Wedding Fever

“Last week,” I say, trying to use a light and breezy tone. “It’s good, really. It just wasn’t quite right. And, you know, it was getting to that point where we were either going to sleep together or not, and I just . . .”

I pause. I just kept thinking of you. And comparing him to you. And even though he was way more appropriate for me, all I could think about was you.

Scott is staring deep into my eyes, and I worry he can see right through me.

So I make a joke of it. “Quit looking at me like that. I’m fine. Besides, I really did not want to take a date who I knew was temporary just so that I could have well-meaning people embarrass me all night with questions like, ‘So, have you two talked about marriage yet?’ ”

Scott laughs. Tension diffused. “Why do people do that at weddings?” Scott asks, shaking his head appreciatively. “It’s right up there with asking a single person if they’re seeing ‘anyone special’. I always want to answer, ‘No. Is your prostate still giving you trouble?’ ” He glances at a pile of pastel-pink index cards on my coffee table. He looks at the top card. “Brad Pitt. What’s this?”

“Oh, that’s this game we played called fantasy Date/Date from Hell. Everyone had to write down who their ideal celebrity date would be, and then their celebrity date from Hell. Then we all had to guess which girl picked which dates.”

Scott shoots me a mischievous look as he picks up the pile. “Oooo . . . I’ll bet I can guess who you picked.”

I grab the cards away from him. “No, you can’t. Besides, I don’t want you making fun of me.”

Scott playfully tries to grab the cards back. “I’m not going to make fun of you.”

“You can’t help it. It’s in your DNA.”

“No. Seriously— I’ll be good.”

Off my dubious look, he continues. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll show you how well I know you.”

He puts out his hand for the cards. I eye his open hand wearily.

“Fine,” I say, about to hand him the cards. “But first you need to tell me your ideal celebrity date.”

Scott looks up at my ceiling, seemingly giving my question serious thought. “Um . . . I guess my ideal would be Drew Brees,” Scott answers. “And that stupid blond chick with the reality show— she’d be the worst.”

“The quarterback?!” I exclaim. “But you’re not gay! Wait, you’re not, are you?”

“No,” Scott assures me. “And neither is he. But if I get to go out to dinner with any celebrity in the world, why waste that on a first date that will inevitably lead nowhere?” He rubs his fingers together. “Cards please.”

I reluctantly hand him the pink cards. Shit— when he sees the name on my card, he will so obviously associate it with himself. Fuck! That name is about to give away my crush, and then he’ll never see me the same way again.

Scott leafs through the cards. “Ben Affleck,” he guesses.

I am tempted to lie, say yes and get it over with. But I know the other side of the card is Hugh Hefner and, while the old man is gross, he can’t be the worst guy in the world to be on a date with. So I am forced to admit, “Not a bad choice, but no.”

He continues to fan through the cards. “Jason Washing-ton is obviously who Nic chose . . .” Then he guesses, “Bradley Cooper?”

“What? Him? No.”

“John Krasinski.”

“No.”

“It’s not the actor on Heroes, is it?”

“Dr. Suresh? No. Why do you assume just because I’m Indian, I’m going to go for an Indian?”

“I don’t,” Scott says triumphantly, proving how well he knows me as he turns around the card to show me Zachary Quinto’s name (Sylar on Heroes).

I shrug, and concede, “Actually, Zachary Quinto’s kind of hot in a ‘take your damn Spock ears off’ kind of way.”

“ ‘Take your damn Spock ears off.’ Sexy,” Scott deadpans, as he leafs through the cards. “Fabio?”

“He’s from the dates from Hell side of the card, you moron.”

Scott stops at one card. He cocks his head to one side. “Orlando Bloom?” he guesses.

“Yeah,” I admit quietly.

Scott looks up at me, looking a bit perplexed. “Seriously? He doesn’t seem like your type.”

Considering Scott is a dead ringer for Bloom, you’d think he’d pick up on the hint. Oh yeah, right— he’s a guy. They pick up on hints about as well as magnets pick up seashells.

Now I’m defensive. “Why wouldn’t he be my type? He’s cute. I know people who have worked for him, and he’s really nice. . . .”

“It’s not that. It’s that he has dark hair. You normally go for blonds.”

“No I don’t. Why would you say that?”

Scott shrugs. “Your last two boyfriends are blondish. Both had blue eyes. I figured that was your type. Who was your hell date?”

