The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (7 page)

"Yes," I agreed. "And if I remember correctly, that was a very painful night for you. I think I whupped your ass by about thirteen strokes. I would think this was the last place you'd want to return to."

Jamie bowed his head in shame. "Not one of my finer moments, I admit. But that's not what I remember most about this place."

He smiled tenderly at me, and I could feel my face blush. It still amazed me that he was able to do that. Make me blush with only a look. Even after a whole
year
of blushing. You would think that my body would have run out of whatever chemical it required to turn my cheeks red a long time ago, but it hadn't. I just kept on blushing.

"But this time," he began as he got out of the car and popped the trunk using the keyless remote, "I came prepared."

I peered inside and saw that he had brought both of our golf clubs
and
shoes. I let out a boisterous laugh. I hadn't used those shoes since he'd bought them for me the last time we were here. After it was discovered that golfing in espadrilles with wedge heels wasn't all it's cracked up to be. "Good thinking," I said to him. "How long did you have to rummage through my closet to find those?"

He shrugged. "Only about an hour."

Everything was exactly as I remembered it. I felt as though I had stepped back in time. Rewound an entire year and was now reliving the night all over again. We still managed to share a laugh at Jamie's sub-par golf skills, the conversation still flowed naturally without skipping a beat, and I could still feel small traces of that same exhilaration I had felt when I was here with him for the first time. The kind of exhilaration that comes with something new and unknown. Except now I was able to be myself. There were no more secrets between us. No fake jobs, no fake names, no fake alibis.

It was just me and him. And that's what made tonight an even better version than the one I remembered.

After the fourth hole of the nine-hole course, Jamie parked the golf cart in front of the snack stand and I just had to shake my head and laugh at him. I was really enjoying this whole rerun episode from our life. "Let me guess," I said. "Hot dogs and Coke?"

He smiled and held out his hand to help me out of the cart. "Men-reading skills back?"

"Lucky guess."

Jamie walked up to the snack stand to order the food, and I took a seat on the same wooden bench we had occupied on the night of our first date. It was the strangest sense of déjà vu I'd ever had. As I waited for him to bring over the food, I tried hard to remember what it was like to be here with him a year ago, when all I could think about was making sure he never found out the truth.

I was grateful when I realized that I couldn't really remember what that felt like. I couldn't put myself back into the mind of the girl I used to be. The one who trusted no one and wanted nothing to do with love. Because in her experience, it always ended with pain. I knew now how far I had come from being that girl.

And that made me smile.

Jamie came over with the hot dogs and Cokes and sat next to me. "Ketchup only," he recited as he handed me the paper tray.

"Well, that's one thing that's different," I remarked.

He tilted his head to the side. "What do you mean?"

I pulled off my leather golf glove and took a bite out of my hot dog. "I mean," I began, chewing and swallowing, "last time we were here, you didn't know what I put on my hot dog, and now you do. But other than that, it's exactly the same night. Nothing is different."

Jamie shook his head. "What are you talking about? Everything is different!"

"Yeah, I mean, obviously
we're
different," I conceded as I popped the top of my Coke. "We see each other every day. We practically live together. But I mean
this
. . ." I motioned to our surroundings. "This night is
exactly
the same. Don't get me wrong, it's wonderful. I
love
how everything's the same. It even
feels
the same. Which is crazy!"

I took another bite of my hot dog and looked over at him. It was then that I realized he hadn't even touched his yet. He was just sitting there, staring at me with this far-off pensive look on his face as his "dinner" lay uneaten on the bench next to him.

"What?" I asked, instinctively reaching up and wiping away any stray crumbs or ketchup blobs from the corners of my mouth.

He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. It felt like forever before he spoke again. And I wondered what was preoccupying his thoughts. I hoped it wasn't the same thing we had talked about in my bedroom earlier.

"I know something that might make tonight different," he finally said.

I took another bite of my hot dog. "What's that?" I mumbled through a mouthful of bread and kosher beef. "If they had switched to Pepsi?"

