Ten Years Later

by Lisa Marie Latino

  I guess the prospect of living like me did the trick because it made Gwen snap out of it and envelope me in a huge hug. “Thank you for talking me off the ledge,” Gwen whispered.

  “You and I both know Jimmy loves you more than life itself, and that he would never intentionally hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She pulled away from me, her tears all but evaporated. “Yes. Let’s get married!”

  ■ ■ ■

  The ceremony started on time without a hitch.

  After Jimmy had gotten engaged, I dreaded the prospect of walking down this very aisle. One of the many reoccurring nightmares I had involved the congregation jeering at Jimmy’s “old maid” sister while throwing lemons in my direction as I made my way to the altar. But today’s trip felt anything but bittersweet—I had a hot piece of arm candy to escort me (Austin, Gwen’s totally hot-yet-married cousin…such was my life) and I stood a little taller knowing my heroics saved the day (and I was a proud big sister too, yeah, yeah, yeah).

  As I got to the end of the aisle, Jimmy (who looked so handsome in his black tuxedo) gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up. I glanced over at my parents, who were sitting in the front row. Dad looked like 140 pounds had been lifted off his shoulders (as in, the approximate weight of my mother). Speaking of, I couldn’t tell if she was at a wedding or a funeral.

  When Gwen and her father appeared at the top of the castle’s stone stairway, audible gasps filled the air. She marched towards her groom wearing a stunning, satin ball gown, embellished with intricate embroidery, beads, and crystals. Peeking from underneath the full-length skirt was a pair of chic yellow cowboy boots, an ode to her Texan roots (thankfully she didn’t make the bridesmaids pay homage). Her best accessory, besides the extravagant bouquet of yellow roses she was clutching, was her dazzling smile.

  Jimmy wiped a tear from his eye as he shook hands with Mr. Carrington, and again before pulling back Gwen’s veil. The soon-to-be Mr. and Mrs. D’Agostino lovingly joined hands and locked eyes. They looked completely smitten, and it was hard to fathom that only a few hours ago, this union had been in serious turmoil.

  When the energy died down, and the pastor kicked off the service, my mind immediately wandered to where it had been this morning—Miguel. What would our reunion be like? Would it be riddled with awkwardness? Or would I be able to jump right back in? Should I confront him about New Years? Psh, after New Year’s he’s lucky if I even do reach out to him…

  The Q&A session continued to swirl around in my head until I heard my cue to snap back to reality: “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  Released from my thoughts, I grabbed my bouquet and sprinted behind the giddy newlyweds.

  ■ ■ ■

  After the wedding party had taken endless amounts of photos around the compound, we joined the rest of the flock in the lower terrace for the cocktail hour. This hour of goodness was what heaven had to be like—miles of tables full of first-class seafood, prime cut steaks, greasy hors d’oeuvres and top shelf liquor… calorie-free, of course. As I plucked my 3rd pig in a blanket off the waiter’s sterling silver tray, I heard two familiar voices calling my name. “Finally, we found you!” Andrea said, kissing me on the cheek.

  “You look like such a princess!” Katie gushed, kissing me on the cheek.

  I popped the cocktail in my mouth. “More like a damsel in distress.”

  “Why what happened?” Katie asked.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my silver clutch and retrieved Miguel’s text. “Read.”

  Both of their jaws dropped to the floor.

  “My reaction exactly. I have no idea what to do.”

  “Well I do—just ignore him!” Andrea exclaimed.

  “What he did to you was wrong. He doesn’t deserve a response after all this time, especially after that New Year’s party,” Katie added.

  “Besides, I thought you were over him.”

  “I was…um, I am.” I threw my hands up in the air exasperatedly. “I don’t know, I mean, what’s one date?”

  “It’s more than just one date!” Andrea exclaimed. “You’re both high profile people, him especially. It’s only going to end in disaster.”

  “Carla, I don’t know too much about your business, but if you get caught with an athlete, can’t you lose your job?” Katie added.

  “It’s worked for most of the girls on E-S-P-N,” I shrugged.

