Liar's Guide to True Love (5 page)

Okay, that last bit is a little much for me. “Gee, thanks. I’ll remember how petty my life is compared to yours the next time I’m getting ready for a date.”

“Oh, Cass, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s not like my relationship is
better
than your…your dating life—”

“Thanks, Mia. I didn’t think it was ‘better’ either, but I guess you do.” I get up and start clearing the kitchen counter so that I can avoid looking directly at her. “I am perfectly happy with the way things are going. Not everyone needs a steady man in their lives to feel fulfilled. I have a lot of fun meeting different people and checking out different restaurants.”

“I’m sorry, Cass. Really. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I don’t think you’re petty
or
a princess. I just meant that that carefree lifestyle isn’t for
me
anymore. I just don’t have the
energy
, you know? I’m trying to concentrate on my career, to look a little more long term at my life.” It occurs to me that Mia is sounding like someone’s mother—
my
mother. And that her efforts of trying to convince herself of her lifestyle make me feel like there is nothing for me to feel offended about. “I feel really lucky, you know, that David and I are at the same stages on our lives, even though we’re different ages.”

Well as long as she feels lucky, who am I to judge?

Tuesday night

Wedding Planning Tip: Be sure to go to the restroom
before
you put on the crinoline—it may be your last chance.

Suzanne, Mia and I are at a bar a few avenues over from my place. It used to be that Emergency Chick Nights were reserved for engagements and major break ups. But Suzanne called the night before, desperate for some female bonding after her fiftieth date off of her latest attempt with an online dating site. When she first started meeting men through a service, she was convinced the Law of Large Numbers would apply. She would be open-minded, agreeing to dates with men whose descriptions she might have crinkled her nose at before. It was only a matter of time and number of dates before she would find someone. Maybe not Mr. Right, but at least Mr. For a Few Months.

The latest disappointment was the third date aftermath with Grant the Oncologist, eleven years her senior. (Yes, multiple dates with the same person count against the Law of Large Numbers). Suzanne determined it was a dead-end because he was apparently too much like her Ex—divorced because he cheated on his wife. He revealed this in the post-Saturday night date email follow up this morning. It was promptly forwarded to the rest of us with a “!!!” as the only text preceding his message. So here we are.

“How could I ever trust someone like that?” Suzanne moans into her Dirty Martini. Now, Suzanne is one of my favorite people in the world. So I feel a responsibility to explain how a brilliant (she’s a doctor), attractive (blond, five foot seven, slender), adventurous (trekked Europe by herself), young (don’t you dare argue) woman finds herself in a position of near desperation when it comes to relationships (or lack thereof).

I met Suzanne during the first month of our freshman year at NYU. She lived down the hall, and was one of those students who was clearly there to “make the most of this opportunity to get ahead in life.” She became That Girl who stayed in to study on the weekends, which was
unheard
of. We were in the middle of Greenwich Village in
Manhattan
for crying out loud! So most people wrote her off pretty soon after school started. But one Friday night when I stuck around the dorm because I had the flu, we bumped into each other in one of the common lounges, and there was something about her quiet wit, and a certain amount of my “this is the first time I’m living in a big city” exuberance that just clicked. And pretty soon everyone got to know us as “Suze and Cass” and we became inseparable.

It took a C on an Organic Chem exam for Suzanne to realize that she couldn’t take college too seriously if she was going to stay sane. And I was certainly no bookworm who was going to let the New York City college experience pass me by. So even though Suzanne never became the one to do the keg stand, or even dance on a bar, it didn’t take her long to come out of her social shell and become a center of our little social circle.

She was also never one to have a crush on upper classmen, or to seem that interested in dating in general. So it came as a surprise to everyone, including Suzanne herself, when she fell madly, crazily, in love with Michael. They met during Senior Week—he was a pre-med like Suzanne, the same year as we were, but he actually stayed that serious until he got into medical school. Once that happened, suddenly he was up for going to any bar, any night of the week. Once they got together, it was like no one else existed, not even me. She didn’t return phone calls, she would blow off plans at the last minute to be with him, and she didn’t even find anything wrong with it. And to be honest, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it either. What’s a couple hours of shopping downtown when she could be with the love of her life? When they were together, they were like this golden couple—both blond, both accepted to NYU medical school, both on their way to becoming successful doctors.

