Liar's Guide to True Love (18 page)

From Mia to all of us:

Saturday, July Fourth

Wedding Tip: Have a great time, but don’t do anything you wouldn’t want immortalized on Facebook—or by people with long memories.

My somewhat annual Fourth of July party is always nice to look forward to. I try to make sure I don’t work that weekend. I might book a few consultations or appointments, but generally, this is the one weekend every summer that I make sure I have off like everyone else. I reserve the rooftop well in advance—my neighbors don’t seem to mind since they don’t show much interest in hosting their own party, and I slip notes under their doors reminding them of my party and inviting them. In the seven years I’ve lived here, I could count on one hand the number of people who accepted the invitation. Those who have come tend to be new in town. It just goes to show how pervasive the New York mentality of ignoring one’s neighbors is.

My parties are not as elaborate as one might think befits an event planner. But honestly, when I spend so much time planning everyone else’s parties, do I really have the time to make my own decorations and favors? In fact, whatever items I can’t get delivered, I just pick up at Gristede’s. I do, however, try to do as much prep work in advance so that I can spend my time enjoying myself once the guests arrive. And no, patriotic as I am, there are no cheesy plastic flags at my parties. I always use white tablecloths to cover the cheapy fold outs that I own. Red, white, and blue bowls for snacks and condiments, and handfuls of silver confetti complete the table arrangements.

Mia comes over early to help and together we get buckets and coolers out of my storage bin in the basement and fill them with ice and bottles of beer. (A note to all you backyard barbecuers—this is a great system to accommodate those six packs that your guests inevitably bring. It’s a visible way to acknowledge the thoughtfulness and quickly stash them to chill, without any more work on your part.) We made sure to get an assortment of summer beers, like Corona, Blue Moon, Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. We also got plenty of the requisite tried and true Amstels and Heinekens. I tie a bottle opener to each bucket with red, white and blue grosgrain ribbon. Every year I also make a couple of pitchers of something special—last year it was peach sangria, the year before it was caipirinhas. This year I decide to take it easy and do margaritas—with salt of course.

After all the refreshments are done, I take a quick shower and get dressed. I put on a white sleeveless top and white Capri pants—this is the only time of year I get to dress in all white. I put on a few chunky silver chains of varying styles and lengths, some silver bangle bracelets for a festive jingle, and put my hair up in a high ponytail to keep cool in the midsummer city humidity. A red belt adds just the right amount of color. I put on a little mascara, powder and gloss, and slip on a pair of cork-heeled tan wedges, while Mia pours us some margaritas to get us started. I am glad to have a little time with her, since I know that once David gets here, they will spend all their time together in a corner somewhere. Not so much because they are in that lovebird stage and can’t get enough of each other—that
would be
annoying, of course. But they will go off by themselves because David isn’t really into parties, but will come because it’s important to Mia.

Guests soon start arriving, and it’s so much fun to catch up with some old college friends that I only see a few times a year, given everyone’s hectic schedules. There are four or five couples that became friends after I organized their weddings—it’s always nice to see them still together. I immediately think that it was fortunate Nick was out of town and could never have come to this party where my real job function comes up in conversation again and again. I could just imagine trying to prep everyone beforehand not to say anything, and what a disaster and nutcase that would make me sound like.

Emma and Robert are here, as they are every year. This year they seem somewhat—strained is the only word for it. They obviously have not had any talks about Emma’s restlessness of late. A fact that is only confirmed when Robert takes a beer bottle out of Emma’s hand with a stage wink “because you never know.” He may as well have patted her belly for all his subtlety that is more patronizing than cute now that I have heard Emma’s side of the story. I say to Emma in a stern whisper that Robert can’t hear, “I thought you were going to talk to him” and don’t wait for a response before I excuse myself to chat with other guests like any good hostess.

