There's Cake in My Future (31 page)

“Not having sex with me,” Scott says jokingly. “Doesn’t count.”

I drink a bit more wine for courage, then decide to go for broke. “So, how come we’ve never had sex?”

Scott seems surprised by my question. “You didn’t want to, remember?” he reminds me amicably.

I’m shocked by that answer. Genuinely shocked. Granted, in a way that comes from half a bottle of champagne before you leave for dinner, and sake with dinner, but still shocked. “What?!” I blurt out. “That’s not true!”

Scott looks at me, amused. He smiles as he insists, “It is too! I asked you for your card, and you gave me your work number. That meant you weren’t interested.”

“No, I asked you for your card,” I correct him.

“No, I asked you for your card,” he assures me with 100 percent certainty.

I think back for a moment. Did Scott ask me for my card first? Am I remembering the story wrong? Have I been sabotaging myself this whole time? And if so, now what?

“Well, even if you did ask me first, I gave you my card, didn’t I?”

“Yee-ah,” Scott says, acknowledging my point, but not conceding the argument. “But if you had wanted a love connection, you’d have jotted down your home number, or at least your cell. I had to call your assistant before I could get to you—that’s not a woman letting me past the red velvet rope anytime soon.”

“I was kind of interested,” I say coyly. (Yeah, kind of—that’s right. As in I kind of like to breathe.)

“Right,” he says sarcastically. “So ‘kind of interested’ that it took meeting with you in your office, a coffee, then a lunch, before you gave me your home number.”

It did?

I got nothing. I take another sip of wine. “Well … just because I’m not as aggressive as some of the women…”

“Sweetheart, it’s fine. I got over it. You asked a question, so I answered it. You weren’t interested.”

“Oh,” I say, saddened.

“And I’m okay with that.”

“Oh.”

I have played this all wrong, and now I have passed the point where I can fix it.

“Of course, Britney thought you wanted to sleep with me,” Scott says, countering his own argument, then taking a sip of beer.

And so did Sherri, apparently. What the Hell am I supposed to say to that?

“Well, I’m not saying I would want to now—you know, since we’re such good friends. But I’ll admit there was a time when the thought of making out with you crossed my mind.”

Scott takes a moment to decipher my statement. He squints his eyes and points to me. “Making out. That’s a girl’s way of saying ‘sleep with a guy,’ right?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” I say, covering my flushed, embarrassed face with my wineglass by taking a big drink.

Scott nods to himself. “Good to know.” He points to my wineglass. “Now take it easy with that stuff. We want you tipsy when we get home to watch the rest of
When Harry Met Sally
. We don’t want you slurring and passed out. I plan to continue our debate tonight on male-female relationships.”

Really?

An hour later, we cabbed it home to Scott’s apartment. I changed into a pair of Scott’s sweats and his
COME TO THE DARK SIDE—WE HAVE COOKIES
! T-shirt, Scott went to his kitchen to make us decaf lattes with his espresso machine, and we sat down on the couch to watch the rest of the movie.

Some of our discussions were predictable. For example: “That wagon wheel table is not that bad.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” I said as I brought a freshly opened bottle of wine and two glasses into the living room.

“I’ll grant you, you don’t want it in the middle of your living room,” Scott conceded as I poured him a bottle of red from the BevMo! nickel sale. “But as a piece in and of itself…”

“It’s still ugly,” I insisted.

Some moments were awkward: when Meg Ryan leaned in to kiss Billy Crystal for the first time, I snuck a glance at Scott. He was staring right at the screen, his face pensive, his eyes narrowed. I have no idea what was going through his mind, but that was definitely not the time to move in for a kiss. And the dinner scene afterward where they both admit their one-night tryst was a mistake made me certain that nothing would ever happen between Scott and me.

So the two of us watched the rest of the movie in silence. The wedding fight, the prolonged days when a lonely Harry tries to apologize, and finally the scene where Harry realizes he’s in love with Sally and says to her, “I love it that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich.”

Of course—that scene never happens in real life.

