Ever

My mother is wearing sweatpants. Not the cute kind, either. These are End-of-Times sweatpants. They are stained and loose and covered in lint. The kind you don’t wear unless it’s laundry day and there’s no chance of human interaction. Not even with the mailman or the food delivery guy. My mother is rocking them hard, paired with gold-studded Chanel flats. Today marks the first time in my life I’ve felt overdressed around my mother, and I’m wearing jean shorts.

I haven’t seen Charlie since Saturday. This morning, while sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park—a pit stop I made on the way back from buying ingredients for brie cheese and mushroom crepes—I considered texting Charlie. I was anxious after how he’d opened up to me about his mother. Maybe it was a mistake to drop him so hard when he was clearly having a difficult moment. Sure, I’d been having a tough one, too, but that didn’t stem the flow of guilt.

Recognizing the fact that I was about to cave, I’d dropped the bags of ingredients off at the apartment, left Nina a note that I would be back soon and took the train to Columbus Circle. My mother owns a two-bedroom condo in a high-rise—not quite a park view, but still swank—and close enough to the Garment District where she works. I needed to remind myself why broadening my horizons was so important. My mother’s initial visit had shaken me up in the first place, so here I am again.

Drinking grape Fanta and eating Chinese take-out on a dinner tray. I’m not fancy by any stretch, but the last time I visited my mother, we’d been served by a maid. Coupled with the sweatpants, I’m wondering if her epiphany has led to a full-on lifestyle makeover. Her energy is almost relaxed, compared to the nonstop hummingbird movements I associated with her for so long.

“So have you met anyone yet?”

Yeah. A stubborn, gorgeous, anticommitment police academy recruit who talks to me with his heart in his eyes, but will never, ever, hand it over. “Uh, no one special just yet.” Her shoulders deflate, so I rush to add, “I met some nice boys in sunglasses while speed dating. And I’m seeing a fire academy recruit on Friday night.”

“Oh.” She perks up. “Firemen don’t make great money, but we all have to start somewhere.” She salutes me with grape soda. “Consider it practice.”

“Practice.” I nod, unable to think of a better response. “Okay.”

I confirmed my plans with Reve last night through the dating site. He only gave a short response to my knock-knock joke, so I’d almost been nervous to try again. But when he’d cited a heavy work schedule and assured me he’d be at our date, I decided not to take his abruptness personally. Some time had passed since we’d arranged the date, so maybe the magic was dwindling without any actual face-to-face interaction? I wasn’t sure, but all the mysteries would be solved on Friday night.

The silence stretches between my mother and I. All I can hear are the bubbles popping and fizzing in my soda. Out in the hallway, I hear an apartment door slam and musical laughter as neighbors pass her condo. She shoots me a glance from beneath naked eyelashes, and I scold myself for not visiting sooner. Coming home to an empty apartment and hearing lives being lived on every side of her must be awful. Especially in light of her realization that flying solo isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I set down my drink because my arm simply can’t support it anymore. “Mother, I know it’s hard learning to live without the three rules, but you don’t have to sit here alone. You can go out and make friends. Or even meet someone who’s single—”

Her scoff cuts me off. “And what would I tell them? I’ve spent the last twenty-odd years carrying on with various married men?” She gives me a pointed look, but it’s laced with sadness. “I doubt people will be very receptive.”

“You won’t know until you try.”

“Maybe it’s not even about my past,” she blurts. “I don’t . . . really know how to talk to anyone. All my life, most of my conversations outside of work revolved around sex. Where to meet. How to be discreet. And don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed some of it, even if I have regrets now.” Her laugh is watery. “I wouldn’t know where to start if I walked into a bar or met someone for dinner.” She sighs. “I’d probably ask my date to wear a wedding ring for old time’s sake.”

Even though I’m shaking my head, we both laugh and something melts inside me. I’ve been waiting for this warmth for a really long time and it doesn’t disappoint, rolling over me like a honey glaze. “When I went speed dating, I chugged a glass of wine, I was so nervous. And you know what, it was awful. I didn’t even make it through to the end.”

My mother sits forward. “But you’re so . . . industrious. Brave. Out on your own and running your own company.” She shakes her head. “I might have climbed the corporate ladder, but creating something uniquely mine? I never had it in me to do that.”

“Yes, you did,” I rush to say through the overwhelming shock of having her pride bestowed on me. “When I think I can’t handle a situation, I just ask myself what you would do. And the answer is always, kick ass and take names.”

There’s a sheen in her eyes. “Really?”

“Yes.”

My open adulation has caused her to retreat into herself, becoming more recognizable as my aloof mother, nudging aside the earnest woman I saw breaking through. For now. Never expecting us to make any progress, though, I’m . . . content. I don’t need to push for another Hallmark moment just yet. Maybe it’s just enough to know there is potential for more. “How about this? You go out and give the over-forties single scene a try and . . . I’ll go out tonight and try, too. With twenty-somethings, obviously. Bumping into you might be awkward.” That earns me a laugh. “We don’t have to tell one another how it went. Or what happened. It’ll be kind of like a mistress honor system.”

