The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (17 page)

Let's face it, I was sitting across from every twenty-nine-year-old girl's worst nightmare. A new stepmom I could handle, but this was too much. I saw enough of it at work. I didn't need it at my so-called family dinners as well.

It's unbelievable. The older a man gets, the younger the woman he needs to make himself feel validated. Just look at Todd Langley. In his late forties and just couldn't wait to get twenty-five-year-old Keira Summers into his hotel room.

And then, as I half listened to Simone jabber on about the glaciers in Alaska and how global warming really is such a pity, a disturbing thought struck me. Jamie was eight years older than me. And he had been married once before . . . to someone his own age. And when he met me, he was technically still married.

Suddenly the room got very cold. I pulled my cardigan sweater tighter around my body.

My thoughts were stabbing at my brain like tiny icicles floating around in my head. Was it possible that Jamie had fallen for me for the same reason that my father had fallen for Simone?

For the past year, I had been so convinced that Jamie was nothing like my father. But what if the exact opposite was true? What if Jamie was actually
just
like my father?
And
even Todd Langley, for that matter?

Then what did that make me? His
Simone
?

I barely had time to entertain the disturbing notion when I saw Jamie hurrying across the restaurant toward our table. "Hey! I'm so sorry I'm late! Traffic from Century City was brutal. They closed two lanes on Santa Monica."

Jamie gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and I introduced him to my dad's cliché. (Although I was careful to use her real name.)

As I watched him, too, get mauled into one of her apparently trademarked bear hugs, I studied his face for any sign of surprise or disapproval. Surely this situation had to bother him.
Surely
he could spot the colossal age gap between the two of them, and something to that effect would register on his face.

But I saw nothing. His smile was as genuine as I'd ever seen it. And his handshake as he met my father was as respectful as if he had been greeting a foreign ambassador.

Simone and everything she represented did not appear to concern Jamie in the slightest.

"So did you tell them?" he said, looking excitedly from me to my dad, his gorgeous green eyes sparkling.

I smiled back and shook my head. "Not yet."

Simone gasped dramatically. "What? Tell us what?"

Jamie's grin beamed off his face as he grabbed my hand and squeezed it. "I think you should do the honors, Jen."

I could feel the words in my mouth, but I just couldn't force them out. What if Jamie
was
like my father? What if I was just the younger, newer, hotter model that replaced his ex-wife? Just as Simone had been the new model that replaced my mom. And if that was the case, how long would
I get
to park in the garage before he traded me in as well?

Jamie laughed at my silence and patted my hand. "Jen's still a bit overwhelmed by it all."

I looked into the anxiously awaiting eyes of my dad and his
third
wife, and I dug deep down inside of me and finally found the strength to say, "We're engaged."

In my mind, the sentence had ended with an exclamation point. But when I heard myself speak it aloud, somehow a simple period found its way to the end instead. At a moment like this, I wanted so desperately to be one of those exclamation-point girls. You know, the ones who throw them into practically every sentence because everything in life is just that exciting. "Here's that file you asked for!" or "Maybe we can carpool!" and, of course, "We're engaged!!!!"

But apparently, right now, just getting the words out was difficult enough. Conjuring up exclamatory punctuation was a near impossible task.

The screams came. Well, really it was just one. And it was coming from the brand-new BMW 7 Series sitting across from me.

My dad's reaction was a little more subdued. Still, I had never seen him look happier. He stood up and came around to my side of the table and kissed me on the top of the head. "Oh, Jenny. I am so happy for you."

"Where's the ring? Where's the ring?" Simone chorused.

"Oh, right," I said, still somewhat dazed as I reached into my bag and pulled out the diamond.

Simone frowned. "Why was it in your purse?"

And as I snuck a sideways glance at Jamie, I couldn't help but notice the dissatisfaction on his face as well. I opened my mouth to plead my case, but my dad beat me to the punch. "Because she wanted to surprise us," he explained.

