Say Never Page 2

  “Meg, my queen, an hour ago, you called me in a state of distress rivaling the Balkan Wars, crying to me about how you’re never going to have kids even though the idea of having kids has always made you completely nauseous.”

  “And?”

  He takes a sip of his margarita then sighs. “Look, dearest, I know you don’t believe in coincidences, nor do you suffer from the illusion that Fate is in charge and that we are all helpless little minions being thrown around in whatever direction the Great and Powerful Oz decides to send us. You are the master of your universe. But it occurs to me that you’re being offered a gift. On the very day you were informed that your biological clock has run out of batteries—I’m paraphrasing, naturally—you’ve also been asked to leap head first into substitute motherhood. If caring for your brother’s little cretins—uh, children—isn’t enough to validate your decision not to procreate, I don’t know what would be.”

  I want to protest, but after a moment’s consideration I realize that Damien is absolutely right.

  “You’re right.”

  He gives me a wicked grin. “Say it again. I’m going to record it.”

  I stick out my tongue, then laugh.

  * * *

  Two margaritas and a Corona later, I step into my Upper West Side apartment. I flick on the lights and set my keys on the table next to the door, then wander through the living room toward the kitchen.

  My home is small, but it suits me. The décor is sleek and modern, most of my furniture is from Crate and Barrel, Room and Board and Bloomingdales. I have few personal adornments, save for a framed photograph of my dad, Danny and me on the mantel above my faux-fireplace, and a drum my bother made from a garden hose and a plastic flower pot which sits on my nightstand. I adhere to the principle of ‘a place for everything and everything in its place.’ And if there’s not a ‘place’ for it, it goes in the trash.

  Because I live alone and eat most of my meals standing by the stove, I converted the dining alcove into a work station, with a desk and two filing cabinets on either side.

  I turn my computer on, then head for the fridge where I retrieve a bottle of Evian. As I wait for my computer to boot up, I gaze at my spotless counters and gleaming appliances. For a brief instant, I try to imagine what my apartment—and my life—would look like with a family in it. Fingerprints on my stainless steel Sub-Zero, jelly stains on my Persian rugs, neckties hanging over the chairs.

  Uncontrollable giggle-fits, silly sing-alongs, Sunday morning snuggles.

  I banish these thoughts from my mind and repeat the mantra I read in a self-help magazine: I am happy with my solitary life. I am happy with my solitary life.

  I know I should call Danny, but I’m procrastinating. Once I tell him I’m going to come, the deal is done and I’m committed. And even though Damien is right, and a trip West will likely end my internal conflict regarding my impending sterility, there are other issues to consider. Spending time in Southern California always tends to unleash certain demons that I try to keep leashed at all costs. Which is why I haven’t been back in five years.

  I love my brother, I do. But am I really willing to make this trip?

  I open my internet browser and Google Nanny services Southern California. Danny can’t afford to use an agency but I can.

  In the scant milliseconds it takes for Google to search, I click over to my emails and see a new message from Eileen Buchanan at KTOC.

  KTOC is a popular Los Angeles-based talk radio station. Six months ago, the station manager contacted me about a job possibility. I never responded because I would never consider living in So Cal. I’m still not interested, but I open the new email and read the message anyway.

  Meg-How are you? I hope this email finds you well. Your name came up today during our programming review, and we would love to discuss with you the many innovative and entertaining ideas we brainstormed surrounding a new morning show. We believe that KTOC and Meg Monroe would be a perfect match. I’ll be in New York for the holidays and would love to meet. Or, if by chance you find yourself out west, we could get together for lunch or drinks. Let me know. Best, Eileen. P.S., I loved your segment about the militant organic movement. LOL! That would play really well out here!

  Six months ago, I deleted Buchanan’s email without a thought. But tonight, I don’t. Because a week ago, with the help of Damien and his manipulative thievery, I managed to get a look at WTLC’s payroll. I discovered that my cohost, Barry ‘the Humpinator’ Humphries is making a lot more money than me.

