“Fittings?”
“Yeah. You know, so the bodice stays on and the hem is short enough that you don’t trip.”
“Well, just buy some extra duct tape and you’re good to go.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course. I can’t believe seamstresses all over America are letting their most precious resource go to waste on plumbing facilities.”
“I’m serious.” He feigned great earnestness and masculine consternation.
“Duct tape. Honestly. What would Emily Post say?”
“She’s dead. She doesn’t get a say.”
“Listen, I’ve seen the dark side of ‘I do,’ and it is ‘I don’t.’ Uttered the night before the ceremony, when the erstwhile groom decides that his true destiny lies with his ex-girlfriend, a massage therapist who makes popcorn mosaics on the side.” I waved my spoon for emphasis.
He looked skeptical. “Popcorn mosaics?”
“With shellac and spray paint and stuff. Apparently, it’s her true calling.”
“What’s her medium? Pop Secret? Redenbacher? Does she have a corporate sponsor?” His laughter was contagious.
“You know, I don’t believe that ‘true art’ and ‘corporate sponsorship’ mix.”
“I guess you’re right.” He rubbed the emerging stubble on his chin. “To keep it real, she’d have to get a grant.”
“A few well-placed patrons and she might be able to move on to her pasta period and take the L.A. art world by storm.”
“Yeah. And then on to rice, legumes—who knows what poignant sorrows lie within the humble lima bean?”
“You wanna hear my sad little story, or not?”
He pretended to debate this for a minute. “I’ll hear the sad little story.”
“Very gracious of you. Anyway, long story short, my ex couldn’t resist the siren call of his ex, and by the time the dust settled—”
“Don’t you mean ‘the kernels settled’?”
“—the only thing I needed duct tape for was to box the gifts back up and return to sender.”
He saluted me with his coffee cup. “And you still have your sense of humor.”
We lost eye contact.
“I’m over it,” I agreed.
“You’re better off without him.”
“Totally.” I stared down at the gold-speckled Formica table-top, my thoughts turning inexorably to the wedding dress still moldering away in my closet. The bridal salon wouldn’t take it back. Apparently, all Amsale gowns were final sale, even if Dennis wasn’t.
Morning after morning, as I selected the day’s ensemble, I was greeted by the ivory silk reminder of my failure and disgrace.
Dennis had found bliss with a “less complicated” woman, some other euphoric bride-to-be would soon be flashing my pawned ring, and still I hung on to the hand-beaded fabric that tied me to the life I’d almost had. The life I’d wanted so badly that I’d been blind in my faith and careless with my heart. The life I’d wanted so badly that I’d—oh, God, the shame—literally begged Dennis not to leave when he said he was meant to be with Lisa.
On the sidewalk in front of the rehearsal dinner restaurant, I’d sobbed that my life could never be the same without him. And he had cleared his throat and said, “I love you, Gwen, but I need Lisa.”
Well, I’d been right about one thing. My life had never been the same since that night.
I yanked myself back to the date in progress and Café Chou and smiled at Alex in what I hoped was a winsome manner. “Let’s talk about something else. Like you, for instance. Let’s talk about you.”
He leaned back in his chair. “All right. What do you want to know?”
“Well…what do you do with your time when you’re not playing hooky on Friday afternoons or stewarding the clinic?”
He groaned. “Stewarding the clinic?”
“Isn’t that what you do?”
“Technically, yes, but stewarding…it makes me sound like I smoke a pipe and wear an ascot and I’ve got one foot in the grave. I’m only thirty-five.”
I laughed. “Okay, then, what do you do when you’re not, ahem, charitably donating your time to the psychological improvement of young minds?”
“I’m a financial analyst and consultant.”
“Oh.” Pause. “That sounds really…um…”
“Boring?” He laughed. “It’s not as dry as it sounds. I love the challenge of turning around companies on the brink of disaster. Kind of like bailing out the Titanic with a hand bucket.”
“But how on earth did you end up working with the clinic?”
“I was tricked. One of my friends roped me into helping out on the board of a children’s charity, and somehow I just got sucked in deeper and deeper. And now I enjoy it.”
“Wow. That’s really generous.”
He shrugged. “Not really. It’s kind of a personal thing for me.”
Ah. I could see where this was going. “You have children?”
This question surprised him. “No. I’ve never even been married.”
“Obviously not, if duct tape is your idea of a pew decoration.”
“I almost got engaged once.” He seemed suddenly mesmerized by the bottom of his coffee cup.
I pounced. “Almost? What happened?”
He tapped his fingers on the table. “We went our separate ways before I actually bought the ring.”
“No way are you getting off that easy after I spilled my guts all over this table. What happened?”
“Oh, you know how it is with L.A. dating. She was beautiful, I was a sucker for a pretty face, neither of us had any common sense. One thing led to another and…we’re much better off without each other. The end.”
“Alex.” I tossed a sugar packet at him. “Come on. I got dumped for a box of Jiffy Pop. You gotta give me something here.”
“I’m not discussing this,” he said, hanging his head sheepishly.
I gave him a look.
