Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Maybe he thinks I’m old. A guy like that could have any twenty-two-year-old model he wanted. Why would I even think he’d give me the time of day?

  And I’m sure he thinks I’m a tubbo. This is a guy who runs every day of his life. He’s going to want a Liam equivalent. And, unfortunately, I am a Charlie equivalent.

  Man, why did I let this guy into my house? So I can feel bad about myself, and completely unworthy, for the next three weeks?

  I hear water running in my bathroom.

  Good, he’s still up.

  Why is it good he’s still up? What am I going to do? Ambush him in the bathroom? Pin him against the light blue tiled walls, and show him who’s boss?

  I wonder what he’s wearing. Probably boxers. He seems like a sexy boxer guy to me.

  As my mind wanders into a fantasy of Liam with a bare chest allowing me to reach into his boxers, the water stops. I strain to hear him walk quietly through my hallway, then close his door.

  I listen for more, but can’t hear much. A clock radio being set. Then my guest bed creaking as he climbs in.

  I’m in my own version of Hell.

  I wonder what he would do if I knocked on his door right now? Well, answer it, of course. But what if, when he did, I just kissed him. What if I just put my arms around him, tilted my head, closed my eyes, and . . .

  Oh, for God’s sake Edwards, the poor man is captive in your house. At this point he’d kiss you back just to be polite, then find a new place to stay in the morning. And then he’d be out of your life for good.

  And I don’t want that. So: plan B. What if I knocked, and asked if I could stay with him tonight? I could just say I’m upset about Jordan, but don’t want to talk about it, and could we just snuggle? Then if he wanted to try something . . .

  It would only be because he had a half-naked woman in his bed.

  I sit up in my bed, and sigh. I can’t sleep. Not this worked up. I decide to go downstairs, and check my e-mail.

  I try to silently open my door, but it creaks as I slowly pull it open. I tippy toe past Liam’s room, and silently walk down the stairs.

  Never drink alone.

  Before heading into my office, I decide I want some chamomile tea. I head into my kitchen, fill my kettle with water, then silently open the cabinet where I keep the tea bags.

  I hear Liam’s door open. Hope swells: maybe he’ll come downstairs and talk to me.

  I strain to listen for upstairs foot traffic, but all is silent.

  Oh well. Maybe it was my imagination. As I pull a tea bag from a box of Tazo Calm, an infusion of chamomile and rose petals, Liam appears in the doorway.

  He’s wearing nothing but boxers, (I knew it!) and looks even more doable than I could have imagined. It’s at that moment, I suddenly remember that I’m in my favorite pair of Eeyore pajama bottoms with matching Eeyore T-shirt and big yellow, furry slippers (they look like big Tweety birds).

  “Are you okay?” Liam asks, not sounding wildly worried about me, but definitely concerned.

  “I’m fine,” I say, a little confused. “I just can’t sleep. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  He stands in the doorway for a moment, crossing his arms, not saying anything. Finally, he says, “Okay, Good night then.”

  “Good night.”

  Liam turns to leave.

  “Do you want some decaf tea before we go to bed?” I ask quickly. “I have Chamomile and Rose, or Sweet Orange.”

  “The orange sounds good. Let me go throw on a robe, and I’ll meet you back down here.”

  Yay.

  As the kettle boils, I happily grab another mug and tea bag, and internally praise myself for managing to keep the evening going. I fill the mugs with boiling water, then practically trot over to my living-room couch.

  I put down the mugs on the coffee table, then have a seat. I’m so nervous, my back is ramrod straight. I take a deep breath to try and relax, but as I lean back on the couch, I realize I look like I’m trying too hard. Before I can decide on a look, I see Liam heading back down the stairs, wearing a terrycloth robe.

  Liam sits. I hand him his tea. “Thank you,” he says.

  “Did you need cream or sugar?”

  “No, no. This is good,” Liam says.

  And we’re both silent.

  There’s nothing wrong with silence. Don’t always race to fill up the silence with words.

