I Know a Thing

I was a friend to both of them, which is why it pained me so much when I had to tell Van that Brie was cheating. I was close with each of them, hanging out in the laundry room with him and offering advice on how to get the whites even whiter, because I know a thing or six about doing laundry. Or meeting up with her at the farmer’s market down in Santa Monica and telling her which stalls give you a little extra if you act cute. 

I know a thing or eight about acting cute. Trust me.

When I first realized I had to tell Van that Brie was taking liberties, I had many a long talk with myself. I stood in the bathroom and practiced the way I’d say the words. I looked in the mirror as I rehearsed, making my eyes wide and sad. I was going to explain to him that I had told myself sternly to keep my business to my business. 

I am nothing if not discreet when it comes to matters of the heart. I know a thing or 12 about matters of the heart.

But, I’d say, it was obvious that she was two-stepping. I could see for myself when her love for him began to fade and she started putting out the open sign, if you know what I mean. At least, that’s how I put it to him.

Van wasn’t a guy to take for granted. Tall, blond, built like a quarterback. And he had played in college. He was a hard-worker, never flinching if a neighbor asked for help changing a flat tire, or maybe when a neighbor was short a buck or three, or even if a neighbor couldn’t find their cat and needed to be walked around in the night for safety, looking down every alleyway, calling out “Ginger, ginger…” perhaps stumbling a little. Yeah, Van was a guy who would catch you next to the jasmine bushes.

And I know a thing or twenty about falling.

Their apartment was up four floors from mine, but theirs was a corner spot, a choice location. They had balconies from sliding glass doors in the bedroom and the living room, and a view of the ocean. My apartment had only one balcony, and while you could hear the waves, you couldn’t see them.

We met in the lobby one day. Brie was lacing up her roller-blades, and Van had his running shoes on. I was coming in from a swim, wearing my favorite bikini. It’s the color of a Creamsicle, that pure perfect orange, and it complemented my tan. My hair was wet, and I might have gotten some droplets on Brie when I turned my head too fast. She didn’t laugh, but Van did, and he shot me his winning smile, and I licked my lips and arched a little, and offered to whip them up some margaritas as an apology if they wanted to join me later.

I also made sure to tilt my head at Brie. To give her a once-over that she could feel. That way she wouldn’t think I was putting the makes on her man. I’ve learned that straight chicks don’t mind a little appreciation from a femme. It makes them think they have options.

They invited me to their place instead that evening—since it was nicer. Nobody called it that. But it was obvious. They said to bring the blender, and they’d provide the salt and the glasses, and that’s how we started our friendship.

You wouldn’t have believed their apartment. I’d always been satisfied with my own, even if it was only a little studio with a few herbs on the windowsill and a little deck chair on the tiny patio. But they had the type of furnishings I’d dreamed about. Take your shoes off at the door because of the expensive carpets. Pure white sofa that felt like a cloud to sit on. Glass coffee table polished to gleaming. Lillies in vases everywhere. The windows were open on both sides, and the gauzy curtains billowed as if we were in an 80s music video.

I’d learned from Joseph, the super, that she was a yoga instructor and he practiced sports medicine, and they were into a healthy lifestyle. I’m close with Joe. You’ve got to be if you want to get anything done. I’ve always understood the ins and outs of institutions. In an office setting, befriend the head of HR. Bring her a pink donut with sprinkles every Friday. Remember her birthday. In a restaurant, always be ready to take on someone’s shift.

The super and I were on grand terms, because I was hoping to move into a nicer pad at some point. So I would bring him lasagna so good he said it tasted like his grandmother’s, and I made sure to let him see me sunning in my bathing suit.

He couldn’t tell me fast enough what he knew about Brie and Van. Together nine years. Family money. Organic produce delivered.

In their apartment, I told them that health was my mantra. “Health” is like “natural,” right? It’s not a legally defined adjective. What’s healthy to one person might be less so to another. I licked the salt off my rim. Brie had hers without.

We got along famously. I’m sort of a chameleon. I find that I can blend into any clique. In school, I had friends who were serious athletes, six on the marching band, one in the chess club, three who hung out behind the gym. 

I took rollerblading lessons for a few weeks and practiced for hours, so that I could go with Brie on rides. We went to Pilates together. We got massages. I spent a lot of time in her apartment, listening to her tell me about her work life and her family. I’m a good listener. In fact, I listen better than almost anyone I know.

What I’ve learned is that if you give people some room, they will talk about themselves endlessly. People love to share their personal experiences. And the more you listen, the more they think you like them. But more importantly—the more they like you.

Sometimes we hung out as a threesome, without it being a menage, or anything. Although every so often, I felt a heat… And sometimes, it was just me and him. I’d come over with a jar I told him I couldn’t open. Or I’d ask for a jump start for my car. Brie and I were girly girls. With Van, I was something different. I was what he needed me to be.

That’s my #1 skill. I know a thing or five about being what someone needs.

I could tell he was lonely. You couldn’t fault him for that. He was on his own a lot. New to the area. Didn’t know a lot of people. He liked hanging out with me. I told him I was a masseuse, and sometimes I would rub his shoulders. I told him I’d been a personal chef, and I would bring over homemade meals. (They were homemade by the same person who made the lasagna. Stouffer's. But I heated them up and added a little chervil.)

At some point, I recognized there was a buzz in the air, a hum and a beat, a sensation you could hear if you closed your eyes. I know a thing or two about buzzes. Simultaneously, I saw a change in Brie. I saw the way she seemed to be pulling back. From just me or from me and Van?

Then I started to understand.

Anyone could see. She was putting more attention into her appearance, which is a sign, you know? She was adding highlights to her hair, and starting to wear high heels more often, and starting to hang out with me less.

So when she was out one evening, I went to him, because it was the right thing to do. I went to him for a man-to-man, or in this case woman-to-man type of chat, and I said I know you don’t want to know. Nobody ever wants to hear it. And I told him everything.

He took the information like a man. He listened stoically. He nodded, and then he said he needed some time. I was okay with that. I know a lot about entertaining myself by myself. 

I’ve had plenty of experience with heartbreak. Everybody handles it differently in some ways, but the same in others. There are only so many options when you discover your mate has fallen out of love.

I wasn’t surprised when I saw her bringing the boxes to a moving truck the next weekend. I had been pretty sure my revelation would do the trick. Only later that night I saw the note slipped under the transom. It was to me from both of them. You wouldn’t believe it. Their note accused me of going after Van! Saying he didn’t believe for a minute Brie would cheat on him, and that I’d made the building toxic to them. They didn’t even believe I have a cat! (I totally would. I love cats. I'm just allergic.)

They were moving, no forwarding address, if I tried to track them down, I’d hear from their lawyers. Restraining order was mentioned. But hey, I know a thing or twelve about restraining orders.

I mixed up my best margaritas and brought the pitcher to the manager’s office. Joe’s always liked me. He’d promised I’d get the next apartment with a view. I only had to wait until someone moved out. 

But the truth is, the one thing I don’t know about is how to wait.