There's Cake in My Future (12 page)

I am exhausted. I’ve had a hard day. Maybe not the way I used to have a hard day when I was a reporter, but a hard day nonetheless. I deserve a little treat. I return to the freezer and take out the bon bons.

The box has already been opened.

Dammit! I just bought them yesterday.

I pull the plastic container that houses my goodies out of the box, my gut telling me that though there should be twelve inside, I’ll be lucky if I find six.

One.

I sigh. Why would anyone leave only one piece and stick it back in the freezer to get my hopes up?

I pop it into my mouth. I think about going out to the living room to loudly and derisively ask who ate most of my ice cream, but then that strikes me as a bad message for the girls about sharing. I should be able to share my ice cream without the hissy fit currently playing in my head. I’m being petty. Next time I will know to buy two boxes of bon bons. Or seven boxes.

Yes—seven would be better.

I toss the empty box into the trash, and head upstairs.

I just need five minutes of quiet. I pass Jason and the girls playing “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” in the living room, then quickly and stealthily walk upstairs to our bedroom, shut the door, and collapse in a heap on our bed.

Man, what an exhausting day. I had no idea motherhood was this tiring back when I thought it was temporary. When I look at all of the other families around me, the kids always seem so well groomed and cheerful. And no one ever seems tired or overwhelmed. But, I mean, there have to be some mothers out there who are just faking it, who are just as clueless about this whole parenthood thing as me, right? Even the ones who have had the kids since birth must feel overworked and underappreciated occasionally, right?

Right????

Clearly, I’m lazy. Everyone else manages to raise their kids without the use of Diet Monster drinks and venti lattes. What’s wrong with me?

Shit. I can hear Jason coming up the stairs.
No, no, no
. I have known that man for over a year, and yet I still cannot get across to him that when I head upstairs and CLOSE the door, it means I need a break. I need silence. I need to hear myself think.

I shut my eyes tight and pretend I’m asleep.

Jason walks in and immediately begins droning on about his team. “If Rabinovitz starts drawing fouls toward the end of the games, that might help us. He can be like a buzzing little flea, annoying the other player on defense so much that they foul him. But his free throws have got to get better. I swear, I got the kid just shooting free throws two hours a day now, and he’s just not improving enough, you know?”

What? Were we having this conversation earlier, without my knowledge? Is he asking my opinion about something?

I say nothing, keep my eyes closed, and hope he’ll pick up on the most obvious of clues. I mean, isn’t it blatantly apparent that if someone leaves the room you’re in, shuts the door of another room, and closes their eyes, they might want some privacy?

Jason looks down at me. “Move,” he says in a playful voice.

I open my eyes and look over at him. “Why?”

“That’s my spot,” he says cheerfully.

“It’s your spot when we’re sleeping. It’s my spot now.”

Jason gently pushes me while saying in his cutest voice, “Come on. Move. I want to spoon.”

I sigh, but move over. I love that he loves to spoon with me so much. Just not right now. Right now, I want a few minutes to myself.

Jason climbs in behind me. His knees touch the backs of my knees, and his right arm donuts around my stomach. This would be nice if the sports monologue didn’t continue. “Now Johnson is a great free-thrower, but we prefer that he be resting toward the end of the game. Plus that he was in foul trouble way too much toward the end of post season.…”

Now I hear the pitter pounding of five-year-old feet on the steps. Malika has realized her daddy has left the room and has come to find him. She bursts through the door. (Five-year-olds never knock. It’s in the handbook.) “What are you doing, Daddy?”

“I’m cuddling with Nic,” Jason tells her.

“I’m famous for my cuddling!” Malika yells gleefully, running to the bed, hurling herself up into the air, and landing with a thud on my stomach. She interrupts Jason’s insanely boring monologue to begin one of her own. “Wanna know what happened on
iCarly
?”

I want to say, “No. I do not have the slightest bit of interest in
iCarly
. I love you, but please be quiet.” Of course, the question is rhetorical, because Malika continues before I can answer. “Sam and Freddie kiss. But they don’t want Carly to know, so they…”

“What’s everyone doing in here?” Megan asks in her
I’m so over you
voice.

