Brenda Janowitz: Jack With a Twist

I smile and take that as a cue to glance down at my diamond engagement ring—not only is it beautiful, but it’s especially meaningful to me, since it’s the ring that Jack’s grandfather gave to Jack’s grandmother when he proposed all those years ago. They were married for sixty-two years, so a ring like that’s got to be lucky, right?

The Asscher cut of the center stone is deep and thoughtful. You could get lost for days just staring down at it, deep into its center. Which has been happening to me with increasing frequency since Jack gave it to me.

Whenever I look at my ring, I can’t help but think about how happy I am to have found Jack. That mythical “one.” To be settling down with the man that I love. Now that we’re engaged, I feel so secure. Before the ring, you live in constant fear that your guy will just come home one day and tell you that he doesn’t love you anymore or that it’s not you, it’s him, or that he met someone else, or some other such nonsense.

That’s probably because that’s happened to me in real life more times than I’m willing to admit, but I’m sure that I’m not the only woman alive who’s ever felt that way. Let’s face it, if you’ve survived being single in your mid to late twenties in New York City, you’re bound to have had your heart totally trampled one or two times.

Or forty-seven, but who’s counting?

Truth be told, the last serious relationship I was in before I got together with Jack was with a guy who came home one day and out of the blue told me that he didn’t love me anymore, that it wasn’t me, it was him, and as a kicker, that he’d also met someone else. (And a bunch of other nonsense.) But I don’t have to worry about that with Jack.

I don’t think.

Do I have to worry about that with Jack?

“Are you even listening to me?” Jack asks, positioning his face close to mine.

“Of course I am, honey!” I say, looking up with a smile. What was he saying just then?

“You were just staring at your ring,” Jack says, matter-of-factly.

“I was not,” I say, smiling a little wider, “now tell me about the case.”

“I really don’t know any details about it,” he says, “No one does. It’s just a rumor right now. Firm-wide speculation that Mel’s bringing in a big case and that he’ll want one of the junior partners to take the lead on it, thus solidifying that junior partner’s status in the firm for the rest of his or her life. Nothing that special.”

“Well,” I say, edging closer to him, “you’re going to get the case and you’ll be amazing. And I’ll be the loving, doting fiancée who is here to help you every step of the way.”

“ If I even get it,” he says, looking down.

“ When you get it, you mean. You know what we need here?” I ask Jack, walking toward the living-room closet.

“What?” he asks, running his hand through his shaggy brown hair.

“To tell the future,” I say, and at the precise moment that I say it, I find just what I need—a gag gift that Vanessa bought for Jack and me right when we got engaged: a Magic 8 Ball.

“That’s not a real Magic 8 Ball,” Jack says, as I pull the gag gift out of the closet, “That’s a gag gift. It’s a special Love Magic 8 Ball. It’s pink, for God’s sake. I don’t think that those can actually tell the future.”

“Well, you broke the real one,” I say, remembering the original Magic 8 Ball that Jack, Vanessa and I used to consult all the time when we worked at Gilson, Hecht together as associates. We’d pull it out anytime we had a tough decision to make—whether it be a legal cause of action, an e-mail being sent to opposing counsel, or what to order in for dinner that night, that magical sphere always had the answers for us.

“The real Magic 8 Ball was mine to begin with,” Jack says, walking over to me, “and anyway, I only broke it because I was mad at you, if I recall correctly.”

“You broke it because you were mad at me? How very Stanley Kowalski of you,” I say with a chuckle. When you’re six feet tall and rail-thin like Jack, you can’t really pull off the tough-guy thing very well. It actually turns out to be sort of cute, which, if you really think about it, is so not the intended effect.

“Brooke!” Jack screams from his gut, as if he were screaming “Stella!” at the foot of a long staircase. He calls out “Brooke!” again, this time falling down to his knees and ripping his pajama top apart for good measure. “Brooke! Brooke!”

I suppose that I don’t need to mention here that Jack was a drama geek back in college? So much so that he actually wanted to become an actor after he graduated. Two years of waiting tables (and the fear of God put into him, courtesy of his father, the United States Circuit Court judge for the Third Circuit) kicked him of the thespian habit, though. However, he does still enjoy the random dramatic flair from time to time.

“I’m sure whatever it was, it wasn’t really my fault,” I say. It’s important to train your man early into thinking that nothing is ever really your fault. I learned that little tidbit from Vanessa. Which is really good advice. And just because she’s presently going through a divorce doesn’t necessarily make her opinions on marriage null and void, I don’t think.

“Magic 8 Ball,” I say, shaking the pink globe around. “Will Jack get the big new case coming into the firm?”

“It’s not a real Magic 8 Ball,” Jack says, swiping it away from my grasp, “it says right here that it is a Love Magic 8 Ball, so it can really only tell the future of your love life.”

“Humor me anyway. What does it say?” I ask.

Jack turns it over to read the response: “It says, You may get lucky.”

“See?” I say, “it does work! You’re going to get lucky! The case is as good as yours! Fame and riches await!”

“No,” he says, sidling up to me, “It’s a Love Magic 8 Ball, so I think it means that I’m going to get lucky .” And with that, he throws me onto the couch and showers me with kisses.

“Lucky, indeed,” I say and sink into his kiss. This sort of thing never happened back at the firm with the old Magic 8 Ball.

Back then, Vanessa, Jack and I were the Three Musketeers. Since Vanessa and I were the same class year, we seldom worked together—it was usually just Jack and me. Jack was the senior associate on all of our cases, with me as the junior associate for five years running, but nothing ever happened between us during that time. Okay, okay, a few things happened during that time—a massive flirtation and a handful of unbelievable, monumental kisses (the kind they write love songs about)—but in an effort to keep our jobs, we didn’t really pursue things.

The story of how we finally got together is really terribly romantic—after being the best of friends for years, he came with me as a fake date to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding and we fell completely, madly, desperately in love right that very evening! Well, actually, it wasn’t quite that simple, since that evening ended with us getting into a huge fight and not speaking for three weeks afterwards, but after those three weeks, we fell completely, madly, desperately in love. But it just sounds more romantic to make it seem like it all happened that same night.

(Note to self: must read and approve all wedding speeches and make sure there is no mention of any fighting and only a focus on falling completely, madly, desperately in love….)

What? Any good bride worth her taffeta maintains creative control of the wedding speeches.

Back when I was single, I would do crazy things like bring fake dates to my ex’s weddings and obsess endlessly about shopping and how much I hated work. But, in my new incarnation as a mature engaged woman, I find myself acting like a mentor to some of the younger women in my new law firm, Smith, Goldberg and Reede. I offer them sage advice about love, relationships and making the time for a career while having a life. We talk about the serious issues facing young women in the world today and we, like, totally love our jobs.