  Originally, it was Barry’s show, then the station decided to perk things up by adding a contrasting personality, meaning someone with half a brain and a pulse. Barry and I have a whole good-cop bad-cop routine (I’ll give you one guess who the bad cop is), which means that Barry coddles the crap out of our guests right before I lambaste them to holy hell.

  Basically, Barry is a weenie, and to prove this, I’ll share with you his original title for our show: When Barry Met Meg. (Excuse me? Did an anvil just drop on your head?) Barry thinks that stories about baby ducks being born on the steps of Carnegie Hall are the height of entertainment. He wears paisley twice a week, misuses words at least once per broadcast, and he makes a habit out of banging new interns before they realize what a dope he is.

  But the worst thing is that Barry has seniority. And that means, he runs the show. He decides what guests we have, has final say on the topics, and always, always, chooses which calls to take. It drives me nuts because all I can do is grit my teeth. I’m lucky to have this gig. But the fact that he makes twice as much as I do is categorically unfair, especially since my verbal zingers are why people tune in.

  When I found out about the discrepancy in our salaries, I wracked my brain, but I couldn’t figure out how to confront my boss without betraying Damien and getting us both fired.

  I read Eileen Buchanan’s email a second time and a slow smile spreads across my face.

  Wouldn’t it be great to confront my boss with an offer from another station? A little leverage might inspire Gordon to give me the salary I deserve.

  Here’s a little secret. I do believe myself to be the master of my own universe. But I’m not too obtuse too recognize when all signs are pointing in a particular direction.

  I reply to Eileen’s email, then send a quick note to my boss requesting my vacation time.

  A moment later, I close the Google nanny search and grab my cell phone.

  “Hey, Danny.” I say. “Find me a flight. I’m coming to So Cal.”

  * * *

  Two

  Meg: It’s the land of brush fires, earthquakes and high speed car chases. Can you name one good thing to come out of Southern California?

  Barry: Yes, I can. Two words. Pamela Anderson.

  Meg: Barry, Pam Anderson is from Canada. One word: Duh.

  * * *

  The plane lurches midair and I grab for the armrests, inadvertently knocking the elbow of the man next to me back into his own lap. I would apologize, but my throat is too tight to form words. I glance down toward the floor of the aisle and notice that the female part of my seatbelt is dangling off the side of the cushion, unfastened and forlorn, and I can feel the outline of its male counterpart beneath my right butt cheek. In other words, should we go down in a fiery ball of twisted metal, there will be nothing to keep me from hurtling through the innards of this 747 like a freaking pinball. And yet, I cannot bring myself to release my white-knuckle grip on the armrests in order to connect the belt.

  “Nothing serious,” the man beside me says. “See? They didn’t even put on the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign.”

  Maybe they didn’t have time, I think. Maybe they would have but the pilot is asleep, or drunk, or taking a leak! Those pilots always take a leak at the worst possible time…

  “Fearful flyer, huh?” the man says casually, making me want to strangle him. He better not sleep a wink on this flight, or he’s toast. “You know it’s the safest form of travel.”

 
; Like I haven’t heard that before.

  The flight attendant approaches with her cart of refreshments, and her calm and placid expression allows me to peel my fingers away from the slick metal of the armrest.

  “You should drink,” my row mate advises.

  I take a breath and turn to look at him for the first time since parking my butt on this seat. He appears to be in his late forties or early fifties, with greyish brown hair, smiling eyes, and a trim, fit physique for a man his age. He wears a thick gold band on his ring finger.

  “Alcohol, that is. I don’t think a ginger ale is going to help you.” He grins wickedly.

  “I intend to drink,” I reply. “Vodka.”

  “Ah, the lady can speak,” he jokes. “I wasn’t sure.”

  Twenty different scathing retorts come to mind, but I can’t give voice to a single one. Because I’m currently sitting in a bazillion-pound airborne sardine can manufactured by the lowest bidder.