  “But if you got fired for something like this, it’s going to affect Dante as well. And that’s not fair to him.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Dante is untouchable. If I actually did get fired, Dan would just pair him with someone else.”

  “Waaaaaait a second,” Andrea took a step back. “You’d be willing to lose your job over some fly-by-night baseball player?”

  “Who said that? I’m just telling it how it is when it comes to Dante.”

  “By even hinting towards that hypothetical, it means that there would be a chance you’d get canned.”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “You didn’t deny it either.”

  “Because there is nothing to deny!”

  “STOP!” Katie snapped. “We all know—even you Carla—that getting back in touch with Miguel is a bad idea. Now let’s just forget about this and enjoy the night.”

  “Easy for you to say; you both have dates here,” I muttered.

  ■ ■ ■

  Between eating, drinking, and mingling, I managed to shelve my thoughts about Miguel for a few hours and had a decent time. But the reprieve didn’t last long. After the Venetian hour, all 250 guests were ushered outside to a large balcony and treated to a fireworks show, an ode to the Fourth of July night Jimmy and Gwen got engaged.

  As the brilliant array of colors filled the night sky, I reminisced about our family vacations in Wildwood every summer. Every Friday was the “Summer Fireworks Extravaganza” and the four of us would settle on Wildwood’s amazingly wide beach to watch. I remembered studying the sea of couples surrounding us, who were either holding hands, or snuggling, or full-on making out. (Looking back, some of those couples might have been doing more than making out.) Even at my young age, it wasn’t lost on me just how romantic the setting was. I couldn’t wait to get older, so I could do that with someone. Well, I was older now…yet I was still waiting.

  And I refused to wait anymore.

  I pushed my way through the crowd and went inside. I made a beeline for my table, sat down and grabbed my cell phone. I understood where Andrea and Katie were coming from, and I appreciated their wanting to protect me. I hadn’t had these butterfly feelings in such a long time; didn’t I owe it to myself to at least find out what he wanted? I opened Miguel’s text message and started typing away.

  Me: Hey stranger! Everything is good with me, how is everything with you?

  I placed the phone down and tapped my fingers on the table. I looked around the empty dining room and counted to ten. I checked my phone—nothing. Counted to ten again—still nothing.

  I was an idiot. I should have responded the second I received the text that morning. He probably forgot all about—

  My phone lit up.

  Miguel Martinez Cell: Everything is great. I heard you on the radio not long ago. Congratulations on the show, you deserve it!

  Beaming, I immediately wrote back.

  Me: Thank you! It’s been going great. The Yankees are having an incredible season so far, so you’re definitely making my job easier :)

  As soon I hit send…

  Miguel Martinez Cell: Thank you, it has. We should go out to celebrate. What are you doing Wednesday night?

  My heart dropped to the floor.

  Me: Nothing so far! What did you have in mind?

  I knew I was breaking every dating rule in the book by making myself so available, but WHO CARED?

  Miguel Martinez Cell: Let’s do dinner. I know of this great new Italian spot downtown. We have a day
game Wednesday, and we’re off on Thursday, so we can really enjoy ourselves ;)

  It’s SO ON!

  Me: Sounds perfect! What time?

  Miguel Martinez Cell: Let’s say 7 o’clock. The place is called Gufo.

  Me: Great, I’ll see you then!

  Miguel Martinez Cell: Ok gorgeous. See you soon.

  At that point, I heard the door open, and everyone started to file back in.

  I gave the crowd a sly smile. While the fireworks show ended for them…they were only just beginning for me.

  22

  Day 317

  Four long, agonizing days later, Wednesday mercifully arrived. After spending the past few days (ok, months) shrouded in a blanket of hair-pulling angst, that morning I emerged from my cocoon a rejuvenated butterfly—and the world smiled back. The sun was shinin’, the birds were chirpin’; I could have skipped all the way to work (or better yet, skipped it in general).