In real life the guy goes on his merry way and leaves you to haul the Christmas tree home all by yourself.

As the credits roll, Scott turns to me, his face still very serious and pensive. “I love that you read a new novel every other week.”

I don’t know what that means. Scott continues, “I love that you put rainbow sprinkles on your ice cream every chance you get, because it reminds you of being a kid. I love how shiny your hair is, even when it’s the end of the day and you have it twisted up in a bun with nothing holding it up but two chopsticks. I love how you look up the lottery numbers every week, to make sure the numbers you didn’t play didn’t get picked. I love that you stay up on the phone with me until all hours of the morning, even though you have to go to work the next morning. Because you are the last person I want to talk to at night. I love—”

I fling myself across the couch and pounce on Scott, giving him a giant kiss.

And lo and behold, he’s kissing me back.

He’s kissing me! Right now Scott has his arms around me, and his tongue is in my mouth, and I’m getting light-headed at the thought that the man of my dreams actually wants me too.

I pull away from him, a surprised smile plastered across my face. “Oh my God—it worked! You actually let me kiss you!”

Scott leans in, his face serious and sexy.

And this time I let him kiss me.

It wasn’t the last time I said “Oh my God!” that night, but it was the last time we actually talked.

Forty

Nicole

Around eleven o’clock that night, Mel and Danny (his real name—I soooo checked his driver’s license)—were still making goo-goo eyes at each other, Nick (also his real name) had told me his life story, and I was ready to head home for a pint of Häagen-Dazs and a bag of Chips Ahoy!

I got home, had a quick call with Jason, who was still hanging out with some former players at the NBA fund-raiser, then settled in for the night.

The first thing I did after talking to Jason was check Facebook to see if Kevin was on.

It’s not like how it sounds. It was just such a relief to get to talk to him last night. To get to be honest with my feelings about my life, no matter how ugly they were. I tried talking to Mel tonight—her response was to check out and hook up with a guy.

And that is fine—she is allowed to have one night where we focus on her. God knows we focused on me for months on end leading up to the wedding, and she gets major points for not only coaxing me out of the bathroom that day, but never breathing a word about it to any of my guests.

But I need to talk some more. I need to figure stuff out.

I click on Facebook.

KEVIN:
You’re home early.

NICOLE:
Mel hooked up with someone. You know what they say: two’s company, three’s kinky. What did you do tonight?

KEVIN:
Watched six episodes of
The A-Team
back-to-back while eating a balanced diet of Hot Pockets and potato chips.

NICOLE:
Still blocked, huh?

KEVIN:
Indeed. And now I plan to weep in the dark because I’m not hooking up with someone tonight. I’m jealous of Mel. Ever miss it?

NICOLE:
What? Hooking up? Nah.

KEVIN:
The first kiss? Really. Oh, I missed it when I was married. That excitement of everything being new, everything having possibilities. Remember that place in Malibu?

I know exactly what he’s referring to and quickly type:

NICOLE:
Barely. It was a lifetime ago.

KEVIN:
Hold on. My microwave burrito is ready.

As I wait for Kevin to come back, my mind wanders back to the fish restaurant in Malibu he referred to. A memory floods through me of him pulling me into a kiss on our first date.

We had gone to this little seafood place just over the Ventura county line, a funky run-down shack on the Pacific Coast Highway with amazing views of the ocean and even better food. We were drinking beers and eating fried fish, and somehow I was so comfortable with him that I brought up the subject of first kisses.

“Oh, there’s so much to worry about,” I had complained at the time. “As a girl, you have to do the lean-in thing, so he knows you’re interested. But you don’t actually want to lean in and kiss him, because then you look too easy…”

“You look easy giving someone a kiss?” Kevin had asked, amused.

“Well, no, I mean, not easy,” I clarify. “It’s not like you’re sleeping with the guy. But you have to let the guy make the first move, because if he doesn’t then he’s not interested, so you don’t want to waste your time on a second date. But then—”

“Wait,” Kevin stopped me. “Why do you think a guy would ask you out on a second date if he wasn’t interested?”

