The Someday Jar

by Allison Morgan

  “Yes, that’s fine.” That’s what I wanted, anyway. Evan probably knew that.

  “Oh, and please tell him that yes, the restroom attendants’ ties will be a full Windsor knot and the exact hue of the table napkins. He was worried about that.”

  “Um . . . okay.”

  “The cake, still as we discussed?”

  “Yes, three tiers, cascading flowers on one side, vanilla cake and icing,” I say, triumphantly. At least I know something about this wedding.

  “So, no raspberry filling?”

  “God, no.”

  “That’s odd. For some reason I have a side note penciled in that Evan added it on the eighteenth.” She frowns and nibbles on the end of her pen.

  “Oh, that’s right,” I lie, trying to hide my growing frustration behind a forced smile. “Raspberry filling. I forgot. So much to remember, you know.”

  “Don’t I know it.” She tucks her clipboard under her arm. “I’m going over invitations with another couple, but holler if you need me. And, Lanie, if I may, that style is not right for you. You’re much too pretty for that dress.”

  I thumb through the rack of remaining dresses. The metal hangers, drawn heavy under the weight of silk, scrape against the pole and I wonder, Why is this so hard? I’m blessed with normal proportions, no longer arm or shorter leg to contend with. I need no specially designed sleeves, high neckline, or fully covered back to hide a tramp stamp or regrettable barbed-wire tattoo on the day I’m wearing virginal white. But of the countless dresses I’ve tried, each is either too sheeny, too poofy, or too something-just-not-right. I reach the end of the rack, finding nothing else that I want to try on. “I give up, Kit. I’m calling it a day.”

  “You can’t. There isn’t much time left.” She pushes the row of dresses to the beginning and starts to look through again.

  I plunk into a nearby chair and gulp three quarters of my complimentary champagne. Then, with my free hand, I smack the tulle like a flyswatter, smashing it flat.

  “Don’t give up, sweetie. We’ll find one.” Kit discovers a strapless, straight-lined dress and folds it over her arm. “I want to try this one on myself.”

  Ignoring her, I steady the glass between my knees, dip my middle finger in the drink, and circle it along the rim, round and round, until a dull ring fills the room. A trick Dad taught me one night at the Golden Lantern. He’d planted a hefty tip in our waiter’s hand and asked for a pitcher of water and eight more glasses. Dad filled each with varying amounts of water, opting for a variety of pitches. Our dinner plates long cleared, we stayed for hours, long after any other diners, long after the busboy had wiped the tables and vacuumed the dining room. We stayed until I mastered “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

  Kit hangs her dress on the rack and kneels beside me. She cringes at the sound of my music, grabs the glass, and sets it on the nearby table.

  “This isn’t about dresses, is it?”

  “Do you and Rob make decisions together? Do you feel, I don’t know, like you guys are equals?”

  “Rob and I aren’t equals. I only let him think that every once in a while.” Kit’s smile fades when she notices me picking at a loose bead on the dress. She squeezes my hand, mindful of my sore knuckles. “What’s going on?”

  “Shouldn’t Evan at least discuss things with me? We’re a couple, one unit.”

  “Are you talking about the house?”

  “That, too.”

  “Honey, he wants you to live there. No one else.”

  “That’s what Mom says. But don’t you think he could’ve said, ‘Hey, can you pass the salt, and by the way, I’m thinking of investing our future in a house, hiring a hot decorator, having an architect live with us for weeks, making you land a nearly impossible listing before becoming broker, and by the way, adding raspberry filling to our wedding cake?’”

  “Think of it this way: Evan’s in the real estate business. He looks at a property with a different perspective than most. He sees investment potential and doesn’t stop to consider anything else.” Kit strokes my hand. “Who cares about the filling? You’ll be too busy shaking hands and air-kissing Evan’s stuffy friends and family. You won’t have time to eat cake.”

  I shimmy out of the dress and toss it on the pile of a dozen or so discarded gowns draped over a barely visible upholstered chair. Even without the dress, standing in nothing but my bra and panties, I feel heavy under the weight of my concern. With a long sigh, and before I realize what I’m saying, I ask, “Am I making the right decision, Kit?”