"Exactly," I confirmed, stealing another glance in Jamie's direction to see if that heartbreakingly judgmental look had vanished from his face. But as far as I could tell, it was still there. Maybe it was just me. I had seemed to be viewing the world through judgment-colored glasses recently.

"If I showed up at the table wearing it, you would notice it right away." I was looking at Simone when I said it, but the statement was directed entirely at Jamie.

I slid the ring onto my finger and held out my hand for my dad and Simone to see. She grasped it and practically pulled me across the table in an effort to get a better look.

My dad then stepped over to Jamie and opened his arms to him. "Welcome to the family," he said in a deep, mobster voice.

Jamie laughed and stood up to hug him. "Thanks, Jack."

My dad patted him firmly on the back in that classic "man hug." "I guess you're one of us now."

I laughed politely along with everyone else at the table and then drew in a long, deep gulp of my wine, praying that my dad was anything but right.

After dinner Jamie and I drove home separately. My mind was in a haze.

I didn't know if I was being paranoid or incredibly perceptive. My dad was clearly stuck in some kind of pattern. He married his first wife when he was only twenty, then left her at age thirty to marry my mother, who was only twenty-one. And the moment she, too, began to feel less than novel, he started cheating on her with my twenty-year-old babysitter. And now, at age fifty-nine, three and a half years after my mom finally divorced him, he was married to a woman who could easily have been one of my classmates.

It was as if my dad suffered from some kind of relationship ADD. Never being able to stay satisfied with one woman for more than a few years.

I thought back to pictures I'd seen of my mother when she and my dad first got married. She was so beautiful and radiant and . . . young. I guess my mom might now be a used 1978 Toyota Corolla, but at one point,
she
was the shiny new model.

She
was the cliché.

So what did that make me?

I turned up the volume on my meditation CD and tried to calm myself with the enchanting melody. But for some reason, now it was feeling more haunting than anything else.

I couldn't help but think that maybe the Electra complex was inevitable. That we really had no control over who we fell in love with. And that somehow, despite my years of bitterness and resentment toward my father, I had still managed to fall in love with a carbon copy of him. Without even realizing that I was doing it.

I was planning to broach the subject with Jamie when I got home, but the minute I walked in the door and saw him already sitting on the couch, his jacket and tie already discarded, I was struck with an overwhelming sense of foolishness. Clearly I was just being paranoid. This was
Jamie,
for God's sake. Not some random guy I had just met in a bar. He was the sweetest, kindest, most genuine man I had ever known. He didn't suffer from relationship ADD. And I felt stupid for allowing my unfounded anxieties to convince me otherwise. Especially when he hadn't done anything to give me reason to doubt him. And weren't actions supposed to speak louder than paranoid thoughts?

All of this
third
wife stuff had taken my mind for a delusional joy-ride. It had awoken suspicions inside of me that I never knew existed.

So what if Simone was a brand-new BMW 7 Series that my father would probably trade in for a newer model in a few years? In Jamie's eyes, I was a classic. One of those 1955 Chevys you see at old car conventions that everyone stands around and gawks at, praising the owner for keeping it up so well. Those cars never get traded in for newer models because they just keep getting more valuable with time.

Yes, that would be me. No matter how old I got, Jamie would never dare get rid of me.

By the time we got into bed that night, I had convinced myself that all I really needed was a good night's sleep to clear my head. Things always looked different in the morning. New, more grounded perspectives always seemed to magically materialize somewhere in the middle of the REM cycle.

And I was confident that when I woke up the next day, all of my senseless fears would be gone. And Jamie would go back to being the man I had agreed to marry. Someone who was
nothing
like my father.

But it didn't exactly happen that way.

I woke up in the middle of the night in a full-on panic attack. My chest and the back of my neck were damp with sweat. My lungs felt as if they were banging violently against my ribs with each breath, fighting to break free from the cell that had kept them prisoner since birth.

I looked over at Jamie. He was sleeping soundly, his own torso rising and falling in smooth, even pulsations. Almost as if they were mocking me.

