Not Quite A Bride (3 page)

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Authors: Kirsten Sawyer

BOOK: Not Quite A Bride
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Jamie tries to stop me, but her voice is distant ... it almost sounds like it's underwater ... probably the same as it sounds to her fetus. I stumble out of the restaurant, calling over my shoulder something about needing air—possibly calling over my shoulder something that sounds like Daryl Hannah saying her mermaid name in
Splash
. I get in a cab and by the time it pulls up in front of my building, I'm sobbing. The walk up to my apartment is a blur, and without even taking off my adorable outfit I get a fresh bottle of Jack Daniel's from a high cupboard and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food from the freezer. There, alone on my floor (well, my cat is there, but even she looks a little frightened), I try to eat and drink my sorrows away.
You're thinking this must be it ... I must have hit bottom. Well, sadly, you are incorrect. It's going to get worse. Buckle up.
4
The Meltdown
I
wake up early—well, it feels early—to the sound of the door buzzer. I am on the floor in a fetal position cuddling the empty Ben & Jerry's container. The almost-empty bottle of Jack isn't too far away. My cute outfit has chocolate, caramel, and drool ... actually, it looks like chocolate-caramel drool, all over it. I try to cover my head with a pillow from the couch, but the buzzing won't stop. I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror and hope that if the buzzing is to tell me that the building is on fire that I am burnt to a crisp before any cute firemen reach my door.
“Who is it?” I moan into the buzzer.
“Molls, it's Brad—buzz me up.”
“I'm sorry, wrong number ... go away. Come back at a decent hour.”
“Molly, It's 11:30.”
“No. Go awa—”
“Oh, never mind ... your neighbor just came out and held the door.”
“What? No! Damn neighbor. See if I ever lend you a cup of sugar!” I yell through the intercom.
I'm not completely distraught, though, because Brad might be in the building, but it doesn't mean he's coming in here. I'd have to open the door for that to happen. Ha!
A few seconds later there is a knock on my door and I completely ignore it. The bastard keeps knocking, which is really killing my head, but I'm strong and I don't give in. Then there is a key turning in the door and Brad walks in.
“What are you doing? That's breaking and entering!”
“No, it isn't—I have a key. You gave it to me to feed Tiffany when you were at Suzanne McNally's wedding.”
“Damn.”
I hated Suzanne McNally for making me wear a peach taffeta dress with a bow on my ass and now I hate her even more for making me give Brad a key.
“Look, can you leave? I think I have food poisoning.”
“You don't have food poisoning.”
He glances at the chocolate-caramel drool and me and then to my nest on the floor.
“Come on, Molly, let's get you cleaned up. We're going to go for a run.”
“No! The only place I will run is away from you.”
“The only way you're gonna get over this hangover is to sweat it out.”
I protest a bit longer without getting anywhere, and then, like a four-year-old who has been denied a cookie, I throw a tantrum. I'm screaming and crying and pounding my fists ... but I can assure you this, I'm not leaving this apartment. When I finish, I look up smugly, positive that Brad will have gone running for his life, but the bastard is still there, in my apartment, and now he's laughing at me!
“Okay, fine, you don't have to go running, but you do have to take a shower. I have something I need to talk to you about.”
Crap. The thing about Brad is that he always calls me on my shit. I know that he is here to tell me how awful I was to my sister last night. I know a lecture is coming ... all I can do is postpone it, so I agree to the shower as a way to put it off. I retreat to my bathroom for the longest shower in the history of showers with hopes that I'll be in for so long that Brad will give up and have to leave, or die of starvation, before I return.
By the time I exit the shower I am pruned to within an inch of my life and certain that I am alone ... but I'm not. I watch him for a second, sitting on my floral couch ... he is the only guy I have ever met who can sit on it and not look like he's afraid the flowers will crawl up and devour his heterosexuality. I have to suck it up ... he was right about the shower making me feel better and he'll be right about everything he says regarding how awful I was to my wonderful sister. I wrap myself in my pink robe and go out to the living room.