And then I saw Jamie push himself toward the edge of the bench and over the side until he was kneeling on the cold, hard cement of the cart path. I watched in slow motion as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small navy blue velvet box. When he flipped open the lid and revealed a flash of sparkling diamonds, everything around me suddenly went fuzzy, and I felt my hand reach out to steady myself on the splintered wood.

"This," he said.

The piece of hot dog in my mouth wasn't chewed nearly enough, but I forced myself to swallow it anyway, wincing as it pushed its way down my throat.

Of course, I've thought about getting married before. Plenty of times. Maybe not as much as some girls my age do, but enough. You can't spend an entire year with someone and not have the thought at least
cross
your mind. Even if it's just a fleeting notion—there one second and gone the next—just passing through on its way to a more welcoming, make-yourself-at-home kind of place.

And that's how it always was for me. The thought would enter, I would acknowledge it, and just as quickly as it had come, I would excuse it as an idea that was still light-years away from turning into a reality. A futuristic concept, even. Like flying cars or a pill that stops the aging process. Never something that I would fully entertain at this moment in my life.

But now there it was, standing—no,
kneeling
—right in front of me, forcing me to entertain it.

I had no doubt that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Jamie. I couldn't imagine spending it with anyone else. But did people really get married after knowing each other only one year?

My mind fluttered to Sophie. She and Eric had gotten engaged after only eight months. But that was Sophie. Sophie lived for that kind of stuff. I think she's seen
Father of the Bride
like fifty-two times. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she was watching it this instant. And taking diligent notes.

"I know you've seen a lot of marriages fall apart," Jamie began. "Including your own parents'. I know that what you do doesn't exactly lend itself to optimism when it comes to relationships. And I know that it's hard for you to believe in happily-ever-after endings. But I also know that I love you like I've never loved anyone before. And if you'll let me, I want to be the one to show you what a loving, trusting,
faithful
relationship is supposed to be like."

I could feel tears start to well in my eyes. I don't know where they were coming from. They were just coming. And I made no effort to stop them. Because I figured it was a normal reaction to a situation like this. And I've struggled so hard over the past year to be just that . . .
normal.

"So what do you say?" Jamie asked, holding out the velvet box in front of me, the beautiful princess-cut diamond reflecting perfectly off the glare of the golf course dome lights. "Will you marry me, Jennifer H.?"

I laughed aloud at the nickname. He used to call me that when we first started dating. Because when we met on that fateful flight back from Las Vegas, I refused to tell him my last name. I gave him only the first letter.

Contemplation is never something you're supposed to do at a time like this. It's one of the most important decisions of your life, yet it's probably the only one that you're actually
expected
to make without thinking. Basing the rest of your life solely on your gut reaction. Because when a man is down on one knee, holding out a piece of jewelry that probably cost more than your first car, confessing his undying love for you, the last thing you want to do is make him wait while you mull it over.

So I closed my eyes and trusted my instinct. I refused to think. My heart was beating faster than I ever thought it could go without the threat of breaking down. But I knew that it was a sign. Something to keep me moving forward. To keep me from living in the past. So I said the first word that came out of my mouth, and as I did, I made a silent vow to myself never to second-guess it.

"Yes!" I shouted, throwing my arms around his neck and pulling him back up to his feet.

Jamie was beaming. I had never seen a smile on him quite like that before. It filled me with something soft and warm and comforting. As though someone had injected a huge mug of warm hot chocolate directly into my bloodstream.

As I watched him slide the large diamond around my finger, I found it hard to believe that I was actually shaking. In fact, I had a hard time keeping my hand steady enough for him to get the ring on. It's funny, I never imagined this being something that would make me nervous, after everything that I've done and seen. After every ring I'd seen
removed.
But then again, I'd never really imagined
this
to begin with.

Jamie laughed at my unsteady hands as he finally got the platinum band all the way up my finger. "You seem almost more nervous than me."

"You didn't seem nervous at all!" But then I stopped and remembered his little outburst earlier in the evening when I was trying to figure out what to wear. "Wait a minute," I said with a sudden realization. "Is this why you were prosecuting me about the nanny assignment?"