  The flight attendant, a perky blonde with an ear-length bob whose nametag reads ‘Sherry,’ is helping the row in front of us. I wish she would hurry. Some of us around here are in desperate need of a cocktail. To keep from running screaming for the emergency exit.

  “I’m not making fun.” In my peripheral vision, I see the man next to me put his hands up apologetically.

  “Right,” I say. “It’s fine. Fear of flying is hilarious.”

  “No, I didn’t mean—”

  “And what can I get for you?” Sherry says, pushing her cart right up against my seat. I have the sudden sensation of being trapped like a caged animal.

  “Stoli. Rocks. Lime. Two, please.” I clear my throat, then clarify. “Two Stolis.”

  “Very good,” she returns brightly, although I suspect she can sense my fear. She gives me a sympathetic smile as I hand over my credit card, then she quickly and efficiently slides my card in her portable swiper.

  “Sapphire, neat,” the man next to me says before Sherry can inquire. She nods, hands him a napkin, then proceeds to make our drinks, setting them carefully onto our fold-out trays alongside the complimentary packages of roasted nuts and chocolate chip cookies.

  I take a long sip of my drink and close my eyes. I start counting slowly to one hundred and do my best to pretend the seat next to mine is empty.

  “So, are you coming or going?”

  I heave a sigh. Some people just can’t take a hint.

  “Coming or going where?” I ask without looking at him.

  “You know. Coming home, or going away.”

  I mull over his question for a minute and feel him shift uncomfortably in his seat, as though he thinks I’m snubbing him. I down the rest of my drink and feel the Stoli slide down to my stomach, leaving a hot, peaceful numbness in its wake.

  “Both,” I answer finally. Coming and going. I’m from Southern Cal originally. But I’ve lived in New York for the last fourteen years.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “The City,” I reply, sniffing significantly. Yes, I am a snob. I know Brooklyn is supposed to be quite desirable nowadays, and Queens is just one stop past midtown on the N and the R, but the island of Manhattan is where it’s at. Period.

  “I live in Flushing,” the man says, and I finally open my eyes and nod at him. Yup, Queens. He has that look. “So, what’s bringing you out to the West Coast?”

  “Family shit,” I say. I realize the first shot of Stoli has rendered me uncharacteristically receptive to airplane repartee. “How about you? Business? Vay-cay? What enticements does Orange County hold for you?”

  “Funny you should say that.” He leans over and whispers conspiratorially in my ear. “I’m having an affair.”

  I shrink away from him, my eyes going wide. He ignores my shock and looks past me across the aisle, to the other side of the plane. “That’s her.”

  I don’t want to look, but as with a car crash, I can’t squelch my morbid curiosity. I turn to see a platinum blond with too much makeup, pointy tits encased in a leather bustier, and enough hairspray to keep Cher happy for a year waving at my row mate and blowing him kisses. She appears to be at least half his age. And likely has about half his I.Q.

  “We thought it would be safer to sit separately.”

  “Oh, yeah, well, she’s very subtle,” I quip. “No one would ever suspect a thing.”

  A mischievous smile spreads across his face. “She just can’t contain herself, the little minx.”

  I feel my gag reflex vibrate as he not-so-covertly blows her a kiss, then motions for her to calm down. I shake my head with disgust, then twist off the cap of my second Stoli. I pour the vodka over what’s left of my ice.

  “I can tell you disapprove,” the man says, sipping at his gin.

  “It’s none of my business,” I reply, then drain the plastic cup in one swallow.

  But, because I’m me, Meg Monroe, she of the big-mouth-for-a-living radio talk show host, I find myself asking, “Why did you even bother getting married in the first place?”

  My row mate sighs so dramatically, it sounds like a soliloquy. “You’re single, aren’t you?”

  I nod my head. I was married once, but it was such a long time ago and it lasted for such a short time, that I almost have myself convinced it never happened.

  “Then you won’t understand.”

