Meternity Page 6

  “Oh.” He pauses. “Ditching me for karaoke lessons,” he deadpans. “I understand.”

  I can hear the laugh in his voice.

  “Okay, I have an idea. How about drinks?”

  “Really?” I’m taken aback.

  “Yeah, sure. What about McGann’s on Eighth?” I know McGann’s well. Ford and I used to sneak there for postwork bitch sessions.

  “Okay, that could work.”

  “How about tonight? Seven thirty?” Ryan jets back.

  “I’d love to,” I say without thinking.

  He says “great” and we click off. I notice that, for once in a long time, I am actually excited. The sensation, though foreign, reminds me almost of how it was in high school or college, when liking a guy was all about the feeling it gave you—not some inherent marriage potential—the “PH.” I decide not to check his Facebook profile or status all day so I won’t have his life fresh in my memory bank as he’s telling it to me—not that I haven’t already memorized his date of birth (February 15) and favorite movies (Shawshank Redemption and Rudy). I power through the rest of the day, and for some reason, the C-section rewrite pours out effortlessly.

  Six

  McGann’s, a prototypical Irish pub in Hell’s Kitchen, sits just far enough away from both Ryan’s office in Times Square and mine. It’s an easy choice and I love that Ryan picked a casual Irish pub over a fancy lounge-type place, which can often set a too-formal tone. I hope he’s there before I am so I won’t have to sit at the pub’s bar alone, baby bump in my purse.

  All my worries go away when I see him, already perched on a bar stool, with a worn paperback and a shot of Jameson in front of him. The glowing fire in the middle of the room relieves the chill in my bones from the rain outside. Paintings, European football memorabilia and old-fashioned Guinness ads line the cream walls. Tiffany lamp sconces give the whole bar a glow. I’ve forgotten how much I like this place.

  “Buckley!” he says enthusiastically as he gets up.

  “Hey there, Mr. Murphy,” I say, trying to cover up my nerves with as much confidence as I can muster. He leans in to kiss my cheek while I reach out to shake his hand. We laugh at the mix-up and I try to babble on through it. “Starting strong, I see,” I tell him, nodding at the Jameson. His warm smile makes me a little less anxious.

  “Oh, that’s not for me. That’s for you,” he says drily, dropping the amber drink in front of me on the bar. “I figured I’d try to get you all liquored up so I can steal Paddy Cakes’ fall lineup,” he says, taking my coat and finding a spot for it under the bar.

  He pulls out the bar stool from beneath the rough-hewn counter, and I try to hop onto it with as much ladylike grace as one can have in big rubber boots and a dress. I take a sip of the whiskey, while I face toward the bar and start to fiddle with the bar menu, trying not to let on that I’m worrying if someone I know will stop by and catch me here, drinking.

  “So, I don’t know if you caught our ‘Mega-Multiples’ show the other night, but people have been saying it’s Emmy worthy,” says Ryan, dusting his shoulders off for effect.

  “Yeah,” I respond. “Not too bad. Pretty good for a novice. You, you know, didn’t catch all the nuances of our article. How long have you been at the network again?”

  “You’re right,” he says finally, returning the joke. “It didn’t do Paddy Cakes’ Pulitzer-winning prose justice.”

  I roll my eyes—we both know that’s not the case.

  “So, I bet you’re going to be taking over Alix’s job in a year’s time,” he says, mocking my seriousness a bit.

  “Probably,” I say with false smugness. “And what about you—this Emmy should seal your career trajectory, too. Have you picked out your corner office yet?”

  Ryan takes a big sip of his whiskey. “Already got one,” he says, flashing a grin.

  “Corner office?”

  “Emmy.” He looks down offering only a bashful, yet sly look. Out of the corner of my eye, Seamus, barman with white hair and a bit of a belly beneath his black vest, is wiping down the bar and gives a nod.

  Holding back how impressed I am, I reply, “Good. Because I only associate with smart, successful people.”

  “Bet you do,” he teases.

  “So I bet you must love all the parenting stuff you’re doing,” I say sarcastically, filled with weariness from the past week. “If someone says the words baby, bun, bump or bundle, I think I’m going to shoot myself.”

