There's Cake in My Future (8 page)

“Huh,” Jason says. “Well, she got the job. And she told me to tell you not to say anything until she came over. What doesn’t she want you to tell me?”

I open my mouth to answer him. But before I can say, “Your ex-wife wants to move your girls five hundred miles away,” the doorbell rings.

Jason quickly heads downstairs and over to the front door, with me half a step behind him. He opens the door to his beautiful ex-wife, Jacquie, who is beaming. “I got it!” she screams, then slips past her ex to pull me into a hug.

I look over Jacquie’s shoulder to watch my confused fiancé widen his eyes (couple shorthand for “What the hell is going on?”). Before I can answer him, Jacquie pulls away from me, then excitedly grabs Jason. “I start Monday!”

“Um … congratulations,” Jason says, feigning enthusiasm. “You start what Monday?”

Jacquie pulls away from him. “Didn’t Nic tell you?”

Shit.

“I didn’t think anything was definite,” I say weakly.

“Tell me what?” Jason asks. “What job did you get?”

Jacquie proudly tells him, “I am the new junior speechwriter for the governor.” Then for added emphasis she happily screams, “Ah!”

Jason’s face falls. “Of California?”

“No. Of Rhode Island,” Jacquie jokes. “Of course, of California. He announces his candidacy for the U.S. Senate in the next week or two, so he’s expanding his staff. The mayor put in a good word for me. I didn’t think I had a shot in Hell, but I flew up there yesterday, and I guess I made an okay impression, because I got it!”

Jason looks shell-shocked but like he’s trying to cover. “You flew up to Sacramento?”

“I did!” Jacquie says, looking so happy she might burst out of her own skin. “I didn’t bother telling you because I didn’t think it was going to happen. But senator. Can you believe I have a shot at working in Washington, D.C., next year?”

“But what about the girls?” Jason blurts out. “We have a custody agreement.”

“Yeah, what about the girls?” I hear from the staircase. The three of us look up to see Megan standing at the top of the stairs. “I’m not moving to Sacramento,” she states firmly as she walks downstairs.

“Oh, honey, you don’t have to,” Jacquie says, walking halfway up the stairs and hugging her daughter. “I’ve got it all worked out. Sacramento is only an hour’s flight away. You girls will live with your father during the week, I’ll fly home every Friday night, pick you up, then drop you off on Sunday night, and fly back up. It’ll be exactly the same schedule you had before, just with your dad and me having you on opposite days than we did last year.”

“But what about our family cruise?” Megan asks. “It’s next week.”

From the look on her face, I can tell Jacquie hadn’t thought that one through. “Well…” she stalls. “We can still go. Just not next week.”

Megan gets a look of disgust on her face that should be reserved for teenaged girls and Simon Cowell. “Malika has been looking forward to that trip for six months!” she nearly screams at her mother. “You already postponed it once. How can you do it again?”

“Honey, I have to work,” Jacquie tells her apologetically. “We’ll find a different time.” Jacquie looks over at us. Her face lights up as she says, “And you’ll love Italy.”

Say what now?

Jason and I have the conversation that only couples can, which consists of no words and fleeting looks.

First look, a pleading expression from Jason:
I’m sorry.

Second look, a shrug from me:
It’s okay. It’ll be fine. They can come.

Third look, relief from Jason:
I love you so much.

“Who goes with their dad on his honeymoon?” Megan asks in disgust.

“Lots of kids go on honeymoons with their parents,” Jacquie assures her. “I’ve read about the trips. They’re called familymoons. Why, I’m sure your dad and Nic could find you guys amazing things to do in Venice. They have gondolas, and pizza, which you love. Plus there’s…”

As Jacquie continues to sell her firstborn on the idea of Italy, I look up to see Malika, standing at the top of the stairs, silent and devastated. “But why can’t they just come on the cruise with us?” she begs her mother.

The girl looks heartbroken. Utterly heartbroken. As her mother walks up to her, she bursts into tears.

How can I enjoy the romance of Italy, knowing it came at the expense of a five-year-old’s happiness?

I immediately walk up the stairs and kneel down to be at eye level with Jason’s little girl. Then I muster up all the enthusiasm and excitement I have in me and tell her, “You know what would be really cool after the cruise is if the four of us went to Epcot. I hear they have a pretend St. Mark’s Square that’s even better than the real thing.”

