Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink (12 page)

Gulp. “Oh, I don’t want to bore you,” I say nervously. “This is your week.”

She tells me through a mouthful of cheesecake, “I can’t tell if you’re saying that because you’re still all sexed up and happy, or you’re entering stage one of the clingy phase. Spill.”

Seema eyes me knowingly.
Damn, am I that transparent?
Finally I confess, “He didn’t call or e-mail me tonight.”

I figure that is enough sharing, but Seema looks at me expectantly, waiting for more.

So I continue, “And now I’m getting all weird. And I shouldn’t, and I promise not to mess up your wedding in any way. I just wish … I wish I knew where I stood with him.”

“You want me to call him?”

“God, no! Then he’ll know I’m getting obsessed.”

“Good point. You want to show me what you last wrote?”

“God, yes!” I say in the exact same tone.

By the time Seema blinks, I am already in my room, grabbing my phone.

I return to the couch and show her my last text, and his last response. Seema thinks for a moment. “Knowing Jay, he’s been burning the candle on both ends since the night before he left Paris, hasn’t slept in days, got back to the hotel after a work dinner, in his mind thought he’d ‘lie down for a minute,’ then promptly passed out.”

“You think?” I ask hopefully.

“I know. That boy could sleep through incoming. But just to make sure, write to him, saying you’re going to bed. If he’s with a woman, he’ll quickly text you back something noncommittal. If he’s awake and by himself, he’ll call. If he’s passed out, you won’t hear from him.”

I stare at my phone, then look up at Seema. “Have you always been able to read men so well?”

“What? No. God, no. Just my brother. But seriously, give me your phone.”

Seema yanks the phone out of my hand. She types on the keypad, then shows me the screen:

Don’t want to call, since it’s so late. Just going to bed—your mom made Seema a little nuts this evening, so I was a dutiful maid of honor and provided champagne, Entenmann’s, and her favorite Cary Grant movie. XOXO

“This okay?” Seema asks me.

Just as I start to say “I’m not sure I would use the word—,” Seema has already hit the send button. My shoulders slump, “Why did you even ask?”

“It was just a courtesy. I didn’t mean it,” she tells me, then tosses my phone on the coffee table. “Now, about that Cary Grant movie you just texted him about? Do we have
An Affair to Remember
?”

“Are you mental, woman? I’m in clingy mode—the last thing I need is a super-romantic movie. How about
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
or
I Was a Male War Bride
?”

“Both comedies.
Charade
?”

“You want to show me Paris right now?”

“
North by Northwest
?”

“Done.” I pop off the couch to get the Blu-ray.

“And about that champagne you texted him…?”

I laugh, head to the kitchen, and get us our millionth bottle of champagne for the week, two flutes, and another fork.

We spend the next ten or twenty minutes inhaling cake and champagne, watching the Sexiest Man Dead get framed as a CIA agent and waiting for a text or call from one of the Sexiest Men Alive. Nothing from Jay. Seema smiles at me. “See?”

I smile and tell her she made me feel much better. Which is a lie, of course. She did make me a feel a little better, yes. But, sometimes hanging out with your best girlfriend watching old movies is merely a place marker to kill time until a girl can speak to
him
again.

Or as I like to call it, the clingy phase, stage two.

*   *   *

The following morning put my mind at ease. Around 6:00
A.M
., my phone begins ringing its newest ringtone—Eric Clapton.

I pull the phone from my nightstand and answer groggily, “Hello?”

“Did I wake you?” Jay asks me softly.

“No, I always sound like Elmer Fudd after two packs of cigarettes,” I joke. I sit up in bed and try to wake up. “How are you?”

“Good.” He sounds sleepy. “Tired. I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“We went to this restaurant last night, and it had an amazing view of the city. I wish you could be up here with me—you’d have loved it.”

I smile. “I’m sure I would have.” Then I ask awkwardly, “So how late were you up?”

“Not sure. I got here and thought I’d rest for a minute before I took a shower, and then I just zonked out.” I smile wider. Seema was right. “Anyway, I better get to that shower and start my day. Just wanted to say good morning.”

“Good morning,” I repeat, more brightly now.

His voice sounds brighter too as he says, “All right. I’ll call you later.”

“Great.”

“Great.”

Neither of us gets off the phone.

“We’re not going to be one of those couples who…”

“No, I’m going. Bye,” I blather, then practically slam down the phone.

