Me vs. Me (13 page)

Silence.

“Hello?” I hope I'm not going to have to call an ambulance.

“Yup. I'll be out soon,” he answers.

“Do you want some water?” I ask.

“Sure.”

I head to the kitchen, fill a glass with tap water and hurry it back to him. When he opens the door a crack to grab the drink, I spot him kneeling on the bath mat, hunched over the open toilet seat.

Heather follows me back to the couch. “I'm sorry,” she says. “I shouldn't have usurped your date.”

I wrap myself in the knit throw blanket and look at her. She seems genuinely apologetic. “It's all right.”

Heather kicks her heels up onto the coffee table. “Wanna watch a movie while your date throws up in our bathroom?”

Sure,
now
he's my date. “No, thank you. As soon as he's done, I'm going to bed.” And forgetting this entire evening ever happened.

Suddenly sounds of heaving echo through the apartment. Heather flicks on the TV. I close my eyes.

Twenty-two minutes later, I'm awoken by the flushing toilet. The door opens and out comes Brad, face extra splotchy. “Um, you have a flood in there.”

“Sorry?” I squeak.

“A flood. In the bathroom. The toilet overflowed. Do you have a plunger?”

I'm going to cry. I turn to Heather. “Do I have a plunger?”

“No, but Fred has one.”

“Who's Fred?”

“The super.”

“Can you get it?” Brad asks.

“It's the middle of the night,” I say. I can't ring the doorbell of a super I've never met in the middle of the night.

Heather jumps off the couch and smiles sweetly at us both. “I'll run over to the Duane Reade and pick one up.”

“Thank you,” I say with relief, and then turn to Brad. “Are you okay?” I creep over to the bathroom to check out the damage.

“I wouldn't go in if I were you,” he says, retreating to the living room.

Despite the warning, I peek inside and find the entire floor flooded. I try to stop the nausea from overflowing and ruining my new shirt. The smell is…indescribable. No one should ever have to smell what I am currently smelling. My gag reflex kicks in, as if something were just rammed down my throat. I step away from the door and try not to breathe. Tears spring to my eyes.

Now I know why Heather left. She wanted to get as far away from this debacle as possible. I figure Brad must be watching for my reaction, so I attempt to compose myself. He must be horrifically embarrassed. I should try not to make this worse for him. Surely, now he's going to go home, tail nestled between his legs. I order myself to wipe the disgust off my face and return down the hallway to the living room. “How are you feeling?”

I find him sprawled on his belly across the couch. “Much better, now,” he says. Then he reaches over to the coffee table, picks up Heather's wine and finishes it.

I don't believe it. “Don't you think you've had enough?”

He sits up and then pats the spot next to him. “Why don't you come get comfortable.”

Oh God, he thinks we're making out now? He hasn't even brushed his teeth.
Be nice.
“I'm all right, thanks. Can I get you something? More water? Pepto?”

He smiles. “How about that picnic?”

“Um, not tonight.”

He shrugs. “Wanna go to bed then?”

Finally, he gets it! “Yes, that is what I'd like to do.”

He rubs his hands together. “Cool. Is Heather going to join us?”

Or not. I try to keep my voice composed. “Actually, you're going to bed in your own apartment.”

“But I'd rather stay here,” he whines and then, to my horror, unbuckles his belt.

“What…are you doing?” Now I'm going to be sick.

Out come the boyish dimples. “Getting naked.”

Stay calm. Stay calm. “Yet another thing you can do in your
own apartment!
”

He gives me the same exaggerated wink he used on the waitress and pulls down his pants, exposing checkered green-and-brown boxers and freckled knees. “I don't want to get naked alone.”

That's it. I've had enough. I storm over to the door and fling it open. “It's time for you to leave.”

“Why? Aren't we going to have sex?”

“No. We are
not
going to have sex.”

“Ever?”

“We are never going to have sex!”

“Maybe Heather wants to have sex? She's looking kind of cute.”

