Читать книгу Wedding Fever - Kim Gruenenfelder - Страница 10

Chapter Six

Melissa

Seema and Scott run out to get me and bring me inside.

I quickly catch them up on the last hour of my life and have just finished the part about some strange Swedish woman throwing a drink in Fred’s face.

I then fill them in on what happened next: Fred wasn’t stupid. I saw a woman throw a drink in his face— he wasn’t going to get off without a full-blown explanation.

Svetlana, that’s her name— as if I could ever compete with a Svetlana— had been a client of Fred’s for three months. She was the trophy wife of a seventy-eight-year-old studio head who she caught getting head one night from an even younger woman than herself. Fred was her divorce attorney.

I had actually heard about her. Her husband had forced the final arbitration to be in Manhattan— so Fred was stuck there for a week and a half while both sides hammered out whether a five-year marriage to a decrepit guy was worth one hundred million dollars or one hundred and fifty million.

I remember Fred asked me to go with him to New York, but my high school was in the middle of state testing, and I didn’t want to leave my students.

I guess I should have.

I sit on Seema’s couch, numb, as I continue my story. “Fred told me, in a moment of tearful confession, that the night the case was settled, he took her out for drinks at the Oak Room. They had too much wine, he walked her back to her suite, she kissed him, and they made out for a few minutes.”

“Oh, good Lord . . .” Scott mutters under his breath.

“She’s not done with her story yet,” Seema tells him.

“Yeah, but obviously . . .”

“Scott . . .” Seema says warningly.

“Fine,” Scott says to Seema, crossing his arms. Then he turns to me. “But you do know he’s lying about that, right?”

I take a deep breath before I answer, “Honestly, I have no idea.”

“Finish your story,” Seema tells me sympathetically.

“Yes, you do!” Scott insists to me. “They did NOT just make out for a few minutes. You do know that, right?”

I look over at Scott, surprised at his vehemence. I shrug. “He says that’s all that happened.”

“Oh please. What’s he going to say? ‘I fucked someone in a hotel room three thousand miles away. I never thought I’d get caught. Oops.’ ”

His statement makes me burst into tears. Now I’m sad and embarrassed. Seema gives me a hug. I can’t breathe. I’m feeling sick, my nose is clogged, and my life is over.

I take a Kleenex from a box Scott brought into the living room, wipe my eyes, and gauge Seema’s and Scott’s reactions.

Seema’s eyes are wet as well, she is so shocked and saddened to hear my news. She looks almost as heartbroken as I feel.

Scott, on the other hand, looks angry. And the longer he listens, the angrier he gets.

I take a deep breath, and end my story. “Honestly, I don’t know what the truth is,” I tell them. “Fred’s called me at least seven times on my cell, and left texts. I haven’t picked up, because I don’t know what to say to him. I’m not ready to go home yet. I’m not even sure if I have a home to go to anymore.” I tear up again, but don’t cry. “I just have no idea what to think or what to do.”

“He’s a chode,” Scott states matter-of-factly. “You’re better off without him.”

I stare at him blankly. Seema glares at him. “Don’t say things like that!” she chastises Scott.

“Why?” Scott rebuts. “The guy’s not only cheating on her, but he’s lying about it with some insipid, ‘Strange girl only stuck her tongue in my mouth for a couple of minutes’ lie! He’s a total chode!”

“Because you don’t say things like that to someone who doesn’t even know they’re broken up yet,” Seema admonishes.

“What? You’re going to tell her to forgive the chode and marry him?” Scott argues.

“Of course I’m not going to tell her to marry the chode,” Seema counters. “But there’s a time for venting and a time for constructive advice. Check your watch.”

“Excuse me,” I say quietly. “What’s a chode?”

“Chode,” Scott repeats. “He’s a dick, a knob, a prick—”

“Thank you for the anatomy lesson,” Seema interrupts, cutting him off.

“He’s also an asshole,” Scott can’t help but add.

Seema throws down her hand on her coffee table as she asks firmly. “Will you stop that?”

Scott ignores her. Asks me with complete sincerity, “Do you want me to go beat the crap out of him? Because I am so there.”

Seema tries a different approach. “Scott, can you go get us some drinks please?”

“She hasn’t answered my question.”