  Actually, I’d probably be doing our listeners a favor if I called in sick; I just could not focus. When we took calls about the Yankees, the mere mention of the team launched another one of my frenzied Miguel fantasies, rendering me useless throughout the rest of the conversation.

  “Earth to Carla!” Dante had to say more than once.

  After the show, I hopped a cab to a swanky spa for an afternoon of luxurious pampering. So what if the cost almost equaled a week’s worth of salary? I had to look my absolute best and, more importantly, relax my jittery anticipation. At first, it actually worked; I managed to float away from my thoughts for a couple hours.

  Then…lunch happened.

  After I had settled in with a gourmet meal of lemon-sage chicken with scallions and pine nut rice, I rebelled against the place’s no-electronic-devices-allowed policy and checked the score of the Yankees’ matinee game. To my dismay, they were losing to the lowly Minnesota Twins 3-2 in the top of the seventh inning. Miguel had not registered a hit in three tries, putting his modest 13-game hitting streak in jeopardy.

  To you and me, losing one1 game out of 162 wouldn’t be that big a deal. But to a fierce competitor like Miguel, it’s the difference between life and death. Worse, a defeat would not put him in the optimal dinner-date mood.

  A worrisome thought flashed in my mind: What if he cancels? Suddenly, the $45 chicken dish tasted like sawdust. My uneasiness continued to swirl up until the last stroke of the makeup artist’s brush. The second he announced his work of art was complete, I bypassed checking his effort (and all manners) and whizzed to the locker room. My heart sank as I read the headline:

  Yankees Fall to Twins, 4-3; Martinez Hitting Streak Snapped, Registers Two Errors

  Of course, Miguel would have his worst game of the season today; why would my luck have it any other way?

  Despite the box score, there was no cancellation message. Since dinner reservations were in an hour, I took that as a safe sign and got dressed. I put on a brown, one-shoulder, ruched silhouette dress with gold sandals and matching accessories. Thanks to all of the spa treatments, I glowed from head-to-toe—but felt the complete opposite.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was in the back seat of a taxi, praying for my life. I appreciated that the driver took to heart my words “Move it!”, but this was ridiculous; he was practically driving on the sidewalk! “Can you please slow down?” I demanded.

  “You told me you were in a rush, now you want me to slow down?” he snapped in a heavy Middle Eastern accent.

  I wanted to knock the white turban off his head. “Okay, but you almost hit that group of Asian tourists back there!”

  “Sit back and be quiet, please. I’m the driver.”

  “UGH!” I grunted, crossing my arms. See, this was why I didn’t do public transportation.

  Moments later, we pulled up to the WSPS parking garage with our lives still intact.

  “Can you wait here? I’ll be right back, I just need to throw my bags in the car.”

  “Hurry up!”

  The damn elevator was taking centuries, so I awkwardly sprinted upstairs in my three-inch heels, threw my stuff in the car, and did a swift about-face. However, halfway down I must have put too much thrust on my engines because I completely lost balance.

  “AHHHH!” I screamed as I slid down the concrete steps on my back, landing on my butt at the bottom. My eyes immediately went to my right ankle, which was already starting to balloon. I looked up helplessly across the parking lot to the cab driver, who was glaring at me through the open window.

  “What are you doing? Get up!” he shouted.

  With the help of the railing, I gingerly tried standing upright. The second I put a pound of pressure on my ankle, it buckled.

  “I…I can’t!” I cried. “It hurts!”

  He muttered what I assumed to be expletives in his native language, and barreled out of the car. “Let’s go,” he ordered, pulling my arm out of its socket.

  “OW! Stop, you’re hurting me!”

  “Make up your mind. What hurts, your arm or your leg?”

  “Both… now!”

  The cab driver rolled his eyes and crouched down at my feet. “Let me see.”

  I glared at him. “What do you know about twisted ankles?”

  “Please be quiet, for five seconds. I beg you,” he demanded as he gently pressed on my ankle.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” I whined, ignoring his wishes. “I have a really big date in, like, ten minutes and—”

  Crrrrrrrrrrrack!

  “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?”

  “I popped your ankle back in place. Stand up now.”