I pick his coat off the floor and throw it at him. “Get out.”

He steps outside, jeans still rumpled around his ankles, and tries to win me over with a big grin. “Are we going out again next week?”

“I don't think so,” I say and firmly close the door.

I am never going on a date again. I'm so relieved he's gone, I'm almost laughing. I mean, come on. My first date as a single girl and this is what happens? As my laughter turns to shudders, I buzz Charlie downstairs. “Will you do me a favor? I just sent a guy to the lobby. Can you put him in a cab, and tell the cab driver to make sure he gets to the Bolton Hotel?”

“No problem.”

“Thanks.”

The night finally over, I retreat to my room and change into sweats and a T-shirt.

A few minutes later, I hear Heather's return to the apartment and meet her in the living room.

“I got it,” she says, plunger in hand. She looks around the deserted room and frowns. “Where did he go?”

“Home. At last.”

“What?” she shrieks. “Why?”

“Because he was drunk and gross.” To be honest, I'm feeling pretty proud of myself. I wanted him out and I kicked him out.

“But…but…you had no right to do that! He was finally warming up to me!”

“You've got to be kidding. Anyway, he was my date, and I wanted him out.”

She narrows her eyes and then hurls the plunger at me. Apparently apologetic Heather is long gone. “Since he was your date, you can do the cleaning.”

Shit. I forgot about the state of the bathroom. I put on flip-flops, strip down to my underwear and a ratty tank top and wish I had a nose plug. I plunge (ew) and plunge (ew) and plunge some more until our toilet is back in working order. Unfortunately, I now need a mop. I step back into the living room. “Do we have a mop?”

“No,” she says.

I'm hoping she'll offer to return to Duane Reade, but she doesn't. Instead she says, “Use paper towels. And open the window. It stinks in here.”

“I don't think it'll work,” I say, my voice cracking. “It's too wet.” Trying not to cry, I open the window, and then pull out one of my new towels from the closet and get back to work.

“Are you almost done?” Heather asks peeking inside. “I have to pee.”

That's it. I've had enough. “You could help me, you know. You were the one that invited him over.”

“But he was your date,” she mimics.

“Don't give me that. I would have ended the date hours ago.”

“Your date, your problem.” Then she shrugs. “But I'll assist.”

“Fine.” Better than nothing.

When I'm done with the towels, Heather holds open a garbage bag as I cram them inside. After tossing the bag into the garbage shoot outside, she returns with the Comet and liberally tosses it over the tiles, toilet, shower, door handle….

Then we scrub and scrub and scrub some more until our new manicures are long gone. And then she showers. And then I shower. By four-thirty, I'm starting to get concerned that if I don't get to sleep soon, I might get stuck in this New York life. Exhausted, and finally on my way back to bed, I smash my knee against my new dresser. Ow. Ow, ow, ow!

This room is so goddamn small. What was I thinking getting a queen-size mattress for this little tiny-ass room? I can barely fit in here.

Ah. That is why I have all those bruises. It's from this crowded city. The room, the apartment, the streets…everything is so damn crowded. I bet I don't have any bruises in Arizona. I bet New Yorkers statistically have more bruises than anyone else.

Emotionally and physically bruised, I get under my covers and pick up the phone. I need to call Cam. I dial his number, but I hang up before it even rings.

I can't call him. It's not right. I broke his heart. I have to let go. No more phone calls. No more jokes. No more Cam. Not in New York, anyway.

“You missed a spot!” Heather hollers from the bathroom.

“Just clean it!” I scream and then cover my head with the pillow.

 

“I love you.” I murmur into Cam's ear in the morning. I cradle my forehead into his neck.

He pulls me in closer.

The Search Is On

I
n Arizona, I spend my days looking for a place to hold my wedding that doesn't involve a tent or pool covering. I spend my evenings ordering take-out Chinese or pepperoni-and-pineapple pizza (Cam's favorite). I spend my nights cuddling with my fiancé.