  As I watch him blow on his tea, I debate what to do. Lean over and softly kiss his cheek, then hope he gets the hint and makes his move? Treat his lips like a bull’s eye, and make mine an arrow to be shot right at him at a hundred miles per hour? Coyly untie his robe, and grab him by his . . .

  As I lean in coyly toward Liam, he furrows his brow and asks, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  I pull my body back. “Sure,” I say awkwardly.

  “If it’s none of my business, you can tell me.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. “Okay,” I say.

  “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

  I stare at Liam. When did the evening go in this direction? “Cat-woman,” I finally answer. Off his dubious look, I elaborate. “Seriously. She was hot. She was confident. She never had to hold down a real job, and she could have Batman in two shakes of a cat’s tail.”

  Liam smiles. “Okay, fair enough. I suppose I wanted to be a fireman when I grew up. What I mean is, what do you see yourself doing in ten years?”

  I sigh. “That’s a great question for a Monday night after I’ve broken up with my boyfriend. Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry,” Liam apologizes. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about ever since I ran into you at the Halloween party. Have you ever thought about producing?”

  “Movies?” I sputter out. “God, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have no interest in being a money-grubbing sociopath who got into the business to get rich, terrorize employees, and get laid by would-be starlets,” I blurt out. Then I backtrack. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Liam says, quietly chuckling at my assessment. “Although permit me to argue another side. As a producer, I track down screenplays that really speak to me, and pair them up with actors and directors who can make me laugh, or choke me up inside. Then I find someone with the money to get a film made with all of those talented people. And by handling all the countless other details in getting a film made, I become the glue that brings all of these people together to tell a story that might otherwise go untold. I think that’s kind of a cool calling in life. Don’t you?”

  As I pick up my mug, I chuckle at a private thought.

  “What?” Liam asks.

  “Oh nothing. I just started thinking about all of the countless details I handle for Drew. If you ever suddenly need a hippo wrangler, a 1968 Jaguar XJ6, or a professional window washer willing to work at three A.M., I’m your girl.”

  Liam smiles. “Which is exactly what a producer does. He or she finds whatever his or her people need to get a movie made. By the way, can you really track down old cars like the 1968 Jaguar XJ6?”

  “Sure.”

  “Because we need to find a 1966 Mercedes 250SL by next Monday morning. Would you be able to locate one of those?”

  “I’ll give you Sid Falco’s number. He rents restored cars. If he doesn’t have it, he’ll find it in twenty-four hours or less.”

  Liam breaks into a proud smile.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re a producer. You just don’t know it yet.”

  I turn away from him, embarrassed. “Yeah, right. I’m not even vaguely qualified to be a producer.”

  Liam furrows his brow at me. “You not only managed to get one of the biggest stars in the world to read a script in a day, but you convinced him to commit to a movie that shot the next day, which is lightning speed by Hollywood standards. My lead took eight months to read it, and another four to commit. And that was with his agent bugging him every other day.�
��

  I shrug. “Drew owed me a favor.”

  Liam shakes his head. “You know, on the one hand, it’s great to see someone who has so much going for her, and doesn’t know it. On the other hand, it’s incredibly frustrating. On any movie, attaching a star entitles you to at least an associate producer credit. Which, by the way, I secured for you the moment Drew signed on. But if you want to watch what I do, and get some hands-on training, I can make you a producer.”

  I take a teeny sip of tea to stall for time. I’ll admit, it’s a tempting offer. And producing is something I’ve always thought about doing; I just never had the nerve to voice that to anyone in a position to help me.

  “Let me think about it,” I say to Liam.

  And for the rest of the night, I do.

  Twenty-two

  I wake up the next morning to the heavenly smell of gourmet coffee.

  Half asleep, I putter into the kitchen (still wearing my Eeyore pajamas) to see Liam, looking perfect, dressed in a black T-shirt and workout pants, sitting at the dining room table, drinking coffee, and reading the paper.

  “Good morning!” he says cheerfully.

  “Good morning,” I say, yawning. “Did you already go for your run?”

