“I’ll see what I can do to expand my social circle,” I said, leaning against the doorframe, “but I’m starting to think there’s got to be an element of magic involved somewhere. I’m not saying you and Leo don’t work at your marriage, but you two didn’t work that hard when you first met. You spotted him in that Renaissance Music class of yours, thought he was cute, talked to him. He saw you and thought, ‘Oh, she’s hot and a brainiac to boot. We could have beautiful genius kids together.’ Then he asked you out and you got to know each other. It was a natural thing. It progressed to the next stage without being forced or manipulated. Without strategy. That’s what I want this time.”

Angelique fashioned a few more ringlets and took in my words. “It’s always more work than you think, Ellie. Even in the most compatible of relationships there’s still strategy — on both sides. And things can change between two people in an instant. There are never guarantees.” She shrugged. “But knowing that doesn’t help you much, does it?”

“Nope.” I blew her a kiss. “Thanks for the words of wisdom, though. I appreciate them. But no blind dates. Got it, Angelique?”

“Fine, fine. Have it your way.” She paused. “But if you ever change your mind, there’s this really gorgeous professor of Gaelic studies who — ”

I slammed the bathroom door on my goofy cousin and went in search of her daughter. Lyssa’s conversation might be limited, but at least I didn’t have to defend my pathetically single status to her.

Problem was, I’d totally lied to Angelique. I didn’t require magic. I was willing to work at a halfway-decent relationship until I turned a shade of toxic green. I would’ve even gone on yet another blind date if I thought it’d do any good.

Why?

Because the fringes of desperation danced through my bloodstream every time I met a new man or even spotted one walking down the sidewalk.

Because I’d look into his eyes as we passed each other and ask myself, “Is that My Guy? Could he be The One?”

Because I was so worried True Love would never happen for me that I was willing to expend huge amounts of energy trying to maneuver a compatible match into place.

Because I knew the clock was ticking on finding someone, and soon all the good ones would be taken.

Because I was twenty-six and so lonely. Still.

But my optimism, which I used to think had been my birthright, had faded, or at least gone into deep hiding. And that was my biggest lie to my cousin: The inherent implication that the happily-ever-after thing was really possible.

Truth was, except for an occasional spasm of something resembling hope, I’d stopped believing.


Work resumed a few days later and, as the students struggled to re-assimilate into the school-day structure, the staff was abuzz with post-holiday gossip.

While I checked back in books the high schoolers had checked out over winter break, my friend and colleague, Sarah, leaned against the library desk and appraised me.

“You ought to give The Dragon’s Lair a try,” she told me, raising a dark eyebrow that all but twitched from the possibility of near-future matchmaking. “That’s where my roommate said she went over vacation. And she found herself a new man.”

“You know I’m not a club-hopping type.” I checked in a copy of Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger with the scanner and put it on the to-be-shelved cart.

“Technically, there’s no hopping involved. You just go to that one club, you stay there, scope out guys for a few hours, take down a few phone numbers and go home. It’s really a very simple process, Ellie.”

She smirked, of course, as she said this. I narrowed my eyes at her.

“I’ll go with you,” she volunteered cheerfully. “Liam won’t mind.” She paused. “Well, he won’t know about it.”

I reached for Clarke’s Childhood’s End, grimaced at the novel, which I remembered reading myself in Mrs. Leverson’s English class, and scanned it back in. “One of the things I love about you,” I told Sarah, “is your unabashed ability to lie to your boyfriend for the sake of the greater good.”

She grinned. “So true. Although, technically, it’s not a lie if — ”

“It’s a lie by omission. But it won’t be required of you regardless.”

Her enthusiasm dimmed. “Aw, c’mon. You won’t even consider going? I hear it’s a real fun place.”

The next book I reached for turned out to be Austen’s Persuasion. I rolled my eyes heavenward, even if it wasn’t a sign from Jane. “Okay. I’ll consider it,” I said aloud. “But I refuse to make any promises now.”

“Good enough. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you.” She leaned closer, in full rumor-divulging mode. “Did you hear about Coach Rooney and Frau Weiss?”

I shook my head. The newly divorced ice hockey coach and the spinster German teacher had been making eyes at each other since September, but this wasn’t news.