Then I snuggle back into my covers, grinning like a teenage girl.

S
IXTEEN

That afternoon, I am waiting in the luggage area, my knees bouncing slightly up and down, thinking,
He’s here! He’s here! He’s here! I can see him walking down the LAX people mover.
I stand at the glass revolving doors keeping out the riffraff like me from the people with airline tickets. I’m so excited, I continue to bounce up and down ever so slightly.

No, I’m not waiting for Jay (although he might inspire such a reaction from me too). I am waiting for Jeff. My college sweetheart. Up until a few days ago, the best-looking man I ever dated (Jay might be able to give him a run for his money, not sure). Definitely the nicest, most loving man I ever dated. When Jeff sees me, his face lights up and he picks up his pace. He pushes his way through the revolving doors, holds up a beautiful lei of purple and white flowers, and brightly says to me, “Aloha!”

I burst into a giant smile as I run into his arms. “Aloha!” I yell, wrapping my arms around him, then jumping up to wrap my legs around him too. “My God! You look fantastic.”

“Oh, please, sweetie,” Jeff retorts. “I’ve gained at least ten pounds since I moved to Maui, and my hairline’s receding so quickly you’d think it was Napoléon’s army at Waterloo.”

I make a show of rolling my eyes as I jump off him. “Shut up. Your hair’s perfect, your eyes are still as electric blue as a Siberian husky’s, and you look exactly the same as you did in college. Which I hate you for, by the way. I’m the one with gray hairs and a food-baby belly that looks like I’m three months along.”

Jeff steps back to give me the once-over with his eyes. “Please. You’re perfect. If anything, you need a sandwich.” He puts the lei over my head, then kisses me once on each cheek. I pull the lei up to my nose and inhale. “That smells amazing. What kinds of flowers are these?”

“Orchids.”

I’m so touched. Why can’t I find a straight man who treats me so nicely? “You brought orchids all the way from Hawaii?”

He smiles. “I want to take credit for being awesome, but the truth is I bought them at the Costco near the airport. Now, tell me about the guy.”

I give him a look. “What guy? There’s no guy.”

He smirks. “Wow. Coy. That means you’ve had sex.”

My jaw drops. “How did you…”

“Ha! I totally didn’t!” he exclaims, proud of himself for psyching me out. “But you did! You did have sex!” He grabs my hand, kisses it quickly, then asks, “So who is he? And do we hear wedding bells?”

“Do you remember Jay? Seema’s brother?”

“The guy I had a crush on in college?”

Cue another jaw drop.

Jeff puts up his left palm. “I’ve said too much. Sorry. Go on…”

“Seriously?” I whine. “You had a crush on him
while
we were dating?”

“Sweetie, in the first five minutes you met me, I raved about George Clooney
and
Rosemary Clooney. Not my fault you didn’t read the signs. Now tell me about the Jay hookup.”

We get Jeff’s bags, then spend the next fifty-five minutes creeping along through horrible LA traffic. But time flew as the two of us talked a mile a minute and spoke in shorthand about everything from our dating exploits of late, to our jobs, to what numbers we picked in the Mega lottery, to whether
People
’s Sexiest Man Alive deserved to have been picked that year. (Jeff said he was too old, but that a man who can provide a baby with six zeros attached clearly has some value to women.)

I have not seen Jeff in almost three years, yet we are talking as if we just saw each other yesterday.

When we get to Seema’s and my place, I park the car, and Jeff and I get his luggage. As we approach the house, Jeff asks the million-dollar question. “So, he invited you to Paris. You never answered me—are you going?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Probably not. But it’s nice to think the opportunity is there.”

“What is with you? Just go!”

“I’m not even sure if it’s a serious invite.”

“Are you having sex with the man?” Jeff asks, leading the witness.

I shrug self-consciously. “We might be having ‘met at a wedding’ sex. I’m not sure that counts.’”

“All sex counts. Don’t you keep a list?”

“A list of what?”

“Of all the men you’ve slept with.”

“I don’t need a list.”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” Jeff deadpans.

“No, it’s not sad. I’ve haven’t been with that many men. If I had a dime for every man I’ve had sex with…”

“You still couldn’t use a parking meter for more than twenty minutes. Oh, remind me, I owe you a dime,” Jeff jokes.

