Arranged (8 page)

“Who is this?”

“You know very well who this is.”

He chuckles. “Oh, hello, Cordelia.”

“Don’t ‘Oh, hello’ me. Did I do something to piss you off that I don’t know about?”

“I take it you didn’t have a good time?”

“No, I did not have a good time. How could he and I have a good time together?”

“It’s Anne,” he whispers to Cathy, then to me, “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s clueless, insensitive, and doesn’t drink coffee.”

“Seriously, Anne.”

“I
am
being serious. We didn’t click at all. I mean
at all.
”

Gil sighs. “I don’t get you.”

“What’s to get?”

“What do you want?”

“Someone I can connect with. Someone who’ll treat me right.”

“Of course you do, honey.” Cathy has picked up one of the other extensions. “And that’s what you’ll find.”

“Thanks, Cath.”

“I think you should give him another chance,” Gil says.

“Why?”

“Remember Mom and Dad? Remember the rule?”

My parents’ rule is that you have to go on three dates with someone before you write him off forever. Why? Because they had two horrible dates, and it was only on the third that they found their rhythm. I’d always assumed Mom kept going on the dates because of Dad’s last name (she could marry a man named Blythe, just like Anne of Green Gables!), and Dad kept going because Mom was the hottest girl who had ever gone out with him.

“Well?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Will you really?”

“I said I would. Lay off.”

“Why don’t you see if he calls you again and decide then?” Cathy says practically.

“Maybe. I’ll talk to you guys later.”

I hang up and watch the car lights flash past the window.

When I get home, I boot up my computer and check my email. Halfway through a long list of reply-alls from people at
Twist,
there’s an email from my agent, Nadia, titled “News!!” I’m having trouble breathing.

I stare at the email, feeling like I did when I got my college acceptance letters. Only then, thin envelopes meant no and fat meant yes. This email looks like all the others.

Yes or no. Yes or no. I won’t find out if I never open it.

I click it open. My heart is booming.

Anne, sorry for doing this in an email, but I’ve misplaced your cell number. Anyway, great news! The editor at Wesson got back to me today. She loves the manuscript, and they’ve made the following offer . . .

Yes, yes, yes! I’m going to be published. They think my manuscript’s in great shape and they want to rush it for a spring launch. They like it so much, they’re giving me a two-book deal. And they’re offering me an advance of fifteen thousand dollars. Jesus!

I can finally buy a car, or go on a great vacation, or . . .

Get married.

I can get married now.

I can.

Chapter 8

Smells Like a Party

H
i, this is Sarah. Leave a message.
”

“Sarah! I can’t believe you didn’t pick up! I have news. Big news! I know I should wait to speak to you in person, but I can’t wait. My book’s being published! They’re giving me an advance and all kinds of shit. Anyway, where are you? Call me!”

“
You know who this is and you know what to do.
”

“William! Where the hell are you? Call me immediately when you get this message! You know who this is too.”

“
You’ve reached Gilbert, Cathy, Jane, Elizabeth, and Mary. Some of us can’t answer phones yet, and the rest of us are busy. Leave a message.
”

“Gilbert, Cathy, it’s Anne. Where the hell are you guys? We just got off the phone a few minutes ago. By the way, Gil, that message isn’t funny. Anyway, I have some news. It’s kind of big, give me a call.”

“
You’ve reached the Blythes. Leave a short message, and we’ll return your call.
”

“Mom, Dad, it’s Anne. Pick up. Mom, turn off the damn
CSI
and pick up the phone! All right, I guess you’re not there. Call me when you get this message.”

I can’t believe no one’s answering the phone. The biggest moment of my life, and I can’t reach anyone to celebrate with at ten-thirty on a Friday night.

I so need a husband.

N
o one calls me back that night. The return calls trickle in over the weekend in predictable order. Sarah first, my mother last. Everyone’s extremely happy for me. My father’s oddly concerned with the financial details. My mother wants to know to whom I’ll be dedicating the book. This is the most interest she’s ever expressed in my book. She’s never even asked to read it, and to pay her back, I haven’t asked her to. To be fair, I’m sure she’d want to read it if I told her what it’s about, but that’s not really the point, is it?

Sarah and I decide we’re going to have a joint “getting published and getting married” party. We spend half an hour going through the details, giggling like we’re organizing our sweet sixteens. She offers to ditch her plans with Mike and come over, but I won’t hear of it.

