Liar's Guide to True Love (25 page)

The day of The Palace wedding is here, and the morning does not dawn bright and clear. From the moment I get up, woken up by my BlackBerry ringing with a phone call from Gossip Girl Bride, I feel the greyness of the skies. I try to calm the Bride over the phone as she heads to her hair appointment. I speak with the maid of honor to put her in charge of making sure the Bride eats something, since the last thing anyone needs is a fainting bride who forgot to nourish herself because she was so worried about Rain.

I check the weather forecast from three different sources—the Internet, NY1 and network television. All predict the same heavy rain in the morning, followed by scattered showers in the afternoon. This calls for the rare occasion where I need more than my standard emergency case, when I need to pack a toteful of pretty cane umbrellas (I wasn’t lying about those) and white bathsize towels (because you never know when you might need to wipe mud off something). I make a pit-stop to pick up my wedding day surprise for the bride.

When I arrive to meet the wedding party and photographer at the park, the Bride can’t help but smile when she sees me, even though her Louboutin heels are sinking into mud. I’ve brought huge clear and white balloons as fun props for some photos. And they aren’t just any balloons—when I say huge, I mean
huge,
at least twenty-four inches in diameter. Their size makes them an extraordinary visual for any photo, but especially for ones that can use the benefit of genuine happiness on the subjects’ faces. During the last set of photos, the bride and groom release the balloons, and the delight on their faces confirm that those shots will be among the favorites chosen for their wedding album.

After the photo session we all get into limousines to take us to The Palace. The Villard Ballroom is exquisitely decorated, and I put some finishing touches on the table settings and lighting while the Bride finishes primping before the ceremony.

During the reception, I can’t help but think of Nick when the groom decides to toast his bride and reminisce about their early dates together. After making certain I’m not needed for at least a few moments, I decide to call him. I hang up when the call goes to voicemail. But I immediately call back, my mind racing to decide what to say as I wait through each ring. This time when his voicemail answers I do leave a message. “I just called you,” I stammer out, as if his missed calls log wouldn’t tell him. “I didn’t know what to say,” I continue. “I’m at The Palace Hotel tonight…for a wedding.” I lower my voice. “I’m sorry, Nick. I’m so so sorry. Please, if you get this, please meet me. We could meet at the bar after the reception. Around 11.” I hang up, and try to listen to the rest of the toasts, even as I wonder and hope that he’ll agree to come.

At around 10:30 I begin to lose hope. Optimistically, maybe he didn’t get my message. I don’t even want to think about the possibility that he had heard it and decided not to respond. Then at 10:42 I get a text:

I head over to Istana Bar, right off the lobby of The Palace, more nervous than if we’d been meeting for the first time ever. It was a good sign that he agreed to meet me, right? I make myself comfortable in one of their plush armchairs in a corner for two. It’s nice to get off my feet and I could almost
almost
relax if I weren’t compelled to keep checking my BlackBerry for Nick’s last-minute cancellation. I order a gin and tonic to steady my nerves a little, and watch as a few wedding guests stumble out to their own after parties.

I only take a few anxious sips of my drink, as I keep an eye trained on the lobby entrance. Nick (finally) walks in, right on time. He looks around a little to get his bearings. I guess he hasn’t been here before. Normally I’d get up, eager to see him, eager for him to see me. But tonight I wait for him to find me, never taking my gaze from his face, taking as much time as I can to see any signs of forgiveness in his expression or his body language. He’s wearing khakis with Converse sneakers, an untucked button down shirt. His hair is a bit disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through it a lot, as he does now when he sees me. When he gets a bit closer I see he is not clean shaven, with maybe a day or two of stubble. He looks as though he has been working hard, maybe the late nights were not an exaggeration after all. He strides over and takes the seat across from me. No smile. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say back. “Thanks for coming.” A waiter comes to take his order before I can say anything else.

“Dewar’s. Neat.” Nick says to the waiter, who disappears as quickly and quietly as he approached.

I swallow the imaginary lump in my throat. Nick is looking around a little, waiting for me to speak. “Look, can we start over?” I say. He turns to look at me. I stick out my hand. “Hi, I’m Cassandra, and I’m a wedding planner.”

