Misery Loves Cabernet (27 page)

Liam appears in my doorway, wearing boxer shorts and a white cotton T-shirt, and looking ridiculously hot, as always. “I figured that after dining on cake samples all night, you might want some real food when you got home.”

I use a cheese spreader I didn’t know I owned to spread some Brie on a cracker. “I love Brie,” I say enthusiastically.

As I put it into my mouth and experience a C.O. (culinary orgasm), Liam tells me, “That’s actually a Camembert from Normandy. I remember how much you said you liked Brie, so I thought this would be a fun way to expand your palette. The other is a Valdeón from Spain.”

I try the Valdeón, and I am in heaven. “My God, this is so good. Where did you find these?”

“From the cheese shop next to Trader Joe’s,” he says, referring to the gourmet cheese shop I have within a mile of me that I’ve never set foot in. “I’m still torn between that one and the one on Sunset.”

“There’s a cheese shop on Sunset?” I say, surprised.

Liam smiles and shakes his head as he pulls a can of Guinness out of the refrigerator for himself. “You really never have explored your neighborhood, have you?”

I shrug sheepishly as I sip the wine. “I will now.” Then I force myself to pleasantly ask, “So, how was your date?”

Liam pours the Guinness into a large glass. “Well, it’s ten o’clock, and I’m already home. So that should tell you something. How was your evening?”

I shrug. “Oh . . . fine.”

Liam cocks his head. “Doesn’t sound like it was fine.”

“It was fine,” I reiterate.

I can tell from the look on Liam’s face, he doesn’t buy it.

I want to tell him about the text from Jordan. but I want to keep my options open with him. And nothing says, “About as sexy as a dead fish,” quite as much as a mopey girl still hooked on her ex-boyfriend.

“Sometimes it’s hard to be happy for your friends,” I say, thinking out loud. I stop myself. Take a nervous sip of wine. “My God. I must just sound like this really horrible, awful person now. I just mean . . . I don’t know. It just seems like all my friends live their lives so much more effortlessly than I do.”

Liam doesn’t take his eyes off me as he leans against my counter. “How do you mean?”

“Well, Kate was with a guy for nine years. She finally has the courage to break up with him and . . . bam! The universe gives her a husband. Andy just got married, and bam! She’s already pregnant. Drew decides he wants to go to space; I guarantee you through some bizarre turn of events he will go into space. Meanwhile, I languish around in my life, never quite doing what I set out to do. I’m tired of being a silver medalist, and tired of fighting uphill battles that I only sort of win.”

Liam takes a cracker, and spreads it with the Valdeón. “I’m sorry. Why is it bad to be a silver medalist?”

I let my head fall into my hands. “Crap. You actually are a silver medalist. So, that came out wrong.”

For some reason, it’s really important to me that Liam understand what I’m talking about. I take a sip of wine, and try again. “Aren’t you ever jealous of the guy who won the gold medal in your event?”

Liam shrugs. “Sure.” He smiles as he takes a sip of his beer. “But that doesn’t mean I regret going after my goal. I love running. I loved being in the Olympics. Silver’s pretty good.”

“Didn’t you ever get tired of going after your goal?’

“Of course. But what’s the alternative? Eating potato chips on the couch, and hoping people will come to you with life’s big rewards?”

I make a big show of eyeing the ceiling and thinking about that. “I don’t know. But can we try that for a while and see how it works out?”

Liam laughs. “If this is your way of trying to get out of becoming a producer, I won’t let you.” He rubs my arm in a friendly way. “What you’re feeling is normal. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Particularly not tonight. You just broke up with your boyfriend. Of course you don’t want to think about a wedding.”

“Right,” I say. “And I certainly didn’t want to be given diet books by my helpful friend right before I gorged myself on cake.”

“You don’t need to go on a diet,” Liam says, sounding like the thought of it is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“I’m sorry,” I say, smiling and flirting a bit. “Tell me again how you’re single?”

Liam laughs. “You sound like my mother. Of course, what she says is usually something more like, ‘Why can’t you keep a woman around?’ and it’s followed with expressions like, ‘Carrying on the family name,’ and ‘Not getting any younger.’ ”

I laugh. “Meaning you or her?” I ask.

“Both, actually,” Liam says, smiling warmly at me.