“Okay, you were right about the shower. I feel better. Now, let me have it.”
Brad solemnly turns off the TV and turns toward me.
“Molly, come here and sit down.”
He pats my shabby-chic chair-and-a-half as I cross the room and settle myself into it as a brace for what is to come.
“I'm not going to tell you how awful you were to Jamie, because you know that. You know that she is not malicious and that her decision to have a child now has nothing to do with where you are in your life and everything to do with where she is in her life. And you know that you need to call her and apologize today.”
I nod in agreement ... but I'm a little confused. That was so easy. Could we really be done?
“What I actually need to talk to you about is something different.”
Huh? What's going on here?
“Molly, Claire and I got engaged.”
There is no chair on earth sturdy enough to brace me for this.
“What?”
“We're going to get married. I asked her on Saturday and she said yes.”
Okay, so remember the fog from last night. Imagine it much, much thicker and that's sort of where I am right now.
“But she wasn't wearing an engagement ring. Are you sure you're getting married? To Claire?”
“Yes ... I'm sure. She didn't like the ring I got her, so she's exchanging it today. She'll be wearing it the next time you see her.”
And then the weirdest thing happens. I've heard people who have cheated death in the nick of time say that before you die, everything becomes very clear and calm. Well, that's what happens to me. I emerge from the fog with a whole new view of the world. I feel like I have put on glasses that allow me to see clearly for the first time in my life.
“Congratulations,” I say slowly and deliberately. “I'm sure you will be very ... prompt.”
I said the glasses helped me see clearly ... I didn't say they were rose-colored.
“
Happy
, Molly—you're sure we will be very
happy
. Thank you. And we're having an engagement party on the sixth. I want you to be there ... you are my best friend ... I want you to be the best man ... best woman—whatever—we'll think of a name for you.”
I sit there and stare blankly at him like I've never seen him before in my life. It's one of those moments where you know you have to say something, but the seconds are ticking by and nothing is coming to you. One ... two ... three...
“Aw, Molly, I know what you're thinking.”
He knows what I'm thinking? Well, thank goodness somebody does because I certainly haven't got a clue.
“Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. I promise it's going to happen for you, sweetie.”
Oh my gosh ... that definitely wasn't what I was thinking, but now that he said it, I am. It's true! Now I can expand my wedding résumé to include best man ... best woman ... whatever, but still not the bride. I nod like an idiot, hug Brad, and wave cheerfully as he walks down the hall. I cannot believe this. It's bad enough that my
younger
sister is married and pregnant before I'm in a serious relationship, but now my best friend and practically my only single friend left is not only getting married, but to the devil herself ... and I have to stand up at their wedding.
Yet, despite these crushing blows, I am not freaking out. I am not hitting the bottle (or the pint). I am doing what any pathetic old spinster would do ... I'm sitting in my apartment talking to my cat.
“I'm okay, Tiff, really, I am ...” Even the cat isn't buying it. “This is pathetic,” I tell her. “No offense to you.” She meows and walks away ... I'm not sure if offense was taken or not. “I've got to get out of here.”
I grab the
Village Voice
off my coffee table and flip to the page with the movie times. I am aware that going to the movies alone is yet another pathetic thing to do, but it's got to be better than sitting here. A good chick-flick will help me forget my miserable life—at least for a couple hours. I scan the page and am excited to find that a theater not far from my apartment is showing the old '80s classic,
Can't Buy Me Love
. A dorky Patrick Dempsey (pre-
Grey's Anatomy
hottie days) should cheer me up a bit. As I check the movie times, my eyes wander to the next page where the personal ads are, and that's where I see:
Male Escort—
NOT MAN WHORE
Handsome, well-mannered gentleman
to escort/entertain males or females.
NO SEX.
Nightly or weekend rates.
Call Justin: 212-555-6373
I look at the ad and then back to the page with the ad for
Can't Buy Me Love.
