Baby proof

felt Anders freeze over me. He gently touched my cheek. 'Are you crying?' he asked, sounding more horrified than worried. He didn't wait for an answer, just sat up, snapped on the light, and gave me a fearful look. I told him I was sorry. He hugged me and said, 'Don't be.' Then he asked me questions, about what was wrong, about why was I sad, had he done something wrong? I told him I wasn't that sad, just drunk and tired. He pressed me on it, so I told him all about Paul, what had changed in our relationship, his unwillingness to move to New York, how I still sometimes missed him when I heard certain songs-all the typical postrelationship melodrama. I even told Anders about Paul's message earlier that night, how I had deleted it after only listening twice. I apologized along the way, and Anders was an excellent sport. He said it was fine, and at my insistence, shared some of his own stories of past loves.

Of course I was embarrassed to have cried during sex, but in my mind, Anders and I had crossed a threshold together, and the night had taken on an important, almost cathartic quality. I was finally ready to move on from Paul. The next morning, Anders kissed me good-bye, with no sign of a problem. I returned home and told Jess that I finally felt like I was completely over Paul, and that I was ready to take things to the next level with Anders. The only problem was-Anders apparently didn't feel the same because he never called me again. Of course I never called him again, either. But it was pretty clear who was blowing off whom. It always is.

I still cringe when I think about that night and wonder what would have happened had I not cried in the middle of sex. Not that I think Anders and I were meant to be together or anything crazy like that. I just think that I screwed up what could have turned into a more significant relationship-or at least a lasting friendship.

With all of this in mind, I decide that I'm certainly not about to make the same mistake with Richard. I never want to cry during sex again (unless it is that good-Ben once moved me to tears). I want the lines to stay clear. I know I'll think about Ben for a long time to come, but I'd strongly prefer if those thoughts did not transpire in the sack with another man. I don't want to taint my fragile start with Richard. Not that there is anything particularly fragile about my relationship with Richard-it's just that by definition, all starts are fragile.

Then, just as I think I'm moving beyond the rough patch, I get something in the mail that messes with my head all over again. I recognize Annie's handwriting immediately and feel a stab of guilt for not returning her recent calls or accepting her invitations for lunch. Annie and Ray are the only friends caught in the divorce crossfire, the only couple who is impossible for either Ben or me to fully claim. Everyone else is either more my friend or more his friend-and we have an unspoken deal where I stay away from his friends and he steers clear of mine. It's a respect thing. I am thinking all of this as I open the envelope, expecting a note of some sort. Annie is big on sending notes for no reason and often laments that the age of e-mail is eviscerating the art of letter-writing. But the correspondence is not a note; it is an invitation to Raymond Jr.'s baptism.

'Shit,' I say aloud because I know Ben is opening the same invitation tonight, and the last thing I want to do is see him. Yet-at the same time-seeing Ben is what I want most. I hate myself and him all over again.

I slide the invitation back into the envelope and calmly consider my options. I could call Annie and tell her the truth. We are close enough friends that I should be able to confide in her. I would probably take this path if she were inviting me to, say, a random party. But because it is her firstborn's baptism, a very sacred event, I just don't feel right about the truth option. I know it would come across as incredibly self-involved. After all, such a move would be self-involved.

I consider lying. Making up an excuse. Telling her that I'm out of town that weekend. That I already have my nonrefundable airline tickets in hand. But then I would have to make up a whole, grand lie about a trip to Vegas or L.A. or New Orleans and always remember that I allegedly went on a jaunt on this random weekend in August. It would be just my luck to forget about my cover mid-weekend and answer the phone and have it be Annie asking Jess for her rum runner recipe. It seems to be the cruel law that people who don't lie like champs are precisely the ones to get busted on the rare occasion when they opt to deceive. Besides, in combination with all my recent excuses to Annie, she will strongly suspect that I'm lying. I would if the tables were turned.

I berate myself for not accepting at least one of her invitations to lunch or drinks over the past month. For not stopping in to see Raymond Jr. If I had made even a minimal effort, then blowing off the baptism would be less egregious.

I suddenly wonder exactly why I'm going out of my way to avoid Annie and Ray. I guess it doesn't exactly take a degree in psychiatry to decipher the reasons. In part it's the baby factor. The last thing I want to be around is a baby. I don't want to be reminded of what Ben chose over me. But I also don't want to be around anyone or anything that reminds me of Ben, period, and I'm afraid that Annie will offer up unsolicited details of Ben's new life. Details I most certainly don't want to hear. Unless those details include that he's single and miserable. And there's no way that that's the case. After all, I saw him yucking it up with Tucker. He may not be in love with her, or even with her at all, but by no means did he appear to be a broken man.

Of course I could always tell Annie that I don't want to hear anything about Ben, but I don't want to come across as the big relationship loser, and I would appear to be emotionally unstable if I ruled out conversation about the most significant thing to happen to me, ever. Then Annie would pass this along to Ray who, as a man, would not have the good sense and tact to keep it to himself, and would instead tell Ben what a very pitiful case I am. Moreover, if Annie obliges my request to avoid mention of Ben, I inevitably will read all sorts of things into her ensuing silence. I will wind up thinking that, yes, I told Annie that I didn't want to discuss Ben, but if the report were favorable to me (unfavorable for Ben) she'd somehow find a way to sneak it into the conversation, as in, I know you didn't want to hear anything about Ben, but he asks about you every time we see him and he seems desperately lonely without you.

In any event, this invitation forces my hand.

I know exactly what Jess will say-and so I laugh when she comes home from work, glances at the invitation and says it. 'You have to go. You have to take Richard. And you have to look hot.' Her eyes are lit up for the first time since her conversation with Trey-who has not called back to change his mind, or even say hello.

I tell her that there's no way I am inviting Richard.

'Why not? I'm sure Annie wouldn't mind.'

'I wouldn't do that to Ben. Or Richard, for that matter,' I say. 'Besides, it looks so obvious. Pathetically so.'

'I disagree. I think it looks the opposite of pathetic. I think it looks like Richard is your boyfriend. People bring boyfriends to events like this.'

'He's not my boyfriend, and you know it.'

'He sort of is.'

'No,' I say. 'He's really not.'

'Then what is he?'

'He's this guy I like. A guy I've slept with once.'

'So sleep with him a few more times and then take him.'

I laugh and shake my head.

She says, 'Fine. But you're going to be really sorry you didn't listen to me if Ben brings someone.'

I stop cold and look at her. 'You think he'd do that?'

'He might.'

'No way. Never.'

'Never say never,' Jess says.

It's been her mantra for years, and I think I'm finally beginning to agree with her. There are no absolutes in relationships. You can't take anything for granted. You can count on absolutely nothing but the unexpected. You only get in trouble when you start thinking that you're some kind of exception to the rule.

I pick up the phone and dial Annie's number.

She answers with a cheerful, 'Hey, stranger!'

Before I can talk myself out of it, I say, 'Hey, Annie. I got your invitation, and I wouldn't miss it… Mind if I bring someone?'

seventeen