The Yes Factor Read online

“I just feel so ignored.” Sip. “Invisible.” Sip. “Insecure.” Sip. “Unlovable.” Sip. “Under sexed.” Gulp.

  Of course, I hate hearing my best friend say these words and I want to comfort her, but doesn’t every woman feel these things at some point? Could this just be the cycle of the relationship? My grandmother always said, “This too shall pass.” Maybe it will pass? But, before I can respond, she says, “It’s been this way for nearly seven years.”

  “Wait, you’ve been married for nine!” I do the math in my head.

  “Things have never really gelled with us. Like, round peg, square hole kind of situation. We just don’t fit. I’ve tried and tried for years. Talking about it. Not talking about it. When I got on the flight here, I was ready to give up. That little dalliance with Francois boosted my confidence. I was on the plane thinking I was going to see how fun and amazing being single is.” I cough mid-drink at Liv’s naivete. “And now I’m seeing it’s just kind of…pathetic.” Liv almost whispers the last word.

  “Oh, wow. Thanks.” Well, I asked for the troof and I got it.

  “Now I’m thinking, maybe I should just go back and try to make it work, no matter what. Everyone has affairs, don’t they?” She sounds so non-committal and depressed. So unlike her.

  “Okay, I’m playing devil’s advocate here, but maybe y’all are in a slump? All the things you said are shitty, really shitty. But maybe they can be worked through. Talked out. Maybe beg him to stay in therapy? You and Ethan fell in love for a reason. Can you get back to the beginning? Do you remember the beginning?” She gives me a muddy side eye. “Ethan’s affair in France was probably a onetime thing. Like, maybe he’s a vegetarian now and doesn’t like cheeseburgers anymore.” It’s the best analogy I could come up with on the fly.

  Liv doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t even lift the glass to her lips for a final sip. I expected her to at least crack another mud smile at my lame attempt at a joke, but nada. The weight of her silence is a heavy blanket over my whole body. In the suddenly oppressive stillness I say in a barely-there voice, “It was a onetime thing, right?”

  She nervously winds her fingers around the tie strings of her bikini bottom. “Well, I don’t know for sure. I found out that he had an Ashley Madison account.” She mistakes my gasp for a sound of confusion. “You know, that website where married people have affairs.” I’m nodding my head slowly, taking this all in. “When their site was hacked a while ago, I looked through the data and found the last four of his credit card number alongside our post code.”

  I’m wide eyed with disbelief. “Is that how he met the woman in France?”

  “Probably.”

  I lean in to her more closely. “So, you don’t trust him.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “No. I don’t. In a weird way, it kinda made me feel better when I found out he has this double life. Like the past suddenly made sense. It put all his late nights, last-minute travel plans, and his emotional distance into perspective. Not to mention all the ridiculous gifts he’s brought home to me.”

  “The puzzle pieces all fell into place,” I say with understanding.

  Her fingers stop their fidgeting. “Exactly. That knowledge should give me the freedom to think about my own decisions, to try to understand what I want. But I just seem stuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “And what do you want?” I look over at my friend and see the strength and vulnerability warring within her as she tilts her head up to the clear blue California sky, closes her eyes, and exhales. “Why didn’t you just leave him?”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve asked myself that? I’ve thought through all of my exit strategies, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. It feels so complicated.”

  “But why? If he’s been cheating on you repeatedly, what is complicated about that? You deserve better!” I say indignantly.

  “Do I? This life with Ethan is so much better than my life growing up, my mom and dad barely being able to cover the bills. I always wanted to escape, and I’ve done that with Ethan. This is the life I’ve always wanted.” She pauses. “Or that I thought I wanted.”

  “But, Liv, your parents loved each other. Who cares about the rest of it?”

  We sit in silence, although both of our wheels are turning at breakneck speed.

  “There’s still so much of me tied up in Ethan. I know I deserve to be treated better. But it’s like, I’m waiting for him to leave me. Like that will somehow make it easier.”

  I try to process what she’s saying. I can’t judge because that’s pretty much how I felt about my relationship with Patrick. It was easier for me to be the victim than for me to take control of my own happiness. Until I did.