I knitted my brows and thought about that. “You know, I’m not really sure. Why do guys do that?”

“I don’t know any men who do that,” Kevin admitted. “If we ask you out on a second date, it’s because wére interested. So maybe if the guy doesn’t kiss you that first night, he’s just being a gentleman.”

“No, he’s being a wuss,” I blurted out. “I mean, it’s bad enough we have to play with our keys and kill time waiting in front of our locked door.”

“Stop,” Kevin commanded again. “Why are you in front of a locked door? If you like the guy and want to kiss him, why not invite him in for a drink?”

“Because then I look like a slut,” I said succinctly.

Kevin’s eyes bugged out. “Over a drink?”

I looked up and stared at the seagulls hovering over the restaurant while I thought about his question. “Well, maybe I could get away with coffee or something,” I decided. Then I looked back at him again. “I don’t know. See, but this is what I mean by how awkward and awful first kisses are. I mean, you just can’t—”

And Kevin promptly shut me up by leaning in and kissing me.

As I think back to that moment, I realize that I am smiling and a little short of breath. A man who was my absolute idea of perfection back then kissed me. That moment of shock and excitement and the thrill of the conquest all mixed into one … it was perfect.

Turns out I do miss first kisses.

And I know I’m not supposed to feel this way, but I guess I am a little sad that I’ll never have the thrill and excitement of a first kiss again.

KEVIN:
I’m back. Okay, so you don’t miss first kisses.

NICOLE:
No.

I type back instantly.

KEVIN:
Fair enough. Back to what we were talking about last night: best and worst part of marriage. Start with best.

I think about the best part of marriage for a moment.

NICOLE:
I love him.

KEVIN:
That’s not a best.

NICOLE:
Sure it is. I love him. I love how I feel when I’m around him. I get to feel like that for the rest of my life because I’m married to him.

I hit send, then ask Kevin:

NICOLE:
What about you? Best part of marriage?

KEVIN:
Better tax status.

NICOLE:
Sweet-talking devil.

KEVIN:
What can I say? I’m not a strong supporter of marriage. Maybe if I had married you, things would have been different.

NICOLE:
Yeah, but if you had married me, you never would have had the nerve to follow your dream and move to New York.

KEVIN:
True. But as I pointed out last night, sometimes the path to happiness isn’t what you thought it would be. Sometimes it doesn’t go directly forward, it curves around, doubles back, hits a tree … Anyway, worst part about marriage?

NICOLE:
That’s easy. Somehow that ring on his finger is a magical tourniquet that stops the flow of blood to the part of his brain that knows how to put dishes in the sink and throw socks in the hamper. You?

He takes a moment before he writes back.

KEVIN:
No more first kisses.

That’s all he types. I let it lie there for some reason.

KEVIN:
Wanna go meet me for a drink somewhere?

NICOLE:
I shouldn’t.

KEVIN:
Why not?

He has a point. Why not? No one’s home, no one will miss me, and I’m still wide awake. What’s it going to hurt to have a drink with an old friend?

KEVIN:
Why not?

Kevin types a second time.

NICOLE:
I have stuff to do around here. Maybe I’ll get some writing done.

KEVIN:
Come on! If Mel hadn’t hooked up, you’d still be out, right?

NICOLE:
Yeah, but Mel’s not an ex. Plus, I’m an old lady. I’m going to bed soon.

KEVIN:
Don’t think of me as an ex, think of me as a friend. And quit being such an old lady. Plus, with all of your responsibilities these days, when is the next time you’re going to have the opportunity to be out until past two?

I think about Kevin’s question for a moment. He’s right: when will my next opportunity be? And the truth is, I would like to see him. And it would be nice to be out late. I was disappointed that my big night out was over by eleven.

NICOLE:
Okay, one drink. But nowhere trendy, and it has to be somewhere near my house. Thoughts?

KEVIN:
My place.

NICOLE:
Good night.

KEVIN:
I’m kidding! Don’t leave, I’m totally kidding. How about that little place in the Valley on Ventura with the lounge couches?