“Heather, you have to calm down.”
“No, I don’t! Go to hell!” she screams, then storms out of the apartment.
Time to hide the steak knives. The psycho roommate is back.
I don’t find out until the next day (or two days later, whatever) that Mark, aka Library Lad, dumped Heather. Or, more accurately, she went to surprise him in the library and found him in the stacks, somewhere between F. Scott Fitzgerald and Stephen King, getting it on with another girl.
When I return from work, Heather is lying facedown on the couch, sobbing and kicking her feet. When I try to comfort her, she screams at me for the first ten minutes, then finally tells me what happened. “It was horrific,” she wails. “She didn’t even have her shirt on. She was in her bra in the middle of the stacks. What a whore. Oh, and I saw a mouse run out of the kitchen and into your bedroom.”
“What? When?” Ew. That’s so gross. We never had mice in Arizona. Snakes, yes, mice, no.
“That’s not really important right now. What is important is that Mark was cheating on me. I’m so stupid. I should have slept with him.”
“If he couldn’t wait for you, then he wasn’t worth it. You’ll meet someone else.”
“Oh, what do you know, you moron?” she yells, then storms out of the apartment again.
“Can you pick up some mousetraps while you’re out?” I ask, but the door has already slammed shut.
You know, I like Heather a lot more when she has a boyfriend.
I’m almost out the door in Arizona, when the phone rings.
“Hey, it’s Lila. Where have you been? I left you like a million messages.”
I have to physically stop myself from hanging up on her. “I’ve been busy,” I say flatly. I’ve managed to avoid talking to her the last few weeks. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to her. I wish I could tell her that I don’t want her to be my maid of honor but then I would have to tell her why, that in another world she’s sleeping with my fiancé, and she’d probably have me committed.
“Are we still on for next week?” she asks.
My second dress fitting is next week and Lila is supposed to come with me. My mom came with me to my first one—I had to change the appointment three times to work with her schedule, but I really wanted her to see the dress. She played the role right—she oohed and aahed, and yelled at the seamstress that she had to make sure to get all the creases out of the material. She also told me that under no circumstances was I to get a veil.
“Why?” I asked, which led to a lecture about how the veil originated as a symbol of a wife’s submission to her husband.
“I thought it was something about making sure the man loves you for who you are on the inside, not on the outside.”
“You thought wrong. No veil.”
Anyway, my mom wasn’t so interested in returning to Snow White’s for a second round, so I had asked Lila, and I know I vowed not to hold New York Lila’s actions against Arizona Lila but, unfortunately, I don’t think I can be in the same room with her without throwing up. Throwing up on my dress would be a huge, expensive problem. “Actually, you’re off the hook. My mom is in town and wants to come with me again,” I lie.
“All right. You’re still coming with me for my fitting, aren’t you?”
Alice gave the bolt of orange to a dressmaker she knows in Mesa. They’re going to make the bridesmaids’dresses and the ushers’ ties. I promised Lila I would accompany her this weekend. “I don’t know if I can make it. I promised Alice I would, um, look at party favors. Sorry.”
“Oh, come on. I have to make sure it looks good. How else am I going to pick up all of Cam’s—”
“All of Cam’s what?” I almost scream.
“Friends,” she finishes. “Gabby, are you all right? You sound tense.”
I take a bite out of my thumbnail. “I’m fine. Gotta go.” I hang up without saying goodbye.
“You’re not wearing that in public, are you?” Heather asks me as I’m about to leave the house. She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch in the same flannel pajamas she’s been wearing all week. Except for going to class, she hasn’t left that spot. Her butt imprint is permanently indented in the couch. For some reason, she keeps watching the Die Hard DVD. Over and over. “It was our movie,” she said when pressed, which I didn’t fully understand, and which scared me a little. I offered to Netflix her something more along the lines of Pretty Woman but, in response, she just threw the DVD case at my head.
I look down at my jeans and the off-the-shoulder sweater that I thought looked pretty good.