I winced against the pain and brought my hand to my chest. Jamie stirred next to me, and I quickly decided to move into the living room. The last thing I wanted to do was wake him up and explain why I felt as if my lungs were trying to escape from my body. Especially when I couldn't explain it to myself.

I gently pushed the covers off me and stood up. The bamboo-wood floors creaked under my feet, and I cursed the day I'd decided that wooden floors were more elegant and sophisticated than carpet. Elegant, maybe. Functional when trying to sneak out of a room without waking a sleeping fiancé? Not so much.

Jamie stirred again, and I decided to make a run for it.

I dashed out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind me, and then scampered down the hallway—weaving my way in and out of the growing pile of boxes of Jamie's stuff—until I was in the safe confines of my kitchen. I dumped some tap water into a mug and popped it in the microwave.

I tossed a chamomile teabag into the mug, walked into the living room, and collapsed onto the couch. As I held the hot tea close to me and felt the steam rise up and warm my face, I prayed that the heat and condensation would seep into my skin and calm my pounding heart.

But it didn't seem to be working. My breathing was still shallow and quick, and my neck still felt clammy with cold sweat.

What the hell is the matter with me?

But I couldn't answer that question. Or maybe I just didn't want to answer it. Life was so much easier when you didn't answer questions like that. When you just ignored them and pretended they didn't even exist—phantom words swirling around in your head that just
happened
to come together to form a complete sentence.

I sipped my tea and closed my eyes, trying to take deep breaths.

Eventually, I turned on the TV. Some unfamiliar TV movie was playing, and I muted the volume.

As I continued to stare at the silent images dancing around my screen, my breathing slowly began to steady itself. I set my mug on the coffee table and closed my eyes. Feeling the stability of my breath finally start to overcome me.

The next thing I knew, Jamie was shaking me awake.

I opened my eyes to a bright, sun-filled living room. "What time is it?" I asked, blinking against the light coming in from the windows.

"Quarter after eight."

I pushed myself up and heard my neck crack. "Oh."

Jamie eyed the horizontal body-shaped indent on the couch. "What happened?"

I yawned and stretched my arms. "I couldn't sleep, so I made myself some tea and decided to watch TV. I guess I fell asleep."

He nodded, appearing to believe that was the whole story. I really didn't see any point in telling him about the whole exploding chest sensation. I was just grateful that at least now my lungs seemed to be perfectly content with staying inside my chest.

"Is everything okay?" Jamie asked.

I pulled myself off the couch and headed down the hallway to the bedroom. "Oh, yeah," I said, hoping it sounded convincing. "I think I just need to take a long, hot shower."

"Well, then I should probably say good-bye now. I might not be here when you get out. I have an early client meeting."

I spun on the balls of my feet and returned to the living room. "Okay, then," I said, kissing Jamie on the lips. "Bye."

We didn't see each other much for the next few days. Being at Sophie's beck and call kept me out of the house for most of the week. And I never thought I'd be so grateful to be Sophie's maid-of-honor gofer. Because honestly, I needed some time away from Jamie and that whole mess I had created to clear my head and try to think rationally. Things had been weird between us, to say the least, and my mind had become such a kaleidoscope of perspectives lately, I didn't know which one to focus on.

But Sophie's last minute wedding details kept my thoughts otherwise occupied.

Thankfully, the groom's sister had come to her senses and dyed her hair back to its original mousy brown color (or a shade Sophie deemed to be "close enough"), and the caterer, despite his persistent threats, was still on the job, but Sophie had managed to come up with a whole bunch of new pressing issues for us to deal with during those last few days leading up to Saturday.

But by the time Friday night arrived and the rehearsal dinner had come to a close, everything seemed to slow down, and for the first time in my life, I saw Sophie relax. Zoë, John, and I were all bunked up in her bridal suite for a little slumber party to celebrate her last night of singlehood.

