There's Cake in My Future (27 page)

Nic and Mel look at me disapprovingly. “What?” I ask. “Just me then? Okay.”

My home phone rings. I check the caller ID. Scott. I pick up. “Hello?”

“Wanna go get drunk Saturday night?” he asks, sounding angry.

“Okay,” I say hesitantly. “What’s up?”

“Britney not only broke up with me, she just totally laid into me about how I was basically a douche bag for sleeping with her without a commitment. Even though she specifically told me we should just hang out and discover each other and see where things go. And even though I was actually thinking about making a commitment. Why is it that women say they want something, yet then they hold it against us when we give it to them?”

“Because, no matter what we say, if we’re dating you, the something we really want is for you to be madly in love with us,” I tell him truthfully. “Anything else just messes up our master plan. You want me to come over?”

“No. I’m working now. Which is what started this whole fucking fight in the first place.”

I signal to the girls that I’m going to go into my bedroom for some privacy.

“I mean,
you’re
not upset that I haven’t called all week, are you?” Scott asks me as I walk.

He’s not really asking me a question so much as stating emphatically, “You are not upset, and that proves me my point.” So I lie and say, “Of course not.”

“Thank you!” he belts out. “That’s because you have respect for my career. You know how much I have to do between now and a week from Saturday. Oh, and she told me I couldn’t ask you for your shovel.”

He practically spits out that sentence, so I immediately say with (albeit feigned) outrage, “Well, that’s just ridiculous. Of course you can have my shovel.”

“Really?” Scott says, his voice softening immediately. “I can borrow it?”

“Of course,” I insist. Then I have to clarify, “We are talking about the shovel from Nic’s shower, right?”

“Yes. See, I wanted to put it in this piece I just started that may or may not be done by next week. But the place that sells the sterling charms are back-ordered on shovels, and they won’t be able to send me one for at least three weeks. So Britney and I got into this STUPID argument because I told her I wanted to borrow your shovel, and she said it’s a fortune, I can’t steal your fortune, so I said … well, you know me … that fortune stuff’s all bullshit anyway, you make your own fortune. And somehow she turns that around to, I must have meant that she doesn’t work enough on her stuff, and that’s why she’s not as successful as me. Which … I’m sorry, but why the fuck do women do that?”

Before I can answer, Scott says, “Shit. She’s calling me again.”

“Of course she is,” I tell him. “She wants you to win her back.”

“Wait. You cannot be serious.”

“Dead serious. Ostensibly, she’s calling to say she’s sorry, but really she wants you to admit that she’s right by giving you a different perspective of why she blew up at you, and why, really, this is all your fault.”

I hear Scott make a clicking sigh noise, followed by, “All right. That’s it. I don’t have time for this. This ends now.”

And he’s off the phone before I can even say good-bye.

I walk back into Mel’s room to watch her madly typing away on her keyboard as Nic watches the screen over Mel’s shoulder.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Doctor guy e-mailed her back,” Nic tells me proudly. “They’re chatting right now.”

“I have a date tomorrow night!” Mel says excitedly as she finishes typing, then reads the guy’s response.

“And apparently I have a date Saturday night,” I say as my text beeps. I grab my cell phone and read from Scott:

Good God woman—you were right! On the phone with her now, she’s saying exactly what you said she’d say.

Saturday: plan for Jack and Cokes, taxi home, and spending the night.

By the way, did you know the shovel also has another meaning?

So many parts of that message to obsess about for the next three days.

Thirty-three

Melissa

That Thursday, my date begins promptly at seven o’clock at Monsieur Marcel, a lovely French restaurant at Third and Fairfax. Knowing it’s still warm in the evening in September, and that the restaurant is outdoors, I wear a modest yet form-fitting BCBGMAXAZRIA long-sleeve dress in a breathable jersey knit and some killer strappy sandals that make me look tall. My makeup is good, I have doused myself with the right amount of Chanel No. 5, and I am ready for a night of romance.

Or at least good sex.

My online conversation with Max last night was flirty and fun, and went until almost midnight. I knew from the dating sites and self-help books I’ve read that I shouldn’t be so available, but sometimes things are just effortless, and you gotta grab those rainbows when they magically appear. (Or grab a potential chili pepper, in my case.)

