Six

MY NEWFOUND SENSE of contentment continued through the weekend. My spirits were so bolstered by the stitch ’n bitch club that I even practised my casting on. With the instruction booklet on my lap, I painstakingly manoeuvred the needle around the yarn until I had achieved a single stitch. That one little noose gave me such an immense sense of achievement. I had done it! It had taken intense concentration and several false starts, but I had done it! My success was especially impressive since I had been focusing on my project while trying to tune out Kendra’s phone call to her mother, relaying, in explicit detail, the salad she had taken to work for lunch (dressing in a small container on the side, tomato slices kept in a separate aluminum foil pouch so they didn’t make the lettuce soggy, pre-cooked chicken breast wrapped in plastic . . .).

As the stitches on my needle increased, so did the feeling of accomplishment. But there was more behind my good mood than just my knitting prowess. I was experiencing a sudden wave of emotional stability. After only two and a half months, I seemed to be well on my way to a full recovery from my devastating breakup. It was some sort of miracle! The stitch ’n bitch club had been the defining moment, that crucial test that I had passed with flying colours! Much to my delight (and surprise), I had just spent a very enjoyable evening with a bride-to-be and a new mom. I was healed!

Really, I had only experienced the slightest twinge of envy. I certainly didn’t despise them, or wish them ill, or want to run out of the room crying. In fact, that evening had made me realize that maybe I wasn’t such a traditional, needy woman after all. In fact, I was very independent and self-reliant! I had been charming and pleasant toward Sophie and Nicola, and I really liked them both. Yes, the tide had turned and I was a changed woman. I was like Mel now... except even better. I didn’t need a man or a dog!

I was also feeling incredibly positive about my career. While the life of a freelancer is often feast or famine—too much work or not enough—lately, I seemed to have found that happy medium. Seattle Scene, a popular monthly magazine with an environmental leaning, had just commissioned me to write an article for them. When magazines contacted you, it was a good sign that you were making a name for yourself. I had also recently secured a regular column in a popular daily paper called Juiced. My contribution was “Caffeine Culture,” a look at the city’s new, unique, or trendy coffee shops. I could even expense my lattes and muffins! It was my dream job.

On Monday morning, I set off to Fremont on the 9:30 bus. I’d heard about a great café where the baristas were intentionally rude and abrupt, the service was incredibly slow, but the coffee and maple scones were well worth it. As the #8 roared across Lake Union to the former hippie community, I felt really upbeat...practically happy! The realization that I didn’t need a man in my life was freeing! I was a confident and self-reliant career woman, with friends, a developing hobby, and a burgeoning social life. The future seemed full of hope again . . . hope and a free latte.

I found the small coffee shop easily and entered the mid-morning hubbub. The decor was eclectic—pop art mixed with ancient taxidermy—but the vibe was decidedly trendy. I planned to order my breakfast, then retire to a back table to jot some notes on my experience. A good twelve minutes later, I had a chipped jade-green mug containing my latte and a maple scone on a plate with my grandmother’s china pattern. My bounty in hand, I made a beeline for one of the few vacant tables toward the back of the room. And then I heard it.

“Beth? Is that you?”

I turned and confronted my past. There they were, three of them, smiling those annoying, self-satisfied smiles. A sick feeling engulfed me, its power taking me by surprise. There was no need for such acute anxiety. They were old friends. Or more appropriately, they were the partners of Colin’s old friends. They meant me no harm—or did they? Their smiles looked genuine, warm even—but I sensed a subtle condescension lurking beneath. Their names were irrelevant: I’ll call them Pregnant, Newlywed, and Engaged.

I had to say something, something cheerful and friendly and upbeat. “Oh, hi!” I stretched my lips into a painful smile. “What are you doing in Fremont?” Oops.

“We came for the maple scones,” Pregnant said, patting her tiny bump. A quick calculation fixed her at about four months. “I had a craving.”

“What about you?” Newlywed asked.

“I’m doing an article on this place,” I replied, painful smile still affixed. “I have a regular column now in Juiced. It’s called Caffeine Culture. I do reviews of cool places to have coffee around the city.”

“Oh?” Pregnant said, expressing only mild interest.

“It’s a nice regular paycheque and I get to expense my coffee and muffins!” Their bland expressions made it clear how mundane and insignificant my dream job was.

“And how are you?” Engaged asked. There it was—that pitying intonation that I had been waiting for.

“I’m great!” I beamed. “I’ve been getting out . . . meeting new people . . . learning handicrafts . . .”

“Good,” they all murmured.

“How about you guys? How are you?”

“Well,” Pregnant said, “as you can see, I’m a whale!” We all laughed. Her stomach was about the size of mine after I ate a Quarter Pounder and fries. She continued, “But at least I got pregnant before it’s too late. Did you know that after thirty, your eggs start to shrivel up and die at an alarming rate? It’s true! I mean, by your age, Beth, you probably only have a handful of good eggs left!”

“. . . Right.”

Engaged jumped in. “I’m really excited about my upcoming wedding! Thank god I’ll be getting married before I’m too old. I recently read that after thirty-five, a woman is more likely to be eaten by a shark than to get married!”

“I read that, too!” Newlywed agreed. “I am so thankful to have my husband—and his sperm to fertilize my remaining eggs.”

Okay... maybe they didn’t say all that, but I had gone to such a dark place of self-hatred and insecurity that I could practically hear the words through innuendo.

“Well, I’d better get to work on my article,” I said lamely.

“Oh, of course,” Pregnant said. “Don’t let us keep you.”

“Nice seeing you,” Newlywed added.

“You, too,” I managed. “Take care.” Then, like the dejected loser I was, I shuffled off to find a table.

I drank the coffee and ate the scone. It was probably very good, but the bitter taste left over from my encounter turned it to ash in my mouth. My eyes stared blindly at the blank page before me. How could I possibly write a fair and unbiased review of this coffee shop when all I wanted to do was fill my pockets with rocks and go drown myself in Lake Union? It seemed unfathomable that only minutes before, I had been feeling so strong, so sane! This chance meeting with the three ghosts-of-what-might-have-been had rewound the clock on my grieving period.

Suddenly, I sensed a presence beside me. It was Engaged. “Sorry to interrupt...” I flipped my notebook closed lest she notice my lack of progress. “We’re leaving now, but I just wanted to say... well, I saw Colin last night.”

“Oh?” I said flippantly, like she’d spotted someone like Ryan Seacrest at Starbucks.

“He’s having a hard time, Beth. He really misses you.”

“I miss him, too!” I wanted to cry. “Tell him I still love him! Tell him we can work it out! Tell him to call me!” But I didn’t. Instead, I said breezily, “It’s never easy, is it? But . . . we’ve got to move on.” I gave an indifferent shrug, although I knew my eyes were shining with unshed tears.

“Okay . . . well . . . Don’t be such a stranger. Give me a call some time.”

“Definitely,” I croaked. “Bye.”

And just like that, I’d gone from on the mend to completely devastated.