I glance at the white furry stole hanging on the hook of the door. Well, I’ll just have to cover up with that and hope Nami—and the seamstress—don’t notice.
Nami knocks again, harder this time. “Sora! Come on!” Her voice is high-pitched and clipped. She’s pissed.
“Coming!” I say and whip the furry white stole around my arms and open the door. The glare of the lights on the three-way mirror hits me, blinding me for a second. I blink, and when I can focus again, I see Nami glaring at me.
“What took so long?” she asks me, suspicious.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Come,” says the seamstress—a very tiny, very old Polish woman wearing black slacks and a silk blouse that matches her all-white hair. She motions to the small, carpeted platform in front of the wall of mirrors. I inch-walk, because the dress is so damn tight, and wiggle my way to it, feeling the zipper teeth pressing into my side fat. I manage to get up onto the platform without ripping the seam—a small miracle—and as I look at myself, I realize these dresses look like something Elsa from Frozen would wear, except I’m not blond or skinny, and I don’t have amazing icy superpowers. Though, the way Nami glares at me, I think she wants to freeze me right here.
“Let’s take this off. Yes?” The elderly seamstress grabs hold of the furry white stole, her wizened hands surprisingly agile. But I don’t let go.
“We don’t need to. It’s a great accessory.” I hold on to it like it’s a door from the Titanic floating in the frozen Atlantic.
“Take it off.” The seamstress frowns, her wrinkles growing deeper on her face. I hesitate and the seamstress and I lock eyes and I can tell she’s confused. I try to communicate silently that all she should do is back away slowly. Let this go. You don’t want this heat, lady. Believe me. And I’m not the only one Nami is going to yell at. Because when she gets angry, it’s like a nuclear meltdown. She radiates it everywhere. Just like Dad.
“Sora! Don’t be like that. Take off the stole.” Nami folds her arms across her chest and glares some more. She already knows what’s coming. And so do I.
Reluctantly, I shed the stole. Nami gasps audibly and her hand flies to her mouth. The seamstress, who has no doubt seen it all in this dressing room, appears unflappable.
“Sora! What the hell!” Nami cries, as she sees my fatty flesh hanging out of the side of her too-tight Elsa bridesmaid dress. She clasps the zipper and tries to move it up. Good luck, sister.
“Sorry. I might have gone overboard on the bacon.”
“I told you this stupid Solo February was a bad idea. Damn it! I cannot believe you!” Her fingers slip off the zipper and she breaks a nail. She stares at her nails in horror. She sticks her finger in her mouth and stares daggers at me. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“I told you not to go formfitting! I told you we should do flowy.” She never listens. I can fluctuate ten pounds in a single day, for goodness’ sake. Nami only ever loses or gains maybe an ounce.
The seamstress approaches me and studies the gap in the zipper, taking the measuring tape from around her neck and marking my skin. She studies the zipper.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d stuff your face with bacon all month! I mean, are you trying to have a heart attack? Like Dad?”
Her words hit me like a blow. It’s a clear, below-the-belt foul. “Hey, that’s low.”
Nami swallows what she was going to say next. But she’s still angry. She blows out a frustrated breath and paces in front of me, panting. “I suppose you don’t have a date yet,” she says, anger in her voice.
“No, not technically.”
“Great!” She throws her hands in the air. “So, the couples’ dance is ruined. This is just fantastic.”
“Nami—”
“This is so like you. You’re always so … so … careless. I swear to God.”
I tell myself Nami is under stress and she’s taking it out on me.
“This is just like when you crashed the minivan.” Nami is fired up. Eyes flashing.
“Oh no. Not this again.”
“Mom was giving me the minivan for my sixteenth birthday, but you were home from college and just had to use it, and then you totaled it, one day before my birthday!”
“A dog ran out in the road! I swerved to miss it.”
