Page 125 of The Best Men
The summer has been hellaciously busy. Work is nuts, as always. But Bridget has taken five business trips in ten weeks. So I’ve done a lot of extra parenting, too, including summer T-ball practices that start at eight a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays.
Whoever thought that was a good idea? I haven’t slept in since June. Hell, some days I feel like I haven’t sleptat allsince then.
“Are you good with her jumping up a grade in math?” Bridget continues. “The second-grade class does math at the same time as the first graders so she won’t miss any other subjects.”
“Sure,” I agree, since math is awesome. “What else?”
She taps her fingers on the table. “Tomorrow morning—before your tennis game—my book club is throwing a baby shower for Maxine.”
I put the taco down on the plate. “Did you say tomorrow morning? During Rosie’s T-ball practice?”
Bridget winces. “It’s Maxine’s first baby. I offered to bring the cupcakes. Rosie and I are making them.”
I shove the rest of the taco in my mouth and make her sweat it out. But of course I’m going to say yes. I’ll come here tomorrow morning—it’s Bridget’s weekend and Rosie is coloring in her room right now—and pick my daughter up for T-ball practice like a good dad.
Because Iama good dad. And my kid will grow up knowing that both her parents would do anything for her.
Except stay married.
“Fine,” I say through a mouthful. “But shockingly I have some plans, so I’ll have to cancel tennis with Brett. Someday, if I manage to get a more exciting life, I won’t be so easily bought off with guacamole.”
I expect her to smile, but she doesn’t. “You should have a life, Mark. You should date . . .whoeveryou want.”
Thanks, Bridget.
A flame of anger slices through me, since I don’t need her permission. But I cool it down with a sip of the iced tea she made just the way I like—with a splash of lemonade. Ishouldhave a social life. It’s just that I don’t have any idea how to get one. Last month I downloaded Grindr, spent an hour perfecting a profile I’d started last spring, then spentanotherhour interacting with strangers . . . before deleting it again.
I hate dating apps.Hate. And I don’t have any single guy friends anymore, either. No wingmen in sight. When I see the odd college friend, I’m usually the third wheel.
It’s a problem I don’t know how to solve. I might actually let Valencia set me up with her dentist one of these days.
Maybe.
“Is there anything else?” I ask Bridget. “Flip’s party starts in half an hour.”
“That sounds fun,” Bridget says with a cheerful smile. “I like Flip.”
“Everybody likes Flip,” I point out. I’m not in the mood for his birthday bash, though. Seeing his whole preppy crew will only remind me of Asher.
“Where’s the party?” Bridget asks. “Where do multi-millionaires celebrate their thirtieth birthdays?”
I snort. “I swear, this place had a preppy name too. Hang on. It’s somewhere on the Upper East Side . . .” I pull my phone out and navigate to my email. I need the address before I hit the number 4 train uptown.
I tap the link to bring me to the party’s page. “It’s called Downton Club—on Madison and Seventy-Ninth.” I roll my eyes. “Join us at an historic private supper club for finger sandwiches and Pimm’s cup cocktails with old man Flip. Jesus—these people have a kink for mansions.”
Bridget’s eyes twinkle. “Come on. It sounds like they’re being ironic.”
“Maybe,” I admit. Although I still don’t really want to go. I have to, though. It will be nice to see Hannah and her big baby bump, of course.
The wedding was only three months ago. It feels like three years.
“More guacamole?” Bridget asks. At least she feels bad about shanking me with another early T-ball practice.
“No thanks,” I sigh. Idly, I scroll down the list of RSVPs, wondering if Asher will be there, though I’m sure he won’t.
But then . . .
His name appears on the RSVP list.
