I hand the paper to Erin so she can pass it around for inspection. Then I reach for a printed photo I found on his Facebook page. “This is a photo of Mr. Dybdahl, otherwise known as Meter Man. But hold on, my little chickadees,” I say, raising a hand for dramatic effect. I am going to be tough tonight. This is my moment, my moving on. “You see, my friends, this isn’t just about one date, one guy, one parking ticket ask-out. Mr. Dybdahl is my first candidate for my new project. Project Boy Toy. Operation Kept Man.”
A smirk forms on Erin’s face. I have a feeling she will be my Number One cheerleader.
“Or even, dare I say it, dare I name it,” I say, giving a little Rhett Butler twist to my wording, “Shall we call it the quest for the Trophy Husband?”
Erin cheers. “I love it.”
I speak louder this time, as if I were delivering an impassioned speech, a call to action. “As long as men have traded women in for younger models, trophy wives have multiplied, grown their numbers. But what about the women left behind? The first wives, or almost first wives in my case? Do we scoop up younger guys? No. We don’t. We cuddle up with the dog, we get to know the Chardonnay, we watch too much bad reality TV, and that is not ever going to help us move on. So I say it’s time to turn this around and show that two can play at this game.”
“Hear, hear,” Julia says.
“But there aren’t many Trophy Husbands out there. So just what does one look for in a Trophy Husband? What does one require?”
Erin raises a hand. “This is a relatively new breed of man, right?”
“Indeed, indeed he is,” I say, nodding.
“And has this breed ever been spotted before?”
I shake my head. “Not in captivity at least. Not that we know of.”
“So this is uncharted territory if you will.”
I nod knowingly. “Very uncharted territory, my friends. Very virginal fields here. In fact, the Trophy Husband is so rare that few know what he looks like, what he eats, where one lives. Worse, we’re not sure what he wears or what he requires. But we are going to find out. Because tonight marks the beginning of Project Trophy Husband.”
Erin is eager to play. “We know one thing about a Trophy Husband. He has to be younger. A lot younger.”
“You’re right. But how much younger?”
Erin raises her hand, an excited student eager to keep answering. “Well, you’re only twenty-seven, so there’s not much wiggle room. So I say he must be between twenty-one and twenty-three. Super young, and super hot, and besides I can vouch for the appeal of a twenty-two-year-old male.”
Hayden leans forward placing her chin in her long hands. Everything about Hayden is long. Her nickname is Giraffe. Her legs are endless and skinny. She has the flattest belly this side of Hollywood and equally thin arms. “Tell us more about this vouching.”
I flash her a smile. I’m glad that she’s going along with this. That I convinced her this project will be for the best. That it will be exactly what I need for the closure she wants me to have. I need Hayden’s support in my life.
Erin leans in conspiratorially. “Well, you know I have a twenty-two-year-old client. Not the swimsuit model. But this other guy is a cyclist. He’s on the LemonHead team or something. He comes in once a week, usually Monday mornings. I think that’s his off day. He has a perfect body. Not an ounce of fat on him.”
Julia points frenetically to the notepad. “Write that down. That’s good. Perfect body. Not an ounce of fat.”
“So basically we’ve got three things,” I say. “Twenty-one to twenty-three. He needs to be hot. And he needs to be in spectacular shape. Where do we start? I mean, we have Dybdahl. Who’s next?” Then I gulp. Because here’s the part where I have no clue. Yes, I can tell you whether that skirt goes with that shirt, I can sing Karaoke in front of a crowded room, and I can make a prank phone call if properly dared. But ask me to find a man? I met Todd when I was twenty-one. I have been with one man for the last six years, and before then I was with boys. And not very many.
My momentary tough façade fades away, my all-business persona slipping off to the hall closet. I’m just McKenna right now. McKenna who got fooled by her boyfriend, who got duped and dumped and left, with a dress to send to consignment, dishes to be returned, and a cake that was donated to a homeless shelter. I hear the residents that day enjoyed it, and for some reason, that made me cry even more. Not that crying is hard for me. I’m the girl who listens to Billie Holiday and Elvis, and dreams of these foolish things. Things like love, and trust, and hope. Things like faith in another person. My heart winces for a moment, and a rebel tear forms.
Then, a voice pipes in, a small but strong little voice, coming from the other side of the kitchen. “What about the Fedex Guy?”
Hayden whips her head around. “Lena! What are you doing up?”
Lena smiles innocently. “Well, you always say he is cute and I heard you ladies say you were looking for a cute guy…”
Hayden scuttles her back to bed, this time shutting the door all the way and returning to the table.
“So tell us about your Fedex guy,” Erin says with a sly grin.
But I don’t return the grin. Instead, I feel a thousand seeds of doubt planting in my belly right now. I drop my head in my hands and mumble, “Who am I kidding? I’m not going to get a man. I don’t have a clue. I’m the girl who was left at the altar. Who would want me?”