  Ryan seems to get my meaning, yet he clears his throat. “Well, it’s not all bad—some of the moms are smokin’ hot,” he says with a cheeky smile. “Anyway, I’m done with the parenting stuff for the next month or so. I’m probably going to be going on the 100-pound-tumor man shoot in the Amazon pretty soon.”

  “Ah, more Emmy-caliber stuff,” I chide.

  “You’re just jealous,” he says, flashing a hot grin.

  “I am,” I tell him solemnly, and from the electric flash of his eyes, he seems to understand.

  We chitchat more about the “Mega-Multiple” show, and he asks if I liked the way it turned out; I let him know that in all honesty, I did. I tell him more about my job at Paddy Cakes, revealing a bit about Cynthia and Alix. It’s nice to be able to talk shop to someone fresh about all this media stuff. From the slight bags under his blue eyes, and shaggy brown hair two weeks overdue for a cut, I can tell he seems to understand where I’m coming from. After we’ve made our way through our first drinks, our guards start to drop a bit. Should I see if we want another drink? “Seamus, another drink, please?” he says, drumming the bar with his fingers.

  Seamus comes over to us. “Yer usual, mate?”

  “You got it. It’s a perfect night for it.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Rusty nail. Seamus makes some of the best in the city. Or are you a lavender martini type of girl?” He looks at the back of the bar, and for a second his focus seems elsewhere.

  “Um, no, I will have you know that I’ve had my fair share of rusty nails over the years.” When I speak the words, he turns back to me with a smirk.

  “Well, I’m glad, or I’d have to kick you out of the bar,” he says, signaling the bartender to make it two. “And you know,” he says, “I only associate with total boozehounds.”

  “Ha. But it’s been a while. Can you remind me what’s in them again?”

  “Equal parts whiskey and Drambuie with an orange twist.”

  “Interesting. How’d you get into them?”

  He pauses. “It was my dad’s drink and I guess I picked it up from him.”

  Seamus hands us two yellowish-brown cocktails. The taste burns a bit, but it’s sweet. “Mmm,” I say. “I could get used to this.” I look down.

  “That’s the plan,” says Ryan, catching my eye.

  As we’re rounding out drink number two, we fall into a flirtatious rhythm, but his jokes are all tinged with trepidation, like he’s being careful not to cross the professional line. The topics fall into the safe categories: sports teams (he’s Phillies, I’m Mets) and my affinity for the geeky History Channel shows about Nostradamus, his for geeky man shows like Top Gear, though he does keep high-fiving me when we share a common viewpoint. I notice how easy it is to talk with Ryan.

  “Sure you can handle it, Buckley?” he says, placing a hand on my back jokingly as Seamus puts the third rusty nail down on the counter for us.

  “Oh, I can handle it,” I reply, gaining a little more confidence.

  “All right, I’ll give you the third one, but only if you’ll tell me a secret,” he says, pretending to hold the tumbler from me.

  Maybe it’s the alcohol, because all of a sudden, I feel myself getting a little brazen. I lower my head flirtatiously and look him directly in the eye, giving him the too-long stare, a move I’d perfected
in my early twenties. “Like what?”

  “Well, it doesn’t exactly seem like Paddy Cakes is your end-all-be-all career choice. Say the magazine folded tomorrow, and you could do anything you wanted—a secret dream—what would it be?”

  I immediately blush thinking, if you only knew.

  “Waiting, Buckley.”

  I take another second. Up until this point, with everything meternity-related, I hadn’t actually taken much time to ponder what I really want, only what would keep me from getting fired. But to my surprise, the answer comes to me quickly. “Easy. Quit my job. Travel the world and write about it.” My shoulders drop in relief.

  He immediately smiles and softens his eyes. “So underneath that gorgeous magazine editor exterior, you’re really just a frustrated travel writer. I knew it.” His compliment makes my cheeks warm, and I look away. When I return, I notice he’s looking at me, staring.

