“Men don’t look at you the same once you’re in your thirties,” she adds. Her words are spaced out and I can tell she’s regretting saying anything at all. I suck back the tears that threaten to spill and pick my head up. I’m training as a closer at the firm. I know how to hold my own, but Nate & Caldwell don’t train you to handle little old ladies with big mouths. I need more practice. “But you’ve known that for a while now, haven’t you?”
“Let’s go back to the bar, pretty girl. I want another beer,” Brad says.
“Sure,” I put on my best smile and we excuse ourselves, taking our meager winnings with us. I start heading back to the bar, but Brad steers me outside. The hot air in Las Vegas is in stark contrast to the biting wind chill we experienced at six a.m., back in Boston. There is no wind here in the desert, just this miserable, dry heat. Only the heat and the dust, and the glow of the strip surround us.
I thought I would feel better, less on edge, once we were alone. But I just feel vulnerable, and old, and so very alone. Women who are married, especially the ones who have been married for decades, have this way of forgetting their own struggles being single. Even Lindsay seems to forget how she used to bemoan the dating scene. They don’t understand being a thirty-five year old woman and being alone. How could they?
“You okay, pretty girl?” Brad has his arm around my shoulder, comfortably tucking me into his side. I nod weakly. He sighs.
“Look, you aren’t any of those things that old woman said, okay?” I break out into a pathetic wash of tears at his words. He wraps both of his arms around me and holds me to him, tight. My tears soak his button-up. Petty arguments aside, he is always here for me. I collapse into him, sobbing.
I wanted so much and I thought that if I just worked hard enough, it would come to me. I didn’t account for the 70-hour work weeks or the emotional demand that being a baby lawyer would take on me. At the end of a work week, assuming I take a day off that week, I’m much too exhausted to even consider going out and meeting new people.
I let the weight of the old woman’s words sink in. They hit me to the core. “I thought I’d be married by now,” I sniffle into Brad’s chest. I sound ridiculous and I laugh at myself.
“Me too,” Brad says. “Guess I haven’t found my girl yet.”
“What are you looking for?” I ask, without really thinking about what I expect to hear. This is as personal as we’ve gotten in years. I’m not sure if I’m crossing some kind of boundary line here.
“Birthing hips,” he chuckles. “She’s got to be able to pop me out a baseball team. And Irish, she’s got to be Irish—the fiery spirit and all. Working class, a girl who gets her hands dirty and ain’t gonna worry about no chipped nails. And she’s got to be tough to put up with me and all our kids.” I’m now slightly uncomfortable with the depth of his answer. I expected him to tell me he was looking for a 34D without a gag reflex. How is it possible that after all of these years, he still surprises me? How did I not know that would be his answer? I let myself feel bad for having spent so long putting such a large distance between he and I.
“What are you looking for?” he asks. I hiccup and try to formulate an answer, but he doesn’t give me time. “Let me guess—you want a hot shot lawyer like you. A guy who speaks proper-like and has some fancy title like you got at Harvard.”
Pretty much.
I flush and compose myself. “Sounds pretty good to me,” I say, trying to keep the shame at bay.
I don’t know why I feel so embarrassed by what I want in a man. Maybe it’s because this is Brad. He has a way of making me feel insignificant, less than, not enough; even though that’s the last thing he’d ever want to do.
“I figured,” he says, sounding smug as ever. “You’d never go for a guy like me.” He’s trying to sound hurt, and he’s succeeding. I don’t know where he’s going with this, but it makes me nervous. We’re in unmarked territory here. It’s off-putting.
“That’s not true. I just,” my voice trails off. “I know a guy like you won’t go for a girl like me.” It’s true. I’m too high maintenance as he tells me. I try to shake off the eerie seriousness of the conversation. Brad pulls back, places his hands on my shoulders and looks me up and down.
“You’ll do,” he says as he scans my body and his hands find purchase on my hips. “Nice and wide,” he sizes up my hips.
Wide? What the hell!
I gape at him, much too surprised for my own good. He has me hooked into whatever he is warming up to do or say, just like when we were little. Whatever it is, I’m so screwed.