When I walk into the restaurant, Max is already sitting at a table, a bottle of white wine open, my glass already poured. He’s even cuter in real life than his picture. (Whew!) He stands up, smiles warmly, and takes my hand. “Mel,” he announces.

“Max,” I respond back as I shake his hand firmly, but not too firmly.

He kisses me on the cheek, which slightly startles me, then has a seat. “Since it’s such a warm night, I took the liberty of ordering a white Bordeaux I think you’ll find exquisite.”

“Thank you,” I say, taking my seat. “So what’s good here?”

“If you’re coming here for the first time, you must go with the fondue. Although I like to start with a nice salad,” Max tells me. “So, why would you say you’re single?”

I haven’t been back in the dating scene long, but my Spidey sense is telling me something is amiss. “That’s an odd conversation starter, don’t you think?” I say, taking a sip of wine. (Which I will admit is delightful.)

“You alluded to something being wrong with the man in your life during our chat last night, but you never actually said what it was,” Max tells me. “Why would you say you’re single? Is it because you’re too picky? Or maybe you pick the wrong guys? You have a tight little body and fantastic skin, so it’s not like your options aren’t wide open.”

“Um … thank you?” I say, trying to make it sound more like a statement than a question. “I was in a long-term relationship that didn’t work out.”

“Did he cheat?” Max quickly asks. “Did you cheat? Were you thinking of cheating? Have you ever thought about cheating with a woman? And, if so, have you ever thought about using any toys with her?”

Red flag! Red flag! Abort mission.
I turn my head slightly, yet maintain eye contact. “I don’t get it,” I tell him. “Are you gay?… Married?… Just weird?”

“Oh, sweetie. Some days, all three,” Max says, brushing off my accusations with a wave of his hand. He hands me a clipboard with a form for me to fill out. “I think you are the perfect candidate for a reality show I’m producing: It’s kind of like
The Bachelor
meets
Temptation Island
. We’re shooting the pilot next week in Hawaii—all sixteen of you living in the same mansion. Sun, surf, a hot tub, and more mai tais and daiquiris than at a happy hour in Maui. One girl dropped out last minute and I need a hottie who doesn’t sound like a Laker Girl. Are you in?”

I stare at him blankly. Blink a few times. Max smiles at me warmly as he puts his hands over mine and tells me in all sincerity, “Sweetie, during our chat last night you explained the difference between the words salacious and salubrious, and you used the word ‘twee’ in a sentence. I … LOVE YOU. I must find a man for you.”

I stand up. “Thank you so much for the wine,” I say through gritted teeth. “It was great to meet you.”

Max hands me his digital camera to show me a picture. “This is Chad. He’s one of the men who will be at the welcome dinner tomorrow night.”

I look at the picture. My lips scrunch together like an accordion as I check out the photo. He’s so hot that Taylor Lautner would aspire to be his wing man.

But, no. It’s not worth my dignity just to …

“Click to the next shot,” Max tells me. “Sven is even yummier.”

Sven is indeed even yummier.

I slowly sit back down again.

“Well…”

“One fun twist,” Max tells me. “Half of the men and half of the women are gay—but you won’t know which half until day five.”

I swear, at the end of one of these dates, I’m just going to punch the guy dead in the face.

Thirty-four

Nicole

You know a private little joke that parents play on themselves? Bedtimes. Because no matter when you tell your kids they must go to bed, they can always stretch that out by at least thirty minutes—two hours on a weekend night.

“Megan!” I find myself screaming Thursday night, “It’s nine o’clock. Go! To! Bed!”

“Just one more minute,” Megan tells me as she madly types something on the computer in the family room.

“Not one more minute. Now,” I say, trying to summon up a threatening voice that she knows has more bark than bite.

“I know, I know, I know,” Megan says as she finishes typing. “Okay, I’m done.”

“Great,” I tell her, trying to keep my voice on an even keel. “Now get upstairs, brush your teeth…”

“Wait.”

I sigh. I wonder what it would be like to get through a bedtime without at least one “Wait.”

“What?” I ask her.

“I forgot to do my math homework.”

I let my shoulders slump down as I exhale a deep sigh. “Megan…”

“I’m sorry,” Megan says to me quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

I heave another deep sigh to make my point, then give in. “Ten minutes. I’m not kidding.”

