I trail off.
Ian has opened the front door.
Inside, there are dozens of red rose petals and burning candles. The perfect seduction scene.
It’s romantic.
It’s lovely.
It’s not for me.
Sprawled on a divan in the middle of a circle of rose petals is a very beautiful, very naked woman.
Ian looks at the woman, then he looks at me. Oh.
“Gemma,” he says. He holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
“Gemma?” the woman says disdainfully. “The frumpy divorcee from your office? Really, Ian? You want to screw the quote girl? You’ve officially hit bottom.”
What?
What?
I look at the woman. She’s even more beautiful than Carly in her nude photos, and that’s saying something.
“Gemma,” Ian says again.
I glance down at myself, the high heels, the cashmere coat, the Audrey Hepburn dress that isn’t me, isn’t me at all, and I see what she sees. Gemma Jacobs. Frumpy divorcee. Chubby Dimmy Gimmy. The pity date.
And also, the terrible friend that somehow managed to hurt Josh without knowing how, or why.
I look back at the woman.
This scene is Jeremy having sex on the dining room table all over again.
And that’s when I know something is broken in me, because I’m not surprised and I’m not upset. In fact, I don’t feel anything at all.
There must be something about me, something wrong with me that makes men treat me this way. There must be something in me that makes them think this is okay.
I turn back to Ian. “Thank you for a lovely dinner.” Then I turn and walk down the sidewalk toward the driveway.
“Gemma. Where are you going?” Ian shouts after me. “Gemma, wait. There’s no taxis Gemma, this isn’t the city. Don’t be an idiot. Wait!”
But I don’t. I take off my stupid heels and I jog barefoot down the freezing cold driveway and keep running until I’m a quarter mile down the road, out of sight of Ian’s ridiculously fabulous cottage.
By that time my feet are numb, I’m out of breath, and I have pinchy cramps in my abdomen. Sharp, painful, pinchy cramps.
“Stick tight, baby,” I say and I rub my abdomen. “Stick tight.”
Then I pull out my cell.
“Hello darling.”
At Carly’s voice, I start to cry, but I manage to say, “Carly, I’m in the Hamptons. Are you here?”
“Of course, I’m running away from my loveless marriage-”
“Can you come pick me up?”
She does.
23
Monday morning dawns bright and cold. It’s the bitter sort of mid-February day, where the freezing weather seeps into your bones and doesn’t let go. Instead of wearing one of the dresses Carly helped me pick out, I put on black pants and a long sweater and trudge to the office. In the subway car, there’s a puddle of urine on one of the plastic seats, and the smell makes me gag. I would write in my calendar, symptom（？）， but the smell of old urine on the subway always makes me queasy.
I took the bus back to Manhattan on Saturday morning. Then I spent the whole weekend in my pajamas, lying around, feeling incredibly sorry for myself.
I sent Josh a text Saturday afternoon. It said: Sorry about last night.
He wrote back: Don’t worry about it.
After fifteen minutes of staring at my phone I finally typed: Friends, right?
Then I banged my phone against my head, while I chanted, “Idiot, idiot, idiot.”
The five minutes it took him to respond felt like five hours. Finally, he wrote: Let me know when you get your results.
It took me the longest time to write back: Okay. Tell your dad hello for me.
He didn’t write back.
I stared at my wall, the looping cursive of the quote, mocking me. When Ian came up with that quote about loving, was he actually talking about the barrels of women he’s seduced?
Ugh. Ugh. He’s a creep. Leah was right, he’s a fake, plastic Ken doll. Brook was right, the self-help types are the most messed-up of us all. Josh was right. I don’t know why he punched Ian, but heck, he was right.
They were all right.
The fantasy that I created around Ian after my divorce was just as unrealistic as the fantasy I created about Josh as a teenager.
I didn’t love him, I loved the idea of him.
I think I need to face the fact that I haven’t learned, not in thirty-two years, to look past my own ideas of people. I never, ever look to see who people truly are. Not even the people closest to me.
In New York, when you sit in the subway or walk down the street, you never make eye contact with the people around you, it’s like they aren’t there, the people are just impressions of people. No one sees anyone. Not really.