On Grace (20 page)

When I get back to my mom’s, I sit on her terrace and scroll through my emails. There’s one from Cameron checking in from Maine. She explains that it was a perfect idea for her to go there—she’s being well taken care of. She has been on my mind constantly, and I’m so glad to know she’s getting some peace and quiet.

I stop at an email from Darren with no subject and click it open. It’s long. The longest email I’ve ever gotten from Darren. The longest thing Darren’s probably written since his college application essays. I sit back, take a deep breath, and read.

Grace,

I hope you are having fun with your family and your high school friends. I think taking this time apart was probably a good decision. The boys are fine. They have been talking about you. I think they really miss you. James cried last night when he was going to bed because he said he missed you. I let him sleep with me. I missed you, too. But I couldn’t fall asleep. Besides the fact that James was snoring, I just had so much going on in my head. I came to the conclusion that the hardest part of all this is my deception. So, I’ve decided to be completely honest with you hoping that you will take this as an effort to show you that I am so sorry for what I did and that I can’t stand the idea of not being with you.

You asked me a while ago why I did it and I said I didn’t know. I do know. I did it because it felt good. I know that sounds so stupid and horrible, but if I’m going to tell the truth, it’s the truth. It felt good to have an attractive woman flirt with me and to have her want me. Add the alcohol and I wasn’t strong enough to resist. I know that makes what I did horrible, but it doesn’t make me a horrible person and that’s what I need you to realize. I have tried to figure out how I feel about the whole thing and I came up with embarrassed, ashamed, sad, disappointed, and idiotic. I think a lot of guys do what I did and feel proud of it like they passed some man test. Grace, I don’t feel like that at all. I know it’s really hard for you to believe that I could have done what I did and have it not mean anything. It didn’t mean anything, but I know that doesn’t make you feel any better. I know you can’t imagine how I didn’t think about you when I did it. It’s not that I don’t love you and don’t honor our marriage so I didn’t think about you. It’s more that I just wasn’t thinking. I was an idiot and a stereotypical asshole man. I never thought I’d be like that. I guess I was wrong. I hope you know that woman and that night meant nothing to me. Unfortunately, I know they mean everything to you.

I’m not sure if I’m going about this apology thing the right way. You know I’m better with numbers than words. But I can’t leave any stone unturned in my quest to make you understand how much I love you, how much I value our marriage and our family, and how sorry I am. I hope you can realize that what I did is not who I am and it will NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN! I beg you to keep letting the passage of time be on our side to allow this wound to heal. Please give me the chance to show you how much you mean to me. You don’t need to write back. I just hope you think about what I said and that it helps a little. Knowing me and my writing, I hope I was able to convey what I feel, and I hope you realize that I love you very much.

With all my love, Darren

I start to cry somewhere around the part where he wrote that even though what he did was horrible, it doesn’t make him a horrible person. That’s really the crux of the whole thing. I am so thankful he wrote that to me. It’s not difficult for Darren to let his feelings show, but it’s difficult for him to actually put them into words. And I appreciate his effort.

I am suddenly exhausted. Tired of always trying to figure things out. Tired of the endless sorting out in my brain of what I
should
do, when I should do it. Should I work? Should I stay with Darren? Should I flirt with Jake? Should I even be nice to Darren and to Jake? Again, I admonish myself to just be. To stop the analysis for a while. Tonight will be a good opportunity to get out of my head. I’ll be with my friends, and have a few drinks and a lot of laughs. And although I have softened a bit on Darren, I can’t help the purely physiological reaction I have to Jake Doyle who I will be seeing in exactly one hour and twenty-eight minutes.

At 6:58, as I’m stuffing my money, ID, and phone into a small handbag, I hear the doorbell and then a lot of excited greetings. My mom hasn’t seen Kiki or Arden in a couple years. My friends love my mom and they appreciate her for what she is. Kiki always said she wished her mom was less housecoat-wearing mamasita and more Gucci-wearing Nina Roseman. We all want what we don’t (
can’t?
) have.