“We’re cuddling,” Malika tells her happily, then gives me a big hug.

“I thought we were playing Rock Band,” Megan complains.

“Come on girl. Since when don’t you like family bonding time?” her father asks.

Megan sighs heavily with tween disapproval but climbs into bed with the pack anyway. She then climbs over me to get the remote on the nightstand, and flips on the TV.

Oh good—
High School Musical 17.
I was afraid I’d missed that one.

If everyone wasn’t so happy with this family moment, I would hide in the bathroom. Except that I found out just last week that the bathroom doesn’t lend itself to privacy any better than my bedroom. It leads to Malika walking in and happily chatting with me while I am in the shower.

As the girls move to the foot of the bed to watch TV, I watch Jason turn to me and smile. I smile back.

Jason gives me a gentle kiss on my cheek, then leans over and whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait to marry you.”

I smile. I love him so much.

Maybe even enough to have his baby.

So I can go hide in her crib.

Thirteen

Melissa

The sex was perfect. Everything a girl would expect it to be on the night she gets engaged: romantic, sexy, fun.

And the romance beforehand was perfect. Fred was absolutely amazing, from the start of the evening until its delicious conclusion. I hung up with Nic just as he was pulling into the driveway. Not only did he bring home Cristal champagne, but while he was at Gelson’s he also picked up my favorite Vosges dark chocolate candy bar (the one with bacon—don’t judge) and a stack of bridal magazines:
Bridal Guide, Brides, Martha Stewart Weddings
! We fooled around the first time, then sipped our champagne in bed, naked, as we leafed through the magazines and shared our opinions on dresses, cake designs, and china patterns.

For the first time in our relationship, I was able to tell him all of the things I had dreamed about for our wedding: the colors, the style, the kind of china I wanted to register for. And no matter what I told him, he seemed charmed by my choices and amenable to all of them.

And when we made love again, it was with the same kind of passion that we had had for each other when we first started dating. None of the old resentments that had crept into the bedroom recently (the ones about marriage and babies and future) were there anymore. I’m not sure I even realized how heavy those resentments had weighed on me and my libido until they were gone. I felt free and uninhibited with Fred again. The way I had felt when we first started dating. Free and truly happy.

So when we fell asleep in each other’s arms, postcoital, I should have been blissful.

But instead, that knot in my stomach came back full force.

Something’s wrong.

I look at the clock: 2:34. Fred has been sound asleep for over an hour. I’ve been lying in our bed, naked, and staring at the ceiling.

Maybe I’m just determined to be unhappy. For the first time in my life I have everything I want: I should not be feeling like this. I am allowed to be ecstatic. Maybe I’m just one of those superstitious people who fears that if she has everything and is happy about it, it will all be taken away from her suddenly.

I look at my ring: glittery, polished, and new. I move my hand from side to side, watching it sparkle in the moonlight coming through the window. It’s a beautiful ring: a one-and-a-half-carat center stone, set in platinum, and surrounded by a pavé of shimmering smaller diamonds. It is absolutely stunning.

Nope. Something is not quite right. I can feel it in my gut. I can’t put my finger on it yet, but it’s … something.

I look over at Fred, out cold, and snoring ever so slightly.

His phone. That’s it! His phone hasn’t rung all evening. This is a man who gets at least twenty calls and texts from work every night. Why didn’t his phone ring or buzz?

I silently sit up in bed, watching Fred to make sure that I don’t wake him. Then I drop my feet to the floor and tiptoe over to his suit jacket. I notice I’m wincing as I pull his phone out of his jacket pocket. I keep an eye on Fred, still sleeping, as I check his phone.

It’s set to vibrate.

Okay, so this is our engagement night. A normal woman would think getting rid of all work distractions was just one of many romantic gestures her man would make to guarantee a perfect evening.

I wish I was normal. I wish I could totally forgive him for his dalliance and not be suspicious. But that’s going to take time.

Time and a few checkups.