My eyes go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth ... lightbulb ... I pick up the phone and dial ... it rings ... I wait. Finally a machine answers.
“Hi, Justin, my name is Molly Harr ... just Molly. I saw your ad in the
Village Voice
and I have a proposition for you. Don't worry ... I don't want sex. Well, I do, but not yours ... well ... never mind ... just call me—212-555-7543. 'Bye.”
And there you have it: rock bottom. It's not as dramatic as you expected, I'm sure ... but this is it. I have figured out a way to live my dream without any of my dreams actually coming true. At thirty years old, I have decided to give up on love, give up on romance, and settle for marriage ... or at least a wedding ... My day will finally come and I will finally be the one in the white dress—it's just going to take some white lies to get there.
5
When Molly Met Justin
T
he next week, I find myself sitting in a Starbucks drinking a Caramel Frappuccino and waiting for Justin to arrive. I am early ... truly early, not just on-time early. I get there fifteen minutes before our scheduled meeting time! At two o'clock on the dot (so he was early, too ... points for being prompt), Justin walks in. I know it's him because he'd described himself quite accurately on the phone. I must have described myself accurately as well because he waves as soon as he looks in my direction and comes over to the table. I guess there's no turning back now.
“You must be Molly!”
He extends a hand enthusiastically and his friendly attitude and natural warmth calm my nerves. And his ad was right; he is handsome and he definitely seems well mannered. He's tall and athletic-looking with dark hair and dark brown eyes. Actually, he's exactly my type. This could work.
“I'm going to grab a cup of coffee real quick ... you want anything else?”
“No, I'm fine, thanks,” I answer, giving him even more points in the courtesy column.
I study his butt as he approaches the counter ... really nice. He's friendly with the Barista. He puts money in the tip jar, and not just his change ... very generous. I start to get excited. What if he actually
is
the one? Wouldn't that be a hilarious story to tell our grandkids? How Grandma hired Grandpa as an escort but their love couldn't be denied ... and obviously he didn't charge! We're ninety and in side-by-side rocking chairs by the time he returns with his latte.
“So,” he says, “you said you had a proposition for me. You don't seem sketchy—tell me what you were thinking.”
I'm so entangled in my fantasy that I'm not ready to get to business.
“Why don't you tell me a little about yourself first ... let's get to know each other.”
He smiles and it's one of those great smiles where the whole face actually lights up.
“Okay, I'm thirty-three years old. I'm an actor ... well, right now I'm a waiter, but I want to be an actor. I grew up in the Midwest but came to New York to attend NYU, and I've been here ever since. I always knew I'd come to New York, though ... people like me don't exactly fit in in the middle.”
“People like you?”
“Gay people. They are much less homophobic on the coasts.”
“Oh, you're gay?”
“Yeah ... that's not a problem for what you had in mind, is it? My ad said no sex ... you sounded like you understood that in your message.”
“Oh gosh! No! No sex—I definitely understand that.”
And I guess no fiftieth anniversary party where our grandkids sing songs and put on little skits to reenact our romance, either.
“Okay, phew! So anyway, I needed to earn extra money, so I started this escort business and it's been going okay. Some of the people are a little creepy and some of them make me a little sad ... not that you are creepy or sad. I'm actually kind of confused by you, so do you want to tell me what's going on now?”
I take a deep breath. Here comes the moment of truth—the moment that I share my grand plan with another human being. The moment that it grows wings and flies away or crashes and burns in a fiery grave.
“Okay, Justin ... here's my plan. Have you ever seen the movie
Can't Buy Me Love
?”
“With Patrick Dempsey? Absolutely!”
“Good. I want to rent you,” I inform him.
“Seriously? Look, it's a great movie and all ... but I don't think renting an out-of-work, gay actor is going to make you more popular.”