  “It would be amazing if one day my blog MoveableFeast would somehow get picked up and turned into a book like one of Bill Bryson’s travelogues or Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London.” I’m not sure what makes me reveal this, but for some reason I feel like it will intrigue him. “But, I haven’t really been keeping it up. I’ve been so busy. And it’s not really that good.”

  “You really know how to sell yourself, Buckley.”

  “Huh,” I say, only now recognizing he’s right.

  “I can tell you’ve got a book in you. You know, a secret adventurous side.” He winks, and his compliment makes me blush outwardly and gulp inwardly. This time I smile, feeling a little more courage.

  “Okay, I’ll send you my next travel story tomorrow and you can tell me what you think,” I tell him.

  “I’d love to read anything you’ve written,” he says, returning a more earnest expression, then smiling, as if he’s thinking about something.

  “Okay, so what’s yours, Mr. Rising Star? Take over the network by bringing all of Paddy Cakes’ best stories to life?”

  He scrunches his nose, as if to say “not even close.” He looks down for a few seconds. “Okay, don’t make fun of me, Buckley, but I’ve got a secret plan, too. After a few things fall into place, I’m going to quit Discovery,” he says, clearing his throat, “then once I raise funding, I’m going to produce and direct my own environmental documentary.” He pauses, interested in my reaction.

  I can’t help but smile widely and there’s a look in his eye—one of hopefulness.

  Then he gets suddenly quiet. “Did you know that there are actually about thirty-one forms of electromagnetic energy that are self-reproducing and completely sustainable? Companies are doing this right now, and if we were to switch over from petroleum and natural gas, we could power the world’s energy three times over.”

  This sudden revelation of a geeky side makes my heart warm. “I thought it was just wind power and solar power.”

  “Yes, there’s that, but there’s also this type of magnetic force field called a toroidal field. There’s a company out in Palo Alto working on it. I saw them give a TED talk last year and have been in touch with them since.”

  “Really?”

  “I pitched it to Discovery, but they turned me down. The huge oil companies are some of our biggest advertisers,” he says with a letdown look in his eye. “But don’t worry, I’ll get it out there—one of my buddies is a lawyer and is looking into coproducing with me, and our friend in finance is already helping us set up meetings with angel investors.” His passion incites something in me. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Maybe not since my first big feature came out.

  He seems to notice my pensiveness. “I’m not worried about you, either, Deputy Buckley. You’re just resting up before your training day comes,” he says with a soft wink, which gives me little tingles.

  Then, he holds a finger up. “Sorry, gotta check this.” He takes his phone from out of his pocket and scrolls through email, punching a short reply into the pad with his fingers. A wince forms across his features. “Sorry, I, ugh, have to go.”

  “Work?” I say, looking at him as he’s fumbling in his pockets for cash to pay the bill. I offer to pay, but he gives me a look that says “no way.”

  “Yeah, ugh, okay, sure,” he says, taking a second to consider something. Then he gives me a strange exaggerated eye roll.

  I sigh and try to cover up my disappointment with a huge smile. I plop my drink down, and we both get up and put our coats on.

  “Well, uh, thank you for the drinks,” I say nervously, fidgeting with my coat as we wait for the bartender to come back.

  “Yeah, we’ll do it again soon. Don’t forget to send me the blog link tomorrow!” says Ryan with a confident, eager grin, although behind it he seems a little worried. He flags the bartender down to pay. We walk out of the pub onto the rush of Eighth Avenue, and in two seconds he’s hailed me a cab. Once I get in, I look out and see he’s hailing one for himself. That’s weird; his work is only five blocks away. Great, maybe the work drama was just a cover. Maybe he has a girlfriend. This was just work drinks.

  But still, for five quick seconds, I allow myself a daydream. One that has me by Ryan’s side on a film set and jetting around the world with him to interview people who are trying to make a difference. How sexy it all seems. It doesn’t feel like it has the weight of finding a PH. It feels like pure fun. I fish into my purse to check my phone, and there it sits. My second trimester. Shut the fantasy down, Buckley. Shut it down.

