Cold Feet

by Amy FitzHenry

  I loved it, but the place was pretty small. Because of this, when we got engaged, it seemed like a good idea to push back the move-in date. Frankly, I had no idea where to put Sam’s stuff, and as an extremely tidy person—I can’t concentrate all day if I don’t make my bed in the morning—I wasn’t about to throw it all in the corner willy-nilly. Besides, we spent almost every night together anyway. What was the difference?

  Sam lived about a mile away, in a creaky dark-wooded beach house in Santa Monica, with an unmistakable shiplike vibe. At times, the sound of not-so-distant crashing waves could make you positively seasick. Or maybe that was just his cleaning habits. Sam was about as messy as I was clean. I’d actually seen him finish a bag of chips, drop it on the counter, and walk away. I was shocked, but at the same time, intrigued. When Sam has trash (at home at least, it’s not like he littered or anything evil like that) he doesn’t throw it away, he drops it and . . . leaves it. What must it be like to have such fascinatingly disgusting impulses? In order to avoid a full-blown panic attack, I tried not to think about what this inherent difference in personality meant for our future. It’ll work itself out, I told myself. He’ll get cleaner, or I’ll loosen up. I can be chill, I assured myself, with the certain knowledge that this was a lie.

  The big move was loosely scheduled for “right after” we returned from our honeymoon. The wedding was being held at a gorgeous, rambling Spanish hacienda I’d found in Santa Barbara, in what should be perfect Southern California September weather. The house was on a high bluff, one hundred years old, and steps from the beach, with a huge backyard framed by the ocean and the mountains. We would be married right at sunset, at what they called the “pink moment” when the fading sunlight creates a shade of pink in the air, which bounces off the mountains in the Ojai Valley to the east. I even drove up to Santa Barbara on a Saturday once, all by myself—since I was surprising Sam with that particular detail—to test it out. I found that standing with the ocean at your back, facing the pink hues in the distance, was truly magical.

  The ceremony and the reception would both be held there, first, high on the bluff overlooking the mountain range in the distance, and then down to a party on the beach. The day after, we planned to leave for what Sam called the mystery honeymoon, which sounded like a prize on a game show but was really just because he was, supposedly, planning it alone.

  That was the deal we’d made when we got engaged ten months earlier: I would plan the wedding, for the most part—I’d cleared the location and cocktail options with Sam—if he would organize the honeymoon. As I’ve mentioned, my mother isn’t exactly a Say Yes to the Dress fan, so I was left to plan freely on my own, without going back and forth ten thousand times about the seating chart. It was kind of like when you’re over at people’s houses and they insist on loading the dishwasher alone. “It’s easier that way,” they claim. And of course it isn’t, really, but it makes sense.

  The question of when Sam was going to move in his stuff, and where we were going to put it all, was coming up with increasing frequency, and every time it did, it stressed me out more. I vocalized these thoughts over breakfast, hoping he would have some sort of magical solution.

  “Well, have you ever thought about adding on to this house?” Sam suggested. “We could fit everything in here a lot better if we added another bedroom.”

  “Are you kidding? We can’t even afford patio furniture. Do you have a secret pile of money I don’t know about?” I tried to make a joke, despite the fact that Sam’s suggestion gave me heart palpitations. He laughed lightly and went back to the paper.

  Despite the fact that we’d experienced a recent major economic crisis and the movie industry was constantly in flux, which definitely hadn’t helped Sam’s career, or anyone in Hollywood’s really, he didn’t worry about money the same way I did. For me, money was a subject that was always, if not in the front of my mind, floating somewhere in the back. In the single-mother home I grew up in, we weren’t exactly destitute, but—how should I put it?—cash challenged.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened with Caro?” Sam asked, noticing my anxiety or perhaps exercising some previously dormant psychic abilities. I made a mental note to cut down on dirty thoughts about Bradley Cooper. “You must be upset she isn’t coming.”