Michael was the first guy Suzanne ever fell in love with. Really, he was the first guy she ever really dated, so she never knew what heartbreak felt like until him. During medical school when he started spending more hours with his “study group” Suzanne didn’t even think to be suspicious. When I think about all the times she had his
lover
over for dinner at their apartment, how
nice
she was to this
girl
(I’m trying to be nice) who was
sleeping with her husband
it still makes me angry. Suzanne never saw signs of the affair, until it was literally in front of her face.

No, she didn’t actually catch them in bed when she came home early, or anything shockingly tawdry like that. But a mutual friend of theirs had been documenting their med school days on video, with the aspirations of selling the story to some reality TV producer and becoming a med school drop out. And it was when Suzanne was watching the video, and laughing at her friend’s newscaster impersonations, that she noticed them. In the background, oblivious to the video camera, lip-locked next to a gurney. So Suzanne tortured herself, like any woman would, watching the tape over and over. In slow motion, pausing at every frame. “It was the way he touched her neck when I knew,” she would tell me later. “That way of curling his hand against her nape. He
cared
about her. That’s when I knew it was over.” Oh, it didn’t end up working out between Michael and that other girl. Apparently Michael
cared
about lots of women. And as he progressed toward his career as a surgeon, the more arrogant he became. They had gotten married a year after they met for the first time. And they stayed married for less than two. Suzanne changed her last name back to Mills before she got her medical license.

A break up like that does different things to different people. To Suzanne, it never lessened her hopes of a “happily ever after” fairy tale life. She still thinks of her medical degree as a back-up plan while she looks for Mr. Right. Really, she only followed through with medical school after her and Michael’s relationship got serious because she had already paid tuition for the first semester. But her divorce has certainly made her leery of trusting any man with a history of dating more than just a handful of women, which, at this stage in life, is
every
man.

We are still murmuring the usual clichés of comfort to Suzanne (“he just wasn’t right; there are plenty of other men out there; this is New York City, I’ll bet there’re great guys right in this bar!”) when Kate makes her entrance. And when I say entrance, I mean Entrance. It’s fascinating to watch, really. Men’s heads turn. Their mouths actually stop moving in midsentence to watch her. It’s like something out of a cheesy ’80s movie. It’s not even that Kate is exceptionally beautiful. She is attractive, don’t get me wrong. She’s tall at five foot nine, wavy strawberry blond hair that morphs between a classic chignon for work, and being streaked with temporary pink highlights for play, and she has the body of one who works out on a dedicated schedule. (Okay, I realize that I just described her as exceptionally beautiful, but you’d be surprised at how many women in Manhattan fit this type of description). What is magnetic about Kate is simply that
je ne sais quoi
that every woman hopes for. She has charisma and style that is palpable. She puts together outfits and accessories that you would never think went together until you saw them on Kate. And once she starts talking, she makes everyone feel like they’re a great friend who’s “in-the-know.”

“Sorry I’m late,” she says breathlessly. See, she’s even considerate. “What are we drinking?” A few pleasantries later and Kate reveals that she has invited a man into our midst. I can tell Suzanne is disappointed but she won’t say so. It’s hard to get annoyed at Kate. “It’s just my friend Nick, from college. He called today and I haven’t seen him in ages. And before any of you asks, no, we didn’t sleep together. He’s too
nice
for me.”

“Right, a guy who’s too nice?” Suzanne says bitterly.

“Oh honey, you can’t think everyone is a cheater. Nick was more the serial monogamy type. He and I were two peas in a pod back in the day, pardon the cliché. He never dated anyone for longer than a couple of months. Well, this last girlfriend, I guess. They were so disgustingly happy I couldn’t stand to stay for more than a couple of drinks the last time I saw him. He’s single again, thank God.”

“Sounds like every other man out there, going around breaking hearts without a second thought.” Suzanne again.

“The thing about Nick really is that underneath it all he’s dying to find the right woman, and he just doesn’t waste his time once he figures out they aren’t the one. He just doesn’t
know
that’s what he’s doing.” Kate pauses to wink at someone to her left. “I mean, why else wouldn’t we have slept together in college? I was never his type.”

Two martinis later we are still waiting for Nick but are unable to launch into full-on girl talk mode since his arrival is “imminent.”

“All right, best public bathroom,” Kate says.

Mia narrows her eyes. She’s really thinking about this. “At the top of the list are the posh hotels, of course. J. Crew is next, I think. Clean, and there are always so many people in there that no one notices you’re just making a dash for the toilet.” Sometimes I get such a kick out of how Mia has an opinion on just about everything. And her way of making snap judgments that make life seem so simple.