Liam and I spent the next hour on the perfect date: we were comfortable together, we laughed a lot, we had great food and wine.

At the end of the evening, Liam hugged me good night, gave me a kiss on the forehead, told me how much he adored me, then went to bed in his room.

It’s at that point that I realized that no matter what I did, no matter how funny I was, how cute or how clever, he saw me as a friend. At this point a good friend, a lovable friend, but just a friend.

And he became the second man this week to break my heart.

I can’t sleep. I’m Ping-Ponging between two thoughts: whether or not to seduce Liam, and have him see me as more than a roommate, and whether or not to text Jordan back, and try to make things work with us.

Do I pursue Liam—just go knock on his door and act all coquettish until he suddenly sees what he’s been missing, sweeps me off my feet, then carries me to my guest bed so we can share a night of conjugal bliss?

Or, do I pursue Jordan? Text him back and act like nothing’s wrong? Call him tomorrow and act like Sunday morning never happened? Keep everything status quo, and hope things get better once he gets home?

It’s like I’m trying to run to the destination of “relationship,” but I can’t figure out which direction I’m supposed to be running toward. So I just end up running in circles, fretting.

As I ponder my dilemma, I putter downstairs, pull a pint of vanilla Häagen-Dazs from the freezer, grab a spoon, and head upstairs to call Jamie.

“Here’s a novel idea,” Jamie deadpans. “How about letting one of them pursue you?”

“God, that’s just too depressing,” I say, with my mouth full. “I’d like to think I have more control over my destiny than waiting around, hoping I don’t get picked last for the basketball team.”

“Are you eating again?” Jamie asks incredulously.

“No,” I lie with my mouth still full. “But do you think that’s why Liam isn’t interested in me? Because I’m eating too much?”

“No. I think he’s not interested in you because he’s living in your guest room, because he knows you just broke up with your boyfriend, and because you’re working for a man who is a nut who could pull out of his movie at any time for any reason, including, ‘You banged my assistant and now she’s in tears, and we can’t possibly come to work to finish your movie.’ ”

I’m relieved to hear this. “So, you don’t think he doesn’t want me because I’m fat, or a loser, or a neurotic mess?”

“Do you open with that when talking to new men?”

My phone beeps. I see it’s Andy, and put Jamie on hold. “Hey, Mommy. What are you doing up so late?”

“Jamie just e-mailed me that you have a crush on Liam,” Andy says with a concerned tone.

“I don’t have a crush on Liam,” I insist, trying to sound as irritated as possible. “He’s just staying with me for a few days. Why Jamie would jump to the conclusion—”

“Jamie is e-mailing me that you’re lying right now,” Andy interrupts.

“Hold on,” I say to my sister.

I click back over to my brother. “How do you even know what I’m saying?”

“Hi, I’m Jamie. I’ll be your brother today,” Jamie deadpans. “Oh, Andy is e-mailing me that she’s going to throw up soon, and to have you click back over to her.”

“How do you people type so fast?” I ask, exasperated. “Okay, bye.”

Jamie says good-bye, and I click back to Andy. “Sorry. I don’t exactly have a crush, it’s just—”

“I know,” Andy says quickly. “Jordan just dumped you and you’re vulnerable. Just trust me: Liam is not a good rebound guy. He’s had more conquests than William.”

I think about that for a moment. “Kate’s William?”

“No, William the Conqueror. As a matter of fact, we used to call him Liam the Conqueror. Why? Has Kate’s fiancé had a lot of conquests?”

Before I can answer, Andy continues, “Seriously, I love Liam like a brother, but the truth is, he goes through women as fast as . . . our brother.”

“Ew,” I can’t help but snicker, the left half of my upper lip moving up like Lucy Ricardo in
I Love Lucy
.

“Yeah,” Andy agrees. “Oh God, I gotta go throw up again. I have no idea why they call it ‘morning sickness;’ I’m nauseous all the Goddamn time. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay, I promise,” I say, probably even meaning it. “Why do you think they call it morning sickness at midnight?”

I hear Andy heave on the other end of the phone. “I’m sorry. Can we discuss semantics another day?” she asks.

“Sorry,” I say. “Love you, bye.”

“Love you, too. Bye,” she says, then hangs up.

