Cold Feet (4 page)

Caro Moon, née Rigazi, grew up in a family of northern Italian blonds, which made them one of the strangest families on a very homogenous block, or in their case the Marconi Plaza in South Philly, my ancestors' choice of enclave. They stood out even more because of their constantly drunk dad, whose stumbling figure wasn't
that
outrageous a sight in their part of town, but whose tendency to carry a knife while inebriated set him apart from his peers. Growing up in South Philly, the oldest in a family of five, with a father who made frequent weekend “business trips” to the drunk tank couldn't have been easy, which probably has a lot to do with how my mother is today—cold, aloof, and instantly disgusted by the smell of gin.

Once we were thankfully off the topic of my mother, Liv and I spent the next hour talking about how lululemon's pants
actually
changed the shape of your butt, gossiping about our mutual friends—namely, which Berkeley grads had hooked up lately and which high school friends were newly engaged—and conducting an intense debate about what to wear that evening. I wanted to save our cuteness for the vacation, while Liv insisted that she was already on hers. But the whole time we debated whether it would be annoying if we
both wore hats, I felt a sense of anxious expectation lurking in the back of my mind, threatening to take over the second I let down my guard. I was pretty sure that Liv could smell it on me—something was off. A few times I caught her looking at me closely in the mirror as she restraightened her hair and I attempted to tame my locks with something that promised “beachy waves,” but delivered something that was more seaweedlike.

“My hair is out of control. I look like someone's crazy shut-in aunt.”

“No, you don't.” Liv laughed. “It's sticking up a bit in the back but I can fix that.”

As she untangled my hair, I could tell Liv wanted to ask me what was going on, her best-friend senses working overtime. I felt the words on the tip of my tongue a couple times, but physically stopped them from rolling out. Besides, what would I say?
I'm scared to marry Sam. What's up with you?

To be fair, marriage as a concept itself was a bit lost on me. When I got engaged I felt a bit like I was entering an anthropological study. I felt like saying to my single friends, I know, it seems crazy to me, too, but I'll infiltrate the natives and report back. It's not that I thought I was above the institution, or that it was antiquated or too sexist—although my Feminist Legal Theory professor could probably make a proper argument that it was, involving terms like
espousal rights framework
that I pretended to understand all semester. It was more about the fact that I'd never really pictured it happening to me. I couldn't imagine myself in the cupcake dress, shyly smiling as I walked down the aisle, or, God forbid, throwing
the bouquet, carefully aimed to hit my most pathetic single friend. At my age I'd been that friend more times than I could count, which was only made more tragic by my lack of eye-hand coordination. This inevitably caused me to miss and the crowd to muse:
No wonder she's not married, she can't even catch
.

It took me a while to pick up that I was the odd man out on this. But after seeing enough romcoms featuring girls asking a Ouija board the name of their husband, and attending countless sleepovers planning my girlfriends' weddings down to the name of the golden retriever who would carry the ring down the aisle—a detail that seemed particularly uncritical at the age of twelve—I figured out I was for the most part alone on this one. It was kind of like when everyone was obsessed with the Backstreet Boys. I thought we were all kidding, a joke that all of America was in on. But when their song came on at the eighth grade dance and everyone screamed bloody murder I realized, alarmingly, that Backstreet was back, all right.

It wasn't that I didn't want to be with Sam, it was more that I was skeptical of the idea of forever. Marriage had always seemed a little like a sham to me, and those who believed in it slightly delusional. Part of me felt like the only reason people were able to get married at all was because the reality of
one person for the rest of your life
is so difficult to picture, they couldn't grasp how truly ridiculous, and nearly impossible, the concept actually is.

I even tried to bring it up with my intended once, but it hadn't gone very well.

“Sam,” I asked tentatively one night, while we were eating
straight from the Whole Foods take-out boxes, him skimming film blogs and me distractedly watching
The Bachelor
, “how do you know I'm the one?”

“Is this a
Bachelor
-related question? 'Cause I don't really understand anything about that show except they bang in the fantasy suite.”