“Antonin Scalia,” I respond, still reeling from Scott’s obvious misinterpretation of me and my “type.”

“The Supreme Court justice?” Scott asks, as he finishes looking through the cards. “Not really a celebrity. Who picked Stephen Colbert?”

“I don’t have a type,” I continue. “There’s no type.”

“Please,” Scott says, flashing me a patronizing look. “No offense sweetheart, but you like the westside type: blond hair, or had blond hair as a kid at least, a little bland, has some sort of nonartistic job that he’s a bit bored with, but which is stable. You know, like an actuary or a strategic planner. Lives in a condo west of La Cienega . . .”

Now I’m fuming. “That is so not true. I dated an actuary once, and I have dated a lot of artists.”

“Not for more than a date or two. Then you find something wrong with them, and move on.”

I have nothing to say back, but my feelings are hurt. He doesn’t see it: he genuinely has no idea how much I like him. And the only way for me to ever let him know how much would be to go so far out on a limb that my weight could easily shatter the branch.

Scott smiles. Tickles me under my chin. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I don’t like dating artists either. I’ll admit I’d rather have a downtown lawyer than a westside computer geek, but we’re pretty much the same.”

I still look sad. Scott knows this, but he has no idea why.

My phone rings. Saved by the bell. I walk over to my landline and answer. “Hello?”

“Is Scott there?” Nic whispers into her end of the phone. “Am I disturbing anything?”

“Never,” I say, maybe a little too brightly. “We’re just drinking champagne, going through your gifts, and figuring out which ones you won’t miss.”

“Ginger just called me,” Nic tells me in full panic mode. “She got engaged tonight.”

The guest who pulled the ring charm.

Shit.

“And it’s all my fault!” Nic continues. “If I hadn’t tried to get Mel hitched, none of this would have ever happened. I wouldn’t be checking my birth control pills to make sure the pharmacy didn’t accidentally switch them with mini SweeTarts, you wouldn’t be doomed to a life of hard work, and Karen wouldn’t be avoiding going to Oklahoma City next week.”

“Oklahoma City?” I ask.

“She got the tornado charm,” Nic tells me, her voice getting more anxious and high pitched. “Which was supposed to go to Samantha to guarantee a whirlwind life. I fucked everything up.”

“Okay, take it down a notch,” I advise. “Don’t go off all half cocked, it’s just a coincidence.”

“It’s not a coincidence, and I am completely cocked,” Nic insists, sounding more frightened than the babysitter in a slasher movie. “It’s happening.”

“You say that with a tone of voice like we’re in the middle of Armageddon.”

“I can’t have a baby right now,” Nic says. “I have no job.”

I resist the urge to point out that she’s thirty-two, has found the love of her life— the holy grail for all of us singles out there still searching— and that he has money and wants to fill their house with their laughing babies. Right now is the perfect fucking time to have a baby. I have a job— they’re not all they’re cracked up to be.

Instead, I cover the phone’s mouthpiece and whisper to Scott, “I need cake.”

“I’m on it,” he says, standing up. “Fridge?”

“Cake stand on the counter,” I tell him.

He makes a show of closing his eyes, shaking his head, and opening his eyes again. “Cake stand? Another thing women don’t really need.”

I playfully push him. “Just get me cake.” Then I turn my attention back to Nic. “No, I’m still here. Just talking to Scott for a second.”

“I would not be a good mother,” Nic insists. “Even the idea of changing a diaper disgusts me. The Teletubbies bore me. I’ll admit, I like Sesame Street, but a Snuffleupagus fan does not a mommy make.”

I sigh. “Are you still taking your pills?” I ask her.

“Religiously. I’m starting to wonder if they come in extra-strength.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” I assure her. “I’m not saying that I believe in the magic of the charms. But even if I did, maybe the carriage just symbolizes that you’re about to have children in your house part-time. Maybe it’s just about the girls.”

Nic takes a moment to consider that possibility. “Yeah, it could be that, I guess . . .”

As Nic continues talking, I watch Scott in the doorway of my kitchen. Man, he is so cute. And he’s here with me on a Saturday night. To watch wedding movies. Why won’t I make a move?

“Malika’s calling for me to read to her,” Nic says, “I gotta go. Any chili pepper hotness going on?”

