They wrapped up for the night, and felt closer to each other for the admissions they'd made, she about her mistake in getting involved with Chandler, and he about Steven having HIV. It had lightened some of the burden for him, as well as for her. And when Paris got home, she called Meg. And much to her mother's chagrin, Meg was in tears.
“What happened? Did you and Anthony have a fight?”
“I guess you could call it that. I found out that he's seeing some other girl. She's not even a girl. She's a woman. She's some big producer, and he's been sleeping with her for weeks.” His ambition had gotten him in the end. Another one with no integrity. But in his case, Paris wasn't surprised, nor was Meg. She had known who and what he was. She just hoped he would hang around for a while. He had lasted about as long as Chandler—six weeks.
“I'm sorry, sweetheart. Chandler is out of the picture too.” And then she had an idea. “Do you want to come home this weekend?” Her furniture had arrived the month before, and it felt like home to her now. The house was looking great.
“What happened with Chandler?” Meg asked as she blew her nose.
“Same idea. I didn't ask if we were exclusive. I didn't know I was supposed to.”
“That happened to me in college,” Meg said wisely. “You always have to ask.”
“How come no one ever told me?”
“You didn't need to know. Now you do. Next time, ask. And if they say no, hit the door. In fact, make it a deal breaker going in.”
“Will you negotiate my next contract for me?” Paris teased her.
“Sure.” And then Meg sighed. “Doesn't this just suck? I wonder if I'm ever going to meet anyone decent. Probably not down here.” She sounded discouraged, even at twenty-four. That wasn't good news to Paris. She was turning forty-seven in May.
“They don't seem to be much better here.”
“Or anywhere else. My friends in New York meet the same guys. They're all players or liars, or commitment phobics. And when you meet a really nice guy, he tells you he's gay. I give up.”
“Not at your age. The right one will come along, for you, if not for me. I'm not sure I care. I'm too old.”
“Don't be stupid, Mom. You're still young. And you look great. Maybe I will come home this weekend. I'm depressed.”
“Me too. We can sit in bed and eat ice cream together, and watch TV.”
“I can't wait.”
Paris picked her up at the airport on Friday night, and she didn't have to work all weekend. They did exactly what they said they were going to do. They sat in bed and hugged each other, and watched old movies on TV. Neither of them got dressed or combed their hair, or put on makeup, and they loved it, and Wim came over for lunch on Sunday, and looked startled when he saw them both. Fortunately, he had come alone.
“Are you two sick?” he asked, surprised. “You look like shit,” he told his sister.
“I know,” she said, grinning at him. She had had a great weekend hanging out with their mother.
“We had a mental health weekend,” Paris explained.
“What's that?”
“We watched old movies and cried and stayed in bed, and bashed boys. My boyfriend cheated on me.” Meg gave him the details.
“That's a bummer,” he said sympathetically.
“What about you?” Meg asked, as Paris handed each of them a cup of soup, and sat down on the couch. She loved being with them. “Are you going out with any cute girls?”
“Dozens of them,” he said proudly. “We had a contest in the dorm, to see how many of them we could each get. I had twelve in two weeks,” he said, looking innocent, and his sister looked like she was going to throw something at him.
“You are a pig. That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard. Christ, with all the shit guys loose in the world, we don't need you to turn into one too. Get real.”
“What do you expect me to do? Get married freshman year? I'm a kid.” He was all innocence and good humor.
“Then be a decent one, for God's sake,” Meg scolded him, as Paris approved. “Be a nice guy, who treats women with kindness and respect. The world needs more nice guys like you.”
“I don't want to be a nice guy yet. I want to have some fun.”
“Not at someone else's expense, I hope, Wim,” Paris chided him. “People have a responsibility to each other, to treat each other well.”
“Yeah, I know. But sometimes you just have to be a little funky. You can't be responsible all the time.”
“Yes, you can,” his sister insisted. “Start now. You're nearly nineteen years old.” His birthday was two days after his mother's in May. “It's never too early to be a decent man. I'm counting on you, Wim.”
“Do I have to?” he asked, as he finished his soup. His mother and sister both seemed to be in a weird mood.
“Yes, you do,” Paris said. “Because if you aren't, you're going to hurt someone one day.” And in spite of herself, she was thinking of their father as she said it. It went over Wim's head, but Meg understood.