I hurry to the front door, and the excited greetings start anew. We all hug, and Arden does one of her jumping-in-the-air side heel clicks—her trademark way of expressing glee. It’s almost an optical illusion to look at thirty-nine-year-old women whom I’ve known since they were young. In my mind I see fifteen-year-olds. But if I squint a little and pretend these women are strangers passing me at the mall, they suddenly become the almost-forty-year-old women they are. And it’s amazing for me to realize that we are as old as our mothers were when we were in high school. Our mothers looked old, like mothers. And they acted like they had their shit together.

Kiki is all decked out and gorgeous in a one-shoulder, white dress with a huge blue hibiscus on the torso that looks like something Carrie Bradshaw would wear. Arden’s look is the antithesis in slacks (Who wears slacks? Arden wears slacks.) and a fitted cashmere sweater. Her straight blonde hairstyle hasn’t changed since fifth grade. She’s a classic beauty, all Clinique skin and Laura Mercier lips. She and Kiki are both lookers in completely different ways.

We pile into Kiki’s Denali and make our way to Koi in West Hollywood. I’ve never been to this sexy, hip Japanese restaurant, but I’ve heard about it plenty from my sister and
Us
magazine. Kiki cranks up Madonna’s
Like a Virgin
album to bring us back to 1984, right around when we all became best friends. So we’re all singing our heads off to “Material Girl,” windows down, driving up Santa Monica Boulevard toward La Cienega Boulevard, gossiping and laughing. My mind is a million miles from my marital problems and from my comfortable life in Rye, New York.

I feel like someone is kneading my stomach, like a baker with his dough, and I’m excited to see Jake. Tension has been building since that first Facebook chat a few weeks ago. And since I decided to actually make the trip, and since I told him I was coming, there’s been a sense of anticipation I can’t deny. However hard I try. It’s probably good that I ran into him today at lunch; it’s minimizing the anxiety a bit. Minimizing it enough.

I mentally go over my rules. I will allow myself to flirt, to feel pretty, to escape my life for one night. I will not allow myself to touch or be touched, to engage in any sort of Darren-bashing, to do anything that would make me feel embarrassed if Kiki or Arden saw. Just old friends hanging out.
Yeah, an old friend who I used to have a major crush on who still has some power over my heart and my nether regions.
Act with grace, Grace. Act with grace.
It’s not like I’m wearing special underwear or anything. And my long-overdue bikini wax is more Botswanan than Brazilian. That proves I’m not interested in anything happening.

We pull up to the valet parking at 7:45 and make our way through the throng of paparazzi staked out to photograph whatever stars decide to dine tonight at Koi, a celeb hotspot. Kiki gives our name to the hostess who leads us to a banquette on the back patio. We get our paparazzi answer when we pass Leonardo DiCaprio at a table of beautiful women and Hollywood-agent-type guys. They’re all laughing at a joke that we missed, but we still feel the punch line’s transferred joy.

The restaurant is very cool, lots of wood and bamboo, lush greenery, and soft candlelight. Exactly the kind of ambience I was hoping for. I feel excited. The rest of our crew is already there, and there’s lots of hooting and shrieking from the table when they see us approach. They all stand up to greet us. Scotty is on the end so he gets to me first and gives me a kiss on the cheek and a bear hug. Scotty is 6’1” and 200 pounds. There’s nothing better than a Scotty hug. He pulls away, holds my hands, and scans me up and down.

“Gracie Roseman May, you look phenomenal!” he says, beaming at me.

“Why thank you Scotty Alden Reynolds, so do you,” I say as I smile at him and give him another hug. There’s something about being with old friends. There’s something about being with Scotty. It’s feety pajamas, a cold night with a fireplace, endless M&M’s.

“I would like to introduce you to my beautiful and talented fiancée, Abigail Marlow. Abigail, this is Grace,” Scotty says putting his arm around Abigail’s shoulder.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say to Abigail, not knowing whether to shake her hand or give her a kiss. During that split second of indecision, she leans toward me and gives me a proper British two-cheek kiss.

“Grace, I’ve heard so much about you. Lovely to finally meet you,” Abigail says warmly in her posh British accent.

She is a presence. As tall as Scotty, but with a lean, dancer’s body, Abigail’s auburn hair is cut in a pixie and she has Natalie Portman’s face. Stunning, absolutely stunning. She looks at Scotty, and they smile and kiss. I feel a wave of love for my old friend. And happiness that he has found his wife.

“Stop hogging the import,” Jake says as he bumps Scotty on the shoulder and maneuvers next to me.

