Liar's Guide to True Love (19 page)

“I would just want people to know that I was serious about this marriage. That it’s The One.” Suzanne begins to look somber.

“Well, I don’t know that’s necessarily the message with an elaborate wedding—”

Suzanne cuts me off. “He’s getting married, Cass.”

“What? Who?” I’m confused for a second, but when I see the look on her face, it takes me back to that time, years ago, when she first found out about Michael’s affair.

“Oh. I’m sorry. How do you know?”

“Medical community’s a lot smaller than you might think,” she says. “She’s some pre-school teacher or something.”

Ouch. I am the only one who knows that Suzanne second-guessed herself for months after the affair, wondering if her ambitions to be a doctor had somehow led to Michael’s infidelity. If she hadn’t been studying so much, she had thought, maybe she could have put more effort into her marriage, maybe would have noticed the signs of him distancing himself before it was too late.

“Are you okay? When did you find out?”

“A few days ago. I guess I needed to process it on my own first. I think I’m okay. Michael and I weren’t right for each other. I know that. I think I’m more sad that I haven’t moved on as well as he has. I know he isn’t The One, but then I don’t know who is.” She throws some empty cups into a trash bag a little more forcefully than is necessary. “It certainly isn’t this oncologist I’ve been seeing. I know cancer is a tough thing to work on day after day, but honestly, I don’t think he’s laughed once since I’ve met him. And apparently the only people willing to date a doctor are other doctors. And I’m still just doing my internship—not really all that intimidating I shouldn’t think. In a couple of years, no one will be interested. And don’t even get me started on the age thing. Men just have it so much easier.”

Suzanne and I have had this discussion a lot. Recently it has been more often than a lot. I don’t know what to say other than the usual clichés of how she’ll find someone when she least expects it, and when she finds the right guy, she’ll just know. The hard part is, she is probably right in everything she is saying. No doubt a lot of men find her professional success combined with her attractiveness intimidating. No doubt a lot of men our age are looking for someone a little younger than she is. It doesn’t help that she also fits into the stereotype of wanting to get married and have kids yesterday.

“Cass, seriously. If Kevin is your One, don’t miss it. It isn’t always going to be so easy to date around like you do.”

I realize that I am tired of keeping from Suzanne the true nature of my relationship with Kevin. And I realize that by doing so, I’ve allowed her to build up this fantasy of how he and I could drive off into the sunset together, with a Just Married sign stuck to the back of a convertible. And so I tell her how it has been with him—late night calls and morning-afters for years now. Even when he had a girlfriend. I wait for Suzanne to be shocked, to judge me for my lack of morals. But she doesn’t. She does take a big swig of beer every now and then, but she isn’t even mad that I kept this from her all this time. In fact, she seems to understand how telling her would have somehow meant I was trying to put a definition to whatever it is that Kevin and I have been doing.

“So you were sleeping with him this whole time? Even when he had that serious girlfriend that he was almost going to marry?” Suzanne doesn’t look at me, she looks at the counter. Her tone is light, still trying not to be judgmental.

“They were never engaged or anything,” I make sure to clarify. The first couple of times we slept together, I tortured myself over being The Other Woman. I was completely irrational in my attempts to rationalize—
he was mine first
.
He cheated on me first and this is my payback
. I didn’t want to know anything about her, about them, afraid that it would worsen the guilt. Then with every additional time we were together, I started to think,
if Kevin really loved her, he wouldn’t be here. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else.

Suzanne chuckles, “Right, not your problem, really.” She looks at me and smiles. “I think I need something a little stronger than beer.”

I chuckle with relief. “I’ll get the tequila.”

Sunday morning

Wedding Tip: Always be prepared.

I peruse the “Weddings & Celebrations” section over a latte and bagel, just like I do almost every Sunday morning. This week I am not at all relaxed though, and I read the same paragraph of the “Vows” column over and over again. I try to distract myself by flipping through television channels. But there is
nothing
good on this early. I can’t help but wonder if there is something to Suzanne’s theory about Kevin and me. There is something about the shared history that we have that makes me want to think he is The One. But then there is the part—the big part—of me that is excited about finding someone to build shared history with, and is excited about finding out if Nick is the someone to build that future story.

It’s too early to call my friends who are used to sleeping in on weekends, especially after a party the night before. So I call the one person who is always happy to hear from me, no matter the time of day.

My mother is so chipper, it’s easy to fall into her rhythm.

“Hi, honey! Daddy and I just got back from church. We went to the earlier service today, since we signed up to help out in the nursery. Never hurts to get to know people once it’s Emma and Robert’s turn!”

I’m not exactly sure what she means by that, but since she clearly still thinks Emma and Robert are on the fast track to babies, I don’t bother to get clarification. Nor do I want to be the one to burst her bubble. She asks me about my party, and how she heard from Emma that Kevin was there.

