Me vs. Me (10 page)

I grab it from her, stomp into my room and slam the door. I think I need to get a lock for my room. I put on my sleep T-shirt and hang my towel on the edge of the bed. I am so not leaving my room tonight. Or ever.

I don't want to call back Brad, but I don't think I have a choice. I have to tell him I can't go out with him. I'll tell Heather—what? That the reason he'd called in the first place was business-related? Come to think of it, he never did tell me what he did for a living. I crawl under my covers with my (new) cordless phone (this one has a longer battery life than my cordless in Arizona), squint to see the underlined number in the dark, and I dial.

“Hello!” he shouts into the phone. He sounds like he's at a bar. Do people in Manhattan ever sleep?

“Brad?” I whisper. No need for Psycho to hear me.

“Hello!” he shouts again. “Anyone there?”

I raise my voice slightly. “Brad?”

“Anyone there? I don't think anyone is there,” he says to someone else.

Crap. “Hi, Brad, it's Gabby.”

“Hey! Good to hear from you.”

“You, too.” Please don't ask me out.

“It was great meeting you last night.”

“You, too.” Pretty please don't ask me out. If you don't ask me out, then I can tell Heather you didn't ask me out and she won't have to kill me. Sorry, Heather, I called him back, but he didn't ask me out. No, he's taking a trip to Phoenix and wanted to know what to pack.

“Wanna see a movie on Saturday?”

“Um…” Now what? Was Heather testing me? Am I supposed to say no? Or will she really kick me out? It's getting seriously hot under the covers. I have to wrap up this conversation before I suffocate.

You know what—screw her. I don't need mind games. He's cute. I'm single. She told me to go out with him. I'm going to do it. “Sure.”

“Cool!” he shouts. “My friend Jono offered me tickets to a some artsy premiere at the Angelika.”

Funky. My first date, and it's a cool New York event. “Sounds good.”

“I'll come by and pick you up. Where do you live?”

I give him our address and insist that I meet him downstairs. No need to risk him and Heather coming into contact again. I also make him promise that from now on he'll only call me on my cell. After I hang up, I sneak out from under the covers and stare at the ceiling. I think I'm excited. Am I excited?

There's a knock on my door. You've got to be kidding.

“Gabby.”

I don't answer. Maybe she'll think I'm asleep.

“Gabby,” she says sweetly. “I want to come in.”

Hmm. Perhaps she wants to apologize for being crazy. Should I let her know I'm awake?

Suddenly, she throws open the door. I'm too shocked to fake sleep. The light from the hallway illuminates her silhouette, and she looks as if she's surrounded by a ring of fire. Heather might be the devil.

“Ha!” she shrieks. “I knew you were awake. Faker. Tell me you're going out with him.”

Gulp. One of her hands is hidden behind her. She could so have the steak knife back there.

Oh, God. I'm going to die. At least I'll still be alive in my other life. Maybe. Sure, I'll have the full-time mother-in-law from hell, but it beats being dead. I think.

I contemplate lying to Psycho, but then remember that she asked for it. “Kind of. He invited me to some movie thing.”

“And…”

Please don't kill me. “I said yes.”

“When are you going out?”

“Saturday night.”

“Bullshit. He asked you out for a weekend?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Guys don't ask women out on weekends for their first dates.”

I hug my pillow into my chest as a protective shield. “Apparently, some do.”

Silence. “Fine. Whatever.” She slams my door.

I need to find a new apartment pronto.

Once I hear Heather settle in her own room, I try to convince my heart rate to slow down, but it won't listen. I have a date. What will I wear? I need something fabulous. I guess asking Heather to borrow her good-butt pants is out of the question.

 

“Don't get mad,” my mother says into my cell phone. It's Tuesday in Arizona and I'm on my way to Alice's to discuss locations.

“About what?” I ask, making a left into Alice's cul-de-sac.

“I'm in Florida.”

She's got to be kidding. “Mom! You're supposed to be at Alice's in ten minutes!”