She snorts, then covers her nose, as if she can’t believe that sound emerged. “I don’t know . . .”

“Wear that green dress. The loose one with pockets you wore that time we met for dinner in Chelsea.” I snap a wonton in half and pop it into my mouth. “You look smoking hot in it, but also approachable.”

“Leave fashion to the expert, daughter.” Her expression is stern, but she softens it with a wink. “Fine. What’s the worst that could happen, right? I just end up back here watching The Dog Whisperer.”

“That’s the spirit, Mother.”

She collects my glass, traipsing off to the kitchen, and I know that’s my signal to leave, but I can’t help but smile at her retreating back. I don’t feel so alone anymore, heading out into the sea of faces, pulses and personalities. Dating. I expected to come to visit my mother this afternoon and be jolted into a renewed determination by her loneliness. But it’s more than that. For the first time, I can see my future self in my mother, and I want to be the brave person she believes me to be. Maybe the trick is to start believing it myself.

On the walk to the train, I hit speed dial on Nina’s number. “Hey, you.” She grumbles at me on the other end of the line. “If you’re still sleeping and it’s past noon, this girl’s night is even more vital than I thought.”

“Girl’s night?”

“Yeah.” I smile and pick up the pace, refusing—refusing—to think of Charlie. Or miss him. Not even a smidgen. “You have seven hours to get ready. Think you can manage it?”

I can almost see her chewing on her lip. “It’s a Tuesday night. Is there even anything going on?”

“Did you forget your zip code?” I see the steps up ahead and move into a trot, noticing passengers disembarking, meaning a train in the station. “I’ll be home within the hour. Shower up. We’ll go get pedicures and do pregame drinks at Lorelei.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Nina asks with a smile in her voice.

“I don’t know.” I swallow the lump that’s been living in my throat since Charlie walked out of the apartment, taking a picture of me along with him. “Hope.”

“I can’t even handle you this corny.”

My laugh echoes down the train station stairwell. “Shut up and get your ass in the shower.”

There is a stride I hit around eleven o’clock on a night out. Not dissimilar to the one glass of wine high. Or the post-tequila shot euphoria. Once eleven o’clock comes and goes, I can taste the following day—it’s only an hour away—and there’s no turning back. Might as well stay out all damn night.

My quest for the ultimate night is particularly rewarding this time around because Nina is on the same page. We’re right on one another’s level, finishing each other’s sentences, ordering rounds of vodka tonics without confirming if the other wants more. It’s a given. It’s one of those nights.

Our outfits are freaking amazing, too. In fact, the more we drink, the better we look. Nina is wearing a fringed and beaded vest she found at a local consignment shop, paired with leather leggings. When she walked out of her bedroom earlier, we had to take a moment, she looked so dope. I’ve gone more of a traditionally trashy route in red pumps, red lipstick and a black shift dress that hits me midthigh. Okay, high-thigh. The more I drink, the higher the hem seems to look.

This is a great night. The greatest.

Where are we?

Oh. Some DJ Nina swears is world-famous tweeted he was doing a surprise set at Webster Hall, so we’re half jogging, half stumbling arm in arm in that direction. We’re one block away, and it appears we’re not the only ones who fielded the tweet. Oh no. There’s police trying to corral everyone onto the sidewalk as Nina and I hop into line. It’s already moving and we high five, miss and connect on the second try.

“Is my makeup smeared?”

Nina squints at me through one eye. “Yeah, a little, but it looks on purpose.”

“Nice.” A policeman approaches, ordering us to move closer to the building. He looks thrilled beyond words to be herding a throng of twenty-somethings on short notice on a Tuesday night. “Hello, Officer.” In my current state of loving the world in general, I smile and give him a thumbs-up. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Thanks,” comes his dry response. “My night is complete.”

“I used to date a cop.” These moments come part and parcel with post-eleven o’clock nights out, especially when you’ve been pregaming since seven. I’m rambling, I know I’m being that drunk girl, but the words won’t stay inside. I was the happiest I’ve ever been one minute ago, now one little reminder of Charlie and I’m swallowing rocks. “Only we weren’t really dating. And he isn’t a cop yet. So I guess none of the things I said are true.” Nina is a good friend, so she’s pulling on my arm, begging me to shut up. “His name is Charlie Burns. Good old Charlie freaking Burns.”

The cop is very interested in us all of a sudden. “No shit?” He looks like a cat who caught the canary. “Yo, Burns!”

I go very still, my pulse jackhammering in my skull. “Charlie is here?”