“You look like Cyndi Lauper on acid,” my oh-so-pleasant roommate tells me. “You’d better change.”
“Heather, I don’t care what you think. I like what I’m wearing. Enjoy the movie. Again,” I add, and then lock the door behind me.
If she doesn’t find a new guy soon, I might need to move. I might need to move anyway. I found a dead mouse in my closet this morning.
I meet Nate at Kittichai downtown. We sit in the corner and drink lychee martinis. “You look gorgeous,” he tells me over dumplings.
I beam. I found a winner. He is passionate. He is sensitive. Over pad thai, I discover that he’s an Aries.
“We’re a perfect match,” I tell him.
“That explains it then,” he says, eyes not leaving mine.
After dessert, we have a drink at the bar upstairs. We sit on a couch and talk, talk, talk, about our parents’ divorces, about how it shaped our views on love and on life. “I would never get divorced,” I say. “I know how hard it is on the kids.”
“Me neither,” he says, and we talk some more until it’s 2:00 a.m. and my head feels light, and the cushions feel soft, and his hand is on my knee, and the bar is flashing their lights and asking us, and then telling us, to leave.
We leave the bar, holding hands, and he’s sweet and cute and I like him, and on the corner of the street, he pulls me into him.
His mouth is warm and salty. The kiss feels good. Different, but good. When I open my eyes, he’s smiling. He hails a cab.
“One stop?” he asks, eyes hopeful.
“Two stops,” I say. “This time.”
It’s 9:00 p.m. Monday and the office is practically empty, but Ron asked me to do some research on a story for tomorrow’s show, insisting he needed it tonight. I turn off my computer, pick up my bag and stop by his massive office. He has a gorgeous oak desk, a buttery black leather couch and a view of the city.
“Arizona, come in.”
“Hi, Ron. Here you go.”
“Thanks, this is great. Close the door and have a seat.”
Warning bells are ringing loud and clear in my head, but he is the talent, so I give him the benefit of the doubt, close the door and sit.
He gets up from his desk, rolls up his sleeves and sits next to me so that our thighs are touching. “How are you?”
“Good, thank you.” I scoot over so there’s some breathing room.
“I hardly get a chance to talk to you anymore.”
“I’m always around.” The truth is, I’ve been making myself scarce whenever I spot him in the distance. Trying to, anyway. The way he looks at me, as if I’m a seventy-dollar glass of wine that he’d like to take a sip of, has been making me queasy. “Busy, but around.”
“You’re not in a hurry tonight, are you?”
“Actually, I am. I have a date.” I have a date with myself to wash my hair. Nate and I are not going out again until Saturday, but Ron doesn’t have to know that.
He makes these horrendously unflattering puppy-dog eyes. “Cancel. I’ll take you for a drink.”
I’m not sure what the right thing to do is here. Obviously, it’s not to sleep with the talent. I didn’t get to where I am by sleeping with anyone, and I don’t intend to start now. On the other hand, if I’m rude to him, he can easily have me fired. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t. Honest, I’m already running late.” While I talk, I stare at the yellow gol
d wedding band on his left hand, hoping he’ll get the message.
He smiles at me now, bemused. “I like you, Arizona.”
“Thanks, Ron. I like you, too.”
“No, I mean, I like you.”
He was never very good at ad-libbing.
“You’re married,” I say, with a half laugh, trying to keep all this light.
“So?” he says, eyes roaming over my body. “You’re very attractive. You should have been a reporter, you know. Come on, one drink.”
I stand up. And give him a smile. “Thanks, Ron, but I can’t.” I take my jacket and bolt through the door.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, I think as I dart through the hallway. How dare he? I’m a professional here, yet he’s treating me like some sort of producer-whore.
“Do you think Lila is pretty?” I ask. I’m lying on Cam on the couch. He’s watching the his all-time favorite movie, Caddyshack, and I’m trying to stop thinking. About the Cookie Cutter. About Ron. About Alice. About Nate. About Lila. I’m exhausted. Mentally exhausted. Two lives means two exhausting sets of problems. When did I sign up for that?