I tiptoe out of our room, and quietly shut the door. I wait to hear a stir from him, but nothing. I check his phone:

A text from Svetlana:

Hej sötnos

I miss you. Good luck with your meetings tonight.

Jag älskar dig

I would say my heart sinks, but I’m too much in shock for that to happen. My head takes over, and I am determined to learn the truth.

I walk into our office, flip on the light, and turn on his computer. I don’t even bother being quiet anymore: if anything I am loudly pacing the room as I read through the rest of his text messages and check his phone logs. Not only is her number listed a million times, but there are other women on his call log as well. I have no idea if they’re coworkers, clients, or mistresses. But, again, time to find out.

My first step is to find a Swedish-to-English translator online, which is easy enough. I start typing in various phrases she has texted him, beginning with
Hej sötnos
and
Jag älskar dig
.

Hej sötnos
: Hi, sweetnose

Jag älskar dig
: I love you

Hjärtat
: Sweetheart

Snigging
: Handsome

Min alskling
: My darling

Pojkvän
: Boyfriend

Sot som en gris
: Sweet like a pig

Oh, he’s a pig all right. I hurl his phone full force across the room, hoping to break it into a million pieces and wake him with my rage.

I wait a few moments, wanting to hear our bedroom door open, and preparing to have Fred walk into the office so that I can pounce on him and hit him with my fists over and over again until I’m worn out.

But all I am greeted with is silence. Deafening silence.

He hasn’t budged. Which is a blessing in disguise. Because it gives me one last chance to learn the truth. No filters. No explanations. Just the facts.

I click onto his e-mail and spend the next hour reading.

He doesn’t just have Svetlana. He has a girl in Chicago he sleeps with occasionally and an ex-girlfriend from high school who may or may not be sleeping with him (no mention of a husband or kids on her part, no mention of me on his).

I decide to go on Facebook to try and collect more information about the ex and the others. At this point, in my heart I know it’s over. But I want the truth—all of it. You can’t get rid of a cancer until you know how badly it has spread.

I click on his page.

I start by looking through his old Facebook e-mails. I click on the ex-girlfriend’s first message to him:

My God—why didn’t we do that back in high school?! I’m still all tingly. When will you be in D.C. again?

Fred responded with:

I wanted to do that back in high school—you said no! Probably for the best. I’ve gotten better over the years. I’ll be in D.C. next month, and can’t wait to see you.

But I meant what I said about you coming out here. My door is open anytime. (And my bed.)

As I continue reading, yet another woman, Ashley, ropes him into chat:

Hey, Hot Lips. Boyfriend is in town this weekend, but I should definitely be able to hook up some weeknight next week. Do you actually want to try for dinner this time?

I write back:

This isn’t Fred. This is his fiancée. Or should I say, ex-fiancée. And I’m about to break up with him, so he should be available any night next week, and for the rest of his life.

I calmly click him off Facebook and turn off his computer. I call a cab and request a pickup in twenty minutes. Then I walk into our room, quietly grab my two suitcases from his closet, silently open my closet and dresser drawers, and stuff everything I can into them.

Finally, I open a lipstick and write on the mirror:

Min alskling
—I know everything

Then I say good-bye to my old life forever.

Fourteen

Seema

So, this past week has been … different.

Let’s see, where to start.

Scott has been pretty much AWOL since Tuesday: no middle-of-the-night phone calls, a few noncommittal texts. Which can only lead me to assume he’s having hot monkey sex five times a day with mystery girl Britney, who I hate with the fire of a thousand suns.

Mel has spent the week waffling between being heartsick over Fred and wanting to rip out his lungs with nothing but her bare hands and a pair of nail clippers.

Nic has been getting more and more agitated about the details of her wedding, to the point where the calm bride that I knew up until the shower has now been replaced by a Bridezilla who suddenly gets worked up over every little detail of her wedding—from the Clos Du Val red wine being cabernet and not merlot to the confetti being thrown after the ceremony being exactly the right shade of aqua and shaped like squares—not little boy babies. (Although I see her point on that one, what with the cake charm she pulled and all.)