Page 46 of The Yes Factor

“What are you and Bex up to? I sure do miss that girl. Please give her a big hug from me. Is she still single? I just don’t understand it…” My mom’s voice tails off in genuine confusion.

“It’s complicated, Mom. She’s doing fine. We’re having a great time.”

“I’m so glad you’re not out there having to date. It just seems so confusing these days. Dangerous too! All these horror stories of online dating and those app thingy’s. I saw the most awful story on 60 Minutes of some poor girl who was almost killed on a date. Thank God you have Ethan. How is he, by the way?”

“He’s fine. He’s in Dubai on a trip.”

“Dubai? My goodness. Seems he’s always on the road, but I guess that’s the price to pay for being such a successful lawyer.” I can hear the pride in her voice. For her generation, being married to a lawyer is almost as good as a doctor. “I hope you two can make it back home for Christmas.”

My heart twists. Ethan hates going to my parents’ house. He always wants to stay at a hotel, which my parents would take as a huge insult. The house is small and could probably be admitted to the Smithsonian as a time capsule from 1974, but my mom is still house proud. She keeps the place tidy and does her best. We haven’t been back for Christmas in four years. And I almost got a stomach ulcer from the stress of Ethan complaining behind their backs at every turn.

“I hope so, too, Mom. I gotta go. Give my love to Dad. And tell him to be nice to the squirrels.”

“I love you, my little Lou Lou. Be good.”

“Bye, Mom. Love you, too.”

I’d been mindlessly picking at a scratch on my arm throughout the conversation, or rather nervously, once she started asking about Ethan. Looking at my nails, I realize it’s leftover mud from Sunny Dale. I’d been in so much of a post-spa daze that I hadn’t properly washed it all off when it was time to leave.

I tiptoe out of the bedroom. A light glimmers from under Bex’s closed door as I head to the bathroom. I guess she’s on her laptop. The pipes squeak as I turn on the hot water and watch it fill the tub. I know it’s crazy to be taking a bath after a day at the spa but I don’t care. At least there are no drought restrictions in place. Nightly baths have become a ritual for me back in London. The damp cold still sticks with me, even after all the years over there, and a hot bath is the only remedy. Right now, it’s not the London cold that’s chilling my bones but the icy feeling from my call with Ethan, from the fake-nice text to Clarissa and from lying to my Mom that everything’s fine. I shiver as I step into the tub and crouch down into the warm water. I lean back to rest my head on the cool ceramic of the gleaming white tub and let my body sink into its depths.

I gently scoop water over my arms and the leftover mud swirls away to join a trail of blood. A faint ribbon of red, dissolving in the hot bath water. My period. At least it didn’t come earlier today at the spa, but I’m not exactly relishing the reality of a twelve-hour flight on my period. I should be grateful that I’m still having them. I wonder how much longer I’ll get to “enjoy” it. It’s crazy that I’m worrying about menopause, or God forbid, early menopause. When did my life get so confusing and emotionally turbulent? I’m going through such highs and lows it feels like this should be my first period. Maddie and I could celebrate by getting ice cream together.

My mom’s friend Mona was always complaining about her menopausal hot flashes. She lived two doors down from us and would always be popping over for a cup of sugar or milk. Back before mobile phones and the Internet, it seemed there was always someone knocking at the door. Mona would waltz right on in and sit down at the kitchen table. Mom would usually roll her eyes behind Mona’s back, but I know she secretly loved the impromptu visits. I didn’t know what menopause was; I hadn’t even gotten my first period then, but I remember exactly what Mona said. That it was like “being blasted with a hair dryer in the Sahara Desert, worse than turning on a heater in hell.”

Well, I think, as I sink up to my neck in the warm water, just one more thing to look forward to in life.

Chapter Sixteen

Keep On Keepin’ On

BEX

I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole of popcorn ceiling removal videos on YouTube. There’s something hypnotic about watching what was once bumpy and jagged scraped away to something smooth. They make it look so effortless, but I know the truth of the matter—nothing is ever as easy as it seems.

Today has been sobering…or not. I take a sip of my wine, which I retrieved from the kitchen after Liv and I parted ways. I had no idea that Liv was living in a loveless marriage where infidelity was as convenient as a McDonald’s drive-thru. I hadn’t realized how out of touch with each other Liv and I had become. How hidden the truth can be for everyone. How complacent I really am in my own life.