“Not yet,” I admit. “But the night is young, and he’s still sober. Give me time.”

Nic laughs. “Remember, it’s that or you have to revert to your original shovel.”

“Thanks for the incentive.”

“I love you,” Nic tells me.

“Love you too. Bye.” I hang up the phone just as Scott appears with two slices of chocolate cake. “I cut big slices, as there really is no such thing as too much cake,” he says, as he hands a massive slice to me.

“A man after my own heart,” I (half) joke as I take the cake and settle in on the couch to take a huge bite.

Scott sits down next to me. “Who was that?”

“Nic. She’s a little stressed.”

“Cold feet?” Scott asks, as he takes a bite of cake.

“No. It’s silly, really. We just played this game where—”

“Ow!” Scott yelps, grabbing his mouth. He sticks out his tongue and pulls something silver out of his mouth. “What the . . .”

The charm is not attached to a ribbon, and I can’t see which one it is. Scott opens his hand to examine it. “There’s a heart in my cake.”

The heart charm: the next one to find true love.

Chapter Four

Melissa

I hate to be a bad friend, but really, is there any woman over the age of sixteen who actually likes going to bridal showers? I mean, besides happily married pregnant women who can gloat, and tell us in excruciating detail how their husbands proposed.

I’m sitting with my boyfriend, Fred, in a ridiculously romantic restaurant, with an incredible view of the city lights. He looks positively dapper tonight: his swimmer’s body looks fantastic in his new navy-blue suit; his brown eyes sparkle as he tells me a story about his day, and he seems to be in a really good mood. We’re having lovely wine and fantastic sushi. But instead of focusing on what I do have (a boyfriend who showers me with romantic dinners), I am paying attention to what I don’t have (a ring on my finger).

I can’t believe Ginger got the ring charm. Of course she’ll be the next one to get married. She’s one of those beautiful women who always has ten doe-eyed suitors doting on her at any given moment. Women like that don’t need to force the issue of marriage— it’s just part of the natural course of things for them. Like having exactly one boy and one girl, so you don’t miss out on the experience of parenting either one. And being supported by your husband if you choose to quit your job to go be a mom for ten years. And by that I mean supported both financially and emotionally— like having a guy around who loves you enough to want to have kids with you.

Fred doesn’t want kids. Or at least not with me. I’m a high school calculus and physics teacher, and any time I mention kids, he counters my hints by pointing out that boys with mothers who are freakishly good in math have a much higher incidence of autism and Asperger’s.

Which might be true. I wasn’t the easiest kid to raise, and maybe these days I’d be diagnosed with one of those disorders. I have to force myself to look people in the eye— I hate doing it. Always have. That’s a sign of both Asperger’s and autism. Plus I have a high IQ: 177. That’s frequently another sign.

Fred’s laughing as he finishes his story about someone at his law firm. (He’s a divorce lawyer. Which might be why he’s so anti-marriage.)

Instead of laughing with him, I’ll admit I’m kind of in my own world tonight. Fred takes my hand and asks me sweetly, “Are you okay? You seem . . . distant.”

“Sorry,” I say, sad but trying to cover.

Should I tell him about the ring charm? Ruin a perfectly good evening by bringing up marriage again? Maybe. I mean, honesty is supposed to be the cornerstone of a good relationship. Why shouldn’t I let him know how much his actions are hurting me?

I chicken out. “I was just thinking about how happy Nic and Jason looked earlier today. Like they’ve never not known each other. Pretty amazing after only one year together.”

Fred starts chuckling. He says playfully, “Here it comes.”

I know very fucking well what he means, but I still ask in irritation, “Here what comes?”

“Oh, isn’t marriage wonderful?” Fred says in a dreamy voice. “We should think about getting married. We’d have the cutest children.”

He playfully touches my nose and jokes, “Trying to give me ideas.”

God, I am so sick of this. I push his hand away from me. “I wasn’t doing anything except telling you how happy they looked.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. Now you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m tired,” I say. “It’s been six years. A girl gets tired after six years.”

Fred gets a pained expression on his face. “Mel, I’m just not there yet.”

“Six years,” I repeat, my voice rising. “When are you going to be there? Seven? Eight? Twenty? Just give me a number, so I know what my options are.”

Fred looks around the restaurant self-consciously, then leans in toward me and lowers his voice. “Honey, please don’t do this.”