"She looks calm," I remarked about my friend as if she weren't sitting right next to me on the king-size bed. Her back was leaned up against the headboard, her knees tucked up under her chin. "Too calm."

John nodded from a nearby armchair. "Yeah, what did you slip her? Valium? Zoloft? Got any more?"

Sophie rolled her eyes and laughed at us. "No one slipped me anything. I just feel calm." She shrugged and hugged her knees tighter to her chest. "I am capable of being calm, you know?"

"Since when?" John mocked.

Sophie pulled a spare pillow off the bed and smacked him with it.

Zoë let out a strange gurgling sound just then, and I turned toward the couch she was sitting on and noticed a cell phone tucked between her hands. She was staring at the screen with a smitten look on her face.

"Zoë?" I said accusingly. "What are you doing?"

Her head popped up, and she looked at the three of us with a guilty expression. "Nothing," she said, trying discreetly to slide the phone to the side and push it between the couch cushions.

But I wasn't fooled. I recognized the symptoms right away. "Are you flirt-texting someone?" I asked playfully.

Zoë glared at me with irritation. "No," she growled. "I was just checking an e-mail. From work."

"You were not!" Sophie screeched, joining the game. "You're so right, Jen. Look at her face. She was totally flirt-texting."

"I don't even know what that is."

Sophie and I exchanged a look of mutual skepticism, and after a subtle, knowing nod, we sprang into action. Sophie leaped toward the couch and landed directly on Zoë's lap, her body sprawled out horizontally across the couch to hold Zoë's arms down while I went for the phone buried between the couch cushions. Zoë fought against Sophie's stronghold, and John quickly joined forces to keep our prisoner contained. She struggled fruitlessly against both of them. "Stop! What the fuck are you doing?" Then she saw me with the phone. "Jen! Don't. Please. Give it back."

Maybe it was the three bottles of champagne we drank, or maybe it was my unyielding desire to be a part of someone else's drama for a change, but I was a girl on a mission. And I was deaf to Zoë's protests as I scrolled through her list of recent text messages. Fifteen in total in the last hour. All from the same number.

"Ooh," I said dramatically. "Someone has been busy." I opened up a random text in the middle of the list and read it aloud to the group. "Can't wait to slip you out of that pouffy pink bridesmaid's dress."

John and I simultaneously let out a whooping sound while Sophie expressed her offense. "My dresses are
not
pink! And they're not pouffy! I made a specific effort to pick out
non
-pouffy dresses."

Zoë finally broke free and snatched the phone away from me. "Give that to me!"

"Who was that from?" John demanded.

She tried to play the whole thing off with one of her aggravated eye rolls. "No one."

"Is this the same no one who was too good to come to my wedding?" Sophie asked.

"He couldn't come. He had a business trip."

"Yeah, right," she argued, clearly still upset about the dress comment. "That is such a lie. You never even asked him."

I plopped down on the bed and propped myself up on my elbows. "What's the big deal, anyway, Zo? Why won't you at least talk about him?"

Zoë let her long blond hair down from its claw clip and shook out the kinks. "I'm just not ready to talk about him yet," she replied matter-of-factly.

Sophie pulled her legs up onto the sofa and curled up next to John. "At least tell us his name."

But Zoë shook her head adamantly. "Not a chance."

Sophie turned to me. "What was the name on the text message?"

I stifled a laugh as I looked over at Zoë, who shot me the most menacing "Don't you dare" look I've ever seen. I promptly ignored it. "It didn't have a name. It just said 'Footlong.'"

John and Sophie both burst into laughter.
"What?"
John screeched. "Are you joking?"

I shook my head. "Nope. That's what it said."

"I can't believe you, Jen!" Zoë cried scornfully. "Is nothing sacred to you?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "No, Zoë, I'm sorry, I don't find the sacredness in 'Footlong.'"

"Now, is that nickname in reference to the kind of sandwiches he orders at Subway," John asked, feigning innocence, "or the size of his . . . package?"

