Every Boy's Got One (40 page)

Holly looked happier tonight than I’ve ever seen her. Happier even than the day Brad Toller asked her to the senior prom after she’d spent the entire year just trying to get him to notice her. Seriously. She’s GLOWING. I mean, she’s still pale from having spent the entire day and most of last night throwing up—and her wedding dress is hanging off her, she’s lost so much weight—but tomorrow she’s going to make the most beautiful bride in the universe.

We so did the right thing, Cal and I, perjuring ourselves, etc., today at the consulate’s office.

Now Holly’s drifted off to bed in a dreamy haze, and I just heard Mark come in to join her, and Frau Schumacher seems to have left, and I realize I’m STARVING. I mean, we haven’t eaten since the Hotel Eden this afternoon, so I’m going to forage for food down in the kitchen, then go straight to bed myself, since we have to get up so early tomorrow for the ceremony.

I noticed Cal was pretty quiet tonight, while everybody else was celebrating. I can’t even begin to imagine what was going through his head. That ex-wife of his totally messed him up. I wouldn’t mind running into her in a dark alley someday. I bet I could show her a few things I’ve picked up since living in the East Village, stuff she probably doesn’t run into too much in her suburban kick-boxing class. Really, where do girls like that get off? They take perfectly adequate guys (well, OK, Cal needs work, but I imagine back then he probably wasn’t as much of a pompous ass) and ruin them for the rest of us. That’s just wrong.

Not, of course, that I would want Cal Langdon if he wasn’t damaged goods. Please! The last thing I need is a journalist for a boyfriend.

Although he does look awfully good in a bathing suit—

No! Stop it! I do NOT need to date a modelizer! That is just setting yourself up for heartbreak and many, many pints of macadamia brittle.

PDA of Cal Langdon

 

This is intolerable. I am in Italy, on a warm, moonlit night by a sparkling pool, with palm fronds blowing gently in the evening breeze, a platter of olives and crumbled chunks of Parmesan and a bottle of extremely excellent wine before me, and a woman radiating a very healthy sexuality across from me…

And I’m playing War with her.

What’s wrong with this picture?

What’s wrong with ME? I shouldn’t want this woman. She’s everything I can’t stand… artistic, obsessed with popular culture, set in her ways, American…

And yet…

I want to kiss her.

Maybe it’s the moonlight. Maybe it’s this damned place.

Or maybe it’s because she made me laugh so many times today.

Damn. What’s happening to me? So she made me laugh. Mark makes me laugh, and I don’t want to kiss him. I don’t even like funny women. And I especially don’t like funny artisticwomen.

So why is it that I’m going to kill this kid if he doesn’t get the hell out of here in the next five minutes?

One.

Two.

Three.

He’s still not leaving. He’s telling some story about a comic he loves. Jane is apparently familiar with it, though it’s not her own. It appears to have elves and gnomes in it. Peter is gushing over the fact that the final installment is coming out in only two weeks. Jane, who knows the author, says she’s heard what’s going to happen, but flirtatiously refuses to tell the kid. He is delighted by this, and is begging her. She refuses to divulge what she knows, and lays down an eight. Peter’s just lain down an eight.

War.

She won.

The candlelight brings out the highlights in her dark hair, and makes her eyes shine. Her skin looks like butter…

What is wrong with me? I do NOT want to get involved with this woman. Or any woman, for that matter. I have a book to write. I have to find a place to live. I don’t even have a dry cleaner. I can’t get into a relationship….

OK, I’m giving the kid another five minutes to leave. It’s nearly midnight. Doesn’t he have some computer system he has to go hack into somewhere back home?

Now she’s asking him about Annika. Who the hell is Annika? Oh, the girl at the mayor’s office. The mayor’s daughter, apparently. Peter speaks scathingly of Annika, whom he’s clearly in love with, and who, judging by his insistence that he loathes her, obviously doesn’t return his feelings for her.

I slap down a two. So does Peter.

War.

Oh, it’s war, my boy. In more ways than you know.

Wait. What’s that?

Meowing. The cats are back.

She leaps up and heads into the kitchen to find something to feed them. Peter and I are alone at last.

 

 

 

By the time she returns with a bowl of what looks to be the contents of several cans of tuna, Peter is gone.

“Where’d Peter go?” she wants to know.

And I can’t help but believe that she genuinely doesn’t know.

This is a mystery I’m only too happy to clear up for her.

IS HE INSANE? I mean, I know he thinks I’m silly, what with my “little cartoon” and my too-high heels that I’m always tripping over and the whole “carabinieri” thing.

But it never occurred to me that he might think I’m the STUPIDEST HUMAN BEING ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET.

Because that’s exactly who I’d have to be to fall for his whole “It’s just a kiss, it doesn’t have to mean anything” routine.

But you know what? I’m not going to let him. Ruin the wedding, I mean. He can sulk all he wants tonight, but if he comes downstairs tomorrow morning with anything but a great big happy smile on his face, I will personally give his arm hairs a twist he won’t forget.

Who does he think he is, anyway, Enrique Iglesias? “I just want to kiss you. You’re an an artist. I thought you people were used to living in the moment?”

Whatever!

Apparently he thinks just because I am an unmarried woman of a certain age who lives with a cat, I must be desperate. Or retarded.

Well, I’d HAVE to be pretty desperate—or retarded—to fall into bed with HIM. What, just because he did me (well, Holly and Mark, really) a favor today, I’m going to sleep with him? Because we had a nice lunch and some laughs, I’m easy? Please.