When we get off the phone, I feel restless. I should leave the apartment, but it’s raining in a heavy, dark way that discourages going outside unless it’s absolutely necessary. I flip through the channels on TV, but all that’s on is paid programming for weight-loss programs. I try to read, but I can’t concentrate. Ditto for writing. I briefly consider going to my parents’ house, but I know I’d regret it within minutes of arriving.

In the end, I decide to rearrange the furniture in my apartment. There’s always been something about furniture in a new position that comforts me.

I start with the bedroom. I move my bed under the window so I can read by the morning light on weekends when I wake up early. I find eleven hair elastics and several large dust balls. Next I take the drawers out of my dresser so I can drag it to the opposite wall. I sort through my clothes and start a bag to give away to charity. Then I dust all the surfaces in the room, sneezing mightily as I go.

When I’m done, I stand in the doorway admiring the things that belong only to me. It’s stopped raining, and the sun is setting through the sheers over the window. It casts an orange glow on the white duvet and the light gray walls. The air smells of pine cleaner and the herb garden that rests on the windowsill. It all looks clean and soft and solid.

I feel calmer. I feel happy.

I feel like I know how I got to this moment.

I
felt like I knew how I got here,” I tell Dr. Szwick during our next session.

It’s coming up on Christmas. I saw the first flakes of the season this morning, small and hard—the worst kind of snow. It’s a blustery day, but the heavy damask curtains pulled tightly across the windows muffle the sound of the wind. All that’s missing is a crackling fire.

“What happened?” Dr. Szwick asks. He’s wearing a navy cardigan with suede patches on the elbows. His beard seems to have gained another inch of his face.

I shrug. “The sun came up the next morning.”

“And how did you feel?”

“Like I did when I had my feet off the ground last week.”

“Good, good.”

“It didn’t feel very good.”

“No, it’s not supposed to.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.” His scratchy pen spikes across the pages. “So, Anne, I’m curious. . . . why did you write that article about arranged marriages?”

“Oh, you read that?”

“I did.”

I look into his straight-on gaze. My heart stutters the way it used to do when the vice principal caught me using bathroom passes to skip class.

“I didn’t mention Blythe and Company.”

“I noticed that. And, of course, if you had, you wouldn’t be here today.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, Anne, just a reminder that you’ve agreed to keep the process confidential.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Good. So, how did you come to write the article?”

I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs. “I, um, got thrown the column at the last minute, and since I was already doing some research on the topic, you know, just looking into it generally . . .”

Jesus. You’d think I was talking to Ms. Cooper.

“Are you sure that’s the real reason?”

“I was curious to talk to people who’ve had an arranged marriage. Wouldn’t you be in my situation?”

“Perhaps. Did you find the answers you were looking for?”

“Maybe. The second woman I met was educated and had options. She seemed happy, settled. She seemed to have what I want.”

“Which is?”

“To find that person who everything feels right with. Where the two of us together feels bigger than the sum of our parts.”

“And why do you want that?”

“Don’t most people want that?”

He taps his fountain pen against his notebook. “Not enough to use Blythe and Company.”

“Right, good point.”

“To return to a topic from our last session, why do you think that hasn’t happened until now?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What about your last relationship? Why didn’t you marry . . .” He glances down at his notes. “Stuart.”

My shoulders tense at the sound of his name. “That’s an easy one. Because he treated me like crap.”

“Why did you let him treat you like that?”

“I don’t know.”

He shakes his head. “Come on, Anne. Yes, you do.”

“Why don’t you tell me why, then,” I say sullenly.

“Because I can’t do all the heavy lifting.Tell me, why did you let him treat you like that?”

A question I’ve asked myself a million times.

“I honestly can’t tell you. But I’m happy to hear any theory you might have.”

He considers me. “Is it part of the fairy tale we were talking about?”

“How could it be part of the fairy tale? People don’t treat each other badly in fairy tales.”

“Don’t they? Doesn’t the heroine always get treated badly so that she needs to be rescued? Cue the hero?”

“So you’re saying I let Stuart cheat on me so I’d need to be rescued, because if I didn’t need to be rescued, then the hero would never show up?”

“Does that sound right to you?”

“I’m not sure. If it is, how come I left him?”

He smiles. “You rescued yourself. You were your own hero.”

I slide deeper into the chair, letting my head rest on the back. “But if I’m my own hero, does that mean I end up alone?”

“No, it means you’re ready to accept someone who’s an actual match for you and not some heroic fantasy.”