“No.” I laughed, encouraged by his banter to go on, although I probably should have shut the hell up. “I mean, aren't you ever scared? Being with me for the rest of your life? Staying together? Forever?” I looked at him for a response but his face was blank. He was probably suspicious that this was a Girl Trick, so I tried to reassure him. “I'm serious. Doesn't it ever feel like there's a noose around your neck and the second you walk down the aisle, there goes the slipknot?” I sensed that this conversation wasn't going very well, so I tried to turn it into a joke to loosen the tension (so to speak). To say that I'd misjudged the situation was an understatement.

“Nope, I don't,” Sam said, shutting his computer and abandoning our couch nest of blankets and brown recyclable containers. “Night, Emma. I'm going to bed.” As he walked by me, I tried to pull him back down to the couch to give him a hug.

“Buddy, are you upset?” I said, hanging on his arm. “It's not you, it's marriage in general. I love
you
. You know that. I thought maybe you felt the same way and wanted to talk about it.”

He gave me a look that accurately noted this was bullshit. “It's okay, Em. I'm tired.”

He was quiet for a couple days after that, and I engaged in the typical monkey dance of trying to make your mate less mad at you
without actually addressing what's wrong. Eventually everything smoothed over and we went back to normal, but I still felt bad every time I thought about it.

The uncertain feeling still hadn't gone away. It wasn't about Sam, exactly. It was more about me, and the decision to commit my life to one direction, closing off all the others. And even more than that, Sam's decision to choose me. What if he changed his mind as soon as I got used to the idea? I found it utterly terrifying. Which led me back to marriage in general. How was it possible to ensure that such an unlikely plan would succeed?

Still, I wasn't ready to talk about any of it. Once I told Liv, it would be real. We would have to talk about it. And what if, after we analyzed it, I didn't feel better? Then what? No, all I wanted out of tonight was tapas, sangria, and some hilarious pickup lines from Dante that Liv and I would quote for years to come. That, at least, was foreseeable.

CHAPTER 4

“E
mma Moon!” Dante jumped up from his seat and wrapped me in a bear hug as Liv and I entered the bar. “One week until you're my best-friend-in-law.”

Dante was always incredibly sweet to me, most likely because we never had and never would have the opportunity to hook up.

“And of course, the gorgeous Olivia, in from the big city, I presume. How are you, darling? What can I get you two to drink?” Turning to Liv and giving her a kiss on both cheeks that each lasted a split second too long, he was instantly back in player mode.

After hugging Sam hello, Liv and I made our way around the high-top table and sat on bar stools in the crowded restaurant, Gjelina, hers next to Dante and mine next to Sam. The place was packed. It was the best restaurant in Venice, which meant long
waits, incredible food, and frighteningly attractive hostesses. I loved it. I'd been going there for years, since I first moved to town and Val, one of Sam's producers, took me there.

I pushed her from my mind as soon as she entered it. After Sam sold his movie and introduced us, Val became my first friend in L.A., before she'd casually dismissed me from her life, quit her job, and moved to San Francisco to work as an executive at Gilt City without even telling me, presumably suffering the same Emma Moon disillusionment my mother had.

I brought myself back to the present and tried to adjust my skirt to hide the hideous pancake my thighs became when met with a tall chair with no footrest. Sam, however, didn't seem to notice. He was focused on my face, leaning in for a kiss, his adorable half smile just a few inches away. I leaned in and felt the same jolt of electricity I did every time his lips touched mine.

Sam looked the same now as he did on the softball field the day we met four years ago, happy to see me, relaxed, and ready to make me smile. He radiated an aura of comfort in his skin that made those around him feel comfort in theirs. I think they call that zen. Yet, as he reached out to pull me in for one more hug, I felt jittery, a passive guest in my own body, watching myself tumble down a path of uncertainty.

Sam gave me a funny look and cocked his head to the side. I shook my head to indicate that everything was fine and rejoined the conversation, which had moved to Liv's new apartment in New York, accompanied by an amusing rant from Dante about rent control in Los Angeles. Sam ordered a bottle of Sangiovese and some small plates for us to share, the arrival of which calmed
me. If I relaxed and breathed, I told myself, everything was going to be okay.