I make a conscious effort to keep my voice low, but can still hear myself getting angrier. “Seriously, what is it going to take? What event has to happen that you suddenly realize that you love me, and that you want to spend the rest of your life with me?”

Fred looks down at the tablecloth, and away from me. “I don’t know,” he says sadly. “But can’t we just have a nice evening? Do we have to have this fight again tonight?”

I sigh, too. I hate not getting through to him. He either doesn’t know how important this is to me, or doesn’t care.

And I know exactly what’s going to happen tonight. First, I will have a fleeting thought in my head of how I will live without him. About how I’ll go home, right after dinner, pack my bags, move out of his house, and move back in with Seema. I’ll think about how I will finally have the courage to get on with my life. I’ll daydream that I’ll find a new guy who can make a commitment. Who loves me enough to make a commitment. I’ll imagine what it’ll be like and wonder whether or not I am strong enough to do this— to be by myself after six years. And by the time dessert comes, in my head we’ll be broken up. It will just be a matter of saying it aloud.

And then, over dinner Fred will become the sweetest, most attentive boyfriend ever. He’ll tell me how much he loves me, hug me, passionately kiss me, give me the best sex of my life, and then fall asleep, with me fitting perfectly in his arms.

The next morning he’ll do something incredibly romantic: breakfast in bed, complete with champagne. Or an impromptu trip to Santa Barbara for the day. And I’ll be happy again (for the most part) and feel loved and trea sured (mostly). And I won’t bring up marriage again.

Until the next event happens that breaks my heart.

Fred gently takes my hand. “I have an early birthday present for you,” he says.

Yes—I am an idiot. As he fishes in his pocket, I feel a rushing surge of hope that he will pull out a square-shaped, velvet box.

Instead, he pulls out a travel magazine. “Here. Go to the page with the Post-it on it.”

I flip through to page ninety-seven, where I see a yellow Post-it over an article about Bora Bora, and a picture of overwater bungalows looking out over a large mountain. “It’s beautiful,” I say, confused.

“We’re going,” Fred says, flashing me a wide grin. “For ten days. Tahiti, then Bora Bora. Starting the day after Nic’s wedding. Check out the next page— it shows what our room looks like.”

I go to the next page to see the inside of a bungalow built right over the turquoise-blue water. It is stunning: there’s a high ceiling with a thatched roof, teakwood furnishings, a king-size bed with a fluffy white comforter, and plenty of cushy pillows everywhere. In the step-down living room part of the suite is a glass coffee table that you can flip open to feed the tropical fish swimming beneath.

“You got off work?” I ask him incredulously. Fred works all the time. We haven’t had a vacation together in two years, and even then it was a four-day weekend to see his family in New York.

“I thought I needed to take some time for us to just be alone together and reconnect,” Fred tells me. “As much as I love you, it seems like we’ve been drifting apart lately.”

I smile as I read about ladders that take you from your room right into the warm turquoise waters of the Pacific. “You can swim with dolphins at this hotel?” I ask, happily surprised. I look up from the magazine. “I’ve always wanted to swim with dolphins.”

Fred is clearly excited to elaborate about his surprise. “I’ve signed us up for that. And we’re going to do this picnic on a private island that’s only accessible by boat. Plus there’s snorkeling and water sports. And this amazing gourmet restaurant . . .”

I smile, stand up, and give Fred a big hug. “I love it. Thank you.”

Fred hugs me back. “I love you so much,” he says softly, then kisses me.

I give him another kiss, then sit back down.

Life is pretty good. I look at the pictures dreamily again and sigh. “I’ll bet they have a spa there. Maybe the two of us could get a couple’s . . .”

And then the strangest thing happens. Fred looks over my shoulder, and all of the color drains from his face.

I turn around to see a strikingly beautiful woman staring at him from the maître d’s podium. She is stunning. Looks like Bar Refeali’s way cuter sister.

I turn back to Fred. “What?”

“Uh . . . nothing,” he barely manages to squeak out. “Just a client. I did her divorce a few months ago. I’ll be right back.”

Fred throws down his napkin and quickly rushes up to the woman. She looks beyond thrilled to run into him, quickly giving him a tight hug and moving in for a kiss. I watch Fred pull away from her uncomfortably. He then kisses the woman’s cheek demurely. She looks a little thrown by his reaction— not angry, just puzzled.

