Ten Years Later

by Lisa Marie Latino

  We were all so engrossed in the conversation, that we didn’t even notice the waitress bring our drinks. “So tell us about this Teddy,” I smiled, taking a big sip of my merlot.

  “Well, his name is Teddy Shay. He looks tough, but he’s the sweetest person you will ever meet. He rides a motorcycle; he’s got a half tattoo sleeve on each arm. He can drink me under the table…He’s perfect!”

  I thought of me bringing someone like that home to my mother. Yeah, that wouldn’t go over so well, but if you Googled “Katie Lansford’s ideal man,” this was the first image that would come up.

  “What does he do for a living?” Andrea asked.

  “His family owns an Irish pub, and he helps run that. He’s also a Honey Crest cop. He comes in with his co-workers all the time for the maple honey glazed donuts.”

  “So he’s into perpetuating stereotypes,” I cracked.

  Katie laughed a lot harder than she normally would at my sarcasm. Her eyes were brimming with joy. My friend had it bad.

  “You know how we stress out about guys and their bullshit?” she asked.

  “Vaguely,” I deadpanned.

  “With him, it’s so loving and comfortable and easy! When it’s real, there’s none of that nonsense; you fall into each other and just be. Me and Teddy hit it off and never looked back.”

  I felt my skin turn a bright shade of green as Katie fell into a trance again. To hear her wax poetic on the thrills of love was a sordid reminder that I’d never known what she was experiencing. With Mark, it was never “easy”; it was a constant tug-of-war of emotions. As for the rest of the men in my life? They never stuck around long enough to even entertain picking up the rope.

  “I can’t wait for you guys to meet him!” Katie finished.

  “I just can’t believe this is the first we are hearing about him,” Andrea shot back, stirring her sparkling Pellegrino with a straw.

  “Well, I didn’t want to jinx anything, and you guys have your own, um, stuff going on…”

  “Just because I’m going through a divorce and Carla’s constantly miserable in love, doesn’t mean we can’t be happy for you,” Andrea fired.

  “Thanks for that,” I mumbled.

  “I don’t think that at all…but you wanted to delete your Facebook because you couldn’t bear seeing all of the engagement announcements, for crying out loud!” Katie retorted, pointing to me.

  “But you are different. You’re family. You don’t want to end up like Dante, do you?” I added half-playfully.

  “Yea, about that...” Katie started to say.

  “About what?”

  She motioned behind me. I turned around and drew my breath as I saw Dante walking towards our table. I hadn’t seen him since our blowup at the hospital, and I wanted to keep it that way.

  I swung back around to face my friends. “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” I hissed.

  “Carla, drop it. It’s Christmas! We haven’t been together in so long!” Katie pleaded.

  I grabbed my purse, angry that they plotted to corner me like this. “I’m out of here.”

  “He got you in the grab bag, at least stick around to get your gift,” Andrea suggested.

  “Oh great, just what I want—a gift from him that was purchased with W-S-P-S money. No, thank you. How could you guys do this to me? You know I don’t want to be in his company.”

  “We’re sick of splitting our time between the two of you,” Andrea complained. “Going through one divorce is enough; I don’t feel like going through two!”

  I rose up from my chair, placing a gift bag in front of Katie and two little boxes in front of Andrea for the babies. “Merry Christmas. I’m leaving.”

  Katie pushed the bag away. “Why are you being so selfish?”

  Before I could reply, Dante appeared at our table. “Hey guys,” Dante softly said, fully aware of the dynamics of our conversation. He turned to me. “Hi Carla,” he added, holding out a small box. “Merry Christmas.”

  I gave him a dirty look, but he ignored it and extended his arms out to hug me. I was trapped; it was either give in or cause a scene. I lazily threw one arm around him. “Thank you,” I answered nonchalantly, taking the package. “Merry Christmas. I was just leaving.”

  “I thought we were having dinner?” he asked, puzzled.

  “You guys are. I’m out of here.”

  “Carla, sit,” Katie pleaded.

  I picked up my wine, chugged the remainder of it, and defiantly slammed the glass back on the table. “See you guys later.”

