Me vs. Me (11 page)

“Gimme a break. It's only been a week and a half.”

I feel a wave of guilt for my upcoming date with Brad. “I know. I just meant…you know.” Why is this conversation so awkward?

“No, I don't know. Have you moved on already?”

I take a second to think about my answer. A second too long.

“There's someone else,” he spits out. “That's why you said no.”

“No, of course not. There was never anyone else.”

“But you've met someone there.”

“It's just a date, okay? Someone asked me out and I said yes.”

“Who is he?”

“You don't know him.”

“I might.”

I almost laugh. Even in my wildest dreams I cannot think of a connection between the two of them. “You don't.”

“Tell me his name. Did you sleep with him?”

“I haven't even gone out with him yet! His name is Brad.”

“Last name?

I pause. “I don't know.”

“You have a date with someone whose last name you don't know?” Now it's his turn to pause. “How am I going to do a background check?”

I let myself laugh. “Come on.”

“I can't believe you're already dating.”

“I'm not dating. I just have one date.”

“How would you feel if I had a date?”

“I'd hate it,” I say, rolling over. “But I'd know it was for the best.”

“I guess I just thought…I was hoping you'd realize you made a mistake. That you miss me. And that you'd call me and say, I changed my mind, I want to marry you. And then you'd come home.”

“That isn't going to happen,” I say softly.

He sighs. “I'm realizing that.”

“I think we were just wrong for each other. I need a different kind of guy. You need a different kind of girl. You know? Someone who remembers where she puts her keys. Someone who remembers to pay the phone bill. And I need someone who is willing to follow me anywhere. To make me number one.”

“Maybe I need someone who would follow me anywhere,” he says.

In the silence that follows, I wonder if that's true. What does Cam need? I mean really, really need?

“I spoke to Lila yesterday,” he says. “I'm stopping by this weekend to pick up my bookshelf.”

“I figured you'd want it back. You should have it.”

“Yeah, well. I gotta go. I'm meeting up with Dan and Joshua.”

“Now don't go picking up any loose women.”

He laughs, sadly I think. “Now that sounds like fun.”

I get a sour taste in my mouth. “Cam—”

“Don't worry, they'd never replace you.”

“Never?”

And then he says, “Not in this life.”

 

It's Friday night in Arizona, and I'm unloading the dishwasher and thinking about my two existences. How can I marry someone in one life who I think is wrong for me in another? How is this even happening to me? Maybe I am crazy. Suddenly I notice a sheet of white printer paper propped up on the stove. Written in red marker on said sheet of paper is this: FIRE!!!!!!!!!!!

“Um, Cam?” He is watching TV in the living room.

“Yes, honey?”

“Why is there a sheet of paper that says Fire on the stove?”

“Eee! Eee! Eee!” Cam says, running over to me.

“What are you doing?”

“Eee! Eee! Eee! It's a fire drill. Eee! Eee! Eee!”

My fiancé has lost it. “What am I supposed to do exactly?”

“Eee! Eee! You may want to get the fire extinguisher. Eee! Eee! Eee!”

“Where is the fire extinguisher?”

“Think, for a second, you see it every day. Eee! Eee! Eee! This is something you should know.” He taps his watch. “Time is ticking.”

I might kill him. “Why are we doing this exactly?”

“Because you had that nightmare about fires, and I don't want you to ever have nightmares again.”

“Interesting.” I vaguely remember mentioning that I had a nightmare about fires. I should have kept my mouth shut. I try to remember if in fact I have ever noticed a fire extinguisher. I might have spotted one in the linen closet. “Is it in the linen closet?”

“Maybe. Eee! Eee! Eee!” He taps his watch again.

I open the linen closet and start rummaging through the towels.

“Eee! Eee! Eee!” He points his chin at the middle shelf.

Oh, there it is. A First Alert kitchen fire extinguisher. I pull it out of the closet. “Do you want me to actually use it on the paper?”

“No, just tell me what you'd do.”

“I'd pull off the top. And then…” my voice trails off until I spot the instructions on the bottle. “I'd hold the unit upright. Then I'd aim at base of fire and stand back six feet. Then I'd press lever and sweep side to side.” I go through the motions as I read.

“Well done!” He kisses me on the forehead. “Although it took you too long to find the extinguisher. It also took you forever to notice the fire—”

“You mean the piece of paper.”

“These are things you should know.”

“Things I should know,” I repeat. I have to admit that Cam's behavior is a bit…weird. He's always been a bit pedantic, but there have never been drills before.

“Yes. If it had a been a real fire, you would have suffocated.”

“But it wasn't.”

