I smile. “Nah, I’ll see him tomorrow night. Make him work for it.”
Drew left about twenty minutes later. As I walk him to the elevator, I ask him, “That last speech you made, about the speed bump in fifty years, that’s from the script you’re reading now, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Drew says brightly, stepping into the elevator. “It’s great dialogue, isn’t it? I’m playing a therapist. I’m telling you, this one has Academy nod written all over it.”
I shake my head as the elevator door closes.
A few hours after that, a very hungover Andy called Hunter and asked him to come to Vegas with his boys, including my brother Jamie, and make it a joint bachelor/bachelorette party.
He did. He just got into a group of cars with his buddies in the middle of the night, and drove out to see her.
And when he got to our suite, he looked so happy to see her, I’m pretty sure he had been hoping she’d call all along.
As I watched from my bed, pretending to be asleep, Andy opened the door, and the second she saw him, she burst into tears again.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said over and over again, as she sunk into his chest and continued to sob.
“What happened?” Hunter asked softly, rubbing her back.
“I just…I just really love you,” Andy said, unsuccessfully trying to catch her breath and stop crying.
“Well, I love you, too,” Hunter said, hugging her more tightly. “That’s why we’re getting married.”
“No,” Andy said softly, breaking apart from him and swallowing her tears. “I mean, I really, really love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t think I realized how much until last night.”
Oh shit—now he’s going to think she slept with someone.
“I love you, too,” Hunter said, smiling and gently wiping the tears from her face. “Why don’t you go clean up, and I’ll buy you breakfast?”
Andy nodded her head up and down several times, then walked into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the shower, as Hunter threw his luggage on her bed.
“She didn’t sleep with anyone,” I told Hunter, once I knew Andy was out of hearing range.
Hunter turned to me and smiled. “I know.”
I sat up, trying to clarify. “I mean, she didn’t sleep with anyone, she didn’t kiss anyone, she didn’t do anything other than get sick in our bathroom all night.”
“I know,” Hunter said in a completely self-assured, but very sweet tone. “I know my future bride pretty well.”
It was at that moment I realized this marriage was going to be just fine.
And I had a new bit of advice for my book:
If people could unfuck, they’d do it every day. This also applies to undating.
Twenty-Six
Comparisons are odious.—Sir John Fortescue
Romantically speaking, everyone was having a better Saturday than me. Hunter and Andy were spending the day by the pool, hugging and nuzzling each other like they were the only two people on earth.
Drew and Dawn left the group to take a helicopter ride around the Grand Canyon, presumably where they were hugging and nuzzling each other, and acting like they were the only two people on earth.
The bachelors and bachelorettes from Hunter and Andy’s respective groups were hooking up like bunnies. My brother Jamie was probably hooking up with Kate, which I thought was an accident waiting to happen, but I couldn’t say anything to dissuade either of them from flirting this morning, so I gave up.
Me? I was spending the day trying to figure out what went wrong with Jordan.
The day started out so promising. At eleven o’clock in the morning, I went to Drew’s suite to ask Jordan to breakfast. I glued on my happiest smile and knocked on the door—ready to embark on a romantic adventure!
I had the whole day planned out in my head. I would ask Jordan to breakfast, thereby separating him from the herd, so to speak, and whisk him off to someplace fun—just the two of us. Someplace like the Palatium Buffet at Caesar’s Palace, with its all-you-can-eat omelet bar, or maybe the Buffet at the Bellagio.
I would order a glass of champagne and encourage him to do the same (you know, to loosen him up), and we would talk openly and freely, with no reservations, just like we did online.
We would spend hours looking into each other’s eyes, and saying such witty bon mots as “Oh my God! I love Italian food, too!” and “You’re right! Bruce Willis has been overlooked by the Academy!” as we perused all the attractions that Las Vegas has to offer: the dolphin pool at the Mirage, the tiger cubs at the MGM Grand, maybe ride the roller coaster at New York, New York.