The party is in full swing by the time the sun goes down and everyone is excited for the fireworks to begin. It’s funny how fireworks bring out the celebratory kids in all of us. I’ve done a few weddings where fireworks were the finale of the reception—but there have been more than a few couples who planned to have them before finding out the cost of doing so. I wonder if there are fireworks at the wedding Nick is at. It would seem a likely finale to a multi-day wedding celebration outside the city.

Mia, Suzanne, Kate and I clink bottles “to another great Fourth,” and I joke that maybe we can see Mia’s future Astoria apartment from here since Queens is just across the river. It is times like this that I truly love the city—surrounded by good friends, enjoying the view of surrounding high rises, there really is no other place in the world like New York.

As the fireworks continue, I am standing off by myself a little bit, and am startled by a whisper of “hey, gorgeous” in my left ear and a warm hand brushing my right hip. I turn to see Kevin already looking around with a small smile, as if making sure no one would notice this intimate gesture. He would never show affection in public, because we have been nothing but friends for years since our official break up, right? Some guys from college spot him, and he immediately goes over to a round of backslaps and handshakes and “where’ve you been for the past few years?” To any outside observer, Kevin had merely greeted the hostess politely before going over to his guy friends to enjoy the party—to which he arrived casually late.

For the next hour this is the only conversation I have with him. But I am keenly aware of his every move, where he is in proximity to me, who he is talking to, what he is drinking. I notice that he is sticking close to the guys he was friends with in college, that I thought he had lost touch with. He genuinely seems to be having a good time, even though he used to claim he was “beyond that stage in life.” Every once in a while he talks to a girl, but his body language is clearly not engaged with any of them. When he tells a joke or some story, all eyes are on him. His voice is captivating, the way he tells stories with perfect pacing and exactly the right pause and lilt when he delivers a punch line. He is like the Kevin I was in love with in college, the confident center of the party, the guy everyone wanted to be or be with.

I think I am being sly about this open spying, and that no one would notice. After all, I am still playing the gracious hostess, lighting lanterns now that it has gotten darker, making sure the drinks buckets are filled, and chatting and taking photographs with every group of guests for a few minutes before moving on to the next set—every group that is, except whichever one Kevin is with. I had gotten so good at this technique in the months immediately after our break up, when we were “just friends” and yet I so badly wanted him to want me, and had looked for signs, any sign at all that he did. I don’t even know if I’m doing this now more out of habit or desire. I am so aware of him that I notice that he sneaks glances over at me as well when he thinks no one is looking. I see him in the reflection of a window, darting his eyes in my direction as he lifts his beer to his lips, and listens to the conversation with one ear. In the next moment he is laughing and making some comment, not missing a beat for a moment.

Suzanne is too astute, and too enamored with the idea that Kevin could be My One, to
not
comment about his presence here. Thankfully she is at least discreet and when we are out of earshot of others, and it is just her, Kate and myself, she merely says, “Oh look, Kevin’s here. He hasn’t been to one of your parties in a while.” And of course I know she really means something like “Oh My God, are you back together?!?!” At least she can contain her excitement enough to be discreet in front of our acquaintances.

“We had dinner the other night—at that little place near here—so I mentioned the party in case he wanted to stop by.” I am equally nonchalant as I pop a tortilla chip in my mouth.

“Dinner? Is that what we are calling it?” Kate twitches her lips and raises one eyebrow mischievously. “Was he—
it
as good as you remembered?”

Maybe I had too many margaritas followed by too many beers. Or maybe because I just feel relaxed hanging out on my rooftop with my best friends. Or maybe I just want to raise Suze’s eyebrows a little. I give Kate and Suzanne a wink and say, “Better.”

My friends begin to leave after a while, and Emma and Robert start clearing away the empty ice buckets, now just full of cold water. Kevin lingers awhile with his old roommate and his girlfriend. And why wouldn’t he, since he got here late after all? Will he stay until the last guests have left? Will he expect me to ask him to?