  “I’ll take a bullet for you. You know that. Should you die suddenly, I’ll clear all the porn off your computer history. That’s what I’m here for.”

  I chuckle. Leave it to Kit to lighten the mood.

  “Seriously, Lanie, it doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what your heart and brain think. Evan’s a great guy. He’s gorgeous. He’s successful. He’s charming. On paper, he’s everything a woman wants. Is he what you want?” She hands me my jeans and shirt. “You’ve got a lot on your plate right now. It’s okay to be freaked out about forever.”

  Wait a minute. My eyes meet hers with revelation. I know what’s going on here. “It’s just cold feet, isn’t it? That’s all this is. It’s perfectly normal to be worried about forever, right?”

  “It is.”

  “It is,” I nearly shout, securing the button on my jeans, fully dressed and fully relieved. “God, I’ve been a swirl of emotions, but now it makes total sense. Thank you, I feel so much better having talked this out. Brides have jitters all the time.” I click my shoes together three times, and laugh. “See, my shoes are on. Feet no longer cold. Ha-ha-ha.”

  “You’re a bit of a whack job.”

  “Jitters.” I shrug. “Blame it on the jitters.”

  She glances at her watch. “Well, I know exactly how to fix them. Come with me.”

  thirteen

  Not too far from Stacee’s Boutique is a trendy bar attached to the lobby of an even trendier hotel. They have swanky appetizers served on square white plates, square tables, and square, uncomfortable chairs. Lots of businesspeople meet here. When we step inside the entrance doors, the lobby is filled with people waiting outside a closed meeting room door.

  “I wonder what’s going on?” I yell.

  “You’ll see.” She grabs me by the wrist and pulls me through the crowd.

  Once on the other side, Kit and I sit at a high table near the bar. We order two Chardonnays and the spinach-artichoke appetizer.

  Kit tells me what Dylan and his friend did last night, something about one folding the other inside the hide-a-bed and leaving him there. Rob didn’t notice until he sat on the couch and was kneed, repeatedly, in the butt.

  I’m half listening because this whole cold-feet thing has me frazzled. Much as I don’t want to admit it, as the wedding day draws closer, I have become thick with doubt. Is this normal? Is this what brides typically feel? A natural drawing back as the pending promise of forever approaches?

  Or maybe since Evan and I have bickered more than normal the last few days, our disputes have surfaced harbored memories from my parents’ failed marriage. Am I afraid to make the same mistake? After all, weren’t they in love once? Convinced there was no one else they’d rather spend their lives with? Now look at them. Is my tension built around the fear that Evan and I will fall into the same misfortune?

  It’d be easier if I could pinpoint my displacement. If I knew for certain that the stress of daily life, work, the house, the wedding, Wes, my jar, is the reason for my agitation. Because what if it’s not? What if it’s something more? What if this hovering cloud is one that won’t pass, a storm that I shouldn’t ignore? It’s this, the unknown, that scares me the most.

  “Lanie? Are you there?” She waves a pita chip in front of my face. I hadn’t noticed our order had arrived.
/>   “Sorry.”

  We take sips from our wine and munch the appetizer, but several times I catch Kit sneaking peeks behind me and checking her watch.

  “What’s going on?” I turn and can’t make out what the banner over the meeting room says, but given Kit’s smile, there must be a sale inside. Probably knockoff purses.

  “They’re starting.”

  “Huh?” I watch the group funnel like cattle through the opened doors.

  After the mass disappears, two women remain in the lobby, and from what I can tell at this distance, they each have the same style name tag. The woman closest to us, middle-aged with wiry gray hair, a plum tent dress, and Velcro-strapped sandals she should reconsider wearing in public, smiles at her handheld counter. “Ninety-eight,” her proud voice echoes in the tile lobby to the other woman. “Ninety-eight,” she says again. “We’re so close.”