Lying here in bed, back in my nightgown, staring at the ceiling and sipping my old standby, Trader Joe’s rosé, I indulge in the cloud of melancholy that’s dampened my spirits. Nothing has changed. Not that I thought it would, but a little glimmer of hope did ignite inside of me when Liv told me she was coming here. A small part of me that thought things would be like they were back in the day when we had no worries and the world was completely open to us. No obstacles, no barriers, no baggage. And, I have to admit to myself, there were moments this past week when I did feel like the old Bex and I loved it. I miss the old me. Fearless, driven, and free. But now I’m back to where I started: stuck. And it seems that Liv is feeling the same way. We’re both soaking in a tub of apathy.

I get out of bed to sort through the pile of clothes from when I was trying to figure out an outfit for my millionaire date. God, what a disaster that was. My mouth sours at the thought. I reach for the discarded dress that Liv begged me to wear—a strappy red number that we bought in a consignment store in Buckhead a bazillion years ago. It’s Versace, and at the time it was a total score. Now, it’s too short, and too tight in all the wrong places. I hold it up to my body and look in the mirror, wishing for that lost feeling of youth and opportunity. Things sure have changed.

When I was in my twenties I felt like I couldn’t make a wrong turn, that any mistakes could be easily erased. I didn’t even worry about making mistakes. It seemed there would always be time to find my way. Now, as I’m pushing forty, my choices feel permanent, my mistakes don’t just affect me but also my daughter, and I don’t have time to lose my way on wrong turns. As a result, everything now feels too precarious, too fragile, and so I’m stuck; stuck in the mud of my day-to-day complacency. Of just getting by. Of accepting where I am and not wanting to tip a single domino for fear they all tumble.

I set aside the Versace. Maybe I should take it by Encore Couture and see what I can get for it, I think as I thumb through the stack of mail I brought up with me from the kitchen. Nothing but junk and bills. I could certainly use the extra cash this dress might bring. Tossing the mail aside, I pick up my phone and check my email to see that a rush order has come in for a custom-made piece. With a quick glance at my voicemail, I note there are no messages from anyone. It’s disappointing and boring. Life is as it was, and I’m hearing the whisper of reality getting louder. Maddie comes home next week, my Etsy shop will continue to get orders, and I’ll lie in bed at night alone, watching Outlander, lusting after Jamie while wallowing in my non-dating hibernation, until I pick up my phone and start swiping. And the cycle will repeat…

Oh, Liv. I have to give her credit. She tried. She really did. And I did like her “Yes Factor” philosophy. She was right, I have been self-sabotaging, making excuses, and closing myself off. I should try to stick with the “Yes” motto. If someone seeks me out, I’ll say yes, but I’m done chasing after love. The apps, the swinger parties, the weird yoga, the Hollywood bars—it’s definitely not for me. If I meet someone out in the world and it happens, well, then it happens. Kinda like Devon.

I take this month’s edition of Simple magazine from the mail pile to use as a coaster for my wineglass and pick up my laptop to see if I can find Devon on the Internet. I type in a variety of options—“Devon Antiques Sierra Madre,” “Devon Wood Refinishing,” and a handful of other search words that come to mind. This is ridiculous. The search is fruitless and I know it. He just vanished into thin air. Actually, no, I vanished into thin air.

I rest my head in my hand. I know I can’t keep beating myself up about it, but I can’t help replaying how I dashed off without a goodbye. And then I can’t help but replay his smile or the way his lips felt next to my ear. Or how comfortable I was in his presence. Or the way my insides zinged when his hand touched my leg. God, I really blew it. Maybe we’ll match up on another dating app? Crazier things have happened.

Am I just putting too much stock in the experience? Did I read the situation wrong? Could he be thinking about me like I’m thinking about him? Did he feel the electricity between us that lit me up like the Aurora Borealis? I want to reach my hand down to feel the heat between my thighs, but I’m wallowing in too much regret and it kills the high. But those eyes, that voice.

My phone rings. I can’t seem to get through a Devon daydream without interruption! It’s Patrick, so I answer instantly. There’s no reason why he should be calling me right now.

“Hello?” I pick up with apprehension.

“Hey, B. Sorry to bother you, Maddie said Liv is visiting, so I’m sure you are busy drinking.” Ouch. He knows how to push my buttons. “Anyway, Amber and I are leaving in the morning to pick up Maddie from camp since she’s dealing with these, uh, female issues. And I was wondering—” Patrick was never comfortable talking about anything that had to do with women’s bodies.

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