Jay walks in, leans against the doorway, and says to me, “You have a pretty voice.”
I stop singing immediately, smile and turn away shyly. Jay offers his hand to pull me into a dance. Still blushing, I tuck my right hand into his left, and my left hand onto his shoulder.
And the two of us sway to Clapton, right in the middle of the kitchen.
This is the dance I’ve been dreaming about for more than ten years. I can’t believe he’s really here—holding me. Dancing with me. Wanting me.
Jay. THE Jay Singh.
What on earth did I do to deserve this?
And there we dance, and my heart is beating so loudly that I can feel it in my throat. His cologne smells almost spicy. It’s subtle, and warm, and mixes with the clean scent of his recently shampooed hair. And as silly as I know it is to feel this way, I want to inhale his scent forever.
After a few more minutes the song begins to end. Jay pulls away from me ever so slightly and exquisitely sings the last line along with Clapton:
“Oh, my darling, you are wonderful tonight.”
He leans in and softly kisses me on the lips, and I already know that I will go back and replay this memory over and over in my head for the next few months like a high school girl obsessing over her first crush.
At this point, I also know he’s right—we are totally sleeping together tonight. This was even more romantic than attending a cat funeral.
TWELVE
After several hours of him playing offense, and me playing defense, eventually I scored. Well, I’m choosing to see it that way anyway.
The sex is amazing. So perfect that in a way I almost wish it hadn’t been, because he leaves tomorrow morning, and now I’m going to miss him even more than I would have before.
Afterward, Jay gently puts his arm around me, I lean into that sweet spot between his chest and his arm, and we cuddle.
It’s one of those rare moments in life when everything is perfect, and you want for nothing.
Meaning the moment when my brain starts racing.
I shouldn’t have done this! In effect, we just started dating yesterday. Plus, isn’t there some long-standing tradition about men trying to land a bridesmaid at a wedding? So, like an idiot I just played into that one. Plus, how can we forge a relationship if he lives on the other side of the planet? Sure, I can fantasize about quitting my job and packing up my whole life and moving to Paris, but I would never really do it. All of my friends are here. I don’t even speak French. Plus, I am now one of those women who jumps ahead in the relationship the minute she jumps ahead in the boudoir. (Did I just think the word boudoir?) Plus …
“What are you thinking about?” Jay whispers to me softly.
I smile and sort of flirt as I say, “That I’m a slut.”
Jay pulls his head away from me slightly to get a better look at me. “Really? So am I. What a coincidence.” He smiles and gives me a soft kiss on my cheek.
“Also that I wish you could stay longer,” I admit.
Why did I say that? Guys already want to leave the minute sex is over. They’re already scared of commitment. Why give him another reason to hightail it out of here?
“Me too,” Jay says quietly. “But I’ll be back Thursday.”
“Yeah, but you’ll be with your family, and I have friends coming into town, and by Thursday, things’ll be different, you know?”
He strokes my arm softly. “In what way will things be different?”
I interlace his fingers in mine, bring his hand up to my lips, and kiss it lightly. “I don’t know. They just will. Once a man sleeps with a woman, the chase is over, and he looks at her differently.”
Jay gives me a hug and whispers, “You’re overthinking this. Let your brain calm down and go to sleep.” Then he pulls me into spooning position and closes his eyes.
Which of course is my cue for my brain to start racing again: What did that mean? Go to sleep? How was I supposed to interpret his tone? Sweet? Or was I being chastised? Is this a onetime thing, similar to what happened to those girls back in college, when he’d have two in a weekend? Or do I get to at least look forward to next weekend? Will there be another woman in San Francisco, then another at the wedding? Do we have any shot at a meaningful relationship, or did I just set myself up to start crying sometime in the next few weeks.…
“Your brain is still going a mile a minute, isn’t it?” Jay asks knowingly with his eyes still closed.
“Yes,” I say sheepishly.
“So does that mean you won’t be my date to the wedding?”