“Next best thing,” Canary Catcher answers, shrugging, just as another cop approaches. And holy hell. It’s like looking right at Charlie. If he aged half a decade, grew a lot more hostile and hated everything in sight. My gaze dips to his badge. Burns. This is Charlie’s brother. I don’t even know his first name. I should. I should know the name of the brother of the man I miss like crazy. Right? “This girl here says she dated Charlie.” Canary Catcher again. “Only they didn’t really date. It’s a long story, I’m guessing. Aren’t you glad you came down to help us grunts out tonight?” He claps Charlie’s brother on the back and walks away. “Have fun.”

Elder Burns tries to burn a hole through me with his laser-like focus. “You dated my brother?”

The way he asks, you would think I was being questioned about stolen jewels. “Should I call a lawyer?”

He doesn’t like my sarcasm. “When did you date my brother?”

“We didn’t technically date.” I look to Nina for help, but she’s staring ahead at something in line, leaving me out to dry. “But the last time I saw him was a few days ago.” I swallow hard. “Is he . . . doing all right?”

A long pause. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I-I don’t know.” I sound so pathetically sad. My buzz is flatlining. I need to get away from Elder Burns and circle back to the drawing board of getting over Charlie. Running into his brother has set me back a good hundred years. Or that’s how it feels right now with vodka humming in my blood. “If you see him, just . . . tell him I’ve been using the notecard tree he gave me. It’s really handy.”

If I ever form a band, I’m going to name it Drunk Masochist.

“This is my brother, Charlie Burns, we’re talking about.” Was that a question? I have no idea. “You dated, but not really, up until a few days ago. He gave you a gift. And now you’re not seeing him anymore.”

“You’re making it sound like I’m at fault here.”

He gives this annoying neck tweak. “Are you?” When my mouth drops open, he holds up a hand. “Not involved. I’m not getting involved.” His cheek ticks. “It’s just the timing . . .”

Nina grabs my hand and pulls me forward, along with the line, which is moving again and growing rowdier by the second. Elder Burns frowns at me as I walk away. I assume the conversation is over, but he curses and breaks into a stride to catch up.

“Listen, this isn’t a good scene,” he barks at me over the surrounding laughter and screams. “Why don’t you head on home . . . ?”

“Ever. And we’ll be fine . . . ?”

He sighs, like I just asked him for a loan. “Greer.”

I pat his arm. “Good night and good luck, Greer.”

We turn the corner into the venue and it’s so loud, my molars clamp down. People are pushing their way through the narrow staircase into the downstairs performance space, harried personnel trying to guide the crowd. Once we get downstairs, though, everyone spreads out as much as possible, the music kicking off almost immediately. Nina takes off her shoes and shoves them into her purse, then leads me out to the dance floor. I’m still replaying the conversation with Charlie’s brother, reveling in how he’d sounded so amazed that Charlie had dated someone, let alone bought them a gift. Maybe I was a little special to him, even if he never said it out loud.

I push aside the useless, leading thoughts with massive determination.

There are boys everywhere. They’re a little too hipster for my taste, but I promised myself I would try. I promised my mother. So when a pair of bearded bros move into our circle and start dancing with us, I don’t excuse myself to use the bathroom or head to the bar, like I would do normally to avoid any kind of meaningful interaction. I throw my hands up in the air, close my eyes and let myself have fun. Even if there’s a significant part of myself that never really allows it. A part that keeps dragging me back to the boy with blue eyes who told me he could do better as a friend, if I let him. The boy who kissed me in the park like our lives depended on it.

Half an hour has passed when a prickle blows across my shoulders. I stop dancing to scan the crowd. Am I crazy . . . or do I feel Charlie here? No. I just spoke to his brother outside, which has to account for this odd premonition. Someone takes my hand—one of the guys we’ve been dancing with—and I jerk it away. I’ve been maintaining a careful distance from everyone of the opposite sex, dancing but not touching, and I command myself to stop holding back. Stop. But the feeling of being watched won’t go away.

I’m distracted when Nina gets way too close to her dance partner. Hands on the booty close. Which is nothing like Nina. This is newly single Nina, yes, but it’s out of character for her, making me worry. Her motives become clear a moment later when I see her ex-boyfriend dancing with another girl about twenty heads away, his thunderous gaze steady on Nina.

“Hey,” I lean in and shout so Nina can hear me. “I see what you’re doing there, friend-o. I have the full scope of the situ-sitch-situation.” Okay, maybe I didn’t sober completely. “Do you want to leave?”

“Leave?” She gives me a full, over the shoulder eyebrow raise. “I’m having fun, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” I am enjoying the music and the guy I’m dancing with is funny enough, in a watered-down Paul Rudd kind of way. So, yes. Yes, this is what people equate to a good time. Plus tonight is Nina’s first night out since the breakup, and I owe it to her to hang out as long as possible. “Okay, let me know if you change your mind.”

She doesn’t answer, and my dance partner catches my wrist, spinning me. Once again I encounter the tingle on the back of my neck, but command myself to ignore it.