The Men I Didn't Marry by Janice Kaplan Read Free Book Online Page A

Fuck me, fuck me not. What the heck; I’m buying them.
    Am I trying to impress Eric? I never did that in the old days. Back then, I thought Eric was funny and smart and sexy and romantic—but I knew I was too. When he went off to business school at Stanford, I was still a senior in college and wouldn’t dream of transferring across the country to follow a man. Plus, the three thousand miles between us gave me a good excuse. Yes, I adored him, but deep down in my heart I wanted to have new experiences. How can you pick the first guy you ever loved to be with for the rest of your life?
    Eric did sneak back into my thoughts over the years. I heard he was a big success, and I sometimes imagined that if I’d married him, my life would be filled with nonstop parties and glamorous trips around the world. I envisioned staying at five-star hotels in Venice and ordering sumptuous champagne breakfasts from room service in Cannes, instead of (as per Bill) traipsing out to the coffee shop across the street to experience the local color. Local color, my eye. My husband is just cheap.
    Friday morning, shoes at the ready, I start thinking about what time I should get dressed. Eric said we’d get together for dinner but I don’t know when he eats. When my kids were little, supper was at five, but if Eric’s spent a lot of time in Europe, he might think dinner is at eleven. I’d better hedge my bets: eat a late lunch but get ready early.
    Around four o’clock, I hop into the shower and then start the rare (for me) process of putting on more than lipstick and blush. I almost never do my eyes, but tonight I might as well go for it. In my bathroom vanity, I unearth a crusted-over tube of $4.99 black Maybelline mascara, circa 2001. Doesn’t look promising. In Emily’s bathroom, I find an elegant container of Lancôme Définicils Long Lash Extra-Volume in navy blue that she’s left behind. Definitely newer and higher quality. So do I use my old cakey, clumpy Maybelline, or commit the ultimate women’s magazine no-no—sharing someone else’s mascara? Well, Emily’s my daughter, and everyone always says she has my eyes, so I might as well have her lashes.
    In an hour, I’ve put on every bit of makeup I can find, and I move on to the Getting Dressed part of the evening. I decide on black pants, because they make me look thin and it won’t seem like I’m trying too hard. What to wear on top? My pale yellow cashmere sweater is pretty, but what if it’s warm in the restaurant? I reach for the sheer pink blouse, which is lovely—but too sheer? I put it back in the closet. Next to it is the black satin, which is very New York chic. And in black-and-black, I’ll be prepared for any SoHo party or last-minute funeral.
    I sigh. Eric hasn’t called, so I don’t have to decide this minute. I walk around the house in my black pants, three-hundred-dollar fuck me, fuck me not shoes, and my Lejaby nude lace bra. I glance at my watch: 6:15. I expected to hear from him by now. How silly of me not to have gotten his number so I could call him. Maybe the plane was late, although I don’t even know where he’s coming from. He could be kayaking across the Hudson for all I know.
    I sit down at my desk, figuring I’ll do some work. I glance over a law journal article, but the words blur in front of my eyes. Same with a memo from senior partner Arthur. I pay a couple of bills and answer some e-mails.
    It’s 7:30 P.M.
    This is ridiculous. I pick up the phone to call information, but Eric’s not listed and I don’t know the name of his company. I hang up and pace around the room. Am I really sitting by the phone, waiting for a man to call? I didn’t even do that when I was sixteen. I’m a successful, grown-up woman, and here I am, lolling around in a lacy bra, getting more anxious by the moment. What is it that reduces all women to teenagers when they’re about to go on a date? And I don’t even know if this is a date.
    I’m starved, so I go