  “Honestly, it’s fine. I’m okay with it.”

  Sam reached out to cover my hand with his. I gave him my best imitation of a carefree smile, practically pulling a muscle in the attempt.

  “Okay, so I care a little. But I’ll have you, and your amazing family. Plus, Liv will be with me every step of the way.”

  “What time is she coming in tonight?” Sam stood and reached for the coffeepot, pouring us both fresh cups.

  “Around six,” I answered, feeling pure happiness for the first time all day.

  That evening my best friend, Olivia, was flying into town from New York City to treat me to a toned-down version of a bachelorette party. A trip to a luxury spa in Napa Valley, from Saturday to Wednesday, when we would leisurely travel back from Northern California. Then on Thursday we would repack, double-check that I had my wedding dress, and get a good night’s sleep before we all headed to Santa Barbara on Friday morning. Friday night was the (crazily scheduled, by Caro’s standards) rehearsal dinner, and then, on Saturday, Sam and I would get married.

  This was all part of the plan to keep the wedding simple, in the hope that it could be a drama-free affair. I dreaded turning into the kind of Bridezilla I’d seen my girlfriends become. Perfectly normal, well-adjusted women suddenly screaming about the length of their veil five minutes before walking down the aisle, or making you participate in a wedding talent show in place of a rehearsal dinner. Thanks to these women, I have learned both that there is a vast difference between shoulder- and chin-length and that brides do not appreciate Beat poetry read aloud the night before their nuptials, based on your junior-year spring break trip to Cabo. (“Seven tequila shots did she scarf / causing Katie later to barf.” I thought it was pretty good myself.)

  The obsession with weddings was a mystery to me. The first time I even pictured anything wedding-related was in college, when my roommate’s sister got married and she left for the weekend to help her prepare. When she got back she described cake sampling over our standard Monday night dinner of curly fries at the dining hall.

  “First, we tried red velvet,” she explained dreamily, “then mocha butter cream, and we rounded it off with chocolate devil’s food cake.” I sighed in satisfaction and the idea of weddings took on a lovely buttery hue for about a year, until a friend from high school asked me to be her bridesmaid, and I had to drop a class in order to fit in all my assigned tasks.

  The only person who really seemed to get it was Liv. Growing up, Liv was the only one of my friends who, when I questioned if I even wanted to get married someday, wouldn’t look away in discomfort or murmur supportively that I would change my mind when I met the right guy. This, and the fact that it saved me from having to pick bridesmaids, was why I’d decided to make Liv my entire wedding party. She was my maid of honor, flower girl, and guest book officiate, all rolled into one.

  “And what’s the plan for tonight?” Sam asked, piling scrambled eggs on top of his bagel.

  “Liv lands around six,” I repeated, mentally viewing the schedule. “I’m going to sneak out of work early to stock up on snacks, then pick her up at LAX. Are you and Dante still meeting us for dinner?”

  “Yep, can’t wait. I’ll remind him.” Dante is Sam’s oldest friend and one of his current roommates in the dirty ship house. Sam and Dante met in high school in London when both of their fathers were transferred there, from New York and Rome, respectively. Sam’s family eventually moved back to the States, but the years he and Dante spent drinking pints and watching footie were enough to make them best mates for life.

  Dante must be the person for whom the term
Italian Stallion was invented, or at least a direct descendant of same. He’s quite proud of his heritage and embraces it fully, especially when he’s trying to get ass. Then it’s all, My family’s villa in Tuscany this, and I’ll make you homemade penne arrabbiata that. If for some crazy reason she hates villas or she’s gluten-free, he throws out a British accent, picked up from his high school years, in a last-ditch effort to close the deal. As Dante always says, if one aspect of your foreign background isn’t helping you get laid, try another.

  “Think Liv and Dante will finally hook up at the wedding?” Sam asked, creepily following my train of thought yet again. Put some pants on, Mr. Cooper!