“She’s all right.”
“If you had a thing for her, would you tell me?”
He looks at me funny. “I don’t have a thing for her.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because we’re getting married.”
“Are you saying that you’d go out with her if we weren’t engaged?” You know, I think all my cooking is making Cam gain weight. He seems softer. Not quite his best.
“Gabby, this is crazy. We are engaged.”
“But how do I know that I’m the right one for you?” I think about Nate. How do I know Cam is the right man for me?
He pauses the DVD and kisses my neck. “I just know. I promise. Have I ever lied to you?”
“No,” I sigh. Unfortunately I can’t say the same.
He kisses me again. “And I never will.”
It’s Saturday evening and I’m alone in the New York apartment. Heather is visiting her parents for the weekend, which is a nice break. She’s become the roommate from hell. Without this date to look forward to, I don’t know how I would have made it through the week. With Heather yelling and moping at home, and Ron practically leaping on me at work, it’s been a disaster.
Ron’s glances have become more lecherous. Now that the cat is out of the bag, he sees no reason to hide his feelings, or more likely, his hard-on. I try to come late to meetings, but he saves me a seat. During the meetings he likes to see how long he can leave his hand on my thigh before I push it away. His record is ten seconds, and that’s because my hands were above the table showing Curtis something on my BlackBerry.
Every night, he’s asked me to do extra research so that we’re both there late, and every night he’s tried to get me alone in his office. Every night, I tell him I have to leave to meet Nate. I am not going to let him ruin everything I’ve worked for. No goddamn way.
But I don’t want to think about him tonight. Because tonight I have plans. Tonight is the night I plan on sleeping with Nate.
Heather’s dating rules notwithstanding, I think going home with a guy on the third date is acceptable. But the truth is, I don’t care. I need to move on physically in my New York life. Cam’s moved on with Lila; why shouldn’t I move on with Nate?
The other advantage to Heather being out of town is that I have offered to make Nate dinner. I will use some of my newly expert housewifery skills to impress the new man in my life. I ordered the colossal shrimp from FreshDirect, deshelled and deveined. I privately enjoyed the irony that I’m using Alice’s recipe to seduce a new man.
By the time the doorman calls up at eight that Nate is here, my room has been cleaned, sheets changed, apartment swept, candles lit, nails painted, bikini line waxed, hair straightened, wine chilled, Barry Manilow CD on deck, cleavage perfumed, legs and underarms shaved and moisturized.
Oh, baby, I’m ready.
“Hi,” I say in my sexy Manhattan demure voice, handing him a wineglass. “Hope you like white.”
He’s looking extra adorable in a pale blue shirt and black pants. When I kiss him hello, slowly, deliciously, I can smell spicy cologne on his neck, gel in his hair.
“You look beautiful, as usual,” he says and hands me a bottle of red. “For the next course then.”
The conversation and the wine flow. We’re sitting at the kitchen table, which I have set to perfection. I even bought flowers for the centerpiece. The non-orange centerpiece.
“These are amazing,” he says after he swallows another bite of the coconut shrimp. “You’re a terrific cook.”
I’ve made this for Cam at least six times. And he never once told me I was a terrific cook.
I think my fiancé has been taking me for granted. It wasn’t always like that. Not before we were engaged. But ever since I said yes…ever since I gave up New York…
“You still with me?” Nate asks, interrupting my thoughts about Cam.
I shake my head in apology, slightly flushed. I should not be thinking about Cam tonight. I should be thinking about Nate. The hot, sensitive Aries who is sitting in my apartment. “Sorry. I’m here. Spaced out there for a second.”
“You look cute when you space out.”
Cam doesn’t tell me I look cute when I space out. He tells me I have to be more assertive. Which I’m not. Not in Arizona, anyway. Not these days. But in New York, I’m superwoman. I asked Nate out! I think I even ask fewer questions here. I’m the same person; it doesn’t make sense that I’d act differently in both. Although, maybe everyone acts differently in different situations. With Melanie, I’m the listener, the comforter. With Lila I’m the talker, the patient. With Curtis, I’m capable. With Nate, I’m confident. Aggressive. With Cam, I’m…weak. When did that happen?