He furrows his brow and cocks his head. “I don’t think so,” he says, not unkindly, but he surprises me nonetheless.

I lower my hand and feel myself blush with embarrassment. The silence would be uncomfortable if not for the ambient noise of more people leaving the wedding reception. The waiter brings Nick his drink, which Nick does not touch. He sits back in the armchair.

I lean over the side of my chair where I had left my Prada on the floor. I take my time, knowing Nick can’t see what I’m doing, giving him just enough time to wonder what I’m up to. I pull the bouquet out of my bag, a leftover from the maid of honor who didn’t want to take it as a memento. I hold it out to Nick. “I’m sorry.”

He takes it and turns it over in his hands, and even he sees the humor in this scene, of a guy holding a bright fuchsia bouquet with rhinestone flowers and trailing trains of ribbons falling over his lap. It’s a bouquet of significant size and weight, ten inches in diameter because the Bride wanted to make sure her best frenemy had a “standout” accessory, that was “almost as nice” as her own, but not quite. Nick laughs, and I laugh with him, mostly from relief. “See? See, this is what I do,” I say. “I make people happy. What’s so bad about that?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Why didn’t you just tell me?” His tone tells me I’m forgiven, that he had likely made up his mind to give us another shot before he came over here. I still owe him an explanation though, I know that.

“I’m sorry I lied, Nick. I really am. I don’t know what came over me. When you said you were so anti-marriage, I just freaked out. I was afraid you wouldn’t like me.”

“Wait, I never said I was anti-
marriage.
I’ll admit, I don’t understand these crazy, expensive weddings, and why women get so worked up about them, but there are a lot of things I don’t understand about women. Doesn’t mean I don’t like them.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, earnestly. “I just didn’t know how to tell you after a while.”

He looks at the bouquet again and chuckles. “Did you come all the way to midtown just for coffee with me?”

“That was pretty stressful, trying to get there on time from my apartment.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I guess you did really like me.”

I lean forward. “I still do.”

Nick puts his hand against my face and traces my cheek with his thumb. “No more lying?”

“No more lying,” I say back in a whisper. He leans forward and kisses me softly on the lips. “I’ve missed you,” I sigh. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve missed you too.” He leans back in his own chair again and looks around. “Working here is better than at Starbucks.”

I smile. “It’s one of the nicer venues, yes. Not my favorite place, but a solid choice for one of the most important days in a girl’s life.”

A group of five or six twenty-somethings from the wedding enter the bar, and our quiet atmosphere is broken. We decide to leave, and he takes my hand as we start walking. This small gesture sends a happy chill through me and I can’t help but beam a smile at him.

“You don’t have to hold that, you know,” I say, gesturing to the (very girly) bouquet that he is now carrying in public.

“What, this?” He holds it against his heart and pauses to face me. “It’s a part of one of the most important days of a guy’s life,” he says teasingly. “I’m keeping it.” He holds it prominently, as we keep walking. A couple of people that we pass by look at us quizzically, and openly, as people in the wee hours of the night will do. Nick just smiles back at them, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be walking down the streets of New York with a bridal bouquet.

“Where are we going?” he finally says after a couple of blocks downtown.

“It’s a nice night. Let’s just keep walking. Maybe we’ll make it to my place.” Thirty some blocks might be a lot to some, but for New Yorkers it’s just a long walk.

“This explains all those bride magazines in your apartment that time,” he says thoughtfully. There are lots of things to piece together now.

“I wouldn’t be this good without research. Are you relieved that I’m not planning my wedding to you?” I laugh.

He just smiles and pulls me closer to put his arm around me. “Maybe.”

I continue to tell him about my job, the true explanations for some of my seemingly bizarre past behavior. I tell him about some of my zanier weddings, of Bridezillas
and
Groomzillas, the latter of which he does not believe exist. And I admit he is not at all judgmental like I feared he would be. He’s actually interested—interested in my vendor management, amazed that I do most events singlehandedly, says I must have amazing contacts in the creative world of designers and photographers. He even sounds, dare I say it, impressed.