“Fine. And what about my iPhone in ninth grade?” Her cheeks flush red with anger. I tell myself I’m the easy target. She knows I’ll love her no matter what. She’s just venting.
“I didn’t mean to drop it and crack the screen. It just slipped.”
“And my favorite cashmere sweater that Grandma Mitsuye gave me for my tenth birthday?” Her voice gets even louder.
“That’s not fair.” I might have tried it on and stretched it out horribly. “You always stole my clothes! I could never borrow yours because they never fit me!”
“Here we go!” She throws up her hands, mirroring my frustration. “All I’m saying is that if you were a little more careful, a little more considerate, these things wouldn’t happen! It’s like you’re trying to ruin everything!” In her fury, she snags a heel on the pristine white carpet of the fitting room area. She catches herself, but the stumble makes her angrier, especially because I have to swallow a snicker. “Don’t laugh,” she warns me.
“Then stop holding grudges.”
“Dad held grudges. I can’t help it.”
We both glare at each other, a lifetime full of resentments bubbling to the surface like a bloated whale. I love my sister to pieces, but sometimes, I just want to kick her hard in the shins like I used to do at age five. A good scuffle and then the argument would be over.
“I’ll fix it,” the seamstress tells us, moving in Nami’s direction. “No problem.”
But Nami seems not to hear, or not to care about the seamstress’s effort to barter a peace accord.
“I just can’t believe you’re being so insensitive,” Nami snaps at me. “This is my wedding. It’s got to be perfect. For Mitch.”
“Please,” I mutter beneath my breath. Mitch wouldn’t care if the wedding happened in a nice hotel, or the back of a courtroom, or, hell, in the bed of a pickup truck. He’s the last man to be worried about appearances.
“What did you say?” Nami’s laser-focused on me now.
“Nothing,” I murmur, not meeting her eye.
“Are you trying to say something about Mitch?”
“Well…” I hesitate, thinking about the whatever-you-want-babe, yes-man lump that is her fiancé, Mitch. He’s uninterested in politics, books, movies, travel, or anything not related to football, beer, or video games. Hell no, he’s not worth the effort, and I’ve thought so from the beginning. Nami loves Mitch because she can dress him up like a Ken doll, he looks good in couple photographs, and he’s safe. But is he worthy of her? No. He’s not.
But I can’t say all this. Can I?
But then I don’t have to. Nami fills in the blanks for me.
“You hesitated too long!” she cries, accusing. “You don’t like Mitch!”
“I…” I glance at Nami. I could lie. Smooth all this over, but haven’t I been telling all the people who are #GoingSolo to be less accommodating and stand up for themselves? Plus, I’m tired of lying. I’m tired of lying to them, and to Jack, and to everybody. The least I can do right now is be honest.
“No,” I admit at last. “I don’t particularly like Mitch.”
Nami looks like I slapped her.
Even the seamstress pauses in her fussing over my zipper and steps back, a worried look on her wrinkled face.
Nami glares at me. “What’s wrong with Mitch? Name one thing that’s wrong with him.”
“He … doesn’t work that hard.” I don’t know how to say this without saying it. I’m trying to be diplomatic about the fact that he has less ambition than your typical eggplant.
“That’s not true! He has a job.”
“Working for his uncle at a plumbing supply company,” I try to gently point out.
“Dad was a plumber, there’s no shame in that.”
“It’s not the job I have issue with. It’s that his uncle gave him the job because every other job he ever held, he got fired from. For not showing up on time, or not showing up at all.”
“They didn’t appreciate Mitch’s potential,” Nami says. Wow. She’s really not seeing the truth.
“He failed out of two colleges.”
“He’s a creative type. He wants to launch a channel on Twitch, making millions with his gameplay!”
I roll my eyes. Mitch has been bragging about how he’ll be making millions one day when he’s never lifted a finger to start a channel.
“Yeah, but has he ever even made a single video?”
“He’s working on it!” Nami says, defensive.