  “I understand cheaters,” I say. “They suck, no matter what their excuse happens to be.” I turn in my seat and face him straight on, then regard him as though he’s a guest on my show, defending some lame-ass position that I feel the need to shred apart.

  “You probably live in a thirty-five hundred square-foot house on the border of Forest Hills with an acre of land, a membership to the tennis club, and a wife who hangs on your every word and brings you coffee and your paper in bed every Sunday morning. Even after twenty-five long years of marriage. Am I right? And still, you blame the institution for your affair. Like it’s not you. It’s the being married. When, in fact, it is you.”

  The man looks at me with a combination of horror and disdain. Horror because I’m clearly right about him on every count, and disdain because he hates the fact that I’m right and wants to pretend I’m not. I get this look a lot in my line of work.

  “What are you,” he asks, “some preserve-the-sanctity-of-marriage activist or something?”

  I laugh harshly. “I think anyone who gets married is completely off their rocker. And you, my friend, are proof that I’m one hundred percent right.”

  “You’re not married,” he says stiffly. “You’ll never understand.”

  Boo-freaking-hoo.

  I feel the plane lurch, but hardly flinch this time. Thank you, Stoli. I take a deep breath and push my seat to the reclining position, then close my eyes. Just as the first wisps of sleep begin to shroud my mind, a baby starts to wail a few rows behind me.

  Sweet mother of God!

  I crane my neck and cast my most scathing glare at the young mother in row 26. She looks at me apologetically as she tries to re-position her bleating child.

  “Why do they even allow babies on airplanes?” I ask. And although my question was directed at no one in particular, my row mate responds with a knowing snicker.

  “I’m guessing you don’t have children either,” he says.

  I bite back a scathing comment, then sit forward and scan the cabin for Sherry. She stands in the galley restocking napkins on her cart. When she glances in my direction, I waggle my fingers at her, then hold up one of the empty Stoli bottles. Behind me, the baby goes on hollering as if he’s in a contest for loudest infantile scream, a contest I might have a chance at winning if I don’t get another vodka, and quick.

  Give him a bottle, for Christ’s sake. Preferably with a little booze in it!

  “Babies cry, you know,” the man says. “It’s what they do.”

  “Uh, yeah. And they poop and yak and drool and get into all kinds of shit before they can even walk…and then they learn to talk and they keep growing, and their vocabu
lary grows right along with them, until finally they can say things like ‘I hate you, motherfucker!’ And that’s right about the time they drive your precious Lexus into a chain link fence. But years down the line, when they graduate tops in their class and find a cure for cancer and bring about world peace and finally do you proud, well…” I give a tight smile. “It makes it all worthwhile, right?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. When he doesn’t respond, I say, “Still waiting for your little darlings to make you proud, huh?”

  The baby’s cry has turned hoarse, and it’s like someone has rammed glass shards into my ears. I turn my back on my row mate and stare at my shoes, a beautiful pair of Louboutin boots I got at Sax Fifth Avenue last year. But not even my beloved boots can calm me. I count to ten, slowly, watching with something like reverence as Sherry makes her way toward me, Stoli in hand. The smart girl brought two bottles.

  Five minutes later, with my fourth Stoli spreading through my innards, the man next to me indignantly quiet, and the baby behind me good and plugged up with a pacifier or a bottle or possibly a boob, I fall fast asleep.

  * * *

  Vodka is helpful in enduring a cross-country airplane ride with turbulence and a shrieking infant, however it’s not such a friend when navigating baggage claim and car rental.

  My head pounds as I stand at Carousel Three waiting for my matching Rimowa Upright and Overnighter to appear, both of which I got for a steal at an online weekend blowout sale. One by one, the large metal mouth spits suitcases and duffel bags onto the revolving belt, making me think of how much better I’d feel if I could just vomit. Probably, I should have eaten the complimentary cookies on the flight. Probably I shouldn’t have had that fourth Stoli.

  Probably, I should have stayed in New York.