Jamie surrendered with a sheepish shrug. "I guess I just needed to make sure that you would still choose me over your former job."

"Well," I said, staring down at my left hand, "I hope you have your answer."

Jamie stood up and held both of my hands in his, staring deeply into my eyes. "I do."

He leaned in and kissed me then. I half expected to see fireworks light up the sky out of the corner of my eye. It seemed like such an appropriate accessory for this moment. But I suppose firework kisses only happen at the end of cheesy romantic movies.

I didn't exactly miss them, though. The fireworks, that is. Because it already felt like the Fourth of July was happening inside my stomach.

The minute Jamie and I got home from the golf course, we were ripping each other's clothes off like teenagers after the prom. We stumbled through the living room, desperately devouring each other's mouths as I pulled off his shirt and he unzipped my pants. My mind was still buzzing from the proposal. I had just agreed to marry someone. Me! Jennifer Hunter. The longtime inspector of fidelity had agreed to walk down the aisle, say, "I do," pledge forever in front of everyone I know. And then what? Babies? Preschool selection, high school graduation, a golf course-adjacent condo in a gated community in Florida?

I felt the dizziness start to take over. I told myself to slow down. One step at a time. No one was asking me to move to Florida. It was just a proposal. Nothing between us had changed.

We fell onto the bed, and Jamie's hands went for the back of my bra. He was kissing me everywhere, and I tried to wash away all of my doubts and anxiety and just live in the moment. Enjoy the feeling of his body on top of mine. I reminded myself that this was what it was all about. Just me and him. Nothing else mattered.

As soon as he was inside of me, the rest of the world just kind of faded away. Like magic. And all I could feel was him. Every part of him. The way he moved, the way he smelled, the way his hair felt between my fingertips. If this was what I was agreeing to for all of eternity, then dress me up in white and hand me a bouquet.

"I think we should go somewhere to celebrate," Jamie said as we lay in bed afterward, his arm draped under my neck, his hand gently rubbing the top of my shoulder.

I snuggled up next to him, the post-engagement sex bliss washing over my entire body. "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know. Cabo, Catalina, Hawaii."

"Mmm," I cooed in his ear. "I like the sound of that. Just you and me alone on an island somewhere."

"How about I book something for next weekend?"

I sighed euphorically. "Sounds perfect."

"So who are you going to tell first?"

"About our vacation?"

Jamie laughed. "No, silly. About the engagement."

"Oh, right." I nestled closer to the side of his body. "I don't know," I replied dreamily. "I guess my mom and my half-sister and my niece and then my friends."

He reached up and began stroking my hair. My eyes slowly started to close, and I could feel the warmth of his body overtaking mine. And just as my eyelashes hit my lower lids, he asked, "What about your dad?"

My eyes flew open again. I hadn't thought about him. Of course I would have to tell him. But suddenly, the thought of it made me want to change my name and move to another country.

I swallowed hard. "What about my dad?"

"Well," Jamie said with a certain air of precaution, as if he were handling this moment with the same care that you'd handle a test tube with biohazard cultures growing inside, "I was just thinking that this may be a good opportunity for me to meet your dad. And for
you
to meet your dad's new wife."

And then the nausea came. It felt as though my stomach had just taken three dizzying upside-down loops on an F-14 fighter plane while I was still here on the ground lying in bed, trying to enjoy what was once a very beautiful moment.

I had just rekindled my relationship with my father a year ago. And that relationship generally consisted of lunches, dinners, and an occasional Sunday matinee movie. We hadn't really reached the point of true father/daughter intimacy. He knew
of
Jamie, and I knew
of
his new wife, but we hardly talked about them, let alone had a face-to-face meeting. I couldn't imagine myself calling up my dad to gush about anything having to do with my love life. Not since the very reason we didn't speak in the first place was directly related to
his
love life. The thought of running to him to brag about my faithful, trusting, honest relationship seemed almost humorous to me.