We would talk and laugh all afternoon, and I would occasionally rub his arm, maybe take his hand while we walked through the casino, then ask him to dance while we listened to a middle-aged diva with a Princess Diana haircut sing “Having My Baby.”
Oh, it would be silly and fun and perfect, and by the end of the night we would be inseparable.
God has a sense of humor. Don’t believe me? Just look at a zebra, and tell me what was going on in his mind that day.
Okay—so back to the door. I stand in front of the door: makeup on, cute miniskirt on, Chanel No. 5 wafting about my neck, legs shaved, smile plastered on my face.
I am ready for my close-up!
I knock on the door, and wait.
No answer.
I knock again.
Damn it! He couldn’t have gone to breakfast alone. I look around the hall nervously. Now what?
Finally, being the discreet girl I am, I pound on the door and yell, “Jordan! Are you in there?! It’s Charlie!”
“Sorry! Hold on!” I hear from the other side of the door.
Whew.
Jordan opens the door, wearing nothing but a hotel robe, and he looks perfectly dreadful.
I mean, I didn’t know people could really turn a shade of green—I always thought that was just an expression. The only pink in his entire face is in his eyes.
I force a smile and pretend nothing is wrong. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Jordan says, then covers his mouth to burp. “I’m sorry I took so long. I was asleep.”
“Oh,” I say, at a loss. I stand in the doorway, stupidly waiting for him to let me in.
He doesn’t.
I look down the hallway nervously, buying myself some time. Nope, he’s really not going to ask me in. Finally I eke out, “I’m sorry I bothered you. I was just going to ask if you wanted to have breakfast with me.”
Jordan shakes his head as though trying to clear out the cobwebs. “Hmm? Oh…yeah. Breakfast. Okay. Do you want to come in?”
He opens the door for me, and takes a few steps backward as I walk in.
This is a bad idea. “You know what?” I say, taking a quick peek around to see how the other half lives. “You look wiped. Maybe I should come back later.”
“No, no. I just need to get changed,” Jordan says, taking my arm and gently leading me into the full-size living room area of the suite. “I’m afraid I’m a bit hungover this morning. Food would be good for me. Have a seat. I’ll be ready in a minute.”
He sits me down on the sectional sofa. “Can I get you anything?”
“No,” I say, forcing another smile. I watch as he walks over to the minibar, pulls out a bottle of Evian water, and downs it in one gulp. He looks miserable. He leans on the minibar for support, and rubs his temple.
I wince just watching him. “Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“Do you have any aspirin?” Jordan asks, furrowing his brow and rubbing his head.
“No,” I say apologetically. “But they probably sell some downstairs.”
Jordan nods, then walks silently to his bedroom and closes the door.
Feeling awkward, I take a look around the suite. There’s a dining room with a highly polished table for six. The living room could easily fit twenty. And they have an even more magnificent view of the Strip than we have i
n our room.
Plus two full bedrooms.
I wanna be rich.
Anyway, I look over at Jordan’s closed door. Feeling awkward, I yell to him, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come back later?”
“No,” he yells through the door. “Give me one more minute.”
Feeling uncomfortable, I grab a magazine from the coffee table and start leafing through it. There’s an article about Hawaii I turn to.
Hawaii. That sounds good. Pretty much anywhere but right here sounds good. Michigan—I hear it’s lovely this time of year. Or Pittsburgh.
Okay, think. All right. So he’s hungover. Which means, right now, according to my brother Jamie, that’s bad because…shit! Why is it bad? I need to get ahold of Jamie and find out how to act around a hungover man you have a desperate crush on.
Which means I need to get out of here for a minute. Now, how to do that?
I look over at the closed door and yell, “How about if I go down to the lobby and get you some aspirin?”
“No. Just give me one more minute,” Jordan yells back.
Damn it. All right, I know I’m obsessing, but I need to figure out how to handle a hungover man. Where would Jamie be right now?