  I glared at him as I attempted to slowly walk. There was still so much pain, but at least I wasn’t toppling over myself.

  “How did you do that?” I breathed.

  “I’m a magician,” he deadpanned.

  “Well is there any way your powers can shrink my ankle back to normal?”

  “No. You have big ankles anyway; no one will notice the difference.”

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Thank you, um—”

  “Mohammed.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mohammed. My name is—”

  “I don’t care what your name is. Get in my car, please. And no talking; you give me a headache.”

  I scanned my body to make sure I didn’t have any other bumps or bruises. Once I declared myself okay, I limped towards the car and climbed in the front.

  “What are you doing, get in the back!” Mohammad ordered.

  “I need your mirror! I have to make sure my hair is okay.”

  Mohammad grumbled more Arabic and put the car in drive.

  Luckily, my hair was fine, but I think it was the only part of me that went untouched. I leaned my aching head against the headrest and closed my eyes. I was already so spent…and the night hadn’t even started yet!

  “Where do you need to go?” Mohammad demanded.

  “Gufo Restaurant in Little Italy.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  “Actually, no,” I replied, twisting my body to grab my purse from the back. “Let me look it up.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Don’t even bother.”

  As Mohammad set up his GPS, I noticed I had one new notification. A text from Miguel!

  Miguel Martinez Cell: Hey Carla, can we do a rain check? Bad game today, really not up for going out tonight.

  I KNEW IT! But even though I had predicted it, it didn’t make me any less angry. I mean, are you serious? You’re going to text me—not even call me, TEXT ME—and cancel SECONDS before our date, all because you lost one, stupid, little game? And so what if you couldn’t manage a hit off of a borderline minor league pitcher; does that give you an excuse to lose all decency and class? It was a thirteen-game hitting streak; it wasn’t like you were in Joe DiMaggio territory.

  I glared at my ornery cab driver. To hell with his rules; I had to give Miguel a piece of my mind.

  “Mohammad, I’m sorry, but I have to make a
phone call.”

  Without taking his eyes off the road, he put his index finger to his lips. “What did I say? Shhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  “I will give you double the tip. Please, let me make this call!”

  Mohammad angrily shook his head. Taking that as a yes, I hit “send.”

  “Hello?” Miguel answered glumly on the fourth ring.

  “Heyyyy,” I too-sweetly purred. “What’s going on?”

  “Baby, I’m not in the mood to be out in public. It was a really ugly game.”

  “I know. But you still have to eat.”

  “Yeah, but on nights like this, I’m better off being alone in my apartment, watching game tape, and ordering in.”

  Then we’ll hang out there, I smirked. I didn’t say anything and waited for his invitation.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  Guess not. “That’s not a healthy approach, Miguel. You need to get away for a couple hours and clear your head.”

  “I’m never away from it; that’s the problem. People don’t care you’re out to dinner, or at your kid’s school play, or at your ex-wife’s grandmother’s funeral. They just want a picture, an autograph, or an opportunity to tell you what a piece of shit you are. It’s a lot for one person to handle, and I’m in no mood to deal with it tonight!”

  With the lovely exception of his divorce proclamation (it sounded so much better coming from him than from the press), all I heard was “blah, blah, blah!” I had to bite my tongue from replying with, “Quit being such a cry baby. You make more money than half the population of New York City put together; suck it up!” If I learned anything from dealing with Ruby, it was how to tame the animal with gentle strokes.

  “If anyone understands the tremendous pressure athletes are under in this town, it’s me. I wouldn’t be able to help the psyche of my distressed callers if I didn’t—”

  “Yeah, you help by riling everybody up,” Miguel bitterly finished.

  He did have a point. “But if fans didn’t have us as a sounding board, you’d have triple the amount of people bothering you.”

  “I guess. Okay baby, I’m going to go. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”

  “WAIT!” Despite better judgment, I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. “I’ll tell you what. I’m already on my way to the restaurant. I’ll talk to the owner and make sure our table is in a private area where nobody can bother us.”