  “Yes. It was wonderful. I love this time of year. It’s so brisk at sunrise.”

  “Oh,” I say, a little disappointed. “Why didn’t you wake me? I would have gone with you.”

  Liam chuckles. “I did. You hit me on the arm and said, ‘Go away. I’m a lover, not a runner.’ ”

  Crap.

  “Sorry,” I say, wincing. “I’m not much of a morning person.”

  Liam laughs again. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

  No, I don’t have to be, I think to myself. But I’d be more attractive to you if I was.

  “What’s that coffee you made?” I ask, suppressing another yawn. “It smells amazing.”

  “Have some,” Liam says brightly. “I brought a pound from home as another hostess gift. It’s a Colombian blend from the farmer’s market here.”

  As I walk into my kitchen to pour myself a cup, I have to ask, “We have a farmer’s market here?”

  “Yes, and they’re excellent,” he answers from the dining room. “They’re here every Saturday from eight until one. I go whenever I can. Freshest eggs in town, and a different species of apple sold every week.”

  “Good to know,” I say noncommittally as I pour my coffee. (Because, I don’t care how cute the guy is, I am not getting up at eight in the morning to wander around a pile of fruit.)

  I look down. Good God, I’m so tired, I forgot what I was wearing. Not that I really could have casually walked into the kitchen decked out in La Perla, but perhaps I could have killed the bird slippers, and maybe put on some cute jeans.

  I pour some milk into my coffee as Liam comes into the kitchen, and rinses his coffee cup in the sink. “Do you have plans for Saturday?”

  Oh no. Not the farmer’s market. “As I said, I’m really not much of a morning person,” I force myself to admit. “Though if you want to pick up some eggs, I’ll be happy to give you money—”

  Liam laughs. “No, no. I thought we might try to catch ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ this weekend if you’re free.”

  I frown. “Oh,” I say sadly. “I’m kind of busy.”

  I can’t read his face as he says, “Oh. Well, maybe next weekend . . .”

  I wince. “Actually, next weekend I have my friend Kate’s engagement party.”

  Liam gives a quick nod. “Okay. Another time then.”

  “It’s kind of a girls’ night,” I stammer out. “The Saturday thing, I mean. It’s um . . . well, how would I put this?”

  Liam’s eyes widen as he waits for me to explain.

  “We’re going to a Charlie’s Angels drag show.”

  Liam’s eyes widen further, so I rush to explain. “It’s called Chico’s Angels. It’s an episode of the TV show Charlie’s Angels, performed as a musical by a bunch of Latin drag queens.” I’m not sure if saying that out loud makes me sound weird or cool. “My cousin Jenn is a big fan, and we always go with her when a new episode comes out. So, um, that’s why I’m busy.”

  Liam nods. “So, girls’ night. No men allowed unless they wear dresses.”

  “Well, no. Actually, I guess guys can come . . .” I say, letting the sentence peter out. “Would you like to go with us?” I ask, in my head already coming up with a myriad of reasons for why he’ll say no.

  Liam smiles. “I’d be delighted.”

  I smile back, almost sheepishly. I don’t know why, but I almost feel like I may have a date.

  With my roommate.

  And several of my closest female friends.

  And some very fabulous and funky ladies.

  Okay, so maybe I don’t have a date. I still get to spend Saturday night with a hot guy.

  “Oh, would it trouble you too much if I made a copy of your key today?” Liam asks me. “I have a date tonight, and I don’t want you to have to wait up.”

  And the plot sickens.

  Twenty-three

  That night, I head out to Kate’s apartment in Santa Monica to help her pick a wedding cake. Just what I want to be doing when I’m doing such a bang-up job with my own love life, right? Although I try to remember:

  If you can’t be with the cake you love, love the cake you’re with.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Kate says to me as she opens the door that night. “We have so much to cover tonight, and not a lot of time.”

  As I walk into Kate’s large living-room/dining-room area, I can see Dawn leafing through a self-help book called You and Improved.