In New York, I spend my days working, my evenings picking up sushi and my nights cuddling with my BlackBerry. It buzzes at least every twelve minutes.
Disease. Death. Is starlet too skinny? How skinny is too skinny?

I wipe the bad date with Brad clean from my mind. It's not as if I have time for dating, anyway. I'm always working. I'm in the office by 8:00 a.m., out by 9:00 p.m.. When I'm not at the station, I'm in the apartment watching the news. I order everything I need online, so I never have to venture too far from a television screen.

This obsession seems to be working. Except when I ask my Pilates instructor if she minds turning on the news in her studio while I work out, and she suggests that Pilates might not be the right exercise for me. So I join the gym, where I can plug my headphones into the StairMaster and watch CNN.

But the most important news happens on December eighth in Arizona. This is when we book the location for our wedding.

Tricia shows us around the Sunset Hotel. It's hotel Number Twelve. It's not as nice as the last eleven, but Alice seems to be a little less nasty about it, since one of her friend's kids got married here. Personally, I liked number eight, where the terrace overlooked the Camelback Mountains, but Alice didn't like the look of the manager.

This hotel can host the ceremony outside, on the lawn. The ballroom, where we would have the reception, features a stage, a large circular wooden dance floor and a nice crystal chandelier. It's pretty, the price is right, and Alice doesn't hate it. Sold.

“Not as nice as my backyard. But it'll do,” Alice says, eyeing the chandeliers suspiciously, as if they could fall and squash her like a bug at any moment.

I'd better be careful what I wish for. In my universe, wishes come true.

“Do we have a winner?” Tricia asks, clearly exhausted. Whatever my mom is paying her, it should have been more.

“It's fine,” I say. Not my dream location, but I don't care anymore. “Done.”

Alice hesitates. “I'm not a hundred percent sold….”

“Yes,” I say. “You are.” I can feel a showdown coming, but this time I'm not backing down.

We face each other and stare into each other's eyes. Her eyes look like Cam's but older. And colder. I'm not blinking. This is it. It's my wedding and I'm not giving in.

She's staring, staring, staring…and she blinks. Ha! She looks away and shrugs. “If you want to get married here, get married here.”

“Good. I want Cam to see it, and if he likes it, it's settled. Let me call him and see if he can sneak away.”

 

Cam is fine with it. The four of us are sitting in the hotel lobby waiting for the manager to bring us the papers to sign.

“I'm so happy you finally picked a place you like, dear,” Alice says, patting me on the knee. She makes it sound as if I were the problem. As if I were the one holding us back. Maybe I was. Maybe I should have put my foot down after hotel Number Two.

Cam winks at me. “Good find, Gabby.”

“It's a very popular hotel to get married at,” Tricia assures us. “Everything's coming together. Next biggies are the band, the photographer, the invitations. And, of course, the color scheme.”

“I know what color you should choose,” Alice says.

“And what color is that?” I ask. Wonder what she's going to say. Could it be orange. I think it might be orange? Is it orange?

“Rust,” she says, tugging on her sweater sleeve. “Like this.”

Looks orange to me. “Maybe.”

“You shouldn't take too long to decide,” Alice continues. “The bridesmaids have to order their dresses. And we need to get matching ties for the ushers.”

“There is no way,” Cam says, “my ushers are wearing orange ties.”

“Not orange,” Alice corrects him. “Rust.”

I stop myself from laughing. “We don't have to order the bridesmaid outfits just yet. I haven't even started looking for a wedding dress.”

Alice shrugs. “Whatever you think is best, Gabrielle. But Blair's dress took nine months to come in. Wedding dresses have to be ordered in advance. You need to go for multiple fittings. Tell her, Tricia.”

Tricia nods. “It helps. You don't want your time line to influence your choice.”

I'd have nine months to find my dress if Alice hadn't insisted I get married in May. “Okay, I'll go soon.”

“Blair and I had a ball shopping for gowns. The three of us should look for yours.”