He lowered his voice. He looked to the left. He looked to the right. “The woman I was dating—Harmony—”
“Harmony?”
“Like I said. L.A. dating. She’s a soap opera actress, if that tells you anything. I met her at a black-tie dinner for one of the companies I worked with.” He leaned in closer. “We were just different personalities.”
I nodded. “Which is the polite way of saying she was stark raving mad.”
He shrugged. “She was a force of nature. A gorgeous, charismatic—and okay, crazy—force of nature. I made the classic male mistake.”
“Not reading the instruction manual?”
“Letting good looks get in the way of good judgment. I kept telling myself that a woman that beautiful had to have some redeeming qualities.” He was still communing with his coffee mug. “I saw what I wanted to see, instead of who she really was.”
Hmm. He sounded quite reasonable and insightful. (For a man.) I couldn’t decide if this meant he had unlimited romantic potential or if, given that he had once dated a woman so good-looking that people were willing to overlook her full-blown psychosis, he was wholly out of my league and I should just give up now.
Further investigation was warranted.
The two of us huddled together. The passersby on the other side of the plate glass must have thought we were planning a heist.
“And? What happened?” I prompted.
He straightened up in his seat. “I shouldn’t say any more than I already have. It was a long time ago, and it’s not worth remembering.”
I nodded knowingly. “Bad breakup?”
“Only if you consider finding another man’s sopping-wet boxers in your bathtub ‘bad.’ But on the bright side, I stopped being such an idiot about dating.” He placed his mug back into the saucer with a definitive, end-of-story clink. “So the short answer to your question is, no, I’ve never been married and therefore have no children.”
“But, you know, some people don’t get married before they have kids,” I pointed out. “Look at Calista Flockha
rt. Heidi Klum. Look at everyone.”
The J. Crew smile blinked on again. “We shouldn’t even get into this. I don’t want to scare you more than I already have.”
I made a big production out of bracing myself against the table with both hands. “No, no—bring it on. I can take it.”
“Just remember, you asked for it.” He met my eyes. “I’m old-fashioned. I’ve always wanted to find the right woman and get married. Big believer in two parents, family dinners, the whole Waltons scenario.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ranch in Colorado and all.”
“Exactly.” And he got that look on his face that guys get after they watch too many McDonald’s commercials featuring precocious blond moppets playing catch with their dads. “All that fresh air and room to run around. What a great place to raise a family.”
I signaled the guy at the counter for another tea. “Why Colorado? Did you grow up there?”
“Nope. Born and bred in SoCal.”
“So why…?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just sounds nice—all the trees, the slower pace…”
“You’ve heard, of course, about the Colorado winters.”
“Sure! I’ll teach the kids to ski, take them tobogganing.”
“How many kids?”
“Oh, five or so.”
“Five! That ranch house is going to need a lot of square footage.”
He shrugged. “Real estate’s cheap, compared to Los Angeles.”
“True.” I narrowed my eyes. “And what about the mother of these five children?”
“Well, she’ll be home with them.” He started backpedaling almost before he finished the sentence. “It’s not a political thing, barefoot and pregnant and forced to bake pies. I just think that if you’re going to have children, you might as well raise them yourself. My mom was a single parent, and it was not a good scene. It’s nice for kids to have someone at home.”
“Sure, it’s nice for the kids. But what happens when happily ever after breaks down and Mom is stranded in the middle of nowhere with no job and no income while Dad takes off with some popcorn-obsessed chippy?”
He waited patiently for me to settle down. “No Waltons for you?”
“Can I get a ‘hell no’?”
We studied each other across the table.
“Hmm,” he said.
“Hmm,” I said.
He pushed back his shirt cuff and consulted the controversial Patek Philippe watch. “Listen. I’ve got to get back to the office, but I’d love to finish this discussion later. How about next Friday night? I have Lakers tickets.”
I must have looked hesitant, because he added, “I solemnly swear not to chain you to the stove in the ranch house. Until the third date.”
I laughed. “All right, I’ll go. But I ain’t bringing no pie.”
We shook on it.
Later that evening, while I was finishing up some final case notes and preparing to go home for the night, a courier showed up at my office door with a small package and a release form to sign. When I unwrapped the box, I found myself staring at a brand-new, top-of-the-line cell phone. The thing weighed like two milligrams. The message included read:
Thought you could use the latest model—
it’s shock absorbent.
See you Friday.
He had attached the note with duct tape.
I sank down in my chair. My heart was doing a little flutter kick that I hadn’t felt in so long, I wasn’t sure if it was infatuation or the early symptoms of cardiac arrest.
I had survived the breakup with Dennis along with all the accompanying humiliation, despondency, and self-doubt. And now I was getting all melty and blushy over a cup of tea and a glorified walkie-talkie. It would appear I was ready for another spin of the roulette wheel of love.
The human heart is either really resilient or incredibly masochistic.
2
“R-E-B-O-U-N-D, find out what it means to me!” Cesca did her best Aretha impression and followed it up with a heaping spoonful of Cheerios. It was the Monday morning after I met Alex, and my roommate felt it was her right—nay, her duty—to interrogate me about the new prospect. And to editorialize.