  “Listen to this one,” Dawn says, laughing. “Places to meet men: the line at the DMV. Right, because we’re all so in the dating mood then. Oh, and an Al-Anon meeting. Yeah, that doesn’t scream codependent or anything.”

  Dawn throws down the book, then picks up a pink hardcover entitled, Good Women: Poor Choices. She flips through the book. “Manhating chapter . . .” She turns another few pages. “Manhating chapter . . .” Dawn opens the back cover to check out the author’s photo. “Yikes! If I looked like that, I’d be bitter, too. Hey, Charlie, I got something for your book of advice.”

  “Shoot,” I say.

  Just because you can perm, doesn’t mean you should.

  “Trust,” Dawn says, putting up her hand to indicate the words Trust me. “Much like blind dates, and Jim Carrey in dramatic roles, it never ends well.”

  Kate opens her coat closet, and pulls out an open box of self-help books. “Okay, I’m getting rid of all of these. Anyone need a diet book? I have South Beach, Weight Watchers, the Cake Diet . . .”

  “There’s a cake diet?” I ask, taking the book and leafing through it with the false (yet eternal) hope that I can find a way to stuff myself with Twinkies, and still lose weight.

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t what I thought,” Kate admits. “It told me how to make things like carrot cake with fake sugar, and zucchini bread. Life is too short not to eat real cake. And, with that in mind”—Kate stands in front of her dining room table like a Price is Right girl, and demonstrates—“I present to you . . . your dinner.”

  Kate’s table can only be described as Wedding Central: every available surface is littered with plates and bowls filled with wedding-cake paraphernalia. Each plate has a different type of cake on it: chocolate, white, marble, lemon, mocha (which looked like chocolate, but Kate had stuck a pink Post-it on the plate saying it was mocha), a few other flavors I couldn’t recognize by sight, and carrot.

  Next to the plates were bowls of potential fillings: cream-cheese filling, chocolate ganache, chocolate mousse (again, another Post-it), vanilla cream with chocolate chips—I could go on. Total, there were about a dozen fillings.

  Finally, there were four plates of potential frostings, each plate with three scoops of frosting (a scoop from each of the three bakeries Kate was considering).

  Thi
s is where Kate asks us to begin.

  “Now, I want you to taste the frostings by themselves first,” Kate says. “The first priority is to make sure they don’t taste like Crisco. That’s my first way to eliminate potential bakeries—crappy frosting means a crappy wedding cake. While you taste, I’m going to show you pictures I’ve cut out of various wedding cakes that I like.”

  Dawn is still fascinated with her book. “Here’s another bit of advice I like: Give yourself a timetable: you will be engaged within the year, and married within two. Don’t be halfhearted about it.” She looks up from the book. “Because nothing eases a guy into a relationship faster than a woman with a biological clock and a deadline.”

  Kate turns to Dawn. “Hey! Maid of honor! I got at least twelve thousand calories with your name on it. Help me out here.”

  “Sorry,” Dawn says, tossing the book down, and standing up to meet us in the dining room.

  “Okay, ladies, stay with me,” Kate says with a look of determination as she looks over her sea of wedding cake. “The next few hours won’t be pretty. But we have a mission to accomplish, and we take no prisoners. What are we?”

  “Women of action,” Dawn and I say in unison.

  “I said, What are we?!”

  “Women of action!” Dawn and I yell like privates addressing a sergeant.

  “Excellent,” Kate says, grinning widely as she gives us a thumbs-up.

  Kate hands us each a fork, then takes the first magazine cutout from a pile of cutouts, and hands it to us. The wedding cake in the photo looks like a big lamp shade. “This is a rolled fondant cake. The ruffles are made of white chocolate—”

  “Let me stop you right there,” I say, in all seriousness. “White chocolate is a lie perpetuated by the candy-making industry. It’s waxy, gross, and not even real chocolate. You can’t have a cake made with that stuff.”

  Kate shrugs her shoulders. “Okay.” She crumples up her cutout picture, and throws it into the trash. “Moving on . . .”