I push my thoughts aside and serve dessert, a chocolate cake made from scratch. After desert, there’s more wine, and we move to the couch, where his glasses come off and there’s more kissing. And more kissing. Nate is a great kisser. Different from Cam but—
Must stop thinking about Cam. He’s certainly not thinking about me. He’s probably in bed with Lila right this second. I try to push the ugly image out of my head. “How about we move to the bedroom?” I ask. Yes, it’s a question, but it’s completely rhetorical. I can guess his answer.
He jumps off the couch, smiling and nodding. I guess that’s a yes.
I lead him toward the bedroom, shedding my clothes as I go. Top—on the hallway floor. Bra—in the air, landing over the door handle. When I get to my room, I shimmy out of my jeans and leave them in a heap by my bed. I climb under the covers.
He rips off his clothes in ten seconds flat and slides in next to me. He runs his fingers through my hair.
In the next few seconds, his hands are all over me, and mine all over him. I’m going to do this. I’m really going to have sex with another guy. I really want to have sex with another guy. I get more turned on by the second, and then he whispers, “I can’t wait to make love to you.”
I freeze.
That’s what Cam said to me. The first time. Who is this strange guy I’m in bed with who is using Cam’s words? I barely know him.
“Let me get something,” he says and reaches onto the floor. I’m guessing he’s searching for a condom in his jeans’ pocket, and the thought makes my hands shake.
I can’t do this. “Stop,” I say, breathlessly.
“Huh?”
“Nate, I can’t. Not yet.”
“You need more stimulation?” he pants.
“No, that’s not it.” I pull back from him. There’s something else. “I just…well, I thought three dates would be enough for me, but it’s not. I need to know you better. I’m sorry.”
“Okay,” he says, still winded. “We can take it slower.” He starts kissing me again, and I kiss him back, and he plays with my hair until we both fall asleep.
Headache. Green light.
“Nate?” I sa
y, his hands in my hair.
“Who’s Nate?”
I open my eyes and find myself back in Arizona. Shit. I close my eyes again.
“Who’s Nate?” Cam asks again, slightly more seriously.
“I said knot,” I mumble.
“Not what?”
“Knot. My hair is knotted.”
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him. “It sounded like Nate.”
“I don’t even know a Nate,” I say, turning around so he can’t look into my eyes. “Not in this life,” I add so that I’m not lying. But he’ll be able to tell that something’s not kosher. How can he not? I was naked in bed with another man. Naked. In bed. I can’t look at Cam. I just can’t.
He laughs. “I know, I know. In another life when we’re both cats.” Cam loves that movie, Vanilla Sky. He made me see it twice in the theater and rent it three times.
My stomach hurts. Badly. I feel queasy. What did I do? How could I have almost slept with another guy when I’m getting married in six weeks? What am I doing? I can’t do this. I can’t. I don’t care if it’s a separate world. For me, it still feels wrong. I can’t hook up with guys when I’m getting married. And what am I going to do when I am married? Never see a man in New York? Marriage is supposed to be forever. Marriage means no one else. I can’t date other guys and wake up next to Cam. I won’t.
I can’t deal. I’m never going to get over Cam if I keep seeing him every morning. And I’m never going to feel like I’m being true to Cam, to the idea of marriage, if I keep seeing other guys. Or if I keep living a life that he doesn’t know about. He told me he’d never lie to me. I want to—have to—be able to say the same thing.
“Be right back,” Cam says and hurries off to bathroom.
Lying in bed, alone, I realize that I can’t keep doing both. It’s making me an emotional wreck. It’s not worth it. I’m never going to be able to give a hundred percent to either life if I’m doing them both. I must get rid of the safety net.
I’m right back where I started, back in November, back in the desert.
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