  I felt three pairs of eyes burn into my back as I exited the restaurant. The cold air didn’t even faze me as I walked to the car. As I waited for my car to heat up, I studied the package Dante had given me. It was wrapped in a simple silver paper, topped with a white bow. Should I open it?

  Just as I had my finger under the lip of the wrapping paper, I decided against it. I knew that inside the contents of the box had to be some sort of written apology. I was not going to accept it anyway, so why bother? I stuffed the gift in my glove compartment. One day, I was sure I’d get around to opening it. But I had more important things to worry about…

  Like December 31st.

  16

  Day 166

  The stirring of butterflies in my stomach woke me up at 4:30 a.m. Tonight was the confrontation I’d been waiting weeks for. But in order not to burn out, I needed to calm down.

  I went to the gym with Andrea and ran on the treadmill for an hour. We relaxed in the locker room’s sauna, and then I treated myself to a massage at the gym’s spa. Afterward, I went home and drew myself a hot Jacuzzi bath and lit candles all around the bathroom.

  Despite all of my efforts, my nerves were still shot.

  “Where are you going tonight?” My Mom grilled as I headed out the door for my hair and makeup appointment at Mona Lisa Salon.

  “I’m actually going to a work function,” I lied. “It’s a big charity gala with a lot of the area players.” That was true; a lot of Miguel’s teammates would be there.

  “Where?”

  “In New York.” I braced myself for her reaction; she was so paranoid about the city.

  “IN NEW YORK?! On New Year’s Eve? Are you crazy? What if they try to blow it up?”

  I rolled my eyes. “The security will be air-tight, Mom. Don’t worry.”

  “Is Dante going?”

  “No,” I glared at her. “Why would he be going?”

  “Because it’s a work thing,” Mom pointed out.

  “Well, he might be,” I recovered. “But he’s been working every night this week. God forbid Mr. Superstar isn’t on the air.”

  “Well, I’d feel more comfortable if Dante was going with you,” Mom replied.

  “Even if Dante was going, we wouldn’t be going together.”

  “I think that’s sad. You two used to be so close.” Mom frowned.

  “No, it isn’t,” I muttered.

  “I still don’t think you should be going to New York tonight.”

  “That’s nice,” I replied, trying my best to brush her words off my shoulder. I shot towards the door. “Bye!”

  ■ ■ ■

  While Olga, my pleasant Spanish hairdresser, blow-dried my hair, I lazily skimmed through the latest edition of This Week, my favorite celebrity tabloid. Nothing really tickled my interest until I saw it right there, on Page 16: Miguel and his wife, running on the beach with big smiles plastered across their faces.

  The caption read: Major League stud Miguel Martinez works up a sweat with “Personal Trainer to the Stars,” wife Trisha in Miami. Mixing business with pleasure seems to be working for this red hot couple!

  Even though this was probably a hidden-paparazzi candid shot, you would have thought it was an outtake from a professional workout video shoot. They looked impeccable. Trisha wore a white sports bra with matching yoga pants and sneakers. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun; her product-less face looked fresh and youthful. Miguel had on blac
k sneakers and black shorts, no shirt. I studied Miguel’s tanned, chiseled chest, the same one I woke up to forty-two days ago…in THEIR bed.

  I slapped the magazine on my lap. Divorce my ass! The magazine’s slogan was “No Stone Left Unturned.” They prided themselves on getting the exclusive celebrity dirt before any of the other outlets. If there was trouble in Martinez paradise, the caption wouldn’t have been so rosy.

  I felt an array of emotions—anger, because it confirmed that I had gotten duped that night; guilt, because I’d helped Trisha’s husband deceive her and their children, and embarrassment, because I showed my naiveté to this “player” and he and his friends probably shared a hearty laugh at my expense. I had every intention to tell Olga to stop styling my hair, then cancel on Kevin, speed home, throw on my pajamas, and celebrate New Year’s Eve in bed as I had originally planned.

  “Olga?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  I bit my lip. My logical side urged me to continue with canceling my plans. However, this tiny corner of my brain, the hot bed of irrational thinking that almost always got me into trouble, started drowning out all of my other thoughts.

  “What do you think you are doing?!” Irrationality roared. “You are going if it’s the last thing you do! Let him rue the day he was born!”