I sit up and turn to him. “Do you really want me to be?”
He opens his eyes. “Ye-es. I really want you to be,” he says in a tone that lets me know that I should have assumed that. “In case I’ve been too subtle, I like you. I like you a lot.”
“I … I like you too.” I pause. “Very much.”
“So, you ready to go to sleep now?”
He likes me. He really likes me. I lie back down, grinning from ear to ear, and close my eyes. “Uh-huh.”
About a minute later, I pop my eyes back open. “Can we have sex in the morning before you leave?”
Jay gives my belly a little squeeze with his arm. “I’m a guy. As such, I refuse to dignify that question with a response.”
THIRTEEN
Monday morning, I dropped Jay off at the airport. We made out at every red light on the way over there. We made out at the curb for so long, a TSA agent told me to move my car. The moment I pulled my car away, my phone beeped that I had a text.
Miss you already.
Life was good. So good that instead of a morning doughnut, I had a black coffee, then went home and got in my first run in weeks. (Okay, months. Shut up.)
That afternoon, Nic and I are sitting in a posh Beverly Hills bridal salon, wearing our red velvet bridesmaid’s dresses, sipping complimentary champagne and bubbly water (although, at these prices, I can’t say the word complimentary with a straight face) and waiting for Seema to emerge from her dressing room, wearing the gown she’ll be dressed in for the Western ceremony. This is her final fitting, and things are not going as planned.
“It doesn’t fit!” Seema yells from her dressing room.
“Of course it doesn’t fit!” Nic yells back. “You’re the one who insisted they take it in another inch at the waist. Dirty little bridal secret: no one loses weight right before their wedding—we all gain. The seating chart alone can send you to a bag of Oreos before breakfast. You should have the seamstress let it back out.”
“No!” Seema insists. “I spent over four hundred dollars on a custom-fitted lace bustier just to get into this dress, and I will be damned if I’m not going to fit into it on Saturday.”
“Seema, there is nothing wrong with being curvy,” I say to her. “Men love Beyoncé, and she’s—”
“If you mention Beyoncé one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to come out there and eat you,” Seema threatens. Then she makes a grunting sound that I’m pretty sure I’ve only heard in national parks.
“Sweetheart, is there anything I can do to help?” Sandra, the matronly bridal saleswoman, asks her pleasantly.
“No. Go away,” Seema snaps at her.
“I think I know a little trick—”
“I’m not wearing the girdle!”
“It’s not a girdle,” Sandra assures Seema. “It’s Spanx. Those are totally different.”
We all know what Spanx are. Who is this woman kidding?
Sandra continues, “You could wear it to the ceremony, then change into your honeymoon ensemble later that evening, in the privacy of your hotel suite.”
There’s silence in the dressing room. Seema’s at least considering the idea.
“Nic, did you change into your wedding-night ensemble after your wedding?” Seema asks through the dressing-room door.
“You’re talking to the wrong girl. After my wedding, I was on a red-eye with my new husband and two new stepdaughters en rout
e to Disney World. Changing into a skanky bit of red lace and matching thong might have seemed inappropriate.”
“Hey!” Seema shouts. “My outfit is not skanky.”
“What? I meant that in a good way.”
We hear some quiet crinkling in the other room.
Nic makes a show of raising her tiny nose in the air and taking a good whiff. “Did you sneak Milanos in there?”
Seema opens her door and tosses a half-eaten bag out to me.
I catch it and open the bag. Then Nic and I share what’s left of the cookies as Sandra gently continues to make her case: “If you could just try the Spanx on, ma’am.”
“Oh, fine,” Seema says. “But can you bring me some champagne to dull the pain?”
Sandra smiles. “Of course.”
Sandra pulls a pair of nude-colored Spanx from a drawer, then pours a glass of champagne from a bottle in a silver bucket and brings it to Seema’s fitting room. Seema reluctantly opens her door to let the woman in.