“Yes, he came. We didn’t talk much though.” She senses the hesitation in my voice, and maybe the uncertainty. To her credit, my mother sometimes knows when to hold back from grilling me. “He seems—different—these days. A little nostalgic about when we were dating. Not as arrogant.”

“Sometimes boys have some growing up to do in their twenties.” Her voice is thoughtful, as if she may be listening for once. “They need some time to play around. Before they get serious.” Could she be right? Maybe Kevin is coming full circle back to me?

“Well, it’s not like I’m really available. I’m still seeing that guy, Nick. I think we are sort of exclusive.”

“Darling, there’s no reason to close off any doors. I met your dad when I was dating one of his fraternity brothers, you know. I dated both of them for a good three months before I chose your dad.” Is this my mother, encouraging me to have a relationship with two men at once? As if having a fake career with one weren’t enough work.

“You never told us this story, Mom! You were quite the hussy back then, were you?”

“Pbbbt! I just wanted to make sure that I chose well, that’s all! And that fraternity brother ended up being a dear friend for years, rest his soul. He died a few years ago, such a tragedy. Never did get married. I think he may have been
gay.
” She whispers the word “gay” I think less out of homophobia, and more out of narrowly escaping marriage to a gay man. “You just don’t want to wait so long to choose that they
both
lose interest, right dear?”

My mother offers a few more pieces of dating advice that she doesn’t bother to veil, and then I decide that it’s about time to start my day.

I check a few emails from clients—they often like to meet and communicate on the weekends when they have some free time to focus. I see Kevin come online, and I am tempted to send him an instant message. But as soon as I start composing an opening line in my head, he goes off-line. I guess he was just quickly checking messages. Didn’t he see that I was online as well? And he didn’t write me. Have I really regressed to these mind games again?

I decide to send Nick an email since it’s still too early to call. Only a girlfriend would call this early. I don’t write anything too forward, just:

Hey there. How was the wedding?

I hit the delete key. No need to remind him that he went stag because I couldn’t find a good excuse. Also no need to reinforce my apparent obsession with weddings. I retype:

How was your trip? Did you play golf today? When are you back in town?

I delete that last question. I don’t want him to think I’m sitting around waiting for him or anything. Could I be any more boring, asking him about golf? I don’t even know anything about golf. I used to tune out whenever Kevin went on about his lessons.

What I really wanted to ask was if he thought about me. Did he think I was blowing him off? Did he think I was
too
into him, like in an unhealthy, I-want-to-marry-you-after-three-dates way?

I send the message anyway, since it’s already taken way too long to compose a message consisting of ten words.

A few minutes later I’m freshening up my coffee when I see Nick’s reply.

I reply immediately:

My day is looking brighter already. I try not to give into wondering about the what-ifs. What if I hadn’t emailed him, would he have called me about dinner? What if this isn’t really a date, but just two friends “grabbing” dinner? What if he thinks I am too available, immediately replying yes as if I have nothing better to do than to sit in front of the computer waiting for him? Not that I do have anything better to do, but that is beside the point.

I decide to clean up my apartment, well, just in case we end up here again. Thankfully the Attorney Bride loved the concept boards so much that she wanted to hold on to them to think about, so at least those are out of the way. I am glad to have the time to put evidence of any wedding planning away in an organized fashion this time since it took forever to get everything sorted after the last time. Emma’s organization certainly helps as well, since there is actually a place to put everything away to. I do miss having her around, to chat with and bounce ideas off of.

Once all my work items are put away, I decide to go the next step and actually
clean.
As in, get out the rubber gloves, Windex and 409. Suzanne has berated me for using chemicals and not all natural brands, or better yet, I should just use vinegar and baking soda like she does. But then I assured her that using cleaning materials at all was such a rarity that I could not possibly be personally responsible for harming the environment.

I start with the kitchen, since, to be honest, it’s amazing how dirty it can get even when it’s barely used. I even clean out the inside of my appliances including the refrigerator. Although, if Nick feels compelled to see the inside of the microwave while he is here, we clearly have other problems.

I then move on to the bathroom, clearing away all evidence of too much primping—tweezers, makeup, hair removers, that sort of thing. It’s one thing for a guy to
know
about all this stuff, quite another for him to have it in his face, so to speak. And then I scrub—toilet, sink, shower, floor, because if all goes well, he really might see these items. I even spray some bleach in the shower to get the twenty-year-old grout looking brand-spanking new. I then open the tiny sliver of a window, so that it doesn’t smell like I’ve just cleaned the bathroom for the first time in—ahem—a month or two.

Next I do the dusting, starting with the floors, which are easy enough when I use a Swiffer WetJet. Whoever invented this thing is a genius and clearly a New York City apartment dweller. I then tidy up my bedroom, changing the sheets and clearing away the bridal magazines on the bedside table (whew, that could have been a close one).

By the time I am done I still have plenty of time to take a relaxing shower (how I love a clean shower), and add some finishing touches, like placing candles and making a playlist on my iPod. I even have some time to touch base with some of my clients to confirm this coming week’s appointments.

