Liar's Guide to True Love (24 page)

“No you don’t,” he says, in a tone that forces me to turn to him. He speaks as if there aren’t four hundred other people a few feet away, as if we aren’t in a busy hallway, where guests are passing through, laughing, part of the revelry. I look at him and I can’t discern the expression on his face. Is it chiding? Is it disappointment? I straighten my shoulders. I love my job, I think to myself. I give people some of the happiest memories of their lives. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. He looks at me as though waiting for me to say something. I see his date several feet away. She has stepped out to make a phone call, I guess.

“Did you need something?” I ask. “The men’s room is over there.”

Nick tilts his head and furrows his brow. Not the response from me that he was looking for, and even as I say it I know I am making no sense at all. “I didn’t think ad execs had time to moonlight as wedding planners.” His tone is flat, mildly annoyed.

“So I didn’t tell you what I do for a living. You didn’t tell me you were bringing another date.” Okay, okay, it sounds weak and I know I’m going on the defensive here. Saying I’m sorry just doesn’t seem good enough, but now just isn’t the time to explain—especially when I’m not sure how to explain.
I just wanted you to like me
sounds so hollow on its own, pathetic even, standing here at a wedding of a self-centered bride who Nick clearly disproves of.

He shakes his head at me, definitely annoyed now. “Sheila’s a friend. We ran into each other outside and decided to come in together since we figured we would both be at the singles table.” He sighs, then says in an angrier tone, “I do have friends, Cass, maybe because I don’t lie to them.”

“I didn’t—” I can’t even finish because his angry glare cuts me off.

“This entire time,” he grits through his teeth. “You met me in the lobby of your office? You’re on a photo shoot today?” He takes a breath and his anger dissipates into disappointment. I almost wish for the anger back. “Don’t grasp for a reason to get angry with me. You’re the one who ruined this for us,” he says sadly.

“I’m sorry,” I stumble. “I didn’t mean—”

Nick turns away from me and walks out.

I go through the motions absent-mindedly for the rest of the reception. The bride and groom get into their rented Rolls that will take them to their hotel. I make sure the parents of the bride pack all the gifts into their SUV. No personal items remain in the bride or groom changing rooms. A handful of guests request my business card either for themselves or for their engaged friends, and even this doesn’t cheer me up.

I keep checking my BlackBerry, even in the cab home, willing a text message or missed call from him. I don’t know why I bother, though. I wouldn’t call me either.

When I get home I take a long shower to try and relax. I even get out the exfoliating sea salts that I bought on a whim from L’Occitane, and never used because I never found the luxury of time. The upside of Nick walking out on me, I tell myself, is that my skin has never been smoother. And since I’m no longer planning to rush out to meet him tonight, there are all sorts of things I have time to do, such as catch up on my television watching.

I sit at my computer and take a cursory glance at my email. No new messages. I turn on the TV and flip through channels. I watch the Style Network for a while, then flip to Food. Oddly enough I avoid shows about weddings, especially the reality ones that feature wedding planners. I settle on SOAPnet and open a bag of chips in front of an old episode of
90210
—the original series featuring early 1990s fashion in all its glory. It was must-see TV when I was in junior high school, and I am grateful for the nostalgic escape it provides. Apparently there is a
90210
marathon on, and it has become the highlight of my evening.

Almost the entire bag of Doritos is gone and I choose to indulge in the absolutely disgusting practice of licking my fingers clean of artificial cheese dust. No one is here to witness this. And no one will be here later to see the neon orange residue on my fingers either. I open a can of Pepsi and drink half of it at once. Another episode of the Kelly/Brenda/Dylan love triangle fades into another.

My cell phone rings with my mother’s ringtone. I sigh and go to answer it. I might as well punish myself. As soon as I answer she immediately launches into a story about another adult offspring of an acquaintance, whose company was just acquired by Amazon.com and who now has ten million dollars in stock. “Even in this economy,” she says with joy, “some people are doing very well.”

“Mmmm hmmm,” I reply absently. How did anyone think Luke Perry’s sideburns were cool?

