“I have no idea,” she says, completely missing the point of such questions—that of course she has no idea. Nobody does. Which is why I’m asking her to speculate. I fill her in on Scottie’s sunset rule.
She listens, but makes all sorts of disapproving faces before waving his theory off as “patently ridiculous,” illustrating a huge difference between my two confidants. Scottie will analyze things to death but never judges me, whereas Jasmine has no patience for relationship drama and calls me out on any and all bullshit.
“Maybe he’s really busy this week. You know, focused on his job…his stuff….Maybe you should do the same?” She gestures toward her computer monitor and says, “You don’t want to end up like Nicole here, do you?”
“Kidman?” I say, knowing she’s been working on a piece about her divorce from Tom Cruise. The assignment is such a total waste on her; she has no appetite for celebrity gossip.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Why? What’s going on now?” I ask, wondering what kind of parallel she could possibly be drawing between Nicole Kidman’s life and mine.
“Oh, just more Scientology bullshit…She was a prisoner. So glad she broke free of that crazy town. She’s way too good for him.”
“So you’re saying I’m a prisoner because I want Grant to call me?” I ask with a laugh.
“I’m just saying—get on your own damn path,” Jasmine says. “He either calls or he doesn’t. And if he doesn’t? His loss.”
I nod and say okay, but still can’t resist glancing down at my cellphone, then trying to slyly flip it open.
Jasmine busts me and says, “Jeez, Cecily. Put that down.”
“I was just checking.”
“Well, stop checking. Everyone knows that a watched phone never rings,” she says, grabbing her purse from a desk drawer and bolting up out of her chair. “Now, c’mon. Let’s go get some coffee.”
* * *
—
Later that night, after Scottie’s artificial deadline has passed, I find myself thinking about my afternoon coffee chat with Jasmine. Specifically, I think of how she said my encounter with Grant proves that there’s a silver lining to my breakup with Matthew. I now can take full advantage of my dwindling twenties and early thirties, which she views as the time to experience life freely, with little responsibility to anyone else.
“You have your whole life to be married,” she said. “What’s the rush? Besides, it kind of seems like marriage is overrated, when fifty percent of them end in divorce.”
“Well, I’m banking on being in the other fifty percent,” I said with a smile. “And where’s the shame in wanting a traditional life? I want to be married. I want a husband—a permanent partnership—and my own family. Nothing is more important than family….”
“Fine. But don’t you want to marry the right person?”
“Of course,” I said. “I mean, obviously.”
“Okay. But what if you had been married to Matthew when you met what’s-his-name? What would you have done then?”
I told her that was an easy question. That I would never have progressed past pleasantries with him—or anyone. That no matter how much chemistry we shared, my mind would not have been open to the idea.
“And that’s a good thing?” she asked.
“Uh, yeah, that’s a good thing. It’s also the right thing,” I said.
“Really? Is it?” she pressed. “It’s a good thing to be walled off to possibilities? And new experiences? In your twenties? The time when you should be exploring who you are?”
“You can have new experiences that don’t include sex,” I said.
“True,” Jasmine said. “But you can’t have new sexual experiences that don’t include sex.”
I laughed—it was a fair point—but told her I thought it more than a little depressing to suggest that at any given point in time, you could be perfectly willing to switch out your partner for a new one. Wasn’t there something to be said for loyalty and fidelity and monogamy, even in the face of temptation? You know, loving the one you were with?
Our conversation went on like that for a while, as we discussed all sorts of things, including her view of feminism, which is all about empowerment and independence from men, whereas my view of feminism has more to do with choice. Women in the twenty-first century (which still sounds so funny to my ears) have options. We can marry or not marry; have children or not have children; be stay-at-home mothers or have careers. So yes, I told her, I want to get married, and yes, I want to find a life mate sooner rather than later, but that didn’t make me a bad feminist. It just made me determined to have it all—one of the reasons I came to New York in the first place.
As I mull all this over and climb into bed, my phone finally rings. I answer it, my heart pounding.
“Hi, there,” I hear in my ear. “It’s me. Grant.”
Speechless for a second, I grin, then blurt out a statement that Scottie would never approve. “I was starting to think I wasn’t going to hear from you.”
“Wow,” he says, and I can tell he’s grinning back at me. “So little faith.”
“My best friend gave you an eight P.M. deadline. Today.”
“Well, then I’m only an hour late,” he says. “Fashionably late.”
“An hour late in my world means a story won’t go to print.”
“Touché,” he says. “So…does this mean you’re not going to buzz me up?”
“Wait. What?” I say, bolting out of bed, raising my blinds, and looking out, even though I know I can’t see the building entrance from my window. “Are you here now?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Just passing by…and I was starting to forget what you look like.”
“That’s not a good sign,” I say, as I start frantically straightening up, throwing clothes in my closet and in the hamper.
“Well, how about this for a sign?” he says. “I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since Sunday afternoon.”
“You have?” I say.
“I have,” he says. “So…you gonna let me up or what?”
I smile and press my buzzer.
* * *
—
A moment later, Grant is standing in my doorway in a navy suit, a light blue dress shirt, and a red striped tie. I had a cute, clever remark all planned, but I forget it the second I see him. He steps forward to hug me, and I fall into his arms. Our height difference makes the embrace a little awkward at first—at least physically—but we make the requisite adjustments. I stand on my toes, clasping my hands around his neck as he bends at his knees, his arms around my waist, both of us inhaling, exhaling. Several thrilling seconds pass before he lets go, straightens, and beams down at me.