  “Yes, dear?” Olga repeated.

  I gulped. Who would win?

  “Never mind,” I sighed quietly, picking the magazine back up.

  ■ ■ ■

  “Carla, you look stunning!” Kevin gasped as we walked towards each other outside of The New York Club in the Financial District.

  “Thanks,” I blushed. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” While Kevin’s ill-fitting gray suit did little to hide the imperfections of his soft frame, he looked adorable with his slicked back hair and gold pinky ring. We would be fine, as long as I made it known that nothing more would come from this evening.

  As for me…too bad WSPS paid in peanuts, because if I had the money I’d have Olga move in with me so I could look like this every day. She styled my long, brown hair into a cascade of loose curls swept to the side in a romantic ponytail, and the smokey eye makeup she expertly applied heightened the look’s drama. As for the dress, it was $250 well spent; it hugged my curves as if I’d had it personally made.

  “Shall we go in?” he asked, holding out his arm.

  I giggled and linked my arm with his. “We shall.”

  I started to shake with anticipation as we walked up the concrete steps. The doorman politely nodded to us and opened the grand wooden door. There was madness awaiting us on the other side. The marble entryway was jammed with wall-to-wall people, and the air was loud with excitement. We made our way to a very pretty young girl at the check-in table.

  “Name?” she asked in a strong British accent, not bothering to look up from her clipboard. I never understood why these highbrow events always seem to employ such miserable souls. He handed her two tickets. “Kevin.”

  “Honey, I need a last name,” the rude hostess responded, finally looking up. Her otherwise-stunning gray eyes were bloodshot; she was either already drunk or had just finished “powdering her nose” in the bathroom.

  “Oh, right,” Kevin laughed nervously. “Russo. And guest.”

  I smiled at “and guest.” When was the last time I was on the right side of a plus one? It felt nice.

  “Here is your place card. Coat check is on your left. Move the line, please.”

  After we had checked our coats, we tried to squeeze our way to the cocktail hour. However, there was major rubbernecking going on by the step and repeat, so we were stuck amid a sea of hungry photographers.

  “Well, this sucks,” Kevin muttered.

  “A little bit,” I puffed.

  “I know you can’t see, but I just want to let you know that Miguel is on the red carpet,” Kevin reported.

  I pursed my lips as I casually tried standing on the tips of my toes, but even then I was too short to see above the wall of people. The only indication that someone of stature was in our presence was the amount of glamorati bulbs firing off against the wall. Then suddenly, the crowd slightly parted, and I had a clear shot of the red carpet.

  And I was going to be sick.

  Zeus and Hera, aka Miguel and Trisha, were hamming it up for the cameras. Miguel was wearing a crisp, stylish tuxedo and his trademark million-dollar grin. Trisha’s tanned, toned legs seemed to go on for days, and her presumably fake breasts perked up underneath her black couture dress. He had his left arm lovingly draped around her tiny waist, and she casually hung her right arm over his broad shoulder. Her other hand was on her hip, and I saw a diamond equivalent to the diameter of Mars perched on her finger. He whispered in her ear, and they shared a quick laugh.

  “Are you jealous?” Kevin teased.

  “Why the hell would I be jealous?” I snapped, probably a little too harshly.

  “Whoa relax. I’m only kidding. You can put the claws away,” Kevin uneasily chuckled.

  “I know you are kidding,” I blushed, slightly ashamed at how I jumped down his throat. Obviously, he didn’t mean any ill will by his comment. I shifted my focus back to the Golden Couple. After a few moments, Miguel decided to end the photo op by grabbing his wife’s hand, escorting her off the red carpet, and headed into the cocktail hour. The star-struck crowd started following suit, and we were allowed to move.

  “Finally!” Kevin exclaimed. “I’m starving.”

  My stomach growled in agreement. In my excitement/dread/anger/sadness/anticipation, I had completely forgotten to eat anything but a bowl of Special K cereal for breakfast. (I should get overly emotional more often.)

  Kevin quietly whistled as we entered the elegant ballroom. Various kinds of fancy food stations outlined the periphery. In its center, bartenders mixed drinks behind the vast circular bar, frantically trying to keep up with the high-profile patrons’ demands.