I clear away some empty beer bottles and throw old napkins in the trash. There are only a handful of us left now. Then Kevin comes over to say a quick good-bye. I wonder if he is on his way to another date, and then mentally kick myself for wondering. I thought I was past all this now.

“Did you speak to him
at all
tonight?” Suzanne asks. “I think I talked to him more than you did.” Don’t think I didn’t notice. It was just like the old days, when Kevin was his perfectly platonic charming self. “He couldn’t believe I’m still single.” Suzanne gets that wistful look of a woman who doesn’t receive enough compliments—at least for anything other than her medical expertise.

“It’s already a big deal that he came. It’s too awkward with all these people we know here.” Suzanne looks puzzled and I don’t blame her. It’s never been clear with Kevin. “He can’t show too much interest. It’s just not—him.” Not like Nick at all, I think. A guy I’ve only seen a few times, and he’s already told me about his ex, told me there’s no one else.

I leave Suzanne to begin clearing up the trash. My hands are full of empty bottles and stacked chip bowls when Kevin comes over and says, “You could have just asked for some help.” I expect him to chuckle, or smile, or something. But he looks serious and mildly—annoyed?

“I would have if I needed it,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll stay and help you clean up,” he sighs, as if to imply that I had asked. He fiddles with an empty beer bottle. He is waiting for me to thank him. To imply that I want him to stay, that I
need
him to stay. To imply that I want to be the Kevin-and-Cass from years before, clearing up after a party we hosted for our friends.

But for today at least, it’s not enough. Not enough that he fits in seamlessly with my friends and family. Not enough that we have an undeniable physical chemistry.

Not enough that I don’t have to lie to him about almost every aspect of my life.

I take the empty bottle from him. “You don’t have to stay,” I say, definitively. He understands it to mean “I don’t want you to stay.”

“I should get going,” he says, loudly enough for anyone who would bother to overhear. “Big case going to court next week.” He casually gives me a polite, perfunctory peck on the cheek and then says good-bye to his guy friends. No one else would see anything amiss in our behavior—just two people who remained friendly after the end of their college romance.

About an hour after the fireworks have ended, Emma and Robert have gone back to suburban Jersey, Mia and David have gone to bed like the almost-old-married couple that they are, and Kate, dear Kate, has gone on to some club with a couple of guys. There are no surprise texts from Nick, saying he’s back early and can he come by? At least I have Suzanne, who stays until everyone else has left, to help me clean up and then to relax on my couch with some of the leftover beer (it’s not a successful event if you haven’t bought enough to have a few left for later). She is a bit giddy, having had several drinks and almost no alcohol tolerance. We have gone through the usual after-party recap—“Great to see so-and-so, can’t believe who is dating who, what
was
she wearing, anyway?”

Then Suzanne sighs and gets that faraway look. “So if I get married again, will you plan me the most fantastic wedding you’ve ever done?”

I roll my eyes, but not so that she can see. “Of course I will, but who will you be getting married to? You’ve only been on like three dates with this last guy. Why didn’t you bring him to the party, anyway?”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Cass, it is way too early to introduce him to all my friends. I’m still trying to make a good impression, you know.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean. You just never know what someone will say at a party like this. I mean, someone could mention my ex or something. He knows I was married before, but I don’t need anyone bringing up old stories about me.”

“Understood. But then it’s probably too early for wedding fantasies.” I don’t like to burst Suzanne’s bubble—God knows she has been disappointed by men quite enough—but she still has some old-fashioned naïveté that I hope doesn’t get her more hurt in the long run. And I’ll admit it, this thing with Kevin, whatever this
thing
is, has made me out of sorts.

“Don’t worry. I’m not completely head over heels or anything. I’ve just been thinking
generally
that if I were to get married again, I would want my wedding to be really special. Not the student budget one—no offense, you did a fabulous job with what you had to work with.”

“None taken. I know what you mean. I’ve done several weddings where it’s the second time around for at least one person. And they are always more elaborate than the first.”