Liar's Guide to True Love (8 page)

Friday morning

Wedding Planning Tip: Certainly finalize as many details as possible, but also plan for the unpredictable.

“No, I didn’t stay,” I say to Mia. One of the great things about a home office is that I can still work in my pajamas when I finally get up at 10 a.m. (Okay, so I don’t
always
get dressed to work at home). Mia happened to call to see how my date with Seth was, and wasn’t quite expecting the story I told her. I am a bit more tired than usual when I get off the phone, so I make myself some more coffee before diving into work.

This morning is relatively easy. I have checked my messages from the night before, and of course there are two messages from my mother whose messages always come in multiples.

Message 1: “Cassandra, it’s your mother,” she sings. “It’s 10 p.m. and I’m just checking in. Emma called today and she says you haven’t called her. You will call her won’t you?”

Message 2: “It’s your mother again. I forgot to tell you, our trip is off. I’m so devastated, but I absolutely just cannot leave the country right now. And you’re out awfully late, aren’t you? People aren’t getting married on Thursday nights now, are they?”

I can’t keep my mind on my family members right now—I don’t feel as relaxed as I thought I would this morning. Last night was great—
really
great. But a part of me wanted to stay—
really
wanted to stay. Kevin and I clicked so well, and no, not just the sex. We had that familiarity that I missed, the comfort of being with someone just as you are. Even if I hadn’t been wearing the little black dress and matching knickers. The sex had been just as hot when I used to wear his ratty old T-shirts and cheerleader shorts to bed. And I could swear that even if I hadn’t been in a first-date outfit, he would have made me feel just as gorgeous.

I don’t even have to wonder if he will call. I
know
he won’t. He will email me. Later today, in the late afternoon—early enough to be the gentleman, but not so early so as to seem eager. He won’t acknowledge last night at all, at least not in writing. He will say something innocuous, some passing pleasantry that most people wouldn’t even bother to email. And then I won’t hear from him for weeks, possibly months. It doesn’t even bother me that I know this is what will happen. In a way it makes me more wistful—to know someone so well, and to be so accepting. And then I start to wonder if he analyzes our relationship as much. He is a lawyer, after all, so doesn’t that make him ponder every action, reaction, counteraction? Or are men just wired differently, or this man anyway, who has never been accused of being overly emotionally intelligent.

I need to get my mind off of Kevin, so I try to dive into work again, making a few appointments for upcoming brides and grooms to see reception halls, ballrooms, churches, photographers. It is the outdoor venues that are most stressful, since they require so many back-up plans for weather. July and August are slower months for those thank goodness, since few couples want to take the chance that guests will melt in a heat-wave. So these days I can spend a little less time making contingency plans that won’t even be used.

I am in full work-mode now, on my Bluetooth headset with Elton about next weekend’s wedding at the Castle at Tarrytown in Westchester. (No, not all New Yorkers get married in the city). He is rattling off the final flower order, while I lay out my suit and accessories for tonight’s rehearsal dinner. “And I swear, Cass, this will be the last time I make this point and then I’ll lay off, but I don’t get paid the big bucks to create ugly arrangements, and I
still
think the carnations are going to ruin this piece.” He continues to ramble on about the merits and history of each flower in this wedding, throwing in the Latin names here or there.

I start tuning out at this point since we have been over this one a million times over the past eight months of planning for this wedding. I choose a simple black wrap dress for this evening—dressy enough for dinner, but still all business. I throw a pair of gold earrings on top of the dress on my bed—chandelier-like in a tree branch design. Very organic, that my free-spirited Sunflower Bride will appreciate. “Elton, you know I agree with you. I think the Bride even agrees with you. But carnations are significant to this couple because he gave her one on their first date.”

Elton begins to go on about what sort of man gives “cheap, floral filler” to a woman on the first date, “way to make an impression” yada yada yada. I am relieved when I hear the call waiting beep, and am hopeful that it is Cupcake Café calling back to say they can handle the change in next week’s order from a five-tier cake to four hundred large cupcakes. “Elton, love, I’ve got to go. It’s the cake people on the other line.”

“Hello, this is Cassandra Hanley.”

“Hi Cassandra, this is Nick. Kate’s friend? We met the other night at the bar?” Oh my God, he sounds so cute even on the phone. I already love the lilt in his voice, the way he makes a statement like a question, as if he is a little unsure of himself.

“Yes, of course, Nick, how are you?” I am careful to turn off my business voice, and in one motion I am on the handset without the Bluetooth. It just isn’t a real phone call if your hand isn’t by your ear. “Sorry I had to rush out like that the other night—work, you know?” Jeez, there I go, sounding like a total dud, too serious to be out for drinks with friends.

“Uhh, yeah, sure, no problem. I was a last-minute addition to your party anyway, right?” Does he think I didn’t want him there, and that’s why I left? Suzanne was the man-hater that night, not me! “Well, so I was wondering, if you’re not too busy with work, maybe we could go out sometime? Maybe have dinner and see a movie on Friday night?”

“I’d love that! The weekends are a little busy for me these days—how about Wednesday or Thursday?” We settle on Wednesday, and he doesn’t linger on the phone. It sounded like he was busy at work and took his few minutes of downtime to call
moi,
and I am positively ecstatic. I then realize that I hope that he doesn’t think I’m relegating him to weekday date status. Between a Wednesday date and bailing on drinks, I am determined to show him the real Cassandra when I do see him—to show him that I am a fun-loving, non-man-hating, charming female who does not normally flash her polka-dot underwear to strangers in bars. No pressure.

By now it is nearly one o’clock, and I decide to duck out for lunch before I have to get into high gear to get ready for rehearsal. As I’m leaving, I see a flower delivery person coming in with a bouquet of peach roses for some lucky person in my building. I go around the corner to treat myself to pizza by the slice. Nowhere but New York has pizza as deliciously dripping with hot, melted cheese.

I decide to head back to my apartment, and Ed, the doorman, stops me on my way through the lobby. “Delivery for you, Ms. Cassandra,” he says in that friendly Southern drawl. The peach roses. Maybe it is a thank-you bouquet from one of my weddings. That happens occasionally where the bride gets such a kick out of learning so much about flowers. So I am unprepared for the card:

The breakdown:

I call Mia at work, but get her damn voicemail. So I try her cell—she always has it on in case of client emergency. She still doesn’t answer, so it’s possible that she is so busy that she has ignored my call. Kevin and I hadn’t seen in each other in so long. And even when we had over the years, we were stable in our non-relationship relationship. We were in a
rhythm
. And then he had to send flowers instead of email, and I am desperate for someone to talk to.

In all these years, I still have not figured out Suzanne’s schedule—on call, not on call, in the office or the hospital? I call her cell. She doesn’t even say hello, just “I’ll ring you right back, Cass” and she hangs up. I start pacing, circling my outfit. I empty my Prada on to the bed and start re-organizing. I toss aside a Lancôme mascara—it’s kind of old, and I wouldn’t want anyone to get an eye infection. One of my stockings has gotten snagged on something, so I put it on top of the mascara. A note pad that just looks old and raggedy and not like something I would ever want to hold gets added to a pile. As do a few business cards that didn’t make it into my silver card holder and are so tattered that they would be an embarrassment to actually hand someone. Soon, there is a small mountain of trash on the bed, including loose mints and receipts so old that I can’t read them anymore. I am disgusted by my lack of organization.