  Jesus, what a web we weave for ourselves.

  Having washed the mud off, we’re back to our previously pasty selves as we settle into the sulfur hot springs with a final glass of wine. The smell of rotten eggs may not be my standard aromatherapy go-to, but all five senses are now relaxed.

  Liv holds her glass up to the light and releases a satisfied sigh. “Ahh, detox and retox. Story of my life.”

  We both laugh and look around at the dwindling crowd, surveying the bodies of the other women. Isn’t it something all women do without even really being aware of it? I know it’s terrible, and I’m not judging, but I can’t help but compare myself to everyone else around me. The lady in the pink tankini has a perfect butt, not a dimple of cellulite, but that tankini is covering a tummy that’s just a little too pouchy. A young woman with fake boobs and too much lip filler has actually made herself look older than she probably is. I look at my own body and make a mental list of the many things I want to change (thighs, lank hair, age spots on my chest) but being in the midst of these different shapes and sizes, I give myself a break from it and acknowledge that nobody is perfect. We’re all doing the best that we can.

  “Listen, I know you’ll make the right decision,” I say.

  She groans. “Can we talk about something else? Like Charlie Hunnam’s hot bod? Or more importantly, can we find any good gumbo in LA?”

  “Look, one last thing, and then we can definitely talk gumbo.” I pause to summarize my thoughts. “Leaving is hard, but staying is harder. I know that firsthand. I just want you to be happy.” She rolls her eyes at that. “I do! You deserve love and respect and all the best things. I’m here for you.”

  Liv looks me in the eye. “What do you think I should do? Troof.”

  Giving someone relationship advice is tricky. The only people that really know what’s going on in the relationship are the two people in it. Only they know the ins and outs, the good and the bad, what they can or can’t live with. But I do know Liv.

  “Leave his ass.” I dunk my head under the hot water, holding my wineglass aloft so it doesn’t spill, not wanting to hear what Liv might say in response to my no holds barred troof.

  Driving home against traffic is always a delightful feeling. I’m stone-cold sober since I stopped drinking a couple of hours ago, but Liv is living up to her name and living in the passenger seat with the windows rolled down, a big smile on her face and sing-yelling at the top of her lungs “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

  “I want to be the one to walk in the sun!” I look at her and feel bittersweet hope as she belts out those words. The mourning of the past and the optimism for the future. It’s how I feel right now, too. Sad about the lost dream of my marriage, no matter how long ago it was, but hopeful for better things ahead.

  Sometimes, when I drop Maddie off at Patrick’s house, I wonder if we were right to divorce. There were so many good things about Patrick. Did I try hard enough? Maybe we should have gone to therapy, put our egos aside and given it a solid go. Gone the distance for the sake of Maddie. Maybe I was selfish. Maybe I thought I deserved more. Because I didn’t fight for my marriage, I just walked away in defeat. And, sadly, I still feel that way after all these years. Yes, I have guilt, but more than that there’s a sadness in
me that’s holding me back from opening up to someone new. Until Liv showed up, I hadn’t put any energy into my own heart, let alone out into the world. I’ve been closed off, defensive, and solitary. I’ve found joy in Maddie, but she is not and should not be my whole world. I know it isn’t healthy and looking at Liv singing with her eyes squeezed tight gives me a feeling that I haven’t felt in a long time.

  When the song ends, Liv turns to me excitedly. “What’s next, Ms. DJ?”

  Ahead, I see the beautiful glow of the In-N-Out sign calling my name.

  “Well, I think it’s time you get yourself a Cheeseburger of your own!” I blast Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” just to bring my point home.

  I lurch the car into the driveway after our intense but refreshing day at the spa, only a little sunburned and savoring that wonderful paradox of exhaustion that comes from a day of relaxing. The wine under a hot sun and in even hotter mud and water has made me groggy. And the barebones discussion of everything going on between Ethan and Liv has tired out the both of us.

  “I’m so ready to—”

  “Get into sweats and hibernate?” Liv finishes my sentence.

  “Yes! What should we do, Bridesmaids or Dirty Dancing?”