“Blythe and Company isn’t going to find me a hero? Damn. What am I paying so much money for, then?”

His beard twitches. “To begin a new story.”

“And how’s this one going to end?”

“We’ll see soon enough, Anne.”

I
spend the next three weeks in a fog of happiness caused by my book deal, interspersed with outbreaks of nerves when I remember I’m waiting for a call from Blythe & Company. Christmas comes and goes. The windowsill below the bay window fills up with the smiling faces of my friends’ families. I briefly contemplate sending out a card with my “baby” on it—a screen shot of the first page of my manuscript—but use the money it would have cost to buy gifts for my nieces.

I spend New Year’s Eve with William at a big anonymous party in someone’s loft. Sarah and Mike join us near midnight looking glowy, a cocoon of love around them. Midnight is celebrated with chaste kisses on my cheek from William and Mike. A new year. My year, I tell myself, as I sip my flute of champagne. Good things are going to happen.

And in a flash it’s two weeks later, the night of the getting married/getting published party, and I’m standing outside the bar,
shivering inside my coat, waiting for Richard to pay for the cab.

I’m here with Richard because he caught me in a giddy moment. Apparently, book deals don’t make you smarter.

Once we’re inside, I scan the room for Sarah and Mike. They’re talking to Sarah’s parents and younger sister. I introduce them to Richard.

Sarah raises her eyebrows in surprise. “He’s cute,” she mouths to me, looking pretty in a wine-colored dress, her curls shining.

“He’s boring,” I mouth back. Sarah suppresses a giggle.

Mike, tall and slightly beefy, with light brown hair and matching eyes, plants a kiss on my cheek. “Congratulations, Anne.”

I thank him and return the congratulations. He smiles happily and puts his arm around Sarah’s shoulders.

“Doesn’t Anne look wonderful this evening?” Richard says as he drapes his arm across my shoulders, mimicking Mike.

I’m wearing a dark blue satin dress that ties around my neck and leaves my back bare. My book-deal dress for my book-deal party. It’s too fancy for the occasion, and as Richard’s cold fingers graze my skin, sending the wrong kind of chill down my spine, it’s a choice I’m regretting.

I duck out from under his arm and spend a few minutes catching up with Sarah’s parents. Then, with Richard deep into telling Mike what he does for a living, I escape to the bar. William’s there, paying for a drink. He’s wearing a striped dress shirt above a fashionably distressed pair of jeans. His hair stands up from his head like an exclamation mark.

“A.B., you look wonderful!”

“Thanks.”

He takes my hands and holds my arms away from me. “No, I mean it, Anne. Being successful agrees with you. You’re glowing.”

“I think that’s the glow of exasperation.” I motion over my shoulder to where Richard’s still expounding on the thrill of reviewing thirty-page contracts or some such nonsense. I order a martini from the bartender. Two olives, straight up.

“That’s not Richard, is it?”

“Who else?”

“Why did you bring him?”

“Fear of dying alone surrounded by cats?”

“Good point. Too bad I’m not remotely attracted to you.”

“Yeah, it’s too bad that
you’re
not attracted to
me.
”

We grin at each other.

“Anyway,” I say, “tonight I want to celebrate the greatness of me and the happiness of Sarah with someone who’ll buy me a few drinks.”

The bartender places a martini glass in front of me. He’s made a generous pour. The glittering silver liquid reaches right to the rim.

William raises his glass. “I hear you. So tonight and tonight only, I celebrate the greatness of you.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“Hello, dear,” my mother says behind me. “Aren’t you cold in that dress?”

Icy calm, Anne, icy calm.

I put my drink on the bar and turn toward my parents. Gil and Cathy are behind them. My dad is an older version of Gil, but with my eyes. My mother keeps her chin-length hair the same color as mine, although it’s our only common feature. Her eyes are a milky brown, and her face is round, without angles. She’s wearing a 1940s-style fur coat she inherited from her aunt. She’s always looking for an excuse to wear it. I’m not sure why.

“No, Mom, I’m fine. Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart, sorry we’re late.” My dad hugs me, holding me tightly against his scratchy camel winter coat.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “Hi, Gil. Hi, Cath.”

“Hi yourself, Cordelia.” Gilbert chucks me under the chin. “I’m really proud of you, little sister.”

My throat constricts at the emotion in his voice. “Thanks.”

“Where
is
everyone?” my mother asks, looking around.

“At the back.” I wave toward the balloons and streamers Sarah and I put up earlier.