“Maybe.” Please, God, no.

“Perhaps Lila can join us, too.” Alice coughs. “Cam tells me she's your maid of honor.”

“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice strong. “We've been friends for a long time.”

“Yes, friends. Not family though. You'll learn as you get older that friends can't always be trusted. Not like family. Not like my Blair.”

Oy. “Blair is still going to be a bridesmaid,” I explain.

“You know,” Alice says while pointing a finger in the air, “many brides have a maid of honor and a
matron
of honor.”

Is she kidding me? I've never heard of that. “I think it's one or the other.”

“Nope, my friend Rose's daughter had both. Maid of honor and matron of honor. I even asked Tricia about it, and she agreed.”

“It does happen,” Tricia admits with a guilty smile. Traitor.

“I would think you'd want to honor two people if you could. It would really mean a lot to Blair if you made her the matron of honor. She was hurt that you chose a friend instead if her.”

I don't answer.

“It would make Cam very happy,” she presses on.

My fiancé turns a nice shade of pink. “Mom—”

“I'm sure you'd like your sister to be the matron of honor,” she insists. “Since her husband is the best man.”

I feel myself caving in. I scored a point on the hotel; why not give in on this? It doesn't hurt anyone…. “All right, Alice, I'll ask Blair to be my other maid of honor.”

“Matron of honor.
Matron.
”

“Whatever. Matron.”

She claps her hands together like a little kid. “Oh, I have something for you.” She reaches into her purse, pulls out a folded piece of paper and shoves it into my hand.

“What's this?”

“Cam's favorite recipe. It's for coconut shrimp.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

“Cam mentioned that you guys have been ordering a lot of takeout lately.”

I shoot Cam an accusatory look.

“So I thought that you might want to cook a little something for him. It's much cheaper to make dinner than to order in. Of course, it's not an easy recipe, but you don't need to be Albert Einstein to cook, dear. I'm sure you'll get the hang of it eventually.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, stuffing the recipe into my pocket. Leave it alone, I warn myself. Just leave it alone. Besides, I've always liked coconut shrimp. Then I remember the shrimp I ordered from FreshDirect. The fresh shrimp that's surely bad by now. Too bad I can't e-mail the recipe to myself in New York. That way I could practice on Heather first. But I know what I
can
do. I can memorize it. My brain, it seems, is the only part of my body that can transcend time and space. So there, Mr. Einstein!

 

That Sunday, Cam wakes me up to say that he wants us to spend the day looking for houses.

“Can't it wait until after the wedding?” I mutter, still half-asleep.

He's sprawled across his side of the bed on his stomach, sifting through the classifieds. “I would rather buy something now. So we could move in the day after we're married.”

I tickle his side. “You're going to carry me over the threshold?”

“What about this place?” he asks, tapping a listing with his pen.

“Where is it?”

“Chandler.”

“As long it's not Mesa.”

“Hmm?” he asks, still tapping, but on another listing.

“I said, as long as it's not in Mesa.”

He stops tapping to look up. “What's wrong with Mesa?”

“It's probably not too healthy to live next door to your parents.”

He laughs. “I'm not going to rule out a property just because it's in Mesa. There are some great deals there.”

“Let's just try.”

“I am. This place is in Chandler. I'm going to shower and then we'll check out the open house.”

“Cam, I'm really busy this month. You know. With wedding stuff. I need to find a dress, a band, a photographer—”

He does some sort of dance move with his hands. “Can I help find the band?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. That would be cool. What would I have to do?”

“Just listen to them. Then choose. And hope they're not booked.”

He takes off his T-shirt and boxers and tosses them at the laundry basket. Score. “Yeah, I'm in.”

Not only is my fiancé a great shot, he's a sexy great shot. “Why don't you come back to bed?” I try out my best femme-fatale voice.

He wags his finger at me. “Houses. Real estate. Agents. Then dinner at my parents.”

Boring.

