“I get that. But—”
“Serena,” I warn, lifting from the headboard. Peyton stirs on my chest, and I gently rock back and forth to keep him asleep. I stroke his face and hug him tighter. “He’s getting so big.”
“He is,” she sighs. “Last one.”
I push out my lip. “If that’s the case, I need to come over more.”
“You do, but Whit, I’m not dropping it.”
I groan.
“This is me, Whitney. You can bullshit everyone else, but not me. What happened across that table tonight was pure static, the good kind.”
“That’s just because you’re jonesing for some za za zu.”
“Some what?”
“Sex and the City, that’s what Carrie called it, za za zu. The friction, the spark, the butterflies.”
“You’ve really memorized that show, haven’t you?”
“Line by line, I’m afraid. It’s the bible for the single woman, hell, for every woman. I used to think of myself as two parts Carrie, one-part Charlotte, and a dwindling quarter of Samantha, but at this point, Miranda is threatening a takeover.”
“She’s the bitchy, red-headed cynic, right?”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t she get married and have a baby?”
“Shut up. And that’s what you’re missing with Thatch, by the way, the za za zu.”
“Will you stop about Thatch and me? We’re okay this side of the hour. Stop deflecting.”
I sigh and run my hand along Peyton’s back.
“Just tell me you didn’t feel it tonight at the table.”
“It’s just nostalgia. And you should know more than anyone at this point nostalgia is a trap.”
She scrunches her nose. “Gotta say, I don’t like Miranda on you.”
“You were judging my uninhibited Samantha earlier, so I’m afraid Miranda’s here to stay. Anyway, I’ve seen enough by now to have figured out the cycle.”
“Which episode is this?”
“This theory is all mine.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“It’s a cycle embedded in our DNA, our psyche, no matter how independent we claim to be. It happens for different women at different times, but almost always when we’re younger, less stressed, more free-spirited, sexual, and can easily mistake sexual chemistry with forever.” I run my hand across Peyton’s wayward hair.
“At the beginning of the cycle, a girl searches for the perfect mate. But the kicker is because it’s her time, she might not find the perfect man. Maybe she’ll just find a man willing to settle down and help her create the DNA-induced image in her head. And then one day, five, ten, fifteen years down the road, she wakes up and realizes that she married the wrong man. And the man wakes up next to her, realizing the woman he married is completely different from the one he proposed to. And that right there is the reason for the ever-present adolescent man because they want a 2.0 version of the woman they proposed to, the sexually creative, vivacious, zest for life fuck buddy they thought they were investing in. And so it goes, the woman sets off to find herself, while the husband—ex or not—begins dipping lower and lower into the pool until they’re practically dating an infant so that they can have that girl back. But the jokes on them because eventually, the 2.0 version is going to hit the same part of the cycle, too. It’s a hamster wheel.”
Serena goes pale. “You seriously believe this?”
“I’ve seen enough examples at this point to know it’s not far-fetched.”
“What about Mom and Dad?”
“The exception, not the rule, and we only know the version they present us with. Look at your issue with Thatch now and tell me I’m barking up the wrong tree.”
“You’ve been alone way too long in that condo.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Your theory generalizes behavior of two sexes during the most taxing endeavor known to man. Marriage is not easy, not at all. And maybe I don’t have the pink peonies in clear glass jars in every perfectly decorated and organized room—a lifestyle that I longed for and expected to have—but newsflash, babe. Martha Stewart, the woman who taught us good living, went to federal prison and made her epic come back doing a talk show with fucking Snoop Dogg. She’s also posting selfies in a bathing suit on Instagram purely for attention post-menopause, which only proves that she’s just as fucked up as the rest of us and needs validity that she isn’t finding in real life. You’re right. Most of us, at some point, want this unattainable dream, but it doesn’t exist.” She shakes her head. “Thatch and I might have issues. He’s not perfect, neither am I, but Whitney,” her voice drops, her tone urgent, “I married him believing he is my match, and I still believe it, most days. I’m so grateful for him, really, but don’t get me wrong, I want those butterflies back, and honestly, I haven’t felt them in a very long time…and I’m fucking scared, so stop bullying me about it. Because,” her eyes water, and I instantly feel guilty, “what if I never feel them with him again?”