"Maybe he's just a big fan of fruit by the foot," I suggested helpfully.

John nodded, humoring me. "Yes, Jen. I think you're right. Although if that is the case, then I believe the more appropriate nickname for him would be Dick by the Foot."

And we all broke out into another fit of giggles. Well, all of us except Zoë, who had fallen onto her back and pulled the pillow over her head. "There!" came her muffled voice. "You have your stupid details. His penis is really huge." She pulled the pillow off her face and glared at me. "Now drop it."

And we did . . . after another two hours of footlong jokes, of course.

The ceremony was to be held in an old Catholic church in Redondo Beach. Neither Eric nor Sophie was particularly religious, but according to Eric's devout Catholic mother, getting married in a church, by a priest, was the only thing that was non-negotiable.

Zoë and John left early for the ceremony so that they could stop at a drugstore and pick up some emergency hairspray to keep on hand for the reception. So it was just Sophie and me in the limousine during the quick ten-minute drive to the church. Her unusual calmness from the night before seemed to have vanished sometime in the middle of the night, because now she was having a hard time sitting still, despite the comfortable, plush leather seats in the back of the stretch Lincoln.

"Relax," I told her patiently as I rested my hand on her knee. "Everything's going to be perfect."

She struggled to take a deep breath and stared out the window as we drove. It was at that moment that I first really noticed her. I mean, yes, I saw her in the hotel room when she was getting her hair and makeup done and when she slipped into her dress and I buttoned it up for her and as we were walking through the hotel lobby and everyone stared. But I don't think I really
saw
her until now.

Her brown hair was swept back dramatically into a complicated twist that was fastened with a diamond-studded clip at the top. Her makeup was subtle yet feminine, with pale pink eye shadows that brightened her eyes and matching pink lip gloss. Her strapless corset-style dress fell in layers around her small frame and flowed luxuriously along the floor of the limo like a foaming sea of white, flooding the inside of the car.

She looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her.

Yet while I was looking at her, there was a sudden pang inside my chest. Something was wrong. Really wrong. I mentally scrolled through my maid of honor checklist and was successfully able to tick off every item.

So what was it, then? Why was my heart beating so fast? And why could I not escape this sense of utter dread that was pulsing through my veins?

"What's wrong?" Sophie asked, noticing the uneasy expression on my face.

I shook myself from my trance and forced a smile. "Nothing! Nothing at all. I just can't believe you're actually getting married!"

She smiled and exhaled dramatically, placing her hand on her stomach, which I'm sure was doing multiple flips. "I know. It's crazy. But you know what's even crazier?"

I smiled back at her endearingly. "That you didn't give yourself a stroke?"

She nodded and let out a small laugh. "Well, that, too. But even more so . . ." She paused and looked me up and down, almost as if she were seeing me for the first time, too. "You're next."

The old stone church was beautifully decorated with lilacs and calla lilies, tied up in long white satin sashes. As I made my way down the aisle, I noticed Jamie right away. He was beaming from the aisle of the third row, snapping pictures of me like a crazed member of the paparazzi. I flashed him a hasty smile and then turned my head toward the front of the church and clung tight to the elbow of Eric's younger brother. I tried to focus all my attention on walking straight and not tripping on my gown. The last thing I needed right now was to end up on YouTube under the title "Bridesmaid Disaster." Sophie would never forgive me if I face planted in the middle of the aisle.

Eric's brother escorted me to the right of the altar and then took his place on the left. The organ began playing the "Wedding March," and everyone rose. I watched as Sophie made her way toward me, looking radiant and glowing. I had honestly never seen her look happier. And that was exactly how it should be. Your wedding day
should
be the happiest day of your life.

I suppose all that stress of finding the right location, selecting the right linens, choosing the right wedding dress, and picking out the right theme is eventually worth it. So maybe I needed to stop putting it off and just do it. Just call Willa Cruz and set a date. Pick up a pen and fill out that damn questionnaire. What the hell was I waiting for?