Before we know it, we are at my building. “Can I come up?” he says, casually. And then as if realizing how
suggestive
this could sound, he rushes to clarify. “I mean, to talk. I’ve missed talking to you. We don’t have to rush back into—anything.”

“Of course,” I say, and I mean it. “Stay as long as you want. I’ve missed talking to you too.”

We get inside my apartment and he finally puts the bouquet down as I get us some glasses of water. “How much does one of these things cost anyway?” he asks.

I love that he is curious about my job. “That one was about two hundred dollars.” His eyes widen in surprise, but he’s still not being negatively critical. “The rhinestones are extra special!” He laughs and shakes his head. “Actually, the flowers are my favorite part to plan. So many choices of color and texture, they can really set the mood for an event.” A comment like this would have earned nothing but a glassy stare from most guys.

Nick doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s how I feel about lighting on most projects. Shape and position of windows or any type of light source has a long-term effect on the entire space.” He takes a gulp of water, not realizing he has just made me fall for him even harder than I was already.

We sit on the sofa to just enjoy each other’s company. Nick relaxes after a rough week at work, where morale has been in the dumpster because everyone is worried about layoffs in this business climate. I’m enjoying the fact that I don’t need to rush around to hide my Bridal binders. He rubs my shoulder and kisses my temple softly. My landline rings, but I don’t plan on answering. The machine picks up, and Nick chuckles. “I can’t believe you still have a landline. Your voice is cute on the machine.”

I hear my mother’s voice, talking to my father. “It’s not too late, I’m just leaving her a message,” she is saying. Then into the receiver, she comes across loud and clear. “Oh. Hello? The machine’s on? Cassandra? Honey, I tried your cell phone and you didn’t answer, so I guess you’re still at your wedding.” Nick and I are both chuckling at her gaffe, and the ludicrousness of us sitting here listening to her rattle to my machine, as if afraid she’ll get cut off at any time.

My mother continues. “But I wanted to call you tonight because Emma and Robert are coming for brunch tomorrow and I thought it might cheer you up to come too. Around 11, and I’m making scones, and you should bring Kevin. Okay, darling, if I don’t hear from you in the morning, I’ll just assume you and Kevin are both coming. Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty, and I’ll tell Daddy to be on his best behavior.”

Nick notices me stiffen, but he doesn’t move his arm from around me. Absolutely no chance he didn’t hear that. I feel like I’m in one of those teen movies where every cliché happens. “Somehow I don’t think Kevin is your strictly platonic, gay best friend,” he says flatly.

I hold on to his hand and look him in the eye. “He’s my ex. From eons ago—my college boyfriend. There’s nothing between us.” It’s the truth. In my heart it is the truth.

His expression has hardened, but he still lets me hold his hand. “Doesn’t sound so eons ago if your parents are inviting him to Sunday brunch.”

I let out a breath and say it. “I was, I mean, we were, sort of—” He looks at me so earnestly, and I have to say it. “We had a fling recently. I’m over it. I’m over him. I swear.”

“You had this ‘fling’ while you and I were dating?” Nick needs to clarify. I don’t blame him.

“He and I had a lot of history, a lot of baggage. It’s taken me a while. But I swear to you, he and I are done.”

Nick gets up and paces a couple of steps back and forth in front of me. “So while you were supposedly working in advertising and telling me there wasn’t anyone else, you were actually planning weddings and having a fling with your ex-boyfriend. A serious enough ex-boyfriend to be going with you to a family brunch. Did I get all that right?” He clenches his jaw, and as bad as all this sounds, it is still better than him walking out on me.

“Yes. That’s all right.” I go to take his hand but he moves away. “I’m sorry, I lied. I didn’t know if you liked me, and Kevin called me out of the blue one day.” My voice trails off, realizing just how
weak
I sound. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. It’s over with him. I don’t know what else to say.”

“I don’t know either.” He doesn’t say it angrily or sadly, just—flat. I can’t tell how he feels. “Look, it’s late. I probably have to go into work tomorrow. I should just go.”