“Well, that's not exactly my plan. Let me tell you a little about myself. I'm thirty. I'm a teacher ... I teach third grade. I'm the oldest of three ... I have a younger sister who is married and pregnant and a younger brother who is in Europe ‘finding himself.' I grew up in Connecticut; my parents are still there and happily married. And all of my friends are either married or engaged.”
“It's nice to know about you. I don't get it, though ...”
“Justin, I want to rent you for one year. Not full-time ... don't worry. I want to stage a whirlwind romance, an engagement, and a wedding. I want the experience of being a bride and I want all the fun and celebration that brides get, but so far that hasn't happened, so I'm revising my fantasy and going with Plan B. This way I'll get the engagement party, the bridal shower, and the wedding before I die alone.”
Justin looks at me in utter disbelief for a second, and then breaks into laughter, and then looks at me again and realizes I'm dead serious.
“It's like an acting job,” I continue, “and I'll pay you well.”
“Let me get this straight ... we're going to fake a romance. . .”
“A whirlwind one,” I break in, “since we only have one year.”
“Okay, a whirlwind romance, an engagement, all the wedding planning, engagement parties, showers, etc., and then a wedding ... but then what happens?”
“You'll leave me at the altar. I'll act devastated but put on a strong face, and everyone will feel so sorry for me and stay for the reception of my dreams to cheer up my broken heart, and let me keep the gifts.”
“Are you on any medication?”
“Medication? Me? No.”
“Molly, I just don't get it. I'm looking at you, and although you're not my type, I can see that you are beautiful, you seem nice and smart, you have a good career, and it doesn't sound like you have any huge family problems ... stable and not abusive or anything. Are you sure this is what you want to do? Thirty isn't old ... wait for the fairy tale to come true.”
“I've tried—I've been waiting my whole life and I'm tired of waiting. I want an engagement, I want to register, and cake taste, and try on dresses, and have hair and makeup run-throughs. What if Mr. Right isn't out there for me? Why should I have to miss the whole experience?”
“But what if he is? Won't the experience be better shared with someone you love?”
“I'm not willing to take the risk. I'm tired of waiting. I want a French whisk.”
“Maybe you
are
a little crazy. What is a French whisk?”
“You know, it's one of those fancy little whisks they sell at Williams-Sonoma that nobody buys for themselves because it's ridiculously expensive for a glorified fork, but everyone registers for it and then swears by it. Anyway, it's not the whisk itself that I'm talking about, although we will register for one—it's a metaphor for the whole picture.”
“Do you cook?” he asks me, completely missing the point.
“No, I don't cook at all.”
“Then why do you need the whisk?”
“'Cause it's just one of those things that you get ... that you
need
to get and never use, like espresso machines and ice cream makers.”
“So buy yourself the whisk,” he offers as what should be a logical solution.
“You're not getting this. I want to be a bride. Everyone else in the world gets the experience of a wedding. Why shouldn't I, just because I don't happen to have a soul mate?”
“I'll never have the experience, either,” Justin counters, but I'm starting to sense a breaking point in his voice, so I work this angle.
“Then this would be an opportunity for you to!”
“No offense, but you aren't exactly what I picture standing next to me in my fantasy.”
“But Justin ... we're in the same boat. People like us, gay people and people without soul mates, are both expected by society to go without all the experiences of a wedding.”
At first he laughs kindly at me, but then I can see him think a little more and I can tell by his slow nodding that he is coming around, “Yeah, I guess in a way we are.”
“You'll get to register for stuff, too!” I throw in as an additional sales point. “Haven't you always wanted Egyptian cotton towels?”
“Yeah, I guess I have. What gay man hasn't?”
“This is our chance,” I tell him with the fervor of a TV preacher.
“Okay, Molly.” Justin takes a long pause with a deep breath, and I fear he is going to run out of the coffee shop or scream to get a straightjacket because I need committing, but he finally says, “I must be crazy, because I'll do it. Let's have this experience that society is denying us!”
He extends a hand over the little table and my smile doubles as we shake on it. I can't believe step one is secured! Here we go.

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