  “Is that even a question?” Liv gives me a “seriously” look as she gets the last of our bags out of the back seat, slams the car door shut with her hip then does a little Baby dancing on the bridge as she sings the words from “Love Is Strange,” “How do you call your lover boy?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dubai, Darling

  LIV

  Our bedroom doors had closed almost in unison. In affectionate half-sentence grunts, we both agreed we were too dead to watch a movie, even too beat for Patrick Swayze and Dirty Dancing, which I didn’t think was possible. Baby would have to stay in a corner, at least for tonight. Maybe, for Bex, it was the sun, the mud, the wine, or the drive. But for me, it was the talk. There it was, all my dirty laundry for Bex to see.

  But it was still a good day. Bex’s support for me, our support for each other, is as strong as it ever was. Yes, we drive each other crazy sometimes, but she’s the sister I never had.

  I lie down on the bed, curled up on my side, clutching my phone, staring blankly into the screen. My eyes go dry as I mindlessly scroll through the news, then switch to the weather, then my pedometer app, then back to the news, all the while willing myself not to look at Instagram or Facebook. I have two unread texts that I’ve been ignoring since the night out at Glamour & State. One from Ethan, one from Clarissa. Might as well dive in.

  Darling, still busy in Dubai. Alan said that Clarissa never heard from you. What’s going on?

  Perfunctory. To the point. Well, I guess that’s what texts should be. But still, would it kill him to drop in an emoji, or at least ask how I’m doing? He has no idea I am in LA. I haven’t told him so how could he? But the fact that we’ve spent almost a week without even talking doesn’t seem to have fazed him that much.

  I call him and it rings for so long that I assume it’ll go voicemail. Giving up, I lower the phone to press end when I hear Ethan’s voice, “Liv, what’s going on?” Not even a “hello.”

  Bringing the phone back to my ear, I stumble over my words. “Hi, nothing. I’m fine.” I pause, gathering my composure, then, “I’m in LA.”

  “LA? What on earth are you doing there?”

  “Visiting Bex,” I respond without feeling the need for further elaboration.

  “Who?”

  “Bex. Rebecca. You know, my best friend.” I try to remain calm, but inside I feel like screaming.

  “Oh right, yes, of course. Bex.” Ethan says her name as if he’s never heard it before. “Liv, listen, darling. Don’t you think that’s rather impulsive. Going to LA. What happened to Provence? You’ve put me in a bit of a pickle here with Alan. I’d already told him that you’d be calling Clarissa for an impromptu getaway. Shame that our reservation went to waste.”

  Pickle off, I think.

  “I always take out travel insurance. Don’t worry, we didn’t lose any money canceling. And Clarissa is a big girl. She can take care of herself. I’m sure she spent all weekend at Selfridge’s anyway. How’s Dubai going?” Not that I’m particularly interested.

  “It’s going. I’ve got to be in Zurich next week. At least the weather will be tolerable there,” he says. We haven’t spoken in a week and we’re already talking about the weather?

  “Oh, well, I guess I’ll see you soon even if for a day. My flight lands on Sunday morning. Why don’t we do lunch at The Wolseley? I think we should make some time to talk.” I put myself out on a limb.

  “Yes, let’s do that. Nice idea, darling.”

  “Okay, well, see you around then,” I say half-heartedly. It wasn’t meant to be the end of our conversation, but Ethan responds with a “Bye, darling” and that’s that.

  I’m staring at the phone again. Was that conversation even real? Bex is right. I can’t keep hiding. But that’s all I want to do right now. Hide. Not call Ethan back, not even go back “home.”

  As if to rub salt in the wound, I open the text from Clarissa.

  Sweets! Where are you? Did you go to France? Alan said something about a girl’s getaway.

  Call me! Xx

  Knowing Clarissa deserves a response, no matter how belated, I type in: Hi babes, ended up in LA, crazy I know! See you soon. Drinks this week?

  I throw in a heart, flowers, and a martini glass emoji, hating myself as I do it.

