He points to the clipboard he’s holding, tapping his pen against the spot where he wants my name in ink. I sign as directed, then look straight at him, not up or down, so he must be right about 5’10” too. I try again, going for simple and direct this time. “McKenna Bell, there you go. And what’s your name?”
He hands me the envelope and smiles back. “Steely Dan Duran.”
I crack up right there on my doorstep. “What’s your name for real?”
“It really is Steely Dan Duran. My mom was a huge Duran Duran fan.”
“Evidently.”
“And my dad liked Steely Dan. So they compromised.”
“That is the very definition of compromise.”
He nods and gives me another smile, and that’s exactly why I like it when he brings me packages. That sexy sweet grin is precisely why he’s the type of deliveryman a girl can fantasize over. So I lay the envelope on the table by the door and decide to see if he qualifies. Because maybe this is my parking karma at play – Triple D might not have worked out, but perhaps the universe is delivering the best man to my porch in the form of Steely Dan Duran.
“So is your mom like a child of the eighties or something?”
“Apparently. I think they were listening to Duran Duran and Steely Dan when I was born.”
Oh, he practically walked right into that.
“And that would be in 1982?” I ask with a wink.
He laughs. “Ha. ’90.”
Twenty-three. Perfecto. “So Steely Dan Duran. Would you like to go out some time?”
He takes a step back, as if I’ve just asked him to drink hemlock.
“Scratch that,” I quickly add, crimson racing to my cheeks. Why did I ever think I could pull this off? “I’ll just take that back.”
But Steely Dan Duran will have none of it. He steps towards me and places a hand on my arm. “I would love to take you out to dinner.”
“You would?”
He nods vigorously. “I was just surprised that’s all. But please don’t take it back because I would love to go out. And I would love to be the one to do the asking. Would you like to go out with me?”
“Yes.”
I’m ready to dance a little jig, kick my heels up in the air a la Gene Kelly. Maybe it’s not that hard to find a Trophy Husband after all. I make plans with Steely Dan Duran for next weekend and head back inside. I reach for the envelope he dropped off and rip it open.
And there goes my happy mood.
My jaw drops as I read a letter from Todd’s attorney, requesting joint custody of the dog. Now that he has a house in Marin, and a baby, and a yard, he’s claiming the dog is better suited with him. I can’t believe he has the audacity to ask for this, but then he’s the same person who didn’t leave my favorite restaurant when he ran into me even though that would have been the courteous thing to do.
I read more, pushing my hands through my hair, hard against my scalp. My brain is about to officially pop when the papers request three canine sleepovers each week, and then I nearly gag when I see Amber’s name as well on the claim – Todd and Amber Frank.
I pick up my phone and call him at work. He answers immediately and I don’t bother with niceties. I launch right into it. “You have got to be kidding me. The dog is mine, and you haven’t so much as taken her for a walk in the last year, let alone a sleepover.”
“And that needs to change,” he says.
My mother lioness instincts kick in. I’m the one who trained the dog, walked the dog, fed the dog, took her to every vet appointment, threw tennis balls to her in the water. He didn’t want the dog when he left me for Amber. He doesn’t get the dog now. “The dog stays with me.”
“I figured you would feel that way, and that’s why I hired the best attorney, so perhaps you should take it up with him. I believe you have his number on the legal papers.”
Then he hangs up on me.
I slam the papers down on the credenza and huff back into the kitchen, practically ripping the fridge door open. I need a Diet Coke and I need one now. I grab one from the lower drawer and angrily pop it open, taking a thirsty first gulp.
I savor it because I find few things in life as singularly satisfying as the sound and feel of a can opening. The Diet Coke trickery should have been my tip-off that things with Todd wouldn’t work out. I’d be working or paying bills at the kitchen table and ask him to please bring me a Diet Coke. He knew about my first sip fixation, he knew I derived uncommon pleasure from the very first bubbly sensation, from the taste of the virgin cold metal on my lips. Yet, he would always ruin it for me by opening the drink himself and taking a sip while he mosey-ed on over to the table to deposit the can in front of me with a devilish little smirk. He’d give me this look, this “Aren’t I cute for taking the first sip when I know you love it” look. And he’d think it was endearing. I tried to explain every time that I was serious about this. I really wanted my own first taste.
I know it’s not a big deal. I know that disagreeing about the first sip of a soda isn’t the reason he left.
I can enjoy every single ounce of this soda all by myself right now. I can enjoy the money from the sale of The Fashion Hound. I can enjoy the silence in this house.
But I can’t always. Because tears now roll down my face as I look at this legal letter, this cold, business-like language that we have been reduced to. We used to spend nights tangled up in sheets, and lazy afternoons only with each other. We used to be each other’s rocks and each other’s lovers, a potent combination of reliance and passion that would see us through all our days.