“Thanks, guys,” I answer. “Sorry to waste your time.”
“Beats watching The Tyra Banks Show,” Paul says.
“You think?” Jake returns. The guys laugh and walk out, and a few minutes later, they’re driving off down the road, lights off, sirens quiet. Fighting feelings of embarrassment, humiliation, mortification and general stupidity, I sigh, turn the lock in the doorknob and close the door behind me.
Chapter Four
WHEN I WAS IN SIXTH GRADE, Elaina and her family moved to Eaton Falls, and if there was ever a bigger chip on a shoulder, I’d never seen it. Fascinated by the attitude, the slight accent and the inch of makeup on her adolescent face, I decided instantly that I must have her as a friend. “Hi,” I’d breathed at recess that first day as she sat on a bench at the edge of the blacktop.
“Whachoo want, townie?” she asked, flipping her hair back in delicious contempt.
“I can do a hundred chin-ups,” I offered.
“So do it,” she instructed, snapping her fingers. I complied, won her admiration and never looked back. All through high school, college, grad school and beyond, Elaina has been there for me and I for her, and she remains the only living creature I ever told about Trevor.
In high school, Elaina asked Mark to our senior prom and the rest was history. They got married four years ago and had Dylan two years later. Elaina was tired and stressed, Mark was strung even more tightly than usual, and things were tense. And how did my brother deal with the pressures of family life? He had a one-night stand. Granted, it’s a move he deeply regrets, which Mark shows in his typical emotionally constipated way—lashing out at those he loves. Suffice it to say, Elaina hasn’t forgiven him, because he hasn’t apologized. And they remain at a ridiculous standoff—separated, divorce pending, loving each other, hating each other, fighting constantly, bitterly mourning what they’ve lost.
“That fucking brother of yours,” she begins one night as we sit in front of my computer screen. I’m filling out an online questionnaire, and Elaina is coaching me on the answers. Buttercup snores gently at our feet.
“What now?” I ask with resignation.
“He says he won’t pay for Dylan’s soccer camp.”
“Dylan’s two, Lainey,” I say, glancing from the computer screen to her. Mark has his son this weekend, so Elaina and I are here, drinking chardonnay and registering me on e.Commitment, a humiliating, degrading and shamefully fun process.
“So? The great ones all start young. Don’t say yes to that one, sweetie. That’s a trick question.” She leans forward to read it aloud. “‘Do you find a variety of men attractive?’ See, they’re trying to see if you’re a party girl, you know? Groupsex kind of thing.”
“Are you sure?” She nods wisely. “Okay. I’ll just put ‘not applicable.’ How’s that? And maybe Dylan should be out of diapers before he starts camp,” I add reasonably.
Elaina sighs. “I know, I’m crazy. I just mentioned it to him, you know, as something Dyllie might do when he’s older, okay? And Mark, he’s all, ‘Don’t you put my son in camp without discussing it with me!’ And I’m right back at him, ‘Don’t you tell me what to do with my son, you miserable cheating bastard!’ And we end up screaming at each other and hanging up. You want another glass of wine? And dog, get your big bony head off this foot, or I’m planting it up your ass.”
“Don’t be mean to my baby,” I chastise. “And yes to the wine.” I stretch, rubbing my lower back, which is cramped from hunching over the keyboard, then bend over to pat my poor maligned dog. “You know, Elaina, a psychiatrist might say something about all that fighting and screaming, you know.”
She does her little head wiggle, something I tried for years to emulate before realizing my Irish genes lacked the Latin disdain required to pull it off. “And what’s that, know-it-all?”
“That you still love him and this kind of fighting is a way of having a passionate relationship, even if it’s not the kind of passion you really want.”
“No shit, Dr. Joy Browne. I’ll get the wine.”
I grin, finish stroking Buttercup’s rough red fur and finish my profile. Profile. Sounds like something the FBI has on me. You fit the profile for the serial killer, Ms. O’Neill. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, of course; lots of people do online dating, let no stone go unturned, blah blah bleeping blah. But still. It’s humbling nonetheless, having to check out a Web site for my mate. I never pictured turning thirty, let alone thirty-one, without having an adoring husband and a couple of kids.
The profile includes a personality section of no fewer than one hundred and six questions, a physical description (fortytwo questions), my ideal date (choose from twenty-three options) and a new e-mail address and user name. I chose GirlNextDoor.
e.Commitment boasts lots of touching—and possibly even true—stories of people meeting their soul mates here. I pause for a second. Maybe—probably not, but maybe—this is how I will find The One. That Trevor’s image instantly leaps to mind is quite irritating. I force him out and stick in another picture. Derek Jeter. Yummy. Well, maybe hoping for the bazillionaire baseball god is a little bit of a stretch. Aragorn, on horseback. Yeah, baby! Okay, okay. That also may be a little unrealistic…hm. The guy at the restaurant the other night. There! Mr. New York Times, sure. Just as appealing as Trevor. Just as attractive. Let’s also assume he’s kind-hearted. And decent. Also, funny. Strong, yet vulnerable. Quiet, yet expressive. Sensitive, yet stoic.
Elaina returns to the tiny study that’s just off the living room. Matt’s working tonight, so we have the house to ourselves. “This house is fantastic, sweetie,” she says, handing me my glass.
“I know. I love it,” I answer. “I’m thinking of painting this room yellow, what do you think?” Elaina has a great flare for colors.
“Perfect. You done filling that thing out?” she asks, tapping a long fingernail against her wineglass.
“Yes. Not that this is going to pan out, Elaina.” Buttercup groans as if agreeing.
“How do you know? It’s better than you mooning—”
“I’m not mooning anyone. Phone’s ringing!” Saved. I snatch up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, Chastity, this is your mother speaking.” Her traditional greeting. “Did you fill out your form?” Mom’s the one who told me e. Commitment was ranked higher than the other dating sites, after her exhaustive, fifteen-minute search on the Web. “Also, I’m taking French. Your father is very jealous, barely speaking to me. Do you want to get our hair colored next week?”
“Hi, Mom.” I grimace and pantomime hanging myself for Elaina’s benefit. “Um, yes, great, no comment, not really. Anything else?”
“Honey! So? Do you have any hits? Your father went through the roof when I told him about this. He said some whack job would strangle me in under a week if this is how I go about dating.”
“What a sweet thought. I just finished filling out the form, Mom. Elaina’s here. We’re having—”
“So? Check your e-mail! Maybe you have someone already!”
I cover the mouthpiece with my thumb. “She’s on amphetamines, it seems. You talk to her.”
“Hi, Mamí,” Elaina says, winning ten thousand brownie points for calling her mother-in-law that particular moniker. Elaina is revered by my mother—Elaina’s quirks being found simply charming while those of her own offspring are cause for torment and dismay. They chat merrily, laughing away. Dutifully, I check my e-mail, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a message! Holy crap!
“I