Lots of conquests. Yuck. I mean, I guess it doesn’t surprise me: men who look like that don’t need to do much pursuing.

Still, he seemed nicer than that.

My phone rings again. I check the caller ID. Argh . . .

I pick up. “Hello, Drew.”

“I need you to give me directions,” Drew says, “I’m lost. I’m driving in some town just outside L.A., and I don’t know what it’s called, but it sounds like a cheese.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” I offer gently.

“Fine. I’m passing a Wal-Mart on my right.”

“Thank you. That narrows it down to everywhere except your dining room.”

“Wait. I also passed a gas station. Oh, and does a McDonalds help?”

I ignore his other identifying landmarks, call LoJack, and find out where my boss’s car is. Then I patch them through to Drew to give him directions home.

I don’t even want to know.

Learn to cook
.

The following morning, I awake to the smell of bacon.

Really . . . is there any better smell in the world?

I head downstairs to find my new roommate slaving over my hot stove. He’s got three jets working: sausage sizzles in one pan, while hash browns cook in another. And in the final pan, Liam fries up some eggs. Off to the side, bacon and some sort of sausage rest on paper towels, getting degreased.

“Good morning!” he says brightly. “Hope you don’t mind. I’ve been rifling through your kitchen. Coffee’s in your coffee thermos.”

“I have a coffee thermos?” I ask.

“Yeeeessss . . . ,” Liam says, smiling as he drags out the word. He grabs a medium-sized silver jug, pours me a wonderfully smelling brew, quickly hands it to me, then goes back to the eggs. “I found it stored in your oven. Along with your frying pans.”

I look at the thermos. “So that’s what this is. I always thought it was for making monstrously big Jell-O shots.”

Liam chuckles at my joke. “I’m making us Irish fry-ups. You’re not one of those women who needs a sliced tomato on her plate, are you?”

“I never need vegetables on my plate,” I answer.

“Excellent. The newspapers are already on the table. Have a seat, breakfast will be ready in a moment.”

I take a sip of coffee as I walk into my dining room. On the table is a
New York Times
, a
Los Angeles Times
, and a
Wall Street Journal
, all folded neatly, ready to be opened.

If it weren’t for Andy’s information last night, I think I’d be tempted to take an arm and push everything off the table, then when Liam walked in, throw him down on the table, and take advantage of his virtue.

But now that I have Andy’s information, I know that Liam’s “perfect guy” act is just an act, designed to get women into bed before they realize he’s not perfect, he won’t call them later, and that he will be the catalyst for a month of ice cream and self-pity binges.

Actually, Andy didn’t tell me that—I’m just assuming.

Liam walks in, carrying two plates, each with a pile of bacon, two types of sausage, runny fried eggs, greasy hash browns, and some starchy-looking concoction that appears to be fried in grease.

“I know how much you like bacon,” Liam says, putting the plate with the big pile of bacon in front of me. “So I made extra.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Things that seem too good to be true usually are. This is especially true with men
.

I look at the greasy mess on my plate. “It smells heavenly,” I lie. I point to the starchy bready-looking thing. “What is that?”

“Irish soda bread, cooked in sausage drippings.”

What is this? Some kind of test to see what I’ll put in my mouth? “Uh-huh,” I say. “And this?” I ask, pointing to . . . um . . . well, some kind of fried meat?

“Black pudding,” he answers.

“Oh,” I say, feeling that one is safe to have a bite of.

I put a forkful in my mouth. Oh, yuck. I think I’m going to throw up. With my mouth still full, I ask, “What exactly is black pudding?”

“It’s a traditional Irish sausage. I think Americans call it blood sausage.”

“Feckity, feck, feck, feck,” I blurt out, running to the kitchen to spit it out in the garbage.

Liam yells from the other room, “You didn’t even give it a chance.”

“I won’t give anal sex a chance either, but I’m comfortable with that, too!” I yell back. I return to the table to stare at the runny eggs. They look like they have the consistency of snot. “Aren’t you supposed to cook the eggs a little more?”

Liam smiles as he dips his greasy soda bread into his runny egg yolk. “Nah. Puts some hair on your chest.”

“I don’t want hair on my chest,” I say, trying not to look too disgusted as I pick around the food with my fork.

“At least give them a try. I added the Fleur de Sel from your spice cabinet.”