  “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. We’ve been waiting for years. Most likely Liv will be dating three guys in New York, Dante will bring an underage girl to the rehearsal dinner, and we’ll get arrested for serving alcohol to a minor.”

  “Well, I’m rooting for them,” Sam said loyally.

  I checked the clock and realized I had to leave in the next five minutes if I wanted to beat traffic on the freeway and make it to work on time. I grabbed my bag and hustled Sam out the door. I watched him glide down the street on his road bike, his typical vehicle of choice, before climbing in my L.A.-mandated black Prius.

  Driving through the quiet, cool streets of Venice on a perfect September morning, I pictured Sam and me at breakfast. Him, reading about movie deals; me, obsessing about not obsessing about our marriage; both of us gossiping about our best friends’ sex lives. We were the classic tableau of a normal couple in love, but I couldn’t help but feel like an imposter. Caro’s call, and the reminder that my failure at a long-term relationship was highly foreseeable, was still lurking in the back of my head. What was I doing with this guy for whom good things always happened, if for no other reason than because he intrinsically knew they would? And why in the world did he want to marry someone like me?

  CHAPTER 3

  Picking up Liv from LAX is one of my very favorite things to do. For one thing, I score major friend points by actually meeting her at the airport instead of making her take a cab, which is easy when you live in Venice, twenty minutes away. But mainly it’s because it means my best friend is in town. I don’t know how to explain it, but when Liv is around I feel like a more real version of myself. It’s like everything I put on for other people is filtered out and I’m just me.

  Liv and I met in high school in Arlington, Virginia, where we became instant best friends. We were both at peak stages in our awkward years and didn’t even notice each other’s braces and frizzy hair, probably because they matched. The popular crowd didn’t know our names, the average kids were too busy trying to be cool, and the dorks had their own problems to worry about, so Liv and I didn’t join any group. The only problem was we weren’t sure which lunch table was ours. Instead we sat in the auditorium lobby by the gym every day with our turkey sandwiches. This area was commonly known as the aud-lob, although after we started sitting there, some of the mean girls starting referring to it as the odd-lob. I had to give it to them: It was clever.

  Honestly, I didn’t really care, because, as I discovered then, and continue to believe to this day, as long as you have one real friend, you’re okay. Liv and I were perfectly happy to sit in the odd-lob day after day in our mom jeans, drinking regular Cokes and laughing until our stomachs hurt. Even after Liv discovered her incredible singing voice, grew size-C boobs, and learned how to scrunch her strawberry-blond hair, shot with natural strands of gold, into soft curls, and I remained in my awkward years (which lasted roughly from age twelve to twenty-five), our dynamic never changed.

  After high school, Liv attended Rice in Texas and I went to the University of Virginia, mostly due to the fact that I could get in-state tuition and also because I harbored a strange affinity for Thomas Jefferson. There I halfheartedly joined a sorority and floated around various clubs and activities. College was fun, of course, but it wasn’t the same without Liv. I never again found a friend with whom I could be so completely myself.

  Then magically, it happened. Liv and I both applied to law school the fall of senior year of college, got into Berkeley and spent the next three blissful years as roommates, happily living in the East Bay. After law school, Liv got a job as a corporate attorney in the dreaded New York legal scene, and I headed to Los Angeles. I wasn’t quite sure why, but I always felt like I belonged on the West Coast. After only three years at Berkeley, California already felt more like home than Virginia. When choosing where to live after law school, the Westside of Los Angeles seemed like the logical place to land. It felt to me like going somewhere new while also staying in the laid-back environment I’d come to know and love.

  At the airport, I scanned the curb for Liv’s gorgeous hair but saw only strangers, including a few cute guys milling around Arrivals. One guy had dark curly hair and the perfect amount of scruff. What if he was my destiny, I wondered, not Sam? What if he was the guy I was meant to be with, but I simply hadn’t met him yet and in one week it would be too late?