Champagne at work. That doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe I could become a wedding-gown salesperson. I do like reality shows with weddings—particularly the ones that show gowns. I wonder, are there any money trees in this store? I glance around the store just as Sandra shuts Seema’s door.
The moment we’re alone, Nic turns to me, and her face lights up. “So how was he?” she whispers.
My index finger shoots up to my lips. “Shh!” Then I lean in. “I didn’t sleep with him.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?! Um, because I’ve been dating him for all of thirty-six hours.”
“You’re not dating him at all. And you’ve known him almost half your life. It’s time to close the deal.”
“First of all, you’re being crass. Secondly, I have not known him half of my life, you’re making me sound ancient.”
Nic crosses her arms. “How old are you now?”
“Thirty-two.”
“And what’s half of thirty-two?”
“I don’t like where this is headed.”
“Sixteen. You met him when you were eighteen. Close enough.”
Shit. I have known him for almost half of my life. Well, that’s just creepy.
“Time to”—Nic pumps her fist—“rock … his … world.”
“Okay.… First off, blondes should never say ‘Rock his world’ unless they’re playing Sleazy Party Guest Number Two in a raunchy sex comedy from the nineties!” Seema yells from her dressing room. “And secondly, for God’s sakes, that’s my idiot brother you’re talking about. Obviously, she did him, but have a little discretion.”
Nic turns to shut the door. “What?” Then back to me. “Really?”
Oh, shit. “Did he tell you I slept with him?” I yell toward Seema’s door.
“No. He swore up and down that you didn’t. Which means you did. Don’t lie to us. One, it’s unbecoming, and two, you suck at it, so knock it off.”
I involuntarily look at the ground sheepishly. Nic observes me. “You totally nailed it,” Nic yells toward Seema. “And she totally nailed him.”
“Did it ever occur to you that I didn’t nail him, he nailed me!” I blurt out defensively. “Wait, that didn’t sound right.”
“Ladies, take a look at our beautiful bride!” Sandra chirps cheerfully from the dressing room.
Sandra opens the door, and Seema walks out. I smile and cover my mouth with my hands. Happy tears begin to well up in my eyes. “Oh, my God. You are gorgeous.”
And she is. The ivory, V-neck, floor-length sheath gown by Allure Couture is covered in tiny Swarovski crystals, so she literally sparkles as she walks out to us. “You don’t think it makes me look fat?” Seema asks me.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Nic tells her at the same time as I assure her, “You’re stunning.”
Worried, Seema turns to see her backside in one of the many full-length mirrors in the salon. Rather than admiring how perfect she looks with the sparkly sweep train, she says, “I think I may have to take up smoking for the next few days.”
“Seema…,” Nic admonishes.
“Or Dexedrine. How hard do you think it is to get Dexedrine if you order it online from Canada?”
Sandra makes an adjustment to the back of the dress. “The Spanx work like a charm. You’re perfect.”
Seema sighs nervously at her reflection, then turns to us. “Okay, girls, come stand next to me. I want to see how we look together.”
Nic places both hands on her overstuffed armchair and pushes herself up and off in a practiced pregnant woman’s move, then moseys her way over to Seema. I also walk over. Nic stands on Seema’s right, while I stand to her left.
And there the three of us are. Grown-ups. One about to be married, and another already married, with a baby on the way. Back when we were in college, during those middle-of-the-night conversations when we should have been studying for finals, we would talk about boys, weddings, babies, and careers. Futures that, back then, always seemed like a lifetime away. Futures that on alternate nights (sometimes alternate hours) thrilled us, worried us, and occasionally scared the hell out of us.
And here we are now. The future’s here.
Seema silently scrutinizes our reflections, deep in thought.
“Well,” I ask her, “what do you think?”
She puckers up her lips, then slowly nods her head. “I’d do us.”
FOURTEEN
The next several hours are spent with Seema and me doing wedding-y stuff: picking up the dresses, walking through the hotel venue one more time, confirming details for the outdoor Indian ceremony in the morning, the late-afternoon, indoor Western ceremony, and the lavish reception that evening. Finally, we headed out to Big Sugar Bakeshop.