My dad had gotten remarried about nine months ago to his
third
wife. And despite his persistent efforts to get me to come to the wedding, I had politely declined the invitations. The thought of watching my dad stand up on an altar and swear to be faithful to a new woman after the dreadful way he'd betrayed my mother just felt wrong to me. You're supposed to go to weddings to wish people well, support their commitment to each other, give them a big high five for finally settling down. That image didn't exactly compute when you inserted my father into the equation.

But regardless, my dad and I had actually managed to build something of a rapport these past twelve months. We avoided certain topics and relied heavily on others. It was as if there were an unspoken rule between us. Don't talk about relationships. Don't talk about cheating. And definitely don't talk about the past. Then, of course, there was the added unspoken rule that only I knew about: Don't talk about what you really do for a living. We stuck mostly to generic subjects like weather, news, sports teams, and politics. And that was the reason I had yet to meet his new wife and he had yet to meet Jamie. It's not that he hadn't suggested it . . . numerous times. As had Jamie. I just didn't feel we had graduated to that level yet.

Jamie had always been so supportive of my desire to take it slow when it came to my relationship with my father. But I had a hunch that my days of avoidance were going to come to an end very quickly.

"Yes," I said after another bitter swallow. "I guess you're right. This would be the perfect opportunity for everyone to meet."

The next morning before work, I called my mom, my half-sister, Julia, and my niece, Hannah, and told them the exciting news of the engagement. They all reacted pretty much the way I had expected. With my mom, there was a lot of shrieks and crying and even a few Godly praises, as if I had just told her that I had conceived immaculately.

My emotionally stunted half-sister, Julia, congratulated me politely, careful not to show too much excitement (presumably so she wouldn't hurt herself), and her daughter, my fourteen-year-old niece, Hannah, followed her breathless rounds of "Oh, my God!" with three distinct and non-negotiable requests: (1) "You have to let me help you pick out the dress." (2) "You have to let me be a bridesmaid." And (3) "You absolutely
have
to hire a professional makeup person."

When I hung up the phone, I knew that the next appropriate person to call would be my dad. Even if he hadn't been a part of my life for a good portion of my adult years, he was part of it now, and therefore I had to tell him.

And Jamie was right: This
was
a good excuse for everyone to meet. It would have to happen eventually, and the thought of waiting until the wedding day sounded even worse.

So I picked up the phone again, took a deep breath, and started punching in the number I had committed to memory, one slow, painful digit at a time. I don't think I could have done it any slower if I had been using a rotary phone.

3-1-0 . . . 5-5-5 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . 2 . . .

The last digit was a seven. I knew it was a seven. There wasn't a single doubt in my mind that it was a seven. Yet I just couldn't press it. My finger touched the corresponding key on the keypad, but I just couldn't apply any pressure.

My breathing had gotten shallow, but I hardly noticed. I was too focused on that damn number seven button. How had it suddenly become so menacing? It was just a stupid number on a stupid phone. There were nine others just like it, yet somehow this one number had taken on an entirely new meaning.

With one swift movement, I clicked off the phone and placed it back on the cradle.

This is stupid,
I told myself.
You're a twenty-nine-year-old woman. You're fully capable of picking up the fucking phone and dialing a fucking phone number.

I reached out and grabbed the phone again, holding it out in front of me and focusing intensely on the keypad, the way an aspiring mountain climber would stare longingly at Mount Everest.

"Who are you calling?" Jamie's voice filtered into the kitchen, causing me to jump. I quickly returned the phone to the cradle and spun around to face him.

"No one," I said brightly. "I just got done telling Hannah about the engagement."

This made him smile, and he came over to me and wrapped his arms around my waist. He was wearing nothing but a towel, and his fresh, wet skin smelled incredible. I inhaled deeply.

"And? How did it go?" he asked.

"She warned me about the pitfalls of home makeup application."

Jamie chuckled. "Sounds like Hannah. So you gonna call your friends next?"

I kissed him on the cheek and started for the hallway. "Nope," I replied casually. "They're coming over tonight to work on Sophie's place cards for the wedding. I figured I'd tell them all then."