Speaking of “the toilet,” I excuse myself.

And get on a very long line for the ladies’ room. And I don’t mean one or two girls waiting to check their makeup. There are full on five—
five
—women in front of me, all looking as if they are ready to murder the next one out of a stall.

Twenty dollars a martini and this place can’t afford a bigger bathroom.

Unfortunately for me, I have to go. I mean
I have to go.
I try to act casual. I shift from one foot to another, pretending like I am just impatient and eager to rejoin my date. I pretend to check my watch, as if it’s time that I’m afraid of losing and not control of my bladder.

One man after another goes in and comes out. It’s so unfair. They probably all pee into a trough at the same time.

I resort to unbuttoning not one, but
two
of the buttons on my jeans to relieve the pressure on my bladder. (Luckily I have not adopted the super low-rise fashion). I don’t know if it actually helps, but I am willing to try anything. I rest my arm across my hip so that no one sees.

There are three girls ahead of me. One is telling her friend about the married man she has started sleeping with. The other is trying desperately not to look like she is listening in. I consider telling them that I am pregnant so that they’ll let me go ahead of them. But they look so young that that excuse might entail a lengthy explanation of the restroom needs of hormonal, bloated mothers to be.

Another guy exits and makes his way back to the bar. I’ve had it with the injustice. Urgency makes me bold when the next guy steps out. “Umm, excuse me, but is there anyone else in there?” Damn! Why does he have to be
cute?
He looks around to make sure it’s him I’m speaking to.

“In there?” He points to the men’s room. “No.”

The women stop talking and shoot me the kind of dirty look I might give a twenty-two-year-old who had too many shots and expected her male friends to take her home.

“Well, would you mind waiting here and making sure no one walks in on me?” I am resting one hand on the door frame and fiddling with my earring with the other, trying to make him feel both sympathetic to my need, but not worried that I’ll wet myself right in front of him. (The earring fidget is a nervous habit, but he doesn’t know that.)

He looks me up and down and grins in a way that would have made my knees weak if they weren’t already. “Sure.”

Wow. Maybe I am more unconsciously alluring than I thought. I
had
gone to the gym every day this week. Maybe I’ll buy him a drink. As long as Kate’s friend is joining our party, Suzanne won’t mind one more guy. I could even snag a date out of this. I could wear the Cathy Waterman pendant—a well-dressed guy like him might appreciate the classic yet fashionable design.

And in the second it takes for me to get to the stall, I realize he was grinning at the purple polka-dotted underwear peeking through my unbuttoned jeans.

(Hey, it was supposed to be just the girls tonight, remember? Was I supposed to endure a thong for them?)

Okay, breathe. Maybe he didn’t see my underwear. In my mind I replay our interaction second by second. I look in the mirror as if I am talking to him again. He lowered his eyes. At what angle? I look back and forth from my reflection to the button fly on my Joe’s jeans. Yep. It was the right (wrong!) angle. Did he grin before or after looking down? After!

As I wash my hands I determine a POA—Plan Of Action. Step One: I will politely thank him for waiting. Step Two: I will walk back to our table and completely ignore him. Step Three: I’ll beg off with a headache and head straight out the door. Step Three Plan B: If Nick is already here, I’ll finish my drink and
then
beg off with a headache. It wouldn’t be right to be rude to a friend of a friend. (My mother would be so proud of my propriety).

Are you thinking that the cute, tall, gentlemanly stranger who prematurely saw my underwear is Nick? Of course it is. I realize this when I am halfway through Step Two. When I am fully mortified that he is
following me
. When Kate looks up and says, “Oh, I see you’ve already met! You took so long, Cassandra, I thought you’d fallen in!” And part of me wishes that I had.

The next morning I of course tortured myself by thinking of all the possible conversations that could have occurred after my thoroughly ungraceful exit. (Instead of going with my headache idea, I said I had to get up early the next morning. How dull does that sound!) And since I left the bar at 9:00, I actually am up by 5 a.m.—too early to call Kate and see what was
actually
said about me. I lie in bed, fiddling with the necklace I am still wearing (aquamarine briolette on a sterling silver chain), trying to think of how I shouldn’t care what happened last night. Nick is no one to me. So what if he was cute? He is Kate’s friend, whom she hasn’t seen in a long time, whom I probably will never see again. Since when did I embarrass so easily anyway? Who cares if he thinks I’m a bore who goes to bed early?