For the last four years, Francesca DiSanto and I had shared this squalid shoe box of a two-bedroom apartment in Westwood. True, it was on the ground floor of a building overrun by rowdy undergrads and it occasionally smelled like mold, but it was in a safe neighborhood, we could walk to campus, and we could (sort of) afford the rent. Due to space constraints and the fact that neither one of us had ever gotten around to buying a kitchen table, we had fallen into the habit of eating breakfast standing up and leaning against the counter.
“I’m not rebounding,” I protested. “I’m done with Dennis. It’s been six months. That whole debacle is dead, buried, and decayed.”
“Ha. No one can pile on the denial like a psychologist.” She jabbed her index finger at me. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you have man problems, the answer is never another man. You have to stop this vine swinging.”
“I’m not vine swinging,” I huffed. “How dare you?”
“You’ve gone from boyfriend to boyfriend to boyfriend from the day I met you.” She paused for another bite of cereal. “And that was a very long time ago.”
We had been thrown together during our freshman year of college, both of us rolling our eyes in the back row of the Psych 101 class we had been forced to take to fulfill our social science requirement. Nine years later, we were both working on our doctorates in clinical psychology. But our attitudes had not improved.
“Woman. You’ve been single for like, eight months, grand total, since you hit puberty.”
“Hey! I am not one of those annoying girls who always has to have a boyfriend!”
“Well…you’re not annoying, anyway.”
I gasped in outrage.
She tilted her head. “What’s so scary about being single?”
I busied myself with rinsing off the dishes in the sink. “You didn’t meet Alex. He seems really nice. He’s smart and well mannered, and—”
“Re-bound,” she intoned like a foghorn.
I played my trump card. “He has season tickets to the Lakers.”
Her eyes lit up. “Are you serious?”
“Would I tease you about the Lakers? Do I look suicidal?”
“All the more reason you should steer clear of him. And give his number to me.”
As the lone girl in a family with four brothers, Cesca tended to be loud and obsessed with sports. Despite her dainty appearance (think Audrey Hepburn with an olive complexion and a cute pixie haircut), she was the only female I had ever known who looked forward to Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day “because I am ready for some football, baby.” And for a chick currently wearing an extra-large Lakers T-shirt as pajamas and ankle socks with lavender pom-poms on the backs, she was awfully judgmental.
“So let me get this straight.” She pushed a clump of dark brown hair out of her face. “This guy sees you going postal in the middle of Le Conte Avenue—”
“On the sidewalk,” I corrected.
“—having a hissy fit and wearing those hideous red track pants—”
“They’re comfortable. I had a chapter due to Cortez.”
“And he asks you out for coffee? And calls Cortez to get you out of your meeting?”
I nodded. “Yes, your honor, that is correct.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Well, what’s his story? Does he just cruise the campus looking for damsels in distress?”
“No. He’s a new trustee for the clinic.”
“Just what you need—a romance with a guy who’s all buddy-buddy with the adviser from hell. Do yourself a favor and give yourself some more grieving time.”
I tried to play defense. “Listen, missy, don’t you have a qualifying exam to study for or something?”
“Don’t remind me.” She grimaced. “I have three more days to come up with some
endless paper on the efficacy of cognitive behavioral therapy versus antidepressants.”
“Well, it sounds like you better get your ass to the library.” I stuck my head into the fridge and started scavenging for something to pack for lunch. I snatched up a can of Diet Coke—actually, better make that two cans, okay, four—a peach and a container of yogurt. These would go nicely with a Kit Kat from the clinic’s vending machine.
A Cheerio came sailing over the refrigerator door. “Don’t try to change the subject. What are you going to do about this?”
“I’m going to go to the Lakers game with him. I like him and I’m giving him a chance.” I cleared my throat. “Despite his reactionary worldview.”
“Reactionary…” She tossed her bowl into the sink. Milk sloshed up onto the counter. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Well. He clearly watched too much Nick at Nite as a child and now envisions marriage and family life as some black-and-white, Eisenhower-era wet dream.”
“Ward Cleaver meets Carrie Bradshaw. Yeah, this’ll solve all your problems.”
I shoved the yogurt and a spoon into my black tote bag. “Sarcasm is very unbecoming this early in the morning.”
“Mark my words: this is only going to lead to trouble.” She tugged at her T-shirt. “Tell you what—get out while you can, and I’ll go to the game.”
“Your advice is neither solicited nor appreciated,” I said primly.
“But it is right on the money.”
I scowled at her.
“I’m just saying, this guy seems too good to be true. And when they seem too good to be true, they usually are.”
I headed for the door. “Did you get that directly out of Ben Franklin’s autobiography?” I sighed and turned around, one hand on the doorknob. “Listen, Ces, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here. But I don’t think you understand what I’m dealing with. I mean, when you broke up with Mike—”
“Do not speak that man’s name in this house,” she warned. “He’s dead to me! Him and his stupid eight-track collection.”
“Well, if you think you were upset about breaking up with him when you did, imagine how much worse you would’ve felt if you had planned to marry him.”
Exes and Ohs Page 2