  I turn back toward Kit. She dials her phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  She holds up her index finger. “Hey, baby. I’m at Sofitel with Lanie. Lucinda Wilkinson is here. Yep, same dress. Can you come? Darn. Oh, oh, they’re closing the door. I better go. I’ll be home in a bit. Love you.”

  I poke around again and see this Lucinda person close the door behind her. What the hell is Kit talking about?

  “Hurry. Finish your wine. We gotta go.”

  I swallow it in one chug while Kit throws some cash on the table and pulls a laminated card from her wallet.

  “Where are we going? Who’s Lucinda Wilkinson?”

  “She’ll help you with your jitters. If anyone will make you feel better about getting married, it’s her. I guarantee it.” Kit drags me through the lobby toward the closed door. She stops right outside. “Give me your ring.” She’s already taking hers off.

  “My ring? What for?”

  “You can’t go inside with your ring. Here, I’ll keep it with mine.” She opens a zipper pocket in her purse. “C’mon.”

  I slide it off and drop it beside hers. Now I wonder why I trust her as much as I do.

  It’s then I notice the banner hanging above us.

  LUCINDA’S BLIND SPEED DATING—5:30 P.M.

  “Speed dating? Isn’t that a room full of desperate people?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re kidding, right? You’re married to Rob. Have you forgotten?”

  “Of course not. Rob and I did this before. That’s why I called him. Trust me, Lanie, it’s totally hilarious. It’ll ease your jitters. I promise.”

  “Rob did this?”

  “Yeah. We went home even more thankful to be married to each other and had the best sex of our marriage.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  “Why does it say blind dating?”

  “That’s the best part. You don’t see any of these people. It’s pitch-black inside. They have a few ushers who walk around with flashlights so you don’t trip and stuff, but otherwise it’s dark. Lucinda says that way we experience the spirit and inner beauty of each individual, not clouded by external motivations.

  “Lucinda sounds like a freak.”

  “C’mon, we’re missing it.”

  Against my better judgment, I allow her to open the door and we walk inside. As promised, it’s totally dark. On my left, a young woman holds a flashlight under her chin and welcomes us. A mole dots below one eye.

  Kit flashes her card and the woman smiles. “Welcome back.”

  “Thank you.” Kit pats my shoulder. “It’s her first time.”

  “Very nice to have you. Very nice indeed,” the lady says to me, quite enthusiastically. “Hurry to tables twenty-six and twenty-seven. We’re about to start.”

  My eyes gradually adjust to the dark. Across the room, glow sticks are shaped into numbers fixed onto the backs of chairs.

  We walk past other tables toward ours. It’s creepy. I sense bodies around me but can’t see them, only vague shadows. I’m not a fan. Not in the least. Fortunately, another late arrival opens the door behind us, lighting a path, and we settle into our chairs.

  I lean in what I think is Kit’s direction. “I’m going to kill you.”

  “Me?” a male voice whispers back.

  I think he sits across from me.

  “No, sorry,” I reply.

  “All right, everyone.” Another woman’s voice sputters in the microphone and echoes within the room. She, too, holds a flashlight below her face. It’s the same woman with the wiry hair from the lobby. “Welcome to Lucinda’s Blind Speed Dating. I’m Lucinda.”

  Claps resonate through the room.

  “Thank you,” she gushes. “We’re so glad you’re all here today. A fantastic turnout. I know you’re eager to get started.”

  “Hell, yeah,” screams a man from the other side of the room.

  A few others laugh.

  This is weird.

  “Okay,” Lucinda continues, her breath heavy in the microphone. “Real quick, let me go over the rules for our newbies. You’ll each have two minutes per table. When you hear this sound”—she rings a bell—“gentlemen, that’s your cue to move on to the table to your right.” She emphasizes the last word. “Ladies, you stay put. Please remember and wait for the bell and move when you hear it. It’s dark in here, folks, and it’s easier if we all work together. Now another important point, blind speed dating is all about trust.” Feedback squeals through the microphone and Lucinda steps forward, quieting the noise, before continuing. “Okay, men in the room, remember to place your forearms and palms upward on the table. Ladies, your hands and forearms will rest on top of theirs. That is the only part touching, nothing above the elbow. Everyone understand?”