Then she sees me. And she’s pissed. Fred gently takes her hand, and the two of them talk. Eventually, Bar looks at me inquisitively, kisses Fred good-bye on the cheek, then leaves the restaurant.

Once she is out of my sight, Fred walks back up to our table, and takes his seat. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce you. She was just leaving. Where were we?”

I stare at him. “You’re fucking her, aren’t you?”

Honestly, I don’t know why I said that. The words came tumbling out of my mouth before I could think about them.

But suddenly I can’t breathe. It’s as though my entire body instinctively knows what’s happening, and my brain is struggling to catch up.

“What?” Fred says, unconsciously looking around the room for a moment. “Why would you say that?”

I take a deep breath, throw down my cloth napkin, and look him dead in the eye. “Fred, do you want to get married or not?”

“Wow,” Fred says, clearly stunned by my outburst. “Because I’m not ready to get married, somehow I’m now cheating on you?”

I’m about to answer him with, “Yes. Why else would a man wait six years, unless it’s to sample what else is out there?”

But before I can say anything, from the corner of my eye I watch a tidal wave of red wine fly past me and hit Fred dead in the face.

I turn to see Bar, the beautiful blonde, with an empty glass in her hand. “Knulla dig! Farväll lögnare!” she spits out angrily at Fred, then turns on her heel and marches away.

I’m stunned. My jaw drops. I want to get up from the table, but my legs are frozen.

Fred begins calmly wiping his face clean. “I guess she didn’t like the settlement I got for her.”

Chapter Five

Seema

“So you’re saying this means I’m about to find my true love?” Scott asks me as he plays with his new charm and smiles so wide that I can’t tell if he’s fucking with me or genuinely thrilled to hear such news.

“I’m saying Nicole thinks it does,” I clarify. “I know it’s completely bogus, but you should have seen how she flipped out when—”

“How do you know?” Scott interrupts.

“How do I know what?”

“How do you know it’s completely bogus? What scientific proof do you have?”

My shoulders drop. “Stop that.”

Scott smiles and shrugs his shoulders. “You just said her friend Ginger just got engaged. Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something.”

I make a point of sighing loudly and rolling my eyes. “There were twenty-three girls at the party today who pulled charms. One of them pulled a charm that coincided with her future. Twenty-two others—twenty-three, if you include your heart— did not. Mel isn’t suddenly going to have a wild sex life with her boyfriend of six years, Nic won’t get pregnant if she doesn’t want to, I’m not going to work any harder at my job than I already have to, and you’re not falling in love anytime soon.”

Scott looks me in the eye and seems to genuinely ask me, “How do you know?”

I cross my arms, irked. “How do I know . . . which one?”

He shrugs and smiles. “Pick one. Any one. How do you know I won’t be the next person to fall in love?”

It’s at that point that I realize— maybe he’s already fallen in love with the girl he just started seeing two weeks ago.

Damn it. Why didn’t I break up with Conrad sooner? Better yet, why didn’t I make my move on Scott sooner? I had almost a fucking year, and I blew it. I should have just kissed him that first night and gotten it all out in the open. Either he would have been interested— in which case I wouldn’t be in this Hell (not even Hell— limbo. At least in Hell, you know who your enemies are), or he wouldn’t have been interested, in which case I could have had him as a coffee friend but never allowed myself to fall for him.

I look at his beautiful face. He’s smiling, and his sparkling eyes seem to be dancing. His lips are pink and plump and sexy, and I desperately want to kiss him. I do. I ache for it. Even though I know it’s no good for me, I will dream about it a hundred times tonight before I go to sleep. I’ll fantasize about the perfect place, the perfect time, how he’ll kiss me back, and how my life will be changed forever.

But this isn’t the perfect time or place. There never has been a perfect time or place, and now that he’s dating someone new, there probably never will be.

Scott jokingly wags his eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx in an old black-and-white film. My eyes narrow, and I eye him suspiciously. “You are totally fucking with me, aren’t you?”

Scott laughs. “Of course I’m fucking with you.” He lifts up his silver heart to inspect it in the light. “I’m constantly amazed that women, particularly intelligent women, believe this crap. When was the last time you heard of a guy reading his horoscope or having his tarot cards read?” He slips the heart into his pocket. “I do want to keep this, though. I have a piece I’m working on that I want to put it in.”