Ten Years Later

by Lisa Marie Latino

  Jimmy took a deep breath, and I noticed a drop of sweat falling down his face.

  I reached over and affectionately wiped it away. “Look, I don’t think this is something you can plan,” I reasoned. “You will find your words once you look into your future wife’s eyes. Just go with the moment.” I was shocked at the tender words falling out of my mouth.

  He turned to look at me, the tension from seconds ago melting away. “I like that,” Jimmy nodded.

  “Me too,” I smiled. But now it was my turn to stare into space. Will a guy ever be freaking out to his sister about proposing to me?

  “Thanks, Car,” Jimmy said, reaching over to hug me, thus snapping me out of my self-destructive thoughts.

  “Anytime.”

  “Wait,” Jimmy said, breaking our embrace, the anxiousness back in his voice. “Do you think she’s going to say yes?”

  “Okay, now you’re being ridiculous. Of course, she’s going to say yes!” I exclaimed. “And if she says no--which she’s not going to do--then she’s a fool. I mean, look at that rock, come on!”

  ■ ■ ■

  I know this may come as somewhat of a shock, but Gwen said yes.

  At around 10 p.m., Jimmy texted my mom the news, and she immediately rushed over to me and my friends, who were sitting around our fire pit bordering between buzzed and drunk.

  “Guys!” she hissed. “Gwen said yes! They are on their way here now to tell everybody. Carla, get the video camera!” She then darted away.

  Andrea, Katie, and I shook our heads in unison and laughed.

  “Your mom doesn’t seem excited,” Dante smiled, putting his arm around Stacy. For Dante to bring a girl to a family function was huge. Apparently, she wasn’t going anywhere, anytime soon.

  “Not at all,” I laughed, rising from my seat.

  A few minutes later, Jimmy and Gwen appeared by the DJ booth. Gwen’s eye makeup was smudged, and Jimmy’s eyes looked bloodshot, but their wide grins said how over-the-moon happy they were. They didn’t even notice I was standing nearby, holding the camcorder.

  The music was lowered, and Jimmy got on the microphone. “Can I have everyone’s attention please?” Jimmy is not one for public speaking, so the shock of seeing him on a mic made the partygoers stop dead in their tracks. “Gwen and I have an announcement!”

  Jimmy waited a few moments for everyone to stampede over to the booth. They both smiled at each other. “We’re engaged!” they triumphantly said in unison.

  Everyone started clapping and screaming. I recorded my Grandma Teresa nearly having a heart attack, she was crying so hard. “I cannot-a believe my grand-a-son is engaged! I’m going to be alive to see one of my grand-a-kids get-a married!” she exclaimed in her Italian accent. (Grandma Teresa happens to be Mom’s mom; the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.) Speaking of, my mother was crying as if it was the first time she was hearing the news. My father beamed proudly. Everyone was drooling over the ring. It was one big love fest.

  I decided I had enough footage (and enough in general) and shut the camera off. I walked back by my friends, who very smartly hung away from the riot.

  “The cops are going to drive by and think there’s a huge fight going on,” Katie joked as I sat down next to her.

  “I know, I didn’t think an engagement would elicit such loud emotion,” I replied while pouring another glass of wine.

  “Well, that’s because you’ve never been engaged before,” Andrea replied half-jokingly.

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “I don’t remember you screaming your head off when Richard proposed to you.”

  “However, I do remember you screaming all the way to the bank,” Dante joked.

  “Why would she go to the bank after getting engaged?” Stacy asked. We all ignored her.

  “You guys are just jealous, so I’m not even dignifying your jokes with a response,” Andrea huffed.

  “Well, speaking of Richard, where is he tonight?” Katie asked seriously.

  “You know he doesn’t do parties,” Andrea said dismissively.

  “What do you mean, you guys are at a function almost every night of the week,” Katie snickered.

  “Well, these kinds of parties,” Andrea clarified.

  “Hey, what’s wrong with this party?” I asked defensively.