  Not only do I have to talk to these strangers for two minutes, but I have to touch them as well? That’s it. I will knock Kit senseless with a glow stick.

  “Remember, it helps to close your eyes when talking with your seatmate. Breathe in their voice and embrace the spirit of the individual. Enjoy the beauty of blindness. Well, that covers the rules. Let’s get started.”

  A few seconds later, the bell rings and the man seated across from me says, “My palms are up. I’m ready.”

  My stomach tightens. Sweet Jesus. I feel molested and we haven’t even touched yet.

  He clears his throat. “Um, we only have like two minutes.”

  “Right.” Forcing myself to move, I hover my hands on top of his forearms.

  “Hi.” He clasps his hands around my elbow. “I’m Seth.”

  He sounds young and harmless, like a surfer from Southern California. “Hi, Seth. I’m Lanie.” Ah, crud. Why did I give him my real name? Kit just introduced herself as Alexandria.

  “Lanie, that’s a cool name.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ever play Black Ops?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Black Ops. It’s a war game on Xbox where you kill your friends and stuff. It’s bitchin’.”

  “No, I’ve never played.”

  “Dude, you’re totally missing out. It’s killer, especially wasted.” His hands squeeze tighter around my elbows and I tense. “You should totally get an Xbox. That way we can chat and shit. I have mine set up in the basement of my mom’s house. She’s cool. I can play it whenever I want.”

  You have no girlfriend, Seth? Shocking.

  “You seem pretty dope. I’ll take it easy on you. I won’t kill you that much.” He laughs.

  “Awesome, thanks.”

  The bell rings and I eagerly say good-bye to Seth.

  The next man sits across from me. “Look,” he says with a thick East Coast accent, massaging my forearms like he’s kneading pizza dough. “I’m lookin’ to get laid. You interested?”

  Bile creeps up my throat. “I’m a lesbian.”

  “Even better. Bring your friend.”

  “I have g
enital herpes.”

  He releases his hands as if I’m toxic. His chair grinds across the floor as he scoots back. “Jesus.”

  Kit giggles beside me. “Lanie, be nice.”

  I whisper through gritted teeth, “You. Are. So. Dead.”

  The bell rings, not soon enough, I might add, and I hear one more man sit across from me. My body fills with dread. Kit’s right. Evan is nirvana compared to these freaks. I was a fool to think anything else and I will rush into his arms when I get home.

  This is the last nutcase I will subject myself to. I sense the third man’s arms on the table and with hopes of getting this crazy ordeal over with, I quickly lay mine on his.

  Warm hands. Strong forearms. He smells good, too. Maybe this guy will be tolerable. Maybe I’ll have two enjoyable minutes with a stranger. Maybe I’ll—”

  “Hi, Lanie.”

  Fuck.

  I try to yank my hands away the instant Wes speaks, but he clamps down like a boa constrictor.

  “Relax.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Me? I was having drinks with a client. I saw you and wondered why an engaged woman would walk into a singles meeting. What are you doing here?”

  “So, you’re spying on me? Am I some sort of game to you? First deceiving me at the airport, now following me. What’s your agenda? Report to Evan’s parents what an awful daughter-in-law I’ll be?”

  A few people shush us from across the room.

  I ignore them. “Just because I flirted with you a teeny tiny bit, and said a few less-than-positive things about Evan the other night, doesn’t mean you have the right to hold it over my head. Soon, Evan and I’ll be happily married with lily centerpieces, new granite in the kitchen, and a cave that bellows fog. So leave me be.”

  “You’re engaged? What the hell are you doing here?” shouts a man a few tables away.

  “Yeah, this is for singles,” calls another.

  “She’s got herpes,” says my second “date.”

  “Why exactly are you here?” Wes asks.

  “Kit thought it’d be fun.” There’s no way in hell I’ll mention my jitters to him.