“I know, but I couldn't—”

A loud honk drowns her words as I almost cut off a green Taurus. “Couldn't what?”

“Couldn't stand being around Alice?”

“Thanks for your support.”

“I'm sorry, all right? I sent over a surprise to make your life easier.”

I turn into Alice's driveway. “What, exactly?” I ask warily.

“You'll see.”

I kill the ignition and bang my head against the steering wheel. I'm going to kill her. How am I supposed to battle Alice on my own? As I step out of the car, a white Mercedes convertible pulls in front of the house and then stops. The driver, a petite blonde in a fitted mauve Chanel suit picks up a briefcase from the back seat and strolls toward the house.

Does this have something to do with my surprise? I catch up to her before she gets to the door. “Hi, can I help you?”

She gives me a big, toothy smile. “You must be Gabby. I'm Tricia, your new wedding planner.”

 

“You could have told me,” I growl into the phone. I'm in the restroom at the Marriott, biting my now-raw fingers. Talk about plush. Even the sinks are marble. The way I'm feeling right now, I don't care if we decide to have the wedding in the bathroom.

“It was a surprise,” my mom answers. “What's she like?”

I glance at my watch. I don't want to be gone for too long in case Tricia and Alice begin World War Three. “Organized. Blond. Chirpy. Has lots of folders and schedules.”

“Good! She's the best in the business, you know. I asked around.”

“But you shouldn't have hired her without talking to us.”

“I had no choice. I need her there to protect my—and your—interests.”

“How much does she charge?”

“Don't worry about it.”

“I have to worry about it! That's coming out of the fifteen thousand you promised!”

“It's my fifteen thousand, and I can spend it any way I want.”

I want to hurl the cell phone into one of the fancy-shmancy, tushy-plushy toilets. “Goodbye, Mom. I have to get back. This is the fourth hotel we've seen, and Alice isn't liking any of them.”

“Don't let her boss you around,” she says, with no trace of irony. “Wait, just tell me. What did Alice say when she met Tricia?”

I sigh. “She slammed the door.”

“No, she didn't!”

“Yes, she did. I had to call from outside, apologize for you and explain.”

“You did not!”

“Yes, I did. Mom, you
hired
a wedding planner without talking to her. Or me.”

“So? She chose a date without talking to me.”

I shake my head. “I have to get back. I'll speak to you soon.”

I square my shoulders and return to the ballroom. Alice isn't happy about the new hire, but there's nothing she can do, as my mother already signed a contract and made a deposit. It goes without saying, the mood at Alice's when we all met was definitely hostile. Tricia had set up appointments for this afternoon, so now we're a hostile team on the go. Alice insisted on driving, and the three of us, wedding binders and brochures in hand, set off to see hotels. Alice dismissed the first one with “It's too small,” the second one with “It's too big.” When she nixed the third one with “It's too hot,” Tricia muttered something about Goldilocks, except she didn't use language appropriate for a children's story.

Alice is sitting on a velvet couch in the corner of the ballroom, her arms crossed, a sour expression on her face.

I clap my hands. “So? Just right?”

“Too dark,” Alice says.

I catch Tricia snarling. “Next,” she says, and motions us back to the car.

My, what big teeth she has. Except this is no fairy tale—this is a nightmare.

 

Back in New York, on Wednesday, I'm watching the news after work when Heather waltzes in. I consider bolting to my room to avoid another psycho confrontation, but I know she's seen me.

“Hellllllo!” she sings. “How are you, sweetie?”

Sweetie? Heather might have multiple personalities. “Fine. You?”

“I had the best day. The
best.
I met the cutest guy in the library.”

Ah. I see that her moods depend entirely on men. I hope she didn't come on to Library Lad as strong as she did with Brad. Otherwise, her happy mood is going to be very short-lived.

“I'm starving,” she says, and disappears into the kitchen.

“Take some of my food,” I offer. I think I might have over-ordered. I bought all this fresh stuff, but on my way home from work, I realized I was too tired to cook and picked up more sushi. Next time, I'm only ordering nonperishables.