“He’ll never do it because it involves work. And he hates to work.” This comes out blunter than I intend, but I’m already angry and the words are out before I can stop them.
“I love him.” Nami’s eyes blaze fire, promising retribution, but I’m in too deep now. “And he’s asked me to take charge of the wedding, because he knows I’ll do it right.”
“No, he’s asked you to be in charge because he’s lazy and planning a wedding takes work. Plus, I don’t think he really cares about the wedding.” I’ve seen the bored, indifferent look on his face as Nami dragged him to one site after another for potential wedding receptions. “This is all your idea. Not his. He doesn’t really care where he gets married. Or how. He likes that you make all the decisions for him but, Nami, that’s not a real partner.”
“He is a real partner. He’s sweet. He’s supportive.”
“He just never disagrees with you. There’s a difference. If he were really supportive, he’d help you with the planning. With anything, really.”
“That’s not true. You’re only saying that because you’re jealous.” Nami jabs a manicured nail into my chest. It hurts.
“I’m not jealous about Mitch.” Far from it.
“You’re just jealous because all you could ever get was Marley. And even then, it’s only because—”
“Don’t say it.” I glare at her, daring her to bring up the pregnancy. If she does, I swear to God, her shins won’t be the only thing I’ll kick. She hesitates. She seems to know she’s going too far. So does the seamstress, because she hisses something in Polish, shrugs her shoulders, and backs slowly out of the room. “Look, Nami, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings. I could have lied. But I wanted to be honest with you.”
Nami sniffs, indignant, and crosses her arms across her chest and turns away from me. I can see the anger flare across her perfect, poreless face in the three-way mirror.
“Well, as long as we’re being honest,” she says, and whirls to face me, red-faced. “Have you looked at Marley’s social media lately?”
What? Why is she on Marley’s social media?
“Why are you following him?” I’d “un”-ed Marley (un-friended, un-followed, un-whatever-ed) on every platform a long time ago.
“I just never stopped.”
This feels like a betrayal. “You’re following my ex-husband online? What the hell, Nami?” She’s scrolling through her phone. I think she’s going to show me something I don’t want to see.
“I wasn’t going to show you this … but…” She hands me the phone. I know I shouldn’t take it. I shouldn’t look.
But curiosity gets the better of me. It’s a sad fact that if I were a cat, I’d be dead nine times over because curiosity would’ve run me flat over, stabbed me multiple times, or tossed me off a high-rise balcony.
The first thing I see is a photo of Marley and Lululemon. They’re both grinning like morons, looking too damn happy for people who subsist on a diet of kale and kombucha. Plus, Marley has busted out his Pharrell Williams hat, which is a terrible look on him.
Lululemon is grinning, which looks unnatural on her because in the grocery store, all I saw was a puckered face of disapproval. So I dig deeper into the photo, telling myself it’s just so I can mercilessly poke fun. They’re facing each other, holding a paper cutout of red hearts—three of them between them. I scroll down to the caption, and it reads, We’re so excited to say … Our Little Valentine is on the way!
Our Little Valentine? Then I notice Marley has his scrawny, clammy palm on Lululemon’s nonexistent stomach. What the … mother-effing … what?
I feel suddenly nauseous.
Oh, God. Marley and Lululemon will have a spawn.
I glance at Nami. “How long have you known about this?” I ask.
“Since Valentine’s Day. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”
I don’t know what makes me angrier: that she still follows Marley or that she refused to be a good spy for me. I feel a whole bunch of feelings rising up in me, none of them good. I’m right back in that place right after college where I peed on a stick and there were two lines instead of one, when Marley accused me of lying to him about being on the pill and then he stomped out of the apartment. It hadn’t been an Instagram moment with freakin’ rose filters and cutout hearts.
Then I look at the photo again. I know what I’m looking for, and I find it: Marley’s grandmother’s solitaire on Lululemon’s perfectly manicured left ring finger, the one I’d once worn.