  I give in and open Instagram and go to Clarissa’s account. An over-filtered, ultra-bright photo is the most recent one posted. A selfie of her and two friends with drinks in hands. #boysawaygirlsplay #prosecco #lovemygirls #missyoualan. Aren’t we too old for this? Alan isn’t even on Instagram, but it’s like Clarissa has to call him out to remind herself that they’re married. And then on autopilot, I do exactly what I know I shouldn’t do. Francois. I scan through his page like the Terminator, looking at every image, every hashtag, like a forensic scientist. Of course, there are lots of posts from the last few days. It’s all part of building his image, his brand. He knows exactly what he’s doing. All these photos of young things and late-night party posts make him seem cool, relevant. I was a thirty-nine-year-old blip on the radar for him. I’d be very out of place in this photo lineup.

  I toss the phone out of my hand, a rotten appendage that I’m finally free of. I curl up into more of a ball and almost fall asleep. But then I reach out for my phone. I want to pretend everything’s okay, just for a little bit longer.

  “Hi, Mommy, it’s me. How are you?” I say in an upbeat voice. I hadn’t even told my mom and dad that I was over on this side of the ocean. Guilt gently gnaws at me as I explain that no, it wasn’t the middle of the night in London, that I’m in LA.

  “Everything’s fine, Mom. I’m here on a surprise trip to see Bex. How are you and Dad?”

  “Oh, we’re fine, honey. Daddy’s been working out in the yard today. Putting up wire around the tomato plants. Although you and I both know it’s not going to stop those damn squirrels. The neighbors complained to the cops about him using the BB gun on them.”

  In my dad’s world, tomato-eating squirrels are more of a suburban menace than the opioid crisis.

  “What are you and Bex up to? I sure do miss that girl. Please give her a big hug from me. Is she still single? I just don’t understand it…” My mom’s voice tails off in genuine confusion.

  “It’s complicated, Mom. She’s doing fine. We’re having a great time.”

  “I’m so glad you’re not out there having to date. It just seems so confusing these days. Dangerous too! All these horror stories of online dating and those app thingy’s. I saw the most awful story on 60 Minutes of some poor girl who was almost killed on a date. Thank God you have Ethan. How is he, by the way?”

  “He’s fine. He’s in Dubai on a trip.”

  “Dubai? My goodness. Seems he’s always on the road, but I
guess that’s the price to pay for being such a successful lawyer.” I can hear the pride in her voice. For her generation, being married to a lawyer is almost as good as a doctor. “I hope you two can make it back home for Christmas.”

  My heart twists. Ethan hates going to my parents’ house. He always wants to stay at a hotel, which my parents would take as a huge insult. The house is small and could probably be admitted to the Smithsonian as a time capsule from 1974, but my mom is still house proud. She keeps the place tidy and does her best. We haven’t been back for Christmas in four years. And I almost got a stomach ulcer from the stress of Ethan complaining behind their backs at every turn.

  “I hope so, too, Mom. I gotta go. Give my love to Dad. And tell him to be nice to the squirrels.”

  “I love you, my little Lou Lou. Be good.”

  “Bye, Mom. Love you, too.”

  I’d been mindlessly picking at a scratch on my arm throughout the conversation, or rather nervously, once she started asking about Ethan. Looking at my nails, I realize it’s leftover mud from Sunny Dale. I’d been in so much of a post-spa daze that I hadn’t properly washed it all off when it was time to leave.

  I tiptoe out of the bedroom. A light glimmers from under Bex’s closed door as I head to the bathroom. I guess she’s on her laptop. The pipes squeak as I turn on the hot water and watch it fill the tub. I know it’s crazy to be taking a bath after a day at the spa but I don’t care. At least there are no drought restrictions in place. Nightly baths have become a ritual for me back in London. The damp cold still sticks with me, even after all the years over there, and a hot bath is the only remedy. Right now, it’s not the London cold that’s chilling my bones but the icy feeling from my call with Ethan, from the fake-nice text to Clarissa and from lying to my Mom that everything’s fine. I shiver as I step into the tub and crouch down into the warm water. I lean back to rest my head on the cool ceramic of the gleaming white tub and let my body sink into its depths.