 

We don't like the house in Chandler. It's small and grungy.

“The bathtub is New York-sized,” I complain.

“When have you ever taken a bath in New York?”

“It's an expression,” I say, ducking back into the doll-sized master bedroom.

Oops.

 

A few days later, we see a house in Tempe. It's on the first floor of a condo. It has two bedrooms and a gorgeous dining room and a shared pool.

“Nice,” Cam says, eyeing the wood-burning fireplace.

Smash.

The noise is coming from upstairs.

Clunk. Boom.

“They have six kids,” the broker tells us. “Adorable, all of them.”

“Loud,” says Cam.

“Sweet,” says the broker.

“No thanks,” say I.

 

That Sunday, we fall in love with a house in Scottsdale. Unfortunately the price doesn't fall in love with us.

 

On Monday I begin my search for a wedding dress. Cam's at work, and I tidy up and then hit the road. I know Alice would have been overjoyed to come with me, and as much as I would have liked her to come along (the way I enjoyed getting my lip waxed), I fear that such an event would be detrimental to the state of my engagement, as surely, I would end up killing her. So I ask Lila instead, who graciously agrees to meet me at the boutique, after my many telephone calls and e-mails begging her to accompany me.

“I can't just take two hours off work,” she complained. “I'm behind on my billing. Can we do it after six?”

“Snow White closes at four.”

“What is it with these places? Most brides-to-be work. How else can they afford these weddings? Bridal boutiques are worse than banks.”

“Please?”

After enough begging, I can usually convince Lila to do things my way. She's dependable that way. She sighed loudly and agreed to come during lunch.

I park on Scottsdale Road and see Lila locking her car. “Hey stranger,” she says, kissing my cheek. “How's the lucky bride?”

“Fine. Excited. Nervous.”

“You know,” Lila says, “we should have turned this into a girls' trip and gone for the weekend to New York. That would have been fun.”

I wonder what would happen if I went to New York in this split. Could I run into my other self? “Too tough. I'd have to go back for fittings.”

The heat in the boutique is on full blast. Which is crazy. It's almost seventy degrees outside. “Excellent, there's nothing like trying on dresses all sweaty,” I say.

“Hello, hello, you must be Gabrielle,” says a white-haired, frail-looking woman in a heavy woolen sweater. “Congratulations!” She looks at Lila. “And you're the sister?”

Lila giggles. “Friend. Maid of honor.”

I'm going to have to mention at some point that she's sharing said honor.

“We're pleased to have you here on this joyous occasion. I'm Aurora, and I'm here to help.”

Aurora? You've got to be kidding. At least that explains the boutique's name, Snow White. It does not, however, explain the heat wave in here. Maybe the owner has a thyroid problem. My mom has one, and she always thinks it's cold out. I think that's why she insisted on moving to Arizona in the first place. That and because she couldn't stand my dad. Anyway, I swear, we're standing in a sauna. A circular, mirrored sauna. Off to the side, I see rows and rows of dresses and, on the other side, I see two massive pink cushioned changing rooms.

“Let's get started,” Aurora says, making a smacking sound with her lips. “Now tell me. What are you looking for?”

I don't have a clue. “A white dress?”

“Right. Yes. Well. Do you want something traditional? Princessy? Modern? Sophisticated?”

“Yes,” I say, turning to Lila. “What do you think?”

“Close your eyes,” Lila says.

Weird. But okay. I do as I'm told.

“Now, imagine this. You're at the Oscars. The announcer says—”

“Who's the announcer?”

“Denzel Washington.”

“Oh, I like him. What a great smile.”

“Good. But shut up and listen.”

“Sorry.”

“Denzel lists the nominations. Julia Roberts. Judi Dench. Gabby Wolf.”

“Wahoo!”

“And the winner is…”

I cross my fingers and wave them in the air. “Is it me? Is it me? Please let it be me!”

“Gabby Wolf!” Lila shrieks.

“I don't believe it!”