Nick calls around six, and we decide to meet at a Japanese restaurant that is convenient for both of us. It’s a casual, low-key place, no reservation needed. So for an outfit I decide on skinny black pants, a short-sleeved white cotton blouse and black ballet flats. And for jewelry I put on a stack of silver bangles and a pair of silver floral earrings, all by Me & Ro. Then I decide to ditch the bangles because quite frankly, their jingle can ummm, ruin the moment if you know what I mean. For a change I spritz on the tiniest bit of perfume—Chanel No. 5. I rarely wear a fragrance, but when I do it needs to be classic and elegant.

As I get out of the cab at five minutes to seven, I see Nick waiting outside the restaurant, talking on his cell phone. He is wearing khaki shorts, a plain white T-shirt and a two-day stubble that is so sexy, what I really want to do is skip dinner and drag him back to my place. He hangs up with whomever he was talking to and kisses me hello on the cheek. “You smell nice,” he says casually.

“Chanel No. 5,” I say.

“I thought it was familiar. My mom wears that.” He turns away from me to open the door to the restaurant and misses my mouth agape expression. A kiss on the
cheek
and his mother’s perfume? This is not starting off well.

We both sip Sapporo and munch on edamame while we wait for our food. I ordered a sashimi platter, while Nick ordered one of those bento boxes that has a little of everything. He asks me how my weekend was, and I have my answer all prepared. “It was pretty low key since I had to work and everything. I saw the inside of my office and my co-workers, mostly. How was your weekend?”

“Nice. Weddings are nice to see people that I don’t otherwise. There are just so many this time of year, the traveling starts to wear on me.” He clears his throat a little.

“Speaking of which. I got invited to another one by a college buddy of mine. It’s in August in the city. Will you come with me?”

So things are looking up! He’s planning a month out already. But on the downside, I know I am not going to be able to go. I do make a big show out of pulling my planner out of my Prada and checking the date. I already know what is written there before I get to the page. The Harris/McDonald wedding at the Waldorf Astoria. “Oh no!” I say. “I have a—photo shoot—that week. I’ll be out of town.” My disappointment is genuine, but his expression is closed.

He looks at me quizzically, but “No problem,” is all he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say earnestly and take his hand. “I really wish I could go.”

“It’s no big deal. Forget it.” He smiles, but he takes his hand away when he moves to take a drink of his beer. Did he really just need to take a sip, or did he intentionally pull his hand away from mine? I don’t want to belabor another invitation rejection though.

“So how did your niece’s birthday party go? Did she miss you being there?” Nick had been honored to be the only “grown-up” invited to a five-year-old’s party yesterday, but he hadn’t been able to go because of the wedding upstate.

He smiles broadly, genuinely. “I was just on the phone with her. She missed me a little, but then I’m not really one to dress up for a princess tea party, you know? She was all excited about the glitter candles on her cake. Hopefully I’ll see her before the summer is over. I promised I would teach her how to dive.”

Over our meals and more Sapporo, I learn that Nick was a swimmer through college, even breaking some of his school records at the time. He still sometimes goes to Chelsea Piers to keep in shape, which would explain his lean, toned physique. I begin to blush. Of course he notices.

“What? Are you picturing me in a banana hammock?” he says, raising a brow flirtatiously.

“Maybe.” I give him my best sultry smile. He gives a little laugh. What happened? He seems to be having a good time, I know I am. But did we lose the heat?

When we decide to share a bowl of green tea ice cream for dessert, I take that as a good sign—only people who are dating share a bowl, right? I eat delicately, decadently, savoring the flavor, and allowing a rather flattering focus on my lips and tongue. Nick checks a text message that comes into his phone. He chuckles to himself and puts the phone back into his pocket without saying anything. He then pushes the bowl of ice cream closer to me.

“I’m not a big dessert fan. Why don’t you have the rest?” he says.

All the red flags in my mind are waving like it’s a mayday.

“Oh, I think I’m done. I just wanted a little.” It’s
très gauche
to eat dessert alone.

“Do you want to get out of here?” I say coquettishly.

“Good idea. I have a long day at work tomorrow after the long weekend and everything. I’m sure you do too.”

Now, I would be totally throwing myself at him with no sense of propriety if I didn’t take
that
signal. Still, I wait to see how the good-night kiss goes. There have been plenty of best laid plans to be responsible worker bees that have gone out the window because of a to-die-for good-night kiss. We walk out of the restaurant and Nick offers to get me a cab first. And unfortunately one arrives much too quickly. I open the door and raise my head for a kiss; it’s not too late for him to join me after all. We didn’t linger over dinner, so it’s not even 9 p.m. yet! But after a kiss on the lips that barely lingers, and a soft, pleasant “Good night, Cass,” I find myself alone in the cab, headed for home.

He did receive a text message earlier. Did he have a better offer?! I pull out my BlackBerry and text the girls:

Suzanne writes back first:

I hadn’t planned on spending the rest of the evening alone, so I tell the cab driver to head uptown.