“She doesn’t want you to beat him up,” Seema insists. “How is landing yourself in jail going to help her?”

“Actually, I would kind of like him to beat Fred up,” I admit to Seema.

She looks mildly horrified.

“I didn’t say I was actually going to have Scott do it,” I tell Seema. “I know that would be wrong.” Then I turn to Scott. “That is so sweet of you to offer, though.”

Scott looks a bit disappointed.

Seema takes my hand gently. “What do you want?”

“That’s the million-dollar question,” I tell her. “I want to find a way to get past this. I want it to have never happened.”

Seema doesn’t say anything— just nods her head knowingly. She gets what I’m saying. She pulls me into a hug, and we just sit there in silence.

Which is broken by the unlikeliest of heroes. “Nooooo!” Scott booms in his masculine voice. He gets up and begins pacing around. “I don’t get women sometimes.” He flips around to me. “Aren’t you pissed?!”

Scott’s clear green eyes stare right at me. I take a moment to collect my thoughts. “I . . . well, of course I am. I mean—”

“No, no,” Scott interrupts. “That’s not the sound of an angry woman. That’s the sound of a woman who thinks this is somehow her fault.”

I think about that for a moment, then admit aloud, “Well, you got me there.”

Seema’s jaw drops. I try to explain myself to her. “I keep trying to figure out what I could have done differently to make Fred not cheat on me. Maybe if I had gone to the gym more. I’m a runner, but I never lift weights. Or maybe if I had had that nose job— he always teased me about my nose. Or if I had just stayed on a diet—”

Scott interrupts my thoughts. “Jesus— do you realize how ridiculous you sound? You have a smoking body . . .” He turns to Seema. “Wait, I’m allowed to say that, right?”

Seema and I look at each other. “Um . . .” Seema debates. “Can he say that?”

Duh. I nod my head yes.

Scott continues, “Don’t be sad. Get angry!” He walks out of the living room and into Seema’s office, where he yells, “Sweetheart, where do you keep your note pads?”

“Top right drawer,” Seema yells back. Then she looks at me. “Can I get you something? Something with sugar in it? Something with booze in it?”

“Actually,” I say, “I would kill for a peach Bellini the size of a small horse.”

Seema pats me on the knee, then heads to her kitchen as Scott walks out of her office carrying a legal pad. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he says, handing me the pad. “I want you to write down one hundred things that you hate most about him.”

Seema emerges with a champagne flute just as Scott clarifies his assignment to me. “Not things that are going to make you blame yourself. You can write, ‘Number one, he won’t marry me.’ But only if you realize that that’s his fault— not yours. Only if the statement means, ‘He’s an asshole!’ Not, ‘What could have I have changed about myself?’ Personally, I would start with ‘He likes Nagel.’ And not as an ironic or a kitschy eighties thing; he actually likes him.” Scott stops talking as he notices Seema carefully pouring peach puree into the flute. “What the Hell are you doing?”

She looks up at him. “I’m making Mel a drink.”

“Are you out of your mind, woman? You’re going to give her a bridal shower drink on the day she finds out her boyfriend cheated on her? My God, it’s amazing we ever breed with you people. You make no sense.”

Scott walks out of the room and into her kitchen. I lean in to Seema. “Where’s he going?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she sighs. “But I’m sure he’s making some testosterone point.” She then whispers to me, “Why do I like this guy? He’s a total freak.”

Scott reappears with a bottle of Gentleman Jack and a shot glass. He opens the bottle, pours a shot, and hands it to me. “Here. Drink this.”

I hate whiskey. I look at Scott. “I’m not really a . . .”

“Drink it,” he says, in a low, commanding voice.

What the hell?— I drink the shot.

“Well?” Scott asks.

“It’s dreadful,” I sputter. “Like drinking broken glass.”

“For the next hour, if you want a drink, promise me you won’t drink overly sweet girlie drinks that will get you drunk, make you cry, and make you long for weddings, true love, or Fred. Drink a man’s drink— a hideous drink, if you will. Use it to get angry.”

He scribbles Why Fred is a Chode on the top of the note pad, then underlines it. “Okay, what’s your number one?”