“What’s the matter?” my mother asks, her tone indicating a sudden realization that she is no longer calling to talk at me.

“Well, I don’t think I can be a femme fatale when a guy just walked out on me.”

“That’s not very gentlemanly to walk out on a lady.”

One thing about my mother, is that she knows how to be on my side when it counts. “It’s kind of my fault though,” I admit to her. “I kind of lied to him about being a wedding planner.”

“Well why on earth would you do that?” she says in the tone that indicates true bewilderment about why one of her daughters would want to be anything but exactly who she is. I tell her the whole story. Well, I don’t tell her the
whole
whole story, just the edited, G-rated version. “I don’t know why on earth you would want to date someone who you couldn’t be
yourself
with,” she scoffs.

“That’s just it, Mom, I felt like I could be myself, and well, sometimes a little better.” I roll my eyes at her “you’re just wonderful the way you are” sentiment. “I mean, he pushed me to try new things.” I tell her about trapeze school.

“Well that just sounds dangerous,” she says. “I’m glad you didn’t tell me about that before. There is nothing wrong with
not
going to trapeze school.”

“I didn’t feel like I needed to analyze every little thing he said. He was just—honest.”

“There must have been something holding you back since you couldn’t be honest with him. This is all just for the best, I’m sure of it. I didn’t even know this fellow, or his family.” Okay, just for clarification, my mother isn’t really a snob. She’s just always liked the idea of me dating someone whose parents she knows, or has at least met a few times. She then proceeds to tell me how the son who just sold his company is single, but he lives in California.

“When I’m ready to be set up I’ll let you know,” I tell her. We hang up soon after so that I can wallow on my end and so that she and Dad can go on an evening walk.

Telling the story to my mother gives me the guts to rehash it again. I don’t exactly want to gather the girls for a pity party, but I don’t exactly need a moralistic “I told you so” either. So I call Kate, the person I think will appropriately berate and support me at the same time. She doesn’t disappoint. She sympathizes that a catch like Nick seems to have eluded me. She also tells me about a girl he dated in college, before Nicolette, who cheated on him. How he became a real stickler for honesty after that.
Now she tells me.
She tells me I should have told him the truth as soon as we had sex because “men will forgive anything after a good blow job” and really he isn’t as judgmental as I was making him out to be.

“Why couldn’t you give me this advice before?” I moan.

“Would you have listened?” Good point. “Besides, it’s not my place to tell you what to do about your love life. That’s Suzanne’s job.” Kate chuckles.

“Oh yes, and she is definitely Team Kevin, so her advice would have been to just end it with Nick.”

“See, you girls somehow think you need to choose! The beauty of dating more than one guy is that when one bombs out, there’s another one in the wings. Have I taught you nothing?” I am so grateful for the lighthearted turn of the conversation. This is exactly why it was Kate I called. Of course, a few laughs still doesn’t keep me from sliding right back into a funk almost as soon as we get off the phone.

I break into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s with a spoon straight into the carton. This is so stereotypical of me, I know, but really, who
couldn’t
use some rich Cherry Garcia as a pick-me-up on a summer night? Just because I thought I might enjoy this with Nick doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it on my own. There is no reason, no reason at all to limit myself to just a few spoonfuls either. Or even to limit myself to half the pint. The benefit of not having a date is that I can have the entire pint to myself. And so I do.

The sound of a text message coming in jolts me away from SOAPnet, but of course I’m disappointed that it is just Emma. A euphoric-sounding Emma, or at least as euphoric as one can get over text message:

I text back a meager two words:

The next morning

Wedding Planning Tip: You need to embrace the fact that there are some things that you just can’t control—acts of God, things that already happened. You can’t turn back time, but you can control how to handle what has happened.

The next morning I feel like hell. All that junk food certainly takes its toll—probably the worst thing about not being in my twenties anymore is my inability to abuse my body’s system without ramifications. All I want to do is throw my covers over my head and not come up for air. It’s Sunday, my pity party can continue. I replay the look on Nick’s face when I pathetically accused him (gasp!) of the crime of sitting with his friend at a wedding. When did I become the crazy jealous girl?