  This had been happening a lot lately, seeing interesting-looking guys or thinking about exes and wondering whether I was missing something by not being with them. I knew that I was being ridiculous. It wasn’t so much about the idea of someone else, but more the concept of forever. Two people promising they would never leave each other. It made my stomach tighten up and my throat narrow. How in the world was that possible? I wondered. I’d certainly never witnessed it.

  Of course, I felt extremely disloyal even considering any of this. If Sam was thinking this way, I would murder him. On the other hand, everyone is always talking about how scared guys are to get married and their inevitable last-minute doubts. Why shouldn’t I be the same? More than anything, I wished I could talk to Sam about my fears, but I was pretty sure that was verging on too honest.

  I noticed a rent-a-cop behind me, flashing his lights to get me to keep going. Emotional turmoil notwithstanding, I was about to be forced to wind once more through Terminals 1 to 7. Luckily, as I glanced at the curb one last time, I saw my best friend, with a wide smile on her pretty face, waving wildly next to her scary black travel bag, usually reserved for traveling to depositions. To prove her suitcase wrong, she wore a floral maxi dress and a wide brim fedora. Whenever Liv came to L.A., she pulled out her funkiest garb and told me she was trying to fit in with the Venice fashionistas crawling all over my quirky beach town. I did the same chameleon act whenever I went to New York, emerging from the taxi in my most citylike ensemble, inevitably involving black booties.

  “Straight hair!” I cried, as she tossed her bag in the back.

  “I know! I wanted to look good for our trip.”

  “But I love your hair curly,” I commented, pulling out into traffic. As usual, Liv and I jumped right back into conversation as if we had never been apart. Which we hadn’t really, considering we were virtually in constant contact, whether it be by phone, text, or Instagram comment chain.

  “I know, Em, but you aren’t really my target audience.” Liv has a theory that there’s a certain kind of guy who likes straight hair and a certain type who likes curly. Fans of straight hair are superficial, player types, who just want sex without breakfast, and curly-haired lovers are the sweeter, boyfriend types. Tonight, I supposed by her straightened locks, she was preaching to the one-night-stand congregation.

  “Did you get your hair cut or a blow-out?”

  This kind of pointless question was how we ended up sharing every inane detail of our lives with each other. For instance, I knew for a fact that Liv had gotten a mani-pedi the previous day and chosen Friar, Friar, Pants on Fire red for both her fingers and her toes. Meaningless to anyone else, but terribly important to me.

  “A blow-out,” Liv said, pulling on her seat belt and motioning for me to watch the road. I’m a terrible driver. Partly because of my “problem” with depth perception (I don’t have any) and partly because I’d
never really grasped the talent, inherent to most females, of multitasking. You know, having an orgasm while you mentally redecorate your bedroom and draft a work e-mail. I wasn’t born with it, and as a result had to pay real attention to signaling before I merged.

  “Okay, on to more important things. I want to hear the itinerary for the week.”

  Excitedly, I reminded her that we had dinner with Sam and Dante that night, our flight the next morning, a rental car reserved at SFO, and an on-call masseuse waiting for us to pull into Calistoga.

  The Calistoga Ranch, the ridiculously amazing resort in Napa where we were staying, recommended by the coolest female partner at my law firm, promised to be the most relaxing five days of our lives. I didn’t care much about mud wraps or massages, but Liv loves that kind of thing and the champagne brunches sounded right up my alley. I was determined to force myself to relax. I considered forcing myself to force myself to relax but got even more confused so I decided to leave it.

  Talking the entire way home about everything and nothing, Liv and I pulled into my beach bungalow a half hour later. We dragged in her bags, overflowing with cute sundresses and soft tanks, and the bags of food I’d grabbed from my bodega. Without a word, we plopped onto my cozy couch and tore open my poor excuse for groceries: a box of rainforest crackers and a hunk of Jarlsberg. Liv took on the job of official cheese cutter and passed me thick wedges for the mini-sandwiches I was constructing as she filled me in on her boy drama.