No—not to confirm the wedding cake—to get cupcakes. It’s been a stressful day, and nothing releases stress quite like a cupcake. Well, okay, yes—sex. But it’s easier to procure a cupcake on short notice.
Speaking of sex, throughout the day, Jay has been texting me. Oddly enough, as much as I hate texting, in his case I am pleased. Because this way, Seema doesn’t know whom I’m “on the phone” with. And I can check my texts whenever she isn’t paying attention to me (and with it being her wedding week, that’s pretty much anytime). So I’ve been getting everything from sweet texts such as Miss u. Can’t wait 4 Thursday! and You were so cute this morning to ones that I am torn between finding exciting and wanting to delete immediately. (If texting makes me nervous, one can imagine how I feel about sexting.)
So, are you out buying sexy new underwear?
You’re a pig.
But if a woman really likes a guy, doesn’t she go out and buy new underwear?
Who told you that?
My sixty-year-old boss—but she’s French, so somehow it sounds charming when she says it.
Well, it doesn’t sound charming when you say it.
I’ll bet you look good in red lace.
I’m hanging up now.
“Are you texting him again?” Seema asks me as she parks her car in our driveway.
“No,” I say as my fingers race around the keyboard.
Seema turns off her car and begins to gather up her purse, the box with her veil, and the box with the rest of the cupcakes. “You know, if you write back to him immediately, the chase is over.”
“The chase went on for over ten years,” I say as I hit send. I look up at her and smile. “I like it better now.”
“Just be careful.” She opens her car door. “Can you bring in my dress with yours? I have too much to carry.”
“Done.” I grab both her wedding gown and my maid-of-honor dress from the rack in the backseat.
I take our gowns out of her car and we head into the house. As we walk up the flagstone pathway, Seema asks, “Do you want me to ask him what his intentions are?”
“Yeah, that would be perfect,” I say, trying to make my voice drip with sarcasm. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you ask him how many children we’re g
oing to have, and if he sees himself having a summer or winter wedding?”
Seema gives me an amused look. “Point taken.” She looks down at her stomach and sighs. “Man, I’m huge. I should not have had that second cupcake.”
“And to think you were only going to order one?” I mock. “I knew it wouldn’t get out of the car alive.”
Seema points to me. “You are a bad influence.”
She puts her key in the lock, and we open the door to find a stunningly beautiful redheaded woman posing on a stool, naked, in the middle of our living room. To her right is Scott, covered in red paint, an easel with canvas in front of him. Scott, paintbrush in hand, lights up when he sees Seema. “Hey, you’re home early.”
“Yeah, I am,” she nearly spits as she storms in, crazed, and heads right to him. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
I keep the door open and try to neutralize the situation. “Clearly you’re working,” I say, even though I’m not even sure he is. “We can come back.”
Scott ignores me, instead giving Seema an exasperated look. “Honey, you said you wanted me to give up the loft. If you want me to work from home, you have to be ready to see stuff like this, and not freak out.”
“Oh, I am going to freak out all right,” Seema challenges. “I am going to freak the fuck out! Seriously, what the hell were you thinking?”
The model instinctively tries to cover up her privates with her hands. “I thought your wife was cool with all this,” she says to Scott as she walks over to our white chair and grabs a button-up shirt.
“Oh, I’m so not cool with all this!” Seema bellows at the model. Then she turns her anger back to Scott. “You got paint all over my hand-knotted wool rug.”
“Wait,” I say, a bit confused. “You’re mad about the mess? You’re not mad that he has a naked woman in the middle of the room?”
“I would be if he covered her in paint and let her roll all over my rug,” Seema yells, then grabs a wet rag, drops to the floor, and tries to clean up a giant red splotch in the middle of the floor. “Seriously, the rug’s black-and-white. You’re covered in red paint. What is your next piece called? Newlywed Murder?”
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