Eight

Melissa

By 3:00
A.M.
, Scott has gone home, Seema is in her room, and I’m in my old bedroom at her place, the one I lived in before Fred and I moved in together.

My old room.

God damn it. I loved living here—don’t get me wrong. I love my friends, I loved feeling like part of a family that I picked out, and being surrounded by people who loved me and accepted me for who I really am.

But, at the same time, when I moved out, I felt a little smug. Not smug—that might be the wrong word. But I was the first one of us to move in with the love of her life. And, at the time, I thought I was just months away from being the first of us to get engaged.

Back then, I was absolutely giddy that my life was moving forward. I had been sure that I was the smartest and the luckiest of the three of us. In my mind, I was the chosen one, because someone had literally chosen me! I wasn’t quite thirty yet, but I had managed to figure out the secret to having it all: a job I loved and a boyfriend who wanted me to move in. (Fine, allowed me to move in. But I’m not the first woman in the world who ever gave an ultimatum. I’m not even the first one today.)

And now, at thirty-two, my life has just taken a giant fucking U-turn, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

I feel completely powerless, helpless, and useless.

And as much as I know I have to leave, my mind is racing for something he can do to win me back.

The rest of the evening wasn’t too bad. Fred called a bunch of times but, with the help of my friends, I had the strength not to answer the phone. Scott went to Fred’s house and packed a whole suitcase for me. I have no idea what he said to Fred, but somehow he managed to convince him to give me a night or two to cool off.

Then Scott came back to Seema’s and tried to cheer me up as I continued writing my list of things I hate about Fred.

I had written sixty-two things down and left room at the bottom of the last page for more. The list zigzagged from petty to huge: his blaring U2 I guess is minor—his lying and cheating is gigantic.

And now, sitting in bed alone, I look through my list and add number sixty-three.

63. Knew if I ever found out that he had an affair, it would break my heart. Did it anyway.

I begin to cry again. Soon, my crying turns into loud sobbing, and my stomach hurts again from my violent hyperventilating.

Seema is through my bedroom door in no time flat and pulls me into a hug. “I know…” she says gently. She hands me a box of Kleenex, and I quickly pull out a fistful of tissues.

After a few more minutes, I stop crying enough to blow my nose and dry my eyes. “I think I might be running out of tears,” I tell her through my stuffed-up nose.

“Do you want me to get you some water?” Seema asks me. “Or a cocoa or something?”

“Water,” I say weakly. She stands up. “You want to try and get some food into you too?” Seema asks. “I have tons of leftover cheese and crackers.”

I shake my head. “If I eat, I’ll throw up.”

“Booze?” she asks.

“If I drink, I’ll throw up.”

“Cigar?” Seema asks.

I raise one eyebrow. She found my weakness. I might be pathetically clutching at straws for any way to make myself feel better, but I do love cigars. They are decadent, and bad for me, and Fred hates them on my breath.

Perfect.

Two minutes later, we’re on Seema’s front porch, sitting in her side-by-side white wicker chairs. As she lights my cigar, I suck in deeply, attempting to enjoy the intoxicating caramelly aroma of a good smoke. I can taste it, but I still feel like crap. I hold the smoke in my lungs, then slowly exhale out.

“I just didn’t even see this coming,” I say to Seema, as she lights her cigar. “I mean, I knew he had a problem committing, but I just figured it would happen eventually. I figured if I could just stick it out long enough, he’d realize he couldn’t live without me.”

Seema gives me a sympathetic look. She doesn’t say anything. How could she? What can you say when your best friend gets cheated on?

I take another puff of my cigar and try to savor this treat that usually brings me such joy. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot,” I say angrily.

“You’re not an idiot,” Seema assures me, as she sucks on her cigar to get the whole thing lit. “You’re a woman in love. It happens to the best of us.”

“You’ve never been this stupid,” I point out to her.

Her cell phone beeps a text. She lifts up the phone so I can see Scott’s text. “Wanna bet?”

“What’s it say?” I ask, unable to focus through my watery eyes.

She reads the screen, “Just got home. Is she okay?”

“Nice someone cares,” I say.

“A lot of us care,” Seema says while texting something back.