“Thank you. You’re the best bonus mom ever.”

Malika comes charging out of her room wearing a powder-pink bunny suit with light blue ladybugs on it. “Does that mean I can stay up?”

“No,” I say firmly as I charge up the stairs. “I read you your books more than twenty minutes ago. What are you still doing up?”

“I had to go to the bathroom,” Malika tells me.

That kid gets up to go to the bathroom so many times in one night, you’d think she was a sixty-two-year-old man with an enlarged prostate. I shake my head. “Go quickly,” I tell her.

Our home phone rings. I run into our room, check the caller ID, and pick up immediately. “Hey…” I say sweetly to Jason. “Are you almost home?”

“I will be soon. I promise. Dave and I are just going out to have a quick beer and discuss a couple more things, and then I’ll be right home.”

Nooooo …
I think to myself. I’ve either been with the girls, chauffeuring the girls, or running errands for the girls all day. I love them, but I’ve been up and running since five-thirty this morning, and I was desperately looking forward to Jason coming home an hour ago to do the nighttime routine and give me a break.

“How are the girls doing?” Jason asks.

“They’re fine,” I say. “Bedtime’s running late, and I’m sure they were looking forward to seeing you before bed.”

“Is that my dad?” Malika asks, appearing in my doorway.

“Yes.”

“Oh, oh! Can I say good night?” she asks me as she runs in, and throws her hand out to grab the phone from me.

I hand her the phone and say, “One minute. He’s still at work.”

“Hi, Daddy,” Malika yells into the phone excitedly. “Wanna know what happened on
iCarly
today?…”

I walk out of the room to go check on Megan, who I overhear saying, “No, the answer is forty-two.”

“Megan!” I yell, leaning over the banister and toward the downstairs. “Are you Skyping?!”

“I’m just doing homework,” she yells back.

“Turn off the Skype!”

“Got it,” Megan says.

I turn back around and walk into my room, where Megan is still monologuing into the phone. “And then Sam’s sister, who’s her twin, wants to kiss Freddie. But he doesn’t believe she’s not Sam, so…”

“Honey, your dad needs to get back to work. Say good night.”

“Night, Daddy,” Malika says sweetly.

I reach out my hand to take the phone, but she hangs up. “Daddy said to tell you he had to go,” Malika says, handing me the now dead phone and walking out of the bedroom.

Of course he did
, I think to myself dryly as I put the phone back in its charger.

“Can you lie down with me?” Malika asks.

“Okay, but only for a minute,” I say, then head into Malika’s room.

Where I spend the next twenty-five minutes lying in her bed, waiting for her to fall asleep (something she cannot seem to do without a grown-up by her side) and replaying the Eagles’s song “Wasted Time” in my head over and over again.

After two false starts of slowly and silently sitting up, getting out of bed, then tiptoeing over to the door only to hear a bloodcurdling, “Nicole!” come out of Malika’s mouth, I am finally able to escape.

I walk out of her room, and peer into Megan’s room. Her door is wide open, her light is on, and she is nowhere to be found. “Megan?!”

“I’m done!” she yells proudly from downstairs.

“Then why aren’t you in bed?”

“I’m hungry!” Megan answers back.

I head down to the kitchen. It’s now almost nine-thirty.

I think the girls have a little experiment going to try to figure out which activity stalls bedtime the longest: nocturnal trips to the bathroom or to the kitchen. Megan is definitely a fan of the latter: she eats like a hummingbird, and by that I mean twice her weight in food every day.

I walk in to see her eating a bowl full of Rise Krispies with milk. “Will you please remember to throw that in the sink when you’re done?” I ask her.

“Okay,” Megan says with a full mouth.

Then she silently eats her cereal.

Something’s off. A stepmom can feel these things. “Are you okay?”

Megan doesn’t answer me. Instead she nervously eats a big bite of cereal. I place my hand on her arm. “Honey, are you all right?”

“Yeah. I guess. It’s just…” She looks over at me. “Is it true that when you marry a guy, it means that he can put his penis in you anytime he wants?”

The immediate answer in my head goes like this:
“No, dear. You marry him so he can put his penis in you anytime
you
want.”
But something tells me that in later years, I would pay dearly for my answer—in therapy bills.