Okay, he saw Kate this morning. He’s had a crush on her since he was thirteen. She is now available for the first time since he became legal, therefore, he is saying and doing anything he can right now to get past the velvet rope. And he’s known her for so many years, he should know exactly what to say and do.
What the hell? I’ll give it a shot. I pick up the phone and press the button for the front desk. “Can I have Kate Lopez’s room, please?” I ask in a whisper.
Kate’s phone rings. And rings. I start to put down the phone. Darn, I was sure they would have…“Hello,” Kate says.
“Hi!” I say, putting the phone back to my ear. “It’s Charlie. Um, I hate to bother you, but I was wondering if you knew where Jamie was. See, I’m with Jordan right now, and I—”
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s up?” Jamie says.
Sweetheart. You know he’s with a girl when he starts sounding like Sam Malone to his own sister. “I need some dating advice,” I whisper into the phone, hoping to God Jordan doesn’t open the door and hear me obsessing. “What do you do when you’re with a guy who’s hungover, but he won’t let you leave?”
“Whisper the name Kobe Bryant into his ear,” Jamie responds.
“That’s not funny. Besides, I didn’t sleep with him. What was that thing you said guys have when they’re hungover, and it makes them depressed?”
“Dopamine,” Jamie says. “But when they’re hungover, they don’t have it anymore. That’s why they’re depressed. That’s why you should never sleep with a man the first time when he’s drunk.”
“Oh my God, I totally read about that,” I overhear Kate say to Jamie. “That is so cool you know about stuff like that.”
“Well, I have two sisters. It makes me very sensitive to a woman’s feelings,” Jamie lies to her.
I can hear him starting to kiss her. And her kiss back. Now they’re making out, and I’m just the idiot on the other end of the phone listening to it.
“Hello?” I yell into the phone. “A little advice here.”
“Oh, sorry,” Jamie says. “Okay, it’s Jordan, right?”
“Duh.”
“Okay, well, right now he’s hating himself, not you. So go have breakfast with him, then let him sleep it off. Tonight, I’ll make sure we all do something together, and you can try hitting on him then.”
“Okay. That sounds like a plan,” I say, nodding my head even though he can’t see me. “Now make sure when you talk me up to him tonight you tell him…”
And I stop talking, realizing Jamie has already hung up.
I hang up the phone just as Jordan opens his door.
All I can think is—damn. Even sick as a dog, and just wearing jeans and a T-shirt, the man looks good.
Jordan runs his fingers through his damp hair. “So, where do you want to go?”
“Well,” I begin. “Caesar’s Palace has an all-you-can-eat buffet….”
Jordan clutches his stomach. I stop talking. He takes a deep breath (presumably to stop from dry heaving) and says, “I’m sorry. Right now, all-you-can-eat sounds a bit…overwhelming.”
“Fair enough,” I begin again. “Then we could go to a regular restaurant. There’s a nice restaurant at the MGM Grand we could walk to that has—”
“Walk?” Jordan interrupts with a tone of voice that adds, Please, God, no.
“Or,” I say brightly, “we could go somewhere in the hotel, so we don’t have to walk.”
“Better!” Jordan says, and it’s the first time he’s sounded happy since I got to the room.
Our trip down to the lobby was pretty much silent, save one “You look very nice today” from Jordan on our way to the elevator, and one “Thank you” from me.
Once in the lobby, we go to a gift shop that sells aspirin in packages of two tablets per pack. Jordan buys three packs, and some Alka-Selzer for good measure.
I keep trying to start up a conversation. I go everywhere from politics to photography, from Aristotle to Christina Aguilera. I get nothing back.
We head to the hotel café for breakfast. The hostess leads us to a table, hands us menus, asks us if she can get us coffee (we both answer with a resounding “Yes!”), and leaves us to our nonexistent conversation.
“So,” I begin awkwardly, “Andy called Hunter last night after you left. He drove out here with all his bachelor party guys, including my brother.”
“I know,” Jordan says as he opens his packets of aspirin. “Your brother’s going to be camping out with us in our room tonight.”