“Hey, Jake,” I say smiling, the baker in my belly getting a little frenzied.

“Hey, Gracie,” he says, also smiling, and he gives me a kiss and a tight hug.

Just then, Tommy and Sara make their way over, and a new round of kisses and hugs begins.

Sara was the fourth in the Kiki/Arden/Grace group. But she was also the third in the Stacy/Samantha group (they liked to call themselves the SaSSy Sisters, even had off-the-shoulder T-shirts made—so lame, but this was the 80s!) so she and I were never as close as I was with Kiki and Arden. Sara is one of those girls who looks nothing like she did in high school. She went from Tracey Gold to Cameron Diaz. The tightly curled brown hair, unflattering nose, pimples, flat chest, and baby fat have been replaced with chemically straightened blonde hair, Cameron Diaz’s nose (Kiki told me Sara brought a photo into her plastic surgeon’s office and requested an exact replica), dermabrasioned skin, enhanced breasts, and toned arms. Girl looks good. A little fake. But this is L.A., and girl looks good.

After the greetings and compliments are exhausted, we slide into the U-shaped booth. On one end is Sara and the seating order next to her is Abigail, Scotty, me, Jake, Kiki, Tommy, and Arden. It’s like the first day of school when the teacher assigns your seat that will be permanent for the rest of the semester. Your placement either sucks or guarantees you’ll be next to the boy you think is cute or the girl you can cheat off of, wherever your priorities lie. I’ve scored big in the seating assignments tonight.

The booth is a little small for eight, so we’re packed in close. My legs are pushed up against Scotty’s on my right and Jake’s on my left. But only my left is tingling a little. I pledged not to touch. But I have nowhere else to go.

We order a round of Koi saketinis and edamame. Kiki doesn’t drink, which is why she’s our designated driver. She orders a virgin Koi Chai Tea. The restaurant is loud, so it’s hard to have a group table conversation. I start off on my right asking Scotty and Abigail about the wedding.

“We’ve decided to go to Hawaii, just the two of us, and get married in a tiny resort on Kauai,” Scotty says.

“How romantic. How does Rosalie Reynolds feel about that?”

“Well,” Scotty continues, “Rosalie Reynolds is none too excited because she wanted to throw the wedding of the century. But we’re allowing her to have a small tasteful party for her friends when we get back. Unfortunately, small and tasteful in Rosalie Reynolds’s world means 250 in black tie at The Beverly Hills Hotel. It’s fine, though. Abigail’s even a little excited about it, right, hon?” Scotty asks and turns to Abigail as he re-laces his fingers through hers.

Abigail leans over Scotty so I can hear her. “My mum died when I was little, and I adore Rosalie, so we’re actually having fun with it. I’m the daughter she never had, and she’s playing that mother-of-the-bride role for me. She’s been lovely,” Abigail says and smiles at Scotty.

“Well, I’m just really happy for the two of you,” I say.

“Thanks, Gracie. There are only a handful of people who I would like to watch me get married, and you’re definitely one of them,” Scotty says, his eyes starting to tear up.

“Well, I’m honored to hear that. So just make sure you take lots of photos and email them to me.”

“It’s a deal,” Scotty says.

Our drinks arrive, and Jake clinks a chopstick against his glass, proposing a toast to our guests of honor. He speaks loudly so we can all hear.

“I would like to take a moment to honor Scotty and Abigail. Scotty, you and I have been like brothers since we were just little dudes, hunting for babes, dreaming big dreams, desperately trying to speed up life so we could turn sixteen, get our licenses, and take off on a road trip that we never ended up taking. But you’ve taken an even better trip. A successful career and now a beautiful woman who you are about to marry. Abigail, I couldn’t have chosen a more perfect, better-suited woman for my best friend. I wish you two all the happiness in the world. Cheers!”

“Cheers!” We all shout in unison, clinking glasses, laughing, delighting in our good fortune, our deep bonds, our warm feelings all around. I get caught in a man hug between Jake and Scotty. One of them smells really good, like Drakkar Noir, the cheesy adolescent cologne that gets me every time.

“That was really nice,” I say to Jake as the smaller conversations around the table start up again. When he looks into my eyes, I feel my insides clench and the heat rise up my neck.
Don’t blush, Grace. Hold it together.