I make a show of glaring at him before I unlock the door. As we walk into the house, I see Scott sitting crisscross applesauce on the carpet in the middle of our living room, surrounded by white poster-board circles. He looks …
pained
is the only word that pops to mind. Seema stands nears him, in front of a big, purple poster board placed on an easel. She holds a black Sharpie up to a white circle with the number 3 scrolled on it. “I don’t think having a singles’ table is bad if it’s close to the dance floor,” she assures Scott.

Scott holds in a sigh. “I will give you a hundred dollars right now if you can name one person, ever, in the history of weddings, who was happy to be put at the singles’ table.” Upon seeing us, Scott’s face lights up. “Oh, company. Thank God. Break time!”

“Jeff!” Seema practically screams, running up to him and hugging him (the man inspires such enthused reactions in women). “Oh my God! You’re here!”

“Seema,” he says, giving her a bear hug. “You’re even more gorgeous than last time. Engagements clearly agree with you.” After the hug, Jeff walks over to Scott, who stands to shake his hand. “I’m Jeff.”

“Scott.”

As they shake hands, Jeff turns to Seema. “You didn’t tell me how gorgeous your soon-to-be-husband is.”

“I most certainly did,” Seema insists.

He turns back to Scott and says to him in all seriousness, “If you ever hurt her, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

Scott smiles. “I would have it no other way.”

We have the standard chitchat (How was the flight? What’s the weather been like in LA?), but soon Seema cuts to the chase, asking Jeff, “How do you feel about helping us with the seating chart?”

Jeff feigns insult. “You assume that just because I’m gay I instinctively know how to make a seating chart?”

She looks at him as if that were the stupidest question in the world. “Um … duh.”

“Set me up with someone cute and single?”

Seema looks over at me. “Don?”

My eyes light up and I nod. “Yeah. Don’s good.”

Jeff eyes widen. “Oh, Don. I am loving Don. Now tell me, who’s Don?”

“He’s the principal at my school,” I tell him. “Insanely hot, age appropriate, and recently out of a long-term relationship.”

Jeff immediately scribbles his name and Don’s onto table six. “We have a winner.”

“Wait, why did you put yourself at table six?” Seema asks.

“Not too close to the dance floor and its booming speakers. Not too close to the bar and its booming drunks.” Jeff tapes circle six to the middle-left part of the chart. “Who’s next?”

Seema scrunches her lips as she examines the chart. “What if we put your aunts Beth, Jane, and Nancy with your uncle Sam?” she suggests to her fiancée.

“Sam’s fine,” Scott tells her as he picks up a circle from the floor, stands up, and hands it to her. “Just don’t sit Aunt Beth next to Uncle Solomon.”

While Jeff sticks the white circle onto the poster-board seating chart, Seema turns to Scott. “Do you
have
an Uncle Solomon?”

“I do. And I’m pretty sure he hates Aunt Beth.”

“Have I met this uncle?” Seema asks.

“Probably not. I haven’t seen him since I was five.”

“So naturally we invited him,” Seema says sarcastically.

“He’s also my godfather.”

Seema turns to Scott. “Wait, you have a Christian godfather named Solomon?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Seema won’t take the bait. “No reason. Why doesn’t he like Aunt Beth?”

“She left him for Aunt Jane.”

Jeff leans in. “Let’s put Aunt Beth at table six. She sounds fun.”

Jeff takes the names Aunt Beth and Aunt Jane and tapes them onto table six as Seema scrutinizes the board again. “Do you want your uncle Solomon at table thirteen or fifteen?”

“Whichever’s farthest from table six,” Scott reasons.

Seema writes
Solomon
in red pen on table fifteen.

“What does the red pen mean?” I ask.

“Danger, danger, Will Robinson. If this person sits next to the wrong person, all hell will break loose, and someone might not enjoy his chicken tikka masala,” Seema says dryly.

“Have you considered Vegas?” Jeff asks Scott.

Scott leans in to Jeff and says quietly, “I suggest it daily.”

“I heard that,” Seema says to Scott.

Scott puts out his hands. “Did I stutter?”

Something tells me a lot of prewedding conversations contain those words verbatim.

S
EVENTEEN

That night, Jeff and I decide to take a cab over to central Hollywood and go on a “cocktail crawl.” Jeff calls it “research”—he needs to observe how the décor of the hot new clubs has changed over the past few years, what new drinks are in, what the happy hours are like, etc. He even asked one bartender to get the manager so they could discuss lighting.