“How goes the moviemaking, Dante?” Liv asked. Dante was a producer, primarily of Italian comedies that never made it to the United States, but it allowed him to live a life of leisure and work five months out of the year.

“Wonderful. I'm off to Europe for a few weeks to raise money for a new film,” Dante answered smoothly, but genuinely. His life really was that fabulous.

“How does that work exactly, you just kind of stroll down the cobblestone streets asking for donations?” Liv teased.

“Pretty much,” Dante said, smiling at her. “Last stop is Croatia, which I've heard is incredible. How can it be that I've never been?” Liv looked at me for direction, but I couldn't tell what the answer should be, so I gave a sort of noncommittal nod. This appeared to be the correct response because Dante continued. “Then I'll be back here looking for somewhere to live now that Sam's finally moving out.”

“You can't keep your house?”

“Nah. What's the point? I'm only in town for half of the year, and, like this guy, I'm thirty-two years old. I'm getting to the age where I should probably have my own place anyway.” I knew that, like me, Liv was fighting her inclination to vehemently agree, so we stayed quiet while Dante looked around poetically and his hybrid accent deepened. “It's the end of an era, though. Sam and I have lived together since uni.”

“Wow, how many decades is that now?” We loved to make fun of Dante and Sam for being older than us even though in reality it was only by a few years.

“Ha. I'm a mere spring chicken, my dear. It has been almost ten years living together, though. Can't believe I'm losing my flatmate.”

“Don't think of it that way. You're not losing a roommate, you're gaining a sofa to crash on,” I said, a quarter meaning it. This was an extremely dangerous statement. When traveling, Dante was notorious for choosing to shack up at friends' houses for months rather than take the time to find a proper Craigslist sublet.

“I don't know about that,” Sam chimed in.

“Emma and I will talk about it.” Dante winked, probably automatically, while the waitress set down a few artisan pizzas.

Don't get me wrong, I love Dante like a brother. His only problem is that he consistently dates nineteen-year-old models whose personalities he doesn't like, and then gets confused when he doesn't like them. My twenty-seventh birthday was spent with Sam, Liv, Dante, and Lila, a nineteen-year-old model/actress who showed up halfway through a day of beers and burgers on the grill. One minute Dante was holding the spatula and carefully adding slices of cheddar, and the next his arm was draped across a shockingly thin brunette, who was eyeing the burgers suspiciously and referring to herself in the third person. “Lila doesn't eat dairy,” she said. Which would have been fine, if any of us had any idea who the fuck Lila was.

Sam and Dante were funny together, like most best friends who've known each other since they were kids. Sam was the chill, funny one, and objectively (if not subjectively) Dante was the gorgeous one. But despite his ridiculous success with the ladies, Dante looked up to Sam as if he were still his new sixth grade lab partner, a cool American with an endless supply of Yankees gear.

“Is the honeymoon all set, Sam?” Liv asked.

“It sure is,” Sam answered casually, while simultaneously stealing a crust from my plate. “Tickets have been purchased; rooms are booked. We're good to go.”

“Really?” I said, somewhat surprised.

“Of course, Em. It's in a week.” Sam laughed.

“Sorry.” I squeezed him apologetically. “So, where are we going? Tell me.”

My attempts at cajoling were fruitless as Sam turned back to Liv's questions.

“And how's the writing going, Sam?” she asked.

“It's pretty good. I'm finishing something up right now, which I'm really hoping the studio likes, considering they've tossed the last few versions of my blood, sweat, and tears to the side.” Sam said this good-naturedly, but I could see the crack in his facade. His first movie,
On the Royal Road
, had been a surprise indie hit, but ever since then, Left Brain Productions, which had produced it and had options on the next three, had passed on his projects. There were some potentials here and there, some stuck in various stages of editing, but Hollywood is a fickle beast and the cash infusion from his first movie, which felt like winning the lottery at the time, wasn't going to last forever. He was already running through his savings, which had once felt so hefty.

I started to fall down the rabbit hole of money worries that I had traveled countless times since childhood. What if Sam never sold another movie? What if, as a result, I had to support us forever? Worst of all, what if he felt guilty about this and in turn got a job he hated and ended up resenting me?