The pigeons are roosting on my windowsill again, as I can tell from the incessant cooing. On good days I think of them as a touch of nature in the city. On bad days they are rats with wings. I throw a section of rolled-up old newspaper at the rats, who fly off even though the paper fell a foot away from the sill and they were perfectly safe behind storm glass. I decide to get out of bed before they return.

I decide to punish myself by checking messages. I really punish myself by doing this before coffee. Nothing from Nick, an email from next week’s Bride with the subject: URGENT.

This Bride is a bit prone to exaggeration, like many are in the final countdown to their Big Day. I open the message nonetheless—I may as well do my job since I don’t have a personal life to interfere with it. She is concerned about Rain. I check the seven-day forecast for myself.

The plan for Saturday is to take afternoon photos in Central Park, followed by the ceremony and reception at The Palace Hotel. Yes,
Gossip Girl
fans,
that
Palace Hotel. And yes, I have dubbed her GG Bride because she chose this location based on her “fave TV show.” True to form, her emails sound like she could be on the show herself:

I reply with what I always tell brides about rain. That there is nothing they can do but be prepared, and that is what they hired me for.

She replies right away:

I’m glad someone feels better, because it certainly isn’t me. I refresh my inbox again. And again, just for good measure. Then I finally go to make myself some coffee with some too-old coffee grounds from the fridge because I don’t feel like I even deserve a Starbucks today. While I’m at it, I pop a couple of pieces of bread into the toaster oven. And I watch it toast, allowing further self torture as I replay Nick’s words, then mine. Why did the Bride have to commend me so publicly? If only she hadn’t done that. If only I used a pseudonym for my business. Clearly this line of thinking is not at all productive. Here I am watching bread toast on a summer Sunday, and I only have myself to blame.

You ruined this for us.

All the other times I inadvertently lied to my dates, it never mattered. Not really, because there usually wasn’t even a second or third date. How was I supposed to know things would go so well with this one? Kate is right of course. There were opportunities to tell him. Lots of them. But that would have required confrontation, and I spend the better part of my life doing whatever I can to avoid confrontation, or any mishaps that would lead to arguments, frustration, disappointment, or any other unpleasantness.

I eat my toast slowly, staring out my window, watching people walk by below. New Yorkers walk briskly, always in a rush it seems, or maybe they are just keeping pace with others who are in a rush, as if afraid to be the one who holds up others, like the slow car in the left highway lane. I could just stare at the television again, I suppose, but I convince myself that people watching is somehow less of a brain wash. My BlackBerry rings with one of the tones that I reserve for the girls. My guess is that it is Suzanne, because Mia is probably busy and I just spoke to Kate. I check it, and to my surprise it is Mia. “Hey?” I say, wondering if she has some big news about her and David.

“So you’re done living my life I hear.” She is sympathetic, not at all sarcastic or teasing.

“You heard from Kate?”

“She said you’re pretty down in the dumps about it.”

My heart swells a bit. For all her bravado, Kate knows how to be there for her friends, without making me repeat the whole story out loud—or at least knows how to ask another friend to be there for her friend.

“I was so dumb. I wrecked it. He was so mad.” I can barely string the words together.

“It’s awful the way it happened. Have you called him?”

“I can’t. You should have seen his face. He was so mad,” I say again.

“He’s probably calmed down by now. You really like him don’t you? I can tell you do. You should call him.”

“What would I say?”

“The truth. That you blurted out something stupid, and you didn’t know how to take it back. That you just wanted him to like you and were afraid he wouldn’t.”

“You don’t want to call him and tell him for me?”

“You like him right? Do what you do for all your brides who want something for their wedding day. Be the go getter I know you are, and go get your man.”

Mia and I hang up after that. She has a client meeting, and well, what more is there to say after logic like that? I am far from rallying enough confidence to “go get my man” but at least I don’t feel like watching the toaster anymore.