ten

Ben calls me twice that night.

The first is when I am still at the pet store, gazing at those goldfish and wondering who the hell thinks that fish make good pets. Then he calls again just after I've returned to Jess's apartment, showered, and dumped two manuscripts and a sharpened red pencil onto the kitchen table. Both times, I feel too sad and queasy to answer. I never fancied myself irreplaceable. I mean, our divorce is proof that I am totally replaceable. But I really didn't think Ben would be out there so soon, meeting women already, as if he is up against some male biological clock. And whether Tucker is just a friend or his actual girlfriend or someone he's sleeping with or someone he aspires to sleep with or his second wife or the mother of his future children isn't the point. Tucker actually is entirely beside the point.

The point is-Ben is moving on and I am not. Instead, I'm trekking up to his apartment with some half-baked inquiry about a purported fear. A total, transparent, pathetic excuse. The kind of thing I would rip Jess apart for. All of this not only confirms that I'm taking the divorce harder than he is, but now I also know that Ben knows that I am taking the divorce harder than he is. And this part probably sucks the most.

I try to concentrate on my work, but my mind keeps returning to Tucker. I remember Ben's introduction and say her name aloud: "Tucker Jansen." Then, against my better judgment, I slowly get up from the table and make my way to Jess's computer, set up in a corner of her bedroom. My heart is pounding as I log on to Google and prepare to do a search of my ex-husband's new friend. I put Tucker Jansen in quotes, just as Jess taught me to do. Jess is a masterful cyberspace stalker. She has found numerous ex-boyfriends online. Wedding gift registries on theknot.com are her bread and butter. She pores over the selections, recruiting me to help rip on her ex's fiancee's taste. ("Have you ever seen such a hideous china pattern?") She has also found houses on domania.com ("Jack's doing well-he just bought a five-bedroom chateau in Greenwich.") and baby registries on Amazon.com ("Brad's wife is due on April fifth-they don't know the gender because they only registered for yellow things.").

But my favorite of her hits was when she found one ex on an obscure cooking Web site. She read details about his upcoming dinner party for twelve, which happened to be planned on her birthday, shortly after their breakup. It just added insult to injury to read his chipper online chat about how to make venison taste less gamey with a milk marinade. Of course she couldn't resist posting an anonymous response: "Who the hell serves venison at a dinner party? And if you want it to be less gamey, skip the milk marinade and just go with steak."

I hesitate for a moment, worried about what I will find on Tucker. Then I close my eyes and hit return. I am beyond relieved when I open my eyes and discover that Ben's new friend does not exist on the Internet. Clearly she is too young to have accomplished much of anything. To reinforce the point, I do a search of myself. I feel an enormous sense of satisfaction when my name retrieves four hundred and thirty hits, including articles in Publishers Weekly, mentions on author Web sites, and quotes from various conferences and speaking engagements. I scan some of the articles and start to feel the tiniest bit better. Tucker needs a baby to give her life some meaning. I do not.

I log off and return to the kitchen table, determined to get some work done. I tell myself not to listen to Ben's messages. It was bad enough that I Googled his (girl)friend. But after twenty minutes of rereading the same paragraph, I cave and dial my voice mail. In his first message Ben is all business. He simply says, "Claudia. It's Ben. Please call me when you get this."

In his second message, he says virtually the same thing, word for word, but then he pauses for several seconds and says, "It was great to see you… It really was."

His really is so sincere and has something of a desperate edge-an edge you could only detect if you know someone well. I listen to the message again and can't stop myself from dialing his cell even though I know he could be reunited with Tucker by now. I figure I've already blown my pride for the day. Besides, he asked me to call him. Blowing him off might appear more pathetic. Like I'm too wounded or angry to talk.

Ben answers on the fourth ring, and before I can say hello, he says my name, sweetly and softly: Claudia. I shiver, but quickly tell myself not to get sentimental. There is no point.

"Hi, Ben," I say, careful to keep my voice even. "Look. I'm really sorry to drop in on you like that. I didn't mean to interrupt…"

"You didn't interrupt anything," he says quickly.

I laugh, as if to say, I sure did interrupt something.

"Tucker's just a friend," he says.