  “Yeah! Besides, he would have fit in great!” Dante added. “There are people here tonight that are his age. You know, Grandma Teresa, Grandpa Michael...”

  “Ha-ha-ha, cute,” Andrea said sarcastically.

  “She’s married to an eighty-year-old?” Stacy whispered to Dante.

  Just as Dante was going to explain, Jimmy and Gwen appeared.

  “Hi, Sis!” Gwen exclaimed in her Southern drawl.

  “Hi, Sis!” I greeted warmly, jumping up and hugging her. “Welcome to the family!”

  “Let me see the ring!” Andrea cooed, grabbing Gwen’s ring finger with her right hand. I rolled my eyes as I watched Andrea make a quick comparison of diamonds. She nodded in approval. Unbelievable.

  “So how did Jimmy propose?” Katie asked.

  “Oh, it was so romantic,” Gwen said, breaking our embrace, and stared lovingly at my brother. “He had a picnic set up on the high school football field 50-yard line, and as the fireworks started, he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.”

  “I was originally going to ask her way before the fireworks started, but the moment didn’t feel right until then,” Jimmy added, looking at me. I smiled.

  “That’s so cute, Junior!” Katie exclaimed.

  “Thank you,” Jimmy beamed.

  “Baby, let’s go to my house and show the ring to my parents before it gets too late,” Gwen cooed, grabbing my brother’s hand.

  “Go ahead, make the rounds!” I exclaimed. “Have fun!”

  “Bye, guys!” Gwen exclaimed.

  They started walking away, but then Jimmy turned around to me. “Thanks again for your advice, Car,” he said and followed his new fiancé.

  “You gave proposal advice?” Katie asked incredulously as I sat back down.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I replied. “He was freaking out this afternoon about how and when to propose, and I guess I calmed him down.”

  “So what did you say?” Dante inquired.

  I looked across the flames shooting up from the fire pit. “I told him to go with the moment, and that when he looked at his future wife, he’ll know exactly what to do.”

  He lightly nodded, locking eyes with me.

  “Simple, yet sweet advice,” Katie quipped, breaking my and Dante’s moment.

  “You know me, I’m just a regular Cupid,” I joked, my heartbeat returning back to normal.

  “Well, let’s do shots to celebrate!” Stacy, a girl I’d known for five minutes and wouldn’t know my brother or Gwen if they punched her in the face, suggested. But the night was all about love, not about being catty…

  “To the bar!”

  ■ ■ ■

  Much later that night, long after everyone had gone home, I sat in my room, nursing the last of the bartender’s stash of special merlot. I stared at the collage hanging over my desk, the one that Xander insisted I make. I had to admit, it was a fun exercise (definitely a better time than the torturous hell he’s been putting me through). It made my dream life come into focus more clearly than it ever had before. The header of my collage read: “Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.” I carefully studied each image underneath--a female radio host behind the microphone; a picture of “Radio Row” at the Super Bowl; a female reporter interviewing Odell Beckham Jr.; the condo I wanted to buy on the water in Hoboken; a curvy-yet-toned brunette bikini model; the Eiffel Tower, where I want to be proposed to; a close-up of a sparkling Tiffany Novo engagement ring; a bank vault containing wads of money. I sighed happily. Although none of this was physically mine yet, I felt as though it could happen in the very near future.

  However, my optimism disappeared when
my eyes fell on the last two images: an exuberant couple smiling broadly, next to another couple kissing passionately on a white-sands beach.

  In kindergarten, I had the biggest crush on Ryan McKabe. Since I didn’t know how to verbalize those feelings (and couldn’t spell), I drew him pictures of how he made me feel—pictures of rainbows and butterflies and hearts and smiley faces. But alas, a playground relationship was never formed. He got grossed out, ripped up my art, and ignored me the rest of the school year, thus setting the stage for many men to come.