  “I can get used to this,” Kevin quipped, picking a Kobe beef slider off a passing waiter’s silver hors d’oeuvres tray.

  “It’s better than spending tonight at some dive bar with only cold chicken fingers to eat,” I laughed.

  We walked to the bar and got ourselves some drinks—Captain Morgan and Coke for Kevin, Kettle and club for me. Kevin and I reminisced about the good ol’ college days, and we both agreed we’d give anything to go back to that simpler time. (I looked back at my time in college more fondly than high school. I was more confident, and it was a heck of a lot more fun.)

  As we talked about our Intro to Broadcasting professor’s ridiculously fake toupee falling off in class, my smile quickly faded as I noticed two familiar figures walking towards our section of the bar.

  “Isn’t that your boss with Ruby Smith?” Kevin whispered.

  “Unfortunately,” I muttered, trying to nonchalantly hide behind Kevin, but it was too late. They saw me and were heading right for us.

  “Hi Carla,” Dan said, giving me a casual peck on the cheek that felt all kinds of weird. “You’re looking splendid.”

  “What are YOU doing here?” Ruby asked incredulously, crossing her arms.

  “For the same reason you are here…” I trailed off for effect. “To ring in the New Year and support a good cause. Dan, Ruby, meet Kevin Russo. We went to college together, and he works as a producer for N-Y-S. He asked me to accompany him this evening.”

  “Nice to meet you both! Carla’s said some wonderful things about you two and the station,” Kevin replied. I smirked; he definitely knew how to play the brown-nosing game one must play in this smoke-and-mirrors business.

  Dan and Ruby extended their hands, except Ruby didn’t bother looking in Kevin’s direction; she continued to gawk at my ensemble, which was rapidly making me feel uncomfortable.

  “Um, is something wrong?” Normally I wouldn’t even try to go there, but this was after-hours; I didn’t have to put on a front as I was forced to do every Monday through Friday. Call this the beginning of my New
Year’s Resolution, “Thou shalt not take bullshit from horrendous co-workers.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,’” she shrugged. “You usually dress like a slob when you come to work, so I’m a little taken aback seeing you look like a sophisticated woman.”

  Kevin gasped. Three months ago I would have too, but her rudeness occurred so frequently, nothing she said surprised me.

  “It’s a black tie affair, so unfortunately I had to put away the sweats,” I chuckled.

  “I wonder why,” Ruby sneered.

  “You wonder what?” I challenged.

  Dan interrupted us. “Ruby, why don’t we continue making our rounds?” He turned to me. “Be careful getting home.”

  “Remember to keep it professional,” Ruby smirked before they walked away. I returned the smug look back.

  “I hate her,” I blurted out to Kevin once they were out of earshot.

  “I can see why,” Kevin replied, disbelief still across his face. “And I can’t believe your boss lets her get away with talking to you like that.”

  “I hate him too!” I snapped.

  “Could that be why?” He motioned across the room.

  I followed Kevin’s line of sight. In plain view, for the entire New York sports world to see, was Dan Durkin’s hand glued to the taut backside of Ruby Smith. The thought of Dan and Ruby sleeping together crossed my mind more than once (thanks to Gwen’s father), but I prayed it wasn’t true. Female sportscasters have such a bad reputation for screwing their way to the top, and I wanted to believe that Dan—and even Ruby—conducted their business more honorably. But how else could you explain such a sleaze landing one of the premier jobs in all of sports radio? Now I knew why.

  “Maybe I should start sleeping my way to the top,” I joked, the tension from before melting away.

  Kevin’s eyes widened. “Hey now!”

  “You know what I mean,” I playfully shoved him.

  ■ ■ ■

  Forty-five minutes later, the party shifted over to the main ballroom. With its Roman columns, intricate plasterwork, sky-high ceilings and breathtaking views, the space was quintessential New York City.

  Kevin led me to a table near the dance floor. It had a stunning tree branch and tea light centerpiece, and neatly placed around its base was an assortment of New Year’s Eve party favors—hats, tiaras, beads, foil horns and squawkers. Since we were the first to arrive, I made sure our seats faced the room so I could have a clear shot of Miguel. When I sat down, I opened the cover of the thick ad book lying on my plate.