And okay, the guy is truly, almost unbelievably hot. I’ll admit I was checking out his hands as we played cards. They’re all big and sinewy, exactly the kind of hands a girl wouldn’t mind roaming all over her body.

And he can be charming when he puts his mind to it. Even kind of funny.

And he’s definitely intelligent. At least, about stuff other than women. And he can be funny, like today at the consulate, with Rhonda.

And he’s nice to cats—when he thinks no one is looking.

But I’m sorry, my days of sleeping with guys just because they happen to have nice hands and can tell a funny joke are OVER. Because you know what that gets you? Another night with a hot, funny guy who’s not going to be the least interested in going with you to your office Christmas party or splitting the Con Ed bill—much less actually have the money to pay half the rent, even though he’s totally moved in.

I’m over that. WAY over that.

You think that’d have been clear to him from the beginning of our relationship. I mean, I know I’m an artist, a word that to him is obviously synonomous with “wacky madcap.” But could I really have struck him as the one-night-stand type? Isn’t it obvious, from the way I keep bringing up Ladyhawke and the fact that hawks and wolves mate for life, that I am interested in monogamy and commitment?

Apparently he didn’t get the message. I mean, I come out with food for the cats and Peter is gone—kind of suddenly, since we’d been in the middle of a card game when I got up.

So I’m all, “Where’s Peter?” and Cal’s like, “I gave him twenty euros and told him to make himself scarce.”

Me: “You WHAT?”

Cal: “You heard me. About time, too. He’s been keeping me from being able to do this all night.”

And then he took me by the shoulders, and before I had any idea what was happening (no, really, I NEVER suspected he was attracted to me, since he’s done nothing but grouse at me since the moment we first met. Well, except for putting his arm around me, back at the consulate. But that was just for show!), he pulled me to him and started kissing me.

Kissing me! Like we were in a romance novel, or something!

And OK, he’s no slouch in the kissing department. Clearly, he’s had some practice.

And OK, I didn’t exactly hate it. Far from it, actually. All the different parts of me that usually go all melty when someone hot kisses me in a purposeful way went all melty, right on schedule, when he did it.

And I will admit that for a split second, I was all, “Oh my gosh! He likes me! He REALLY likes me!” and I entertained a quick tiny fantasy of us strolling down Second Avenue hand-in-hand and going to Veselka’s for blintzes and me introducing him to The Dude. And I started to kiss him back….

But then I realized… that fantasy? It will never, ever come true. Because he doesn’t believe in love, much less marriage, and he will NEVER go to Veselka’s for blintzes with me, much less stick around to meet The Dude—at least not long enough to form a meaningful relationship with him. And how long can I keep introducing The Dude to men he isn’t ever going to see again? He’s very sensitive, and when he does bond, it’s forever. He wouldn’t finish his Friskies for days after Malcolm left.

And then Holly’s voice chimed into my head with You’ve got to start thinking about the future, and date people who will actually stick around for a change, and I remembered that bride we saw outside the church in Rome, and how happy she looked, and how her dad was beaming down at her—

And right then and there, I realized something that I don’t think I’ve been willing to admit to myself since college, or whenever it was that the idea of getting married no longer seemed as cool as it had back during those Barbie games in fifth grade:

And that’s that I WANT to get married someday. I do. I really do. I want the bouquet and the red carpet and the gown and the veil and the weepy dad and the flower girls and till death do us part.

So what was I doing kissing some guy who thinks marriage as an institution ought to be abolished?

So instead of wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him back, as I’m sure he was expecting me to do, and as I have to admit I really did WANT to do—at least, my BODY wanted me to—I put my hands on his chest and shoved.

He staggered back into the metal lawn chair he’d been sitting in, and just sat there blinking up at me, like, “What gives?”

But before he had a chance to say anything, I went off.

Me: “What do you think I am? An idiot? I am NOT sleeping with you.”

Cal: “Um… it was just a kiss.” Me: “You don’t believe in love. You think it’s all a result of phenyl… phenyl… whatever it is.”

Cal: “Phenylethylamine. And, not to be pendantic… but it was just a kiss.”

Me: “But unlike you, I do happen to believe in love. And marriage. So what’s the point? One night, and then what? I become another name in your Blackberry. No, thank you.” Cal: “Pardon me if my memory is the one at fault here, and, keeping in mind that it was, again, just a kiss, didn’t you e me not long ago that you were in no rush to get married or have children because you wanted to concentrate on your career?”

Me: “I might have. But I want to get married EVENTUALLY. So why in God’s name would I fall into bed with some guy who’s totally against the very idea of marriage? What’s going to happen tomorrow morning, when you can’t even make eye contact, and are avoiding me? And how about on the plane going back to New York, when we have to sit by each other again? And when we get back to Manhattan? Are you going to call? Am I ever even going to hear from you again?”

Cal: “Apparently, you’ve already decided that you aren’t. Even though it was, I’d like to point out for a third and hopefully final time, just a kiss.”

Me: “You know what? Holly’s right. I’ve got to grow up. I’m not sleeping with any more inappropriate men. No more ski boarders. No more musicians. And certainly no men who hate the very idea of marriage, and who have no intention of pursuing a long-term relationship with me.”

Cal: “You got all of that out of one kiss? I mean, about my not having any intention of pursuing a long-term relationship with you?”

Me: “Make fun of me all you want. But you know what? I’d rather go to bed with Paolo than with you.”

Cal: “Who’s Paolo?”

Me: “You remember. Of Paolo and Rhonda. Back at the consulate.”