  I truly was one of those girls who had been “sweet 16 and never been kissed”. My first kiss came months after my 16th birthday, in the backseat of Dustin Galanga’s grandfather’s Buick. We were close, and although I didn’t find him very attractive, I fell for his insanely funny and sarcastic personality. We ended up dating for two and a half years, right up until college. But I was just going through the motions; I didn’t have a deep connection with him. Our relationship ensured that I would have a date for our proms and someone to exchange birthday and Christmas presents with. We didn’t even have sex, mainly because we both weren’t ready. (My mother’s constant “my wedding dress was white, and I expect yours to be too” guilt speeches surely didn’t help on my end.)

  Since we didn’t have sex, I entered college as the lone virgin on my campus (and probably among many campuses across America). Needless to say, my scarlet “V” did not bode well for my dating life. I mean, you try telling a 20-year-old frat boy during a heated make-out session at 3:30 in the morning that you’ve never had sex before, and see how fast he runs. So it was not that I didn’t have many opportunities to get it over with; it was that I figured that because I waited so long, I might as well hold out for someone special. So I left college the way I started--“Sweet 22 and never been sexed.” They should have given me a special achievement award on graduation day.

  And then, as discussed earlier, I met Mark right after getting my diploma. He ended up being my first true love, among other firsts. So much for special. Just because the virgin monkey was off my back, didn’t mean I went the way of Dante and whored myself around once Mark and I broke up. The same values I had in college still held true. It had to be meaningful, and unfortunately, I hadn’t met anyone worthy since.

  I tapped my now-empty wine glass. You would think, working in New York City and meeting all kinds of people, I would have been bound to come across somebody. However, I had become convinced that if you didn’t meet Mr. Right while in school, you were forever screwed. All the good ones were taken, gay or dead, and all that was left were the mental cases. A commitment-phobe wasn’t whisking me away to Europe to get down on one knee; I was lucky to get a phone call after a first date. I honestly wouldn’t have wished being single on my worst enemy.

  The ringing of my cell phone interrupted my thoughts. Who would be calling me this late? I got up and grabbed it off its charger on my nightstand. Katie. “Is everything okay?” I answered, my stomach filled with dread.

  She giggled. “Do you want to do speed dating?”

  How did she know? I smiled to myself. “Are you still drunk?”

  She giggled louder. “Yes.”

  “No, I don’t want to do speed dating. Only losers do that.”

  “Aaaand what are we?” she slurred.

  “True.”

  “Come on. Let’s try it. Maybe we’ll meet someone to buy us a rock like Jimmy bought Gwen.”

  “Hey, that’s my line!” My friends were scaring me lately. Maybe the impending reunion had made them all step back and reevaluate their lives.

  “I’m signing us up!” she announced.

  I sighed. It was one in the morning; I wasn’t about to argue. “Go for it,” I conceded.

  7

  Day 16

  That Friday after work (where I still hadn’t heard any news on the hosting job), Katie met me in the city, and we went together to 747 Lounge in Downtown Manhattan. I quickly changed in my building’s lobby bathroom, not wanting to get asked a million questions by my nosy male co-workers, who could be worse than teenage girls.

  I was now down four pounds, and although my clothes still fit about the same, I felt so much better about myself. I had on a pink sundress with white high-heel sandals. Katie had on jeans and a flowy purple top.

  “I’m so excited!” Katie shrieked as we waited in the fast-moving line.

  “Why, this already sucks,” I replied wryly, looking at some of the men who were also in line. They seemed to be another breed of human. We checked in with a pretty Asian girl, and she handed us a pen with an index card.

  “Write your name and e-mail address on top, and then list the names of each guy you date, and then circle the ones you like,” she explained in a snooty Manhattanite accent.

  “Sounds easy enough,” Katie replied.

  “And please, make sure you write everyone’s name. You don’t want these guys feeling bad.”

  “Like they don’t feel bad enough coming to speed dating?” I quipped. The girl glared at me. We walked into this beautiful white room that was flashing multicolored lights, blasting club music. Pieces of old-school airplanes adorned the walls (I’m assuming old 747s). The cocktail waitresses were dressed up like slutty flight attendants, and the bartenders were dressed like (gay) pilots. Only in New York.