“Oh,” I say, quelling the urge to say, No, he won’t. He’ll be camping out with Kate.
Jordan puts all six aspirin in the palm of his hand and drowns them with the glass of ice water already set on our table. “So,” he says pleasantly, “what’s your story?”
He hasn’t asked it in a belligerent way—more like he’s making conversation. I try to craft a good response as a waitress with the nametag MARCIA puts down our coffees.
“You guys know what you want?” Marcia asks cheerfully, pulling out a pad and a ballpoint pen.
“Oh,” I say, quickly glancing at the menu even though I know exactly what I want. “I’ll take the ham and cheese omelet with extra cheese, and a side of bacon.”
“What kind of toast?”
“Wheat. Lots of butter.”
“Hashed browns?”
“Definitely.”
“Great. And you, sir?”
Jordan coughs into his fist, looking like he’s going to throw up. “Wow,” he says to me. “That’s a lot of food.” He turns to Marcia. “I think I’ll just have a bagel.”
By the way she looks at him, I can tell Marcia sees this all the time, and can feel his pain. She leans in and whispers, “Can I make a recommendation?”
“Sure.”
“Bloody Mary. A little hair of the dog, plus the tomato juice has something in it that helps the dehydration.”
Jordan smiles, embarrassed. “That sounds perfect. Does it come in a supersize?”
Marcia laughs politely, takes our menus, and leaves.
And we’re back to our awkward silence. Jordan rubs his eyes. I’m afraid he might go back to sleep right on our table.
“In what sense?” I ask, trying to get some sort of ball rolling.
“Hmm?” Jordan asks, sounding like I just woke him.
“You asked me about my story. In what sense?”
“Oh,” Jordan says, as if he just remembered the question. “Well, your younger sister’s getting married next week, you’ve just turned thirty…some women would be overthinking their life right now.”
Ouch. I take a moment to wince internally, then give what he’s saying some thought. He’s right, of course. I have been overthinking my life. “Truthfully?” I begin. “Yeah
, I’m a little sad that I’m thirty, and I’m alone, and that I haven’t figured out everything in my life yet. But I’m not that sad. Most days, I’m pretty happy with my life. I like my job, I like my friends, I like the direction my life is going in. So I try not to dwell on the bad stuff.”
Okay, not completely true. But it sounded good, didn’t it?
Jordan eyes me suspiciously. “So, when you say ‘alone,’ what do you mean by that? I mean, obviously you have a lot of dates. A lot of guys interested.”
“Getting dates is never the problem,” I say, and I mean it. “Finding someone to love for the rest of your life—that’s the tricky part.”
“Hmm. Are you still seeing Dave?”
Again, very pleasant. No accusatory tone.
“No,” I answer back just as pleasantly, but emphatically. “I haven’t dated him since well before the wrap party. His phone call the night you were over was just an unfortunate coincidence.”
Jordan smiles. “Glad to hear it. What about Doug?”
Shit! I had forgotten all about Doug. “Hmmm. Doug,” I say, stalling for time.
When all else fails, try the truth.
“Well, honestly, I was interested, and then I wasn’t.”
“Why the sudden loss of interest?” Jordan asks, stirring some cream into his coffee.
I smile. “There was someone I liked more. And I just can’t seem to get him out of my head.”
I swear, he blushes.
“So what about you?” I ask. “Tell me about this ex-fiancée.”
Jordan fidgets in his seat. “Okay. What do you want to know about her?”
Everything and not a damn thing at once. Of course, I don’t say that.
And before I can ask anything, he interrupts my thoughts. “You know what, I’m having a really good time this weekend, and I’d prefer not to talk about her. Is that okay?”
“Okay,” I lie.
And we don’t talk about her for the rest of breakfast.
We do talk about colleges, art, Paris, the Mets (okay, no, I don’t talk about the Mets, but I’m a very good listener), Drew, other stars we’ve worked with, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, politics, Chinese food, and Jeopardy!
A Total Waste of Makeup Page 25