  * * *

  The next day at work, with thoughts of Ryan pushed far out of my brain, the realization of my impending doomed career, love life and incomprehensibly terrible baby scheme leave me with only one option: enter a state of total denial. Instead of using the rest of the afternoon to perfect my October lineup, then research new jobs, I spend the time reading a self-help galley that came to my inbox this morning: The New Super Mom: How to Effectively Balance Work Life and Home Life. Then, with about half an hour left before the end of the day, I brainstorm all new Shocking! Exciting! Glossy! stories, including an inspired “22 Ways to ‘Fake’ a Work-Home Balance,” then turn in my revised lineup with my fingers crossed.

  I knew if I were Jules, I would have taken Cynthia’s feedback differently, making an Action Plan and plowing through it with complete aplomb. But I can’t motivate myself to do anything no matter how hard I try. My brain feels like a murky swamp. My nerves jangle left and right as reality starts to set it in. I know what to do. Putting aside the pileup for once, I head out the office door toward home, texting A and B.

  Seven

  Friday night, 7:30 p.m. A perfect mix of crowded, but not too crowded, sixty–forty ratio men to women fill out the space at our go-to gastropub, Sparrow and Crow. Cellar-like and glowing, it’s full of wooden farmhouse tables and candlesticks with wax dripping down the sides onto black wrought iron casters. Unfortunately the favorable conditions do nothing to help me push my current situation out of my mind.

  As I enter the crowded bar, I see that Addison and Brie have already arrived and are already claiming their space in the spot we’ve deemed the “vortex,” thanks to its ability to bring in men from three different angles—the back table, the side closest to the door, and the way to the bathrooms. As we sidle up to the bar, the barman notices us and takes our drink orders.

  Never one to miss an opportunity to show off her toned arms, Addison has shown up in her usual tight-black-cropped tank, skinny jeans, heels combo. Brie favors low-cut, feminine, belted dresses that reveal her killer cleavage and tiny waist. Tonight’s no different. We’ve all developed a formula for what works postthirty. Me, a loose, bohemian-style “with child” ready ensemble in case anyone I know should arrive.

  Drinks in hand, Addison and Brie eye the room for possible prospects, goal-oriented and ready. So different from our midtwenties when these nights were just about ha
ving fun. I see Addison eyeing a cute group of youngish guys. Brie clicks into flirt mode, flicking her head back and running a few fingers through her hair, that is, when she’s not checking her phone.

  Lately, I’ve noticed that most of our conversations center around assuring one another that we’re smart, beautiful and are going to be “okay.” It goes on and on until we’ve reached a fever pitch of feeling hot, smiling around the bar widely. Not a soul seems to notice.

  “So, what happened with Brady?” I ask Addison. She’s eyeing the twentyish group of guys who seem to be playing fantasy football on their phones from their sporadic cheers and table slapping.

  “Ooh, yes, the venture capitalist who met us out at karaoke?” asks Brie, intermittently checking her phone.

  “How old is he again?” I ask, the only one fully attentive.

  “Thirty. But it ended last night when I told him I needed more attention and he told me he needed a twenty-two-year-old,” she says. “I told him he’d never find one as good as me in bed, but he was welcome to try.”

  “Aww, no. I’m sorry, that sucks,” I tell her.

  “It’s okay. It’s his loss. I’ve decided I’m just going to have as much fun as possible this summer. What else can you do?”

  “Well, plan Secret-4-the-One isn’t going as well as I’d hoped, either,” says Brie, shoulders scrunched.

  “What happened?” I ask, worried.

  “So as soon as I launched into online dating full throttle, I met this guy at a bookstore—can you believe it? It was like straight out of a ’90s rom-com. He’s been traveling around the world for years after getting laid off on Wall Street. Totally my type.”

  “So? How did it go?”

  “Okay,” she says, smoothing her hair behind her ears. “Until I decided to go back home with him, and discovered that he had a hoof hanging above his bed.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh, yeah. A hoof. Not even a dream catcher—I would have given him a pass on that one, but yeah, a hoof. He said it was considered a good luck charm to increase male virility. He said a town elder gave it to him in Burma.” She turns up her nose.