"Uh-huh," I say.

"It's not like that," he says. "We just went for a run. It was nothing."

"Whatever. It's none of my business," I say a little too emphatically. I don't want to come across as bitter. The last thing I want to be is bitter.

"It's not like that," he says again. "Truly. It's not."

"Okay," I say.

After a long pause, he says, "So. Was something on your mind when you came by?"

"No. I was just in the neighborhood… and I thought I'd say hello."

"Claudia. C'mon."

"What?"

"Talk to me," he says, his voice a near whisper.

My heart is pounding in my ears, and I can't get any words out. Not that I know what to say anyway.

"Are you okay?" he says.

"Yeah. I'm fine," I lie. "I just… I don't know."

"Say it," he says. "Tell me."

"I don't know… I guess I was just wondering if we did the right thing?"

He says, "Sometimes I really don't know… I miss you so much."

I want to tell him that I miss him, too, but instead I deflect with a laugh and say, "Yeah. This whole divorce business ain't easy."

We're both quiet for something close to a full minute and then he says, "You want to come over? Watch a movie or something?"

I feel goose bumps rise on my arms and legs but shoot back, "I don't think that would be a very good idea…"

I know I am right, but I still hate myself for saying it. I want nothing more than to go back to my old apartment, sit with Ben on the couch, and watch a movie. At this moment, I miss our friendship more than anything else.

Part of me hopes he'll talk me into it, but he just says, "You're probably right."

"Yeah," I say.

"Okay," he says.

"Well. I better go," I say, my eyes filling with tears.

"Okay. Good-bye, Claudia," he says softly. "Be well."

"You, too," I say, feeling unbelievably empty inside. I can't ever remember feeling this lonesome. As I hang up, I tell myself to memorize the ache in my chest just in case I ever get any more bright ideas to get in touch with Ben. I don't want to be reminded of what I no longer have.


Jess returns the following morning from her red-eye flight, bursting into my bedroom. The best way to describe her is giddy.

"I'm so glad you're awake!" she says, running and jumping on the foot of my bed.

"What's up?" I say, just as Tucker's vivid features come into sharp focus. "How was your trip?"

Jess sings, "Trey's leaving his wife!"

"That's great!" I say, my voice sounding stilted. It's hard for me to muster up a lot of enthusiasm around the subject of divorce.

"He's telling her this week," she says. "She's going on her annual girls' trip to the beach this Friday-and he's going to tell her right before she leaves."

How thoughtful, I think. The girls will have something to talk about now. But I say, "And then what?"

"What do you mean 'then what'?" she says. I know she is hungry for my approval in the way that all single women need the approval of their best friends. In the way that I now need her approval.

"I mean-what are the logistics? Is he moving to New York?"

"We haven't talked about that yet," she says.

"Oh," I say, and then worry that I'm probably not sounding jubilant enough. The last thing I want to do is rain on Jess's parade when every single one of her parades over the past decade-plus has been rained out. Besides, nothing I say is going to change what she does so I might as well be supportive. Sometimes you just need someone to be happy-or sad-along with you. Still, I can't help having a very bad feeling about Trey. Except in a few, very rare circumstances, I am a firm believer in the saying, Once a cheater, always a cheater.

I know Jess can sense my skepticism because she says, "You don't like him, do you?"

"I don't know him," I say quickly. "I just… I don't know…"

"Say it," she says.

I hesitate and then say, "Do you think you could ever really trust him?"

"We're totally in love," Jess says, which doesn't really address my question. You can love someone you mistrust. "He's my soul mate."

My legs feel weak just hearing the words soul mate, words I once used to describe my relationship with Ben. There is no better feeling in the world than believing you have found your soul mate. It's utter euphoria. Which is sort of the exact opposite of how I feel right now.

"I'm happy for you, Jess," I say. "I really hope things work out."

She grins and then disappears, returning with her digital camera. "I took photos of him. Just so you could see him," she says, clicking through highlights of their tryst at the Four Seasons. There is one picture of Trey holding a towel loosely at his waist. He has a six-pack, maybe even an eight-pack, complete with those ledgelike indentations where ripped stomach dips into pelvis territory.