I abruptly flashed back to an image of my mother and me at the bank when I was nine or so, before there were ATMs on every block. My mom was wearing a blue-and-white-striped sailor shirt and her blond hair was shining down her back. I remember thinking she looked pretty, like she should be hosting a party on a boat, and feeling extremely proud that she was my mother. After a short discussion, the teller politely informed her that she couldn't make the withdrawal with the form she had carefully filled out because her account had “insufficient funds.”

Caro waved the dreadful words away, declaring it a silly mistake, and said she would come back the next day to straighten it out. After she herded me out of the bank, she took me to lunch at TGI Fridays. I was surprised: Eating dinner at a restaurant was a big deal in our household back then, and I didn't remember ever before eating out for lunch. My mom insisted I order the chicken fingers, my favorite, but I could barely choke down a bite. The breaded chicken stuck to my throat as I watched her stir her iced tea anxiously, with a big smile pasted on her face. I was a savvy nine-year-old, plus I knew what
insufficient
meant, having read it in one of my schoolbooks the week before. I'd asked my mom for the definition, and she'd answered “it means there's not enough.” I swallowed hard, a garlicky fry adding to the painful brick of fear in my stomach.

“Anyway, it's all done,” Sam continued.

For a second, I was lost, dizzy from my mental tailspin.

“Although we should shop for some new skis before we leave.”

Oh, right. The honeymoon. He was joking. Not only did he
know how much I hated the cold, he was also aware that my klutziness would translate to certain death on the slopes.

“Emma skiing? That's a scary image,” Liv said. “Em, come to the bathroom with me. I can never figure out where the flusher is in these chichi places.” She wasn't far off. Here it was a pulley system a couple feet behind the toilet, suspended from the top of the stall. I was never sure what look they were going for: Wild West Saloon or ceiling fan chain.

“Okay, what's up with you, girl?” Liv said as we walked away. She flipped her hair to the side to curtain our discussion as we edged past the tables. ”You're acting weird.”

I sighed. “It's complicated. I don't know what's wrong with me. Sam is amazing. I love him. I'm probably just being silly.”

“Yeah, Sam's great, but you're not crazy,” she reassured me like a true best friend. “Getting married is a big deal. You have some good reasons for feeling nervous about it. Plus, it's hard for you to trust people. This may be the first stable guy you've ever dated.”

She was right. Before Sam, I'd always felt much more comfortable dating damaged guys. I found stable guys intimidating. They were mature and communicative and made me look much worse when I went batshit. Dating a damaged guy is like settling into an already unmade bed. You don't have to worry about pulling out the carefully tucked-in bottom sheet or rumpling the pillows, because everything is already all over the place. Your only job is to snuggle under the duvet and try not to worry about the last time the sheets were washed. However, whether it was an accident or a thankful
intervention from the sensible part of my psyche, I fell for Sam. Sam, for whom contentment is a baseline, and self-doubt and anxiety are rare. When Sam said everything was good, he meant it.

Ever since we'd met, I'd observed this odd state of being—Sam's inherent happiness—carefully. One morning several years prior, when he was lost in deep thought, forehead crinkled in concentration over morning coffee, I thought: Here's my chance! He's stressed! Maybe even, God willing, depressed! It's time to make my move.

I gently turned to him and asked what was on his mind, ready to discuss his relationship with his father or examine an existential crisis.

He answered thoughtfully, “I was thinking about bacon.”

“You were thinking about bacon?” Maybe he was contemplating the unethical treatment of pigs in our country. “Um, what about it?”

“How good it is.” Sam turned to me and smiled. The best part was, he probably thought he
was
sharing an emotional moment with me.

“Welcome back to the table, ladies,” Dante said, sounding a bit tipsy, when Liv and I returned from the ladies' room. “You missed the arrival of the sunchokes.”

“What are sunchokes?” Liv asked.

“I have no idea. Just go with it,” Dante answered, refilling each of our wineglasses. “Emma, I know something you don't know.” I looked at him questioningly. “The honeymoon location. Sam told me while you two were off powdering your noses.”