Sarah lowered her voice. “Caught by the janitor — in flagrante delicto — in the copy room over Christmas break.”

“WHAT?”

She nodded. Then she added sagely, “See. Everyone else is having hot sex, Ellie. Get with the program.”

I almost threw Persuasion at her, but she laughed and ran out of the school library.

The fact that she was right did not please me, which was my only defense for what happened next.

I was sitting on the floor of my one-bedroom apartment a week later, three scented candles lit and my favorite Survivor CD playing, when the phone rang. Mom.

“Diana’s back home.”

“Okay,” I said. All three of us kids lived within forty-five minutes of my parents’ house, so this wasn’t really an occurrence of unusual significance.

“No. Permanently.” My mom’s voice sounded strained. “She left Alex.”

“Oh, God.” Although my sister and I had avoided each other like a viral infection in recent years and were no closer now than we’d been in high school, my heart went out to her. She must’ve felt so down, so depressed, so confused —

“She’s driving me crazy,” Mom said, “and I need your help. You need to do something with her. Take her somewhere and talk some sense into her. She says she wants to meet people.”

“Already?” I sputtered. “How long has she been back at home?”

“Since yesterday. She says she wants to start dating again.”

“She must be in denial, Mom. Or in shock. What happened with Alex?”

“She said they’ve grown apart. That they never belonged together, and now it’s over.” My mother sighed. “Do you think she’s serious?”

“Um, well, I — huh.” I exhaled. How the hell was I supposed to know? But I said, “Has Alex called or stopped by to talk to her? Do you get the sense that he, at least, wants to try to work things out?”

“He called once, but I didn’t hear either side of their conversation. Could you speak to her? Maybe she’ll confide in you.”

This, I decided, was my mother at her most Pollyannaish. But it wasn’t as though I could refuse. “Sure. Is she there now?”

“No. She went to the store to buy shampoo, moisturizer and Ho Hos, I think.” Mom sounded baffled by the combination. “But tomorrow’s Saturday. You don’t have any weekend plans, do you?”

“No,” I said, regretting not only that this was the truth but that I had to admit it.

“Then come by for dinner. Maybe you two can talk or do something together in the evening.”

Di and me. Out on the town. Together.

Those were three phrases that had never been used jointly in over a quarter of a century.

“Yeah, all right,” I told my mother, then I hung up. I lit another candle, raised the volume on my stereo and, since I’d given up heavy drinking, devoured three Twinkies in rapid succession.

For courage.


To better illuminate my adult relationship with my sister, I refer you to one of our typical conversations (along with Jane’s inevitable commentary), which took place about a month before Di and her then-fiancé tied the knot:

“Alex and I are engaged!” Di informed me, sticking her ring in my face and speaking with a degree of liveliness unusual in one so typically bad-tempered.

I confess to staring, somewhat rudely, at the rock. “It’s, um…orange,” I said, noting its similarity in hue to the kitchen wall tiles near my parents’ sink. Their décor could be best described as “circa 1976.”

Di cackled. “It’s sardonyx, you idiot. Mine’s from Uruguay.” She pulled her hand back and shot me an irritated look. “It’s one of the birthstones of August — your birth month, geek. I’m surprised you don’t recognize it.”

My whole life Di had called me a geek, yet she was the one conversant on birthstones. Go figure. But it fit with the latest New-Age incarnation she’d been trying to project and, besides, there was never any point in arguing with her.

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “Well, congratulations. When’s the big day?”

“Next month. And, no, I’m not pregnant,” she said, anticipating my unspoken question. “We just didn’t want to wait and do that long-engagement shit. Don’t worry, though. I already asked Kendra Daschell to be my maid of honor. You remember Stacy’s older sister, right?” Di looked smug. “She’ll be my only attendant.”

I felt a strong pang of something. Hurt, I supposed, both at her choice of attendant and at this offhanded dismissal of me from the wedding party. True, I didn’t want to be in it, not exactly, but, for the millionth time, I wished my sister and I could’ve had that kind of relationship. The kind where we were able to confide our secrets in each other, call each other first when big moments in our lives arose, insist on getting married only with the other by our side for support.