Читать книгу Wedding Fever - Kim Gruenenfelder - Страница 12

Chapter 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.”