  Unfortunately, the rest of the scenery was unsatisfactory. The room was full of people I would never glance at had this been a normal situation. However, this was anything but normal. And not only was I forced to look at them, but I also had to “date” them.

  We made a beeline for the bar. “This looks, um, interesting…” Katie trailed off.

  “I’m ready to jump out of this plane when you are,” I replied, taking a big sip out of my merlot.

  Another pretty but snobby girl started ushering us girls into the VIP area. Our nightmare was about to begin.

  “Welcome to New York Speed Dating!” A female voice boomed on the microphone. She went over the rules that I only half-listened to. I finished my wine and motioned for the cocktail waitress to get me another. Katie was already on beer number two.

  The first guy who sat in front of me, Brad, wasn’t that bad. He was Italian, and worked as a musician. He actually reminded me of a creepy, less charismatic version of Dante. “You have very nice ears,” Brad remarked.

  “Um...thank you?” I replied slowly, instinctively grabbing my earlobes.

  “They are a nice shape, they fit your head very well. They stick out, but not too much. They are pretty flawless,” he said, his eyes lit up with excitement.

  Yikes.

  Next up was Perez from Peru. Looked to be about 45, was a professor, and…why am I still talking about him?

  “I can’t do this,” I whispered to Katie. We had 50 dates to go through. Two down, 48 to go.

  Now batting was Zach, who seemed nice. We did our “date” at the bar, and he bought me a drink. Now we’re talking!

  As my buzz escalated, the dates were easier to handle…until I met Adnan.

  Adnan menacingly stared at me with the Look of Death. He had a black backpack slung over his bony frame and placed another mysterious black bag on his lap. I wasn’t sure if I should “date” him, or call the police. I introduced myself, and started to scribble his name.

  “What are you doing?” Adnan barked.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Don’t write my name,” he warned.

  “Why? They told us to write everyone’s name down,” I said, confused.

  “Don’t write it,” he warned, his black eyes glowing with rage.

  “Okay…” I clicked the pen closed, and we sat there in uncomfortable silence until the buzzer went off.

  Then there was Bradley, in all of his sweat-stained shirt glory. He plopped down in front of me and opened up with “I’m a nerd.” What a powerful introduction!

  “Why are you a nerd?” I asked, faking compassion.

  “I don’t know…” he traile
d off, thinking of a reason. Then put up his finger. “Eureka! I am a nerd because I read the newspaper every day.”

  “That’s not nerdy!” I genuinely exclaimed. “I read the newspaper all the time! I like it better than reading stories online.”

  “Really?” he said earnestly.

  “Yup,” I nodded.

  “Wow,” he laughed, clearly over-excited by the fact that he had something in common with a seemingly normal girl. But the “in common” stopped right there, because he then started talking about his job as a mechanical engineer, never ONCE asking me about my job (not that I would truthfully volunteer that information anyway). How selfish!

  My next victim (or was it the other way around?), Nick, had a huge top hat on “to cover up my hair loss,” he explained. He spent more time staring at the pilot bartenders than talking to me, so I think he was there to try and convince himself that he was straight. Mission not accomplished.

  Boris was actually cute. He looked like a blond Clark Kent. However, he answered every question I asked by saying “I’m from Russia,” in a very heavy accent. Superman, he was not.

  Finally…FINALLY…it was over. I didn’t even get through all the dates, there were so many people. (Speed dating seemed to be a lucrative business. Thirty bucks multiplied by 100 miserable souls equaled a ton of blood money.) I had spent two hours being totally fake; I was wiped out and in a horrible mood.

  “Let’s get the HELL out of here!” Katie groaned. Even the eternal optimist’s spirit was shattered by speed dating.

  I was going to just throw the index card away, but I decided to circle Zach’s name. He seemed normal enough and who knows, maybe he could be The One. This would certainly be a funny story to tell our grandchildren. Katie ended up circling no names. I handed my card in, and we raced out of the bar. We were halfway down the street when I heard someone screaming my name at the top of his lungs.

  “CAR-LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” A male cried out.