She plops onto the couch with one of my apples, my block of blue cheese and her favorite utensil, the steak knife.

I whip my legs into the lotus position. If I'm not careful, she'll not-so-accidentally drop the knife and take a pinkie toe with her.

Heather slices the apple into small cubes, and asks, “When was the last time you had sex?”

Hello, dinner conversation. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, you can tell me. We're roomies.”

“I…um…” Last night with Cam when he got back from work? Not sure she'll understand. “Before I left Arizona.”

She layers a cube with a piece of cheese and pops it in her mouth. “With your boyfriend. Cam.”

“Yes.”

“Why'd you not want to try long distance?” She steals the remote from behind my leg and changes the channel to Comedy Central. “Don't you get bored of watching news all the time?”

“I don't get bored, it's my job. And Cam and I are complicated. He proposed. I said no.”

She waves the knife in the air. “Why?”

Still in a lotus, I wriggle my body farther down the couch. “Because I wanted to move to New York.”

“Did he have a ring and everything?”

“Yup.”

“And you said no? What was wrong with him?”

“He wouldn't move here, for one thing. And he sometimes tried to be controlling…and he's a bit of a mama's boy.”

“Then why'd you stay with him for so long?”

“Because he's smart. And loving. And gorgeous.”

“And he proposed. I don't know. Maybe there's something wrong with you.”

I wonder. “Maybe.”

“Don't you want to know the last time I had sex?”

Not really. “If you want to tell me.”

She pops another apple-cheese combo into her mouth. “When I was twenty-three.”

“What?” I give her a closer look. Maybe she's only twenty-four? No way. I see a few lines around those eyes.

“Yup. Four years ago.”

“You haven't had sex in four years?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“I'm not sure if that's any of your business,” she huffs, and turns back to the TV.

What? Then why did she bring it up? I sigh and shake my head. “I'm going to take a shower.” At least the bathroom door has a lock.

 

When I'm out of the shower, there are two steaming mugs on the coffee table. “I made us herbal tea,” Heather sings.

I think she might need to be medicated.

“All right,” I say. “Let me just get dressed.”

Perhaps this is just her way of saying sorry. She can't actually say the words, so instead she apologizes with hot beverages. Hopefully this means that I don't have to look for a new apartment just yet. Just in case, I BlackBerry my mom:
In case I die tonight, Heather poisoned me. Love you!

I'm still mad at my mom for the disappearing act she pulled in Arizona, but I can't hold her accountable here. Anyway, I'm secretly pleased to have Tricia around. She was just as annoyed as I was by Alice, after Alice rejected seven, yes seven, different hotels. “More to see on Thursday,” Tricia chirped, trying to keep my spirits up.

Over tea, neither Heather nor I bring up her sexual history. Or Brad. We talk about Cam. Funny how she maneuvered the conversation back to him. Or maybe it was me who did the maneuvering. After tea, I climb into bed and think. Not about whether I should be looking for a new apartment (haven't turned blue from the tea, but I did get a nervous e-mail from my mother), but about Cam. And what he's doing now. I wonder if he's thinking of me.

I pick up the phone and dial his number. My number when I'm in Arizona. His number here.

He answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Hey,” I say.

“Gabby?” his voice sounds scratchy and familiar.

“It's me.” I draw my comforter up to my chin, so I have something to cuddle.

“How's New York?”

“All right.” There's a deep silence. “How are you?”

He laughs. Bitterly. “I've been better.”

“Oh, Cam. I'm so sorry.”

I used to tell Cam that he had a horseshoe up his ass. Everything came so easily to him and nothing traumatic had ever shaken his world. No death. No move. No divorce. Secretly I wondered if some traumatic event in his past would have done him more good than harm. Made him more sensitive. Perceptive. Reflective. Now, I can't help but wonder if me leaving him is the trauma in his life, the trauma that will make him into the ideal husband for someone else.

“Sorry enough to come home?” he asks.

Sadness swells up in my chest like a balloon. “This is my new life.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“I still care about you. I want to make sure you're okay. You know. Moving on.”