“What are you writing back?” I ask.

“Just telling him we’re smoking cigars,” Seema says. She hits send, then tosses the phone onto the white wicker table between us. “So when do you want to move your stuff in?”

I love that it’s not even a question, it’s a statement. It’s not an offer, it’s a given. I’m family, I’m wounded. And I’m home now.

Nonetheless, Nic just moved out six months ago. I feel guilty for intruding on Seema’s new life without roommates. “I don’t want to cramp your style,” I tell her. “What happens when you finally begin your torrid affair with Scott? How’s it going to look that first night? I can just see it: the two of you are making out in a frenzied heat on your front porch. Clothes are unbuttoned, but still on. Tongues are flying everywhere. You unlock the door, bursting into the living room ready for a night of passion … and the two of you see me, in my pink fuzzy bathrobe, watching bad TV, a spoon of ice cream sticking out of my mouth and my face tearstained and red.”

Seema takes a moment to paint the picture in her mind. She shrugs. “I’ll just tell him Friday’s your self-pity night. I get Mondays, Wednesdays, and Valentine’s Day.”

I try to laugh. It comes out more as a loud smile.

Seema pats me on the back. “Come on. It’ll be fun. We could have your old room decorated in about a day.”

I casually look around my old neighborhood. “It would be nice to move back in here,” I admit. “It feels safe here.”

“Of course it does,” Seema agrees.

Her cell beeps again. She reads the text, then smiles sheepishly.

“What’s it say?” I ask.

“He says that watching a woman smoking a cigar is one of the sexiest sights on the planet, and that watching two should be illegal.”

I try to smile, but I think those muscles have atrophied. “He’s a good guy,” I tell her.

“You think?” Seema asks me, smiling from my approval.

“Yeah,” I say with absolute certainty. “Complete wimp in terms of what he’s going to do with you, but a really good guy otherwise.”

“If you listen to all those self-help books, they’d say he’s not interested,” Seema tells me as she frenetically flicks her fingers over her BlackBerry’s minikeyboard.

I shrug. “Not necessarily. You’re with someone, then he’s with someone. At some point, if it’s meant to be…”

“Oh, God, I hate that ‘meant to be’ crap,” Seema says as she tosses her BlackBerry onto the table again. “If it were meant to be, one of us would have done something about it by now.”

“Fair enough,” I say, not wanting to fight about it. Seema’s BlackBerry beeps again. She can’t help herself—she’s like a kitten staring at a flickering thread of yarn. She picks it up and reads as I take another puff of my cigar. “Although I must ask: if it’s not meant to be, what’s he’s doing texting you at three
A.M.
on a Saturday night?”

Seema looks over at me. Gives me a
I have no fucking clue
look with an accompanying shrug.

“Ah, men,” I say. “A mystery.”

“Wrapped in sharp spikes,” Seema continues.

“And covered in chocolate,” I finish.

Seema reads, “He says to tell you that he’s making filet au poivre at my house Tuesday night, and that you need to tell me you’re moving in or he’s not going to make you one.”

“He cooks?” I ask.

“He finds it soothing.”

“Look, if you don’t want him, can I have him?”

“Oh, honey, I love you,” Seema tells me warmly. “But if you touch him, I’ll break you like a twig.”

I try to laugh. It is funny. I take a big puff of cigar. “All right, you got me,” I say. “I’ll move in.”

“Good!” she says cheerfully. “With someone chipping in for rent, I might be able to afford those filets.”

Nine

Nicole

Chester ripped off Penelope’s bodice. Her nipples hardened. But was that from the cold air, or the promise of his

I drum my fingers on my desk. What’s a new word for penis?

the promise of his shaft of love

I actually saw that in a book once. Ick. I highlight
shaft
, and use my computer’s thesaurus. Rod of love, stick of love, pole of love, shank …

Good Lord, I’m scraping bottom here.

I highlight my passage and hit delete. So much for trying to make it as a romance novelist.

It’s three in the morning, I can’t sleep, and I’m not getting anything done either. I throw my legs up on the desk in my home office and stare at my computer screen.

Man, I hate writing. I mean, you know, I love being paid to be a writer. I love reading what I’ve written. I love telling people at parties that I’m a writer. I just don’t so much like the writing part.