I suddenly feel put on the spot. I have spent the last six years cultivating an image of Fred for all of the world to see. A happy image. A loving image.

An image that might not necessarily have been completely 100 percent true.

I mean, it was true when we met. Fred really was amazing. He was still in law school, and I had just started teaching, and we were both wildly in love, and absolutely sure about what we wanted in life.

Then, somehow, life got in the way.

It wasn’t just his high salary and seventy-hour workweeks crashing against my small salary and wanting to keep my summers off. Although certainly not agreeing on how much money and free time you can live with is big. It was sex that slowly got routine, and less and less frequent. And not being able to agree on a place to live together for so long that I finally had to move into his place, which I hated every day. Or not agreeing on a place to go on vacation, which led to not going on vacation together at all.

Sometimes, a relationship withers, and by the time you realize how close it is to death, you don’t know what to do to save it.

I desperately want the guy who brought silver roses to me on our second date back. I miss the man who lay in bed with me all day every Sunday, equipped with a Sunday Times, a few rented Blu-rays, and breakfast delivered to our door. I want my buddy back who watched BBC America with me every Thursday night.

I miss him, and I know he’s still lurking somewhere inside the too-sleek yuppie who crawls into bed with me every night. I know he’s still there.

Or, at least until tonight, I thought he was still there.

As I stare at the blank sheet of lined paper, I am at a total loss as to what to write.

1. Nagel.

Scott reads my number one upside down. “That’s cheating,” he says. “I totally served that one up for you. Show some originality.”

“But I can’t stand Nagel,” I point out.

“And I don’t like wet socks. Who does? Movin’ on to number two.”

I’m not really comfortable telling my friends the real reasons my relationship isn’t working. So I start by writing down some of my minor grievances:

2. Works too much.

Scott smiles. “Good.”

3. Cannot see a dish in the sink to save his life.

4. Will not shop for Christmas presents until December 24th.

Seema reads that one. “Hmmm . . . so basically number four just makes him male.”

Scott turns to Seema. “You loved your gift card.” Then he turns to me, “Keep going, sweetheart.”

5. Blares U2 at 8:00 A.M. on Saturday morning while getting ready for his softball game.

6. Accidentally deletes my DVRed Monday-night sitcoms every time a game is on that night.

Then I brace myself, take a deep breath, and write down the really painful ones.

The ones that sometimes do make me hate him.

7. Wouldn’t let me move in.

Seema’s eyes widen. I never let on to anyone that he didn’t want me to move in. Never admitted to her (back when she, Nic, and I were roommates) that I gave him an ultimatum one night: let me move in, or we’re over. He did— eventually. But he kept all of his furniture exactly where it was. All of my stuff went into storage. So I always felt like a guest in my own home.

8. Wasted six years of my life.

I scribble angrily.

“Great start,” Scott says. Then he puts out his hand. “House keys.”

I am confused for a moment. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re moving out,” Scott says matter-of-factly. “What do you need most between now and Monday?”

Seema sighs again, then says to Scott, “Um . . . honey? With all due respect, you’re pushing too hard here—”

“No, no,” I interrupt quickly, giving him my keys. “I either need a pair of Banana Republic blue jeans or the ones I bought from Target. My fat jeans, not my thin ones. And my flat Steve Maddens, my gray Ann Taylor long-sleeve T-shirt, a long T-shirt to sleep in, preferably the one with the Grinch and Max the dog on it, a toothbrush, and my Kiehl’s moisturizing lotion.”

Scott looks at me blankly.

I clarify, “I need pants, shirts, shoes, and a toothbrush.”

Scott smiles at me. “I’m proud of you. Most women would be curled up in a ball right now.”

He gives me a kiss on the forehead, kisses Seema good-bye, then takes his leave.

The moment the door closes behind him, Seema warns me, “Just so you know: he might very well come back with a pair of Gap blue jeans from 1993, tennis shoes, and your beat-up old Spice Girls T-shirt. I’ve gone on weekend trips with him: there is no rhyme or reason to what he packs.”

“I don’t care,” I say, feeling myself smile. “He could come back with a box of Tampax, a pair of pantyhose, and a flashlight. Tonight, I have a hero taking care of me.”

And as awful as this night has been, how Politically incorrect and wonderful is it to be able to say that?