“Tomorrow it could be.”

No, it can't. Because tomorrow I'm going to be in New York, on a date with Brad.

Four's a Crowd

T
he sun is shining when I wake up the next morning in New York. I feel a vague sense of nervousness I can't quite place, and then I remember that it's Saturday. Date night.

I'm going out with a man who's not Cam.

I pull the covers back over my head. I can't do this. I am not ready to go out with anyone else. Someone who doesn't smell like Cam. Someone who doesn't laugh like Cam. Someone doesn't wear the same brand of underwear.

It's always weird to find out what kind of underwear a guy sports. I like Cam's low-key boxers. Although some of them are so old, it's embarrassing. I discovered one seriously bent-out-of-shape pair when I was doing the wash. I'm talking frayed elastic, two holes on the crotch part, Cardinals design long-faded. “How old are these?” I'd asked.

“I bought them my last year of high school,” he admitted with a sheepish smile.

“Eleven years. I think it's time to toss them.”

“Never,” he said, stealing them back. “I was wearing them the night I met you.”

Aw.

What if Brad wears tighty-whities? Not that I'm planning on seeing what kind of underwear he's got on. Not tonight. I can barely imagine holding his hand, never mind seeing what he's got on underneath.

Speaking of clothes, what I really need is a new outfit. I have no idea what constitutes a good first-date outfit these days. Skirt? Dress? Black pants and a sexy top? My wardrobe is not quite date ready. I need to go shopping.

The butterflies are a'fluttering.

I wonder how Heather's feeling this morning. For all I know, she crept into my room while I was sleeping and shaved off my eyebrows. Or wrote all over my face. I always hear her slithering around the kitchen in the middle of the night. I jump out of bed and check myself in the mirror glued to the door, which was left by the roomie who lived here before me. If I'm lucky, I won't see my current roomie all day. Maybe she's at school, or the library. I place my ear firmly against the door to check for sounds. Nada. No TV. No click-clacking of her shoes.

I wait a few seconds and then, full of hope, I slowly creak open the door. Her room appears to be empty. Her door is open, her light turned off. The bathroom door is in the same unoccupied state.

Could it be? Could I be so lucky that she has already left the apartment? Perhaps she's forgotten about my date. Perhaps she's so enthralled by the new guy that she's run off to make mad, passionate love to him behind the library stacks.

What are stacks anyway? Are they anything like shelves? People are always talking about hooking up behind them. Does FIT have stacks? Does FIT have a library?

“Good morning!”

The greeting is hurled at me from the living room. Damn. I whip my head to the left and see that she's already dressed in a white seventies-style velour pantsuit. “Looking for me?” She's sitting on the couch, a glass of orange juice in one hand,
Vogue
in the other.

“Hey, Heather. I didn't hear you.”

“I'm not very loud. I can really sneak up on people.”

Er. “Sleep well?”

“I'm not much of a sleeper. I'm an insomniac. Excited for your big date?”

Maybe she's a vampire. I make small steps toward the bathroom. “Looking forward to it.”

“What are you going to wear?”

“Don't know yet. Planning on doing some shopping today.”

She nods. “I thought so. I'll take you.”

Hmm…an entire day with Psycho. Not sure that's the best plan. “Don't worry, I'll be fine on my own. I'm sure you have better things to do than hang out with me.”

“Of course I do, but I'm willing to help.” Then her eyes narrow and she throws her magazine onto the coffee table. “Unless you're too good for my help.”

“No, I didn't mean that. It's just…” My voice trails off as I contemplate worst-case scenarios. She could throw me in front of a cab. She could steal my clothes and purse while I'm trying on a dress and then bolt, leaving me broke and in my Skivvies.

“I don't understand why you don't want me to come. I study fashion.”

Because maybe you'll purposely steer me wrong and I'll end up looking like a contestant on
What Not to Wear.
I sigh. I don't feel like arguing. Besides, I don't have to buy what she suggests. And it's not as if she'd really try to kill me. Not in broad daylight. “Sure. Show me around. If you want.”

“Oh, thanks,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You're doing me a real favor.”

What does she want from me? My firstborn child? “I want you to help me, Heather. Really. I appreciate your expertise.”

She leaps off the couch. “Good. We should really hit the pavement by ten. We'll start in NoLita, move our way through SoHo, the West Village, and then back uptown. Have you given any thought to your outfit?”

Slow down there, Seabiscuit. “We don't need to go crazy. All I need is a new top to go with my black pants.”

“That's what you're planning on wearing? Your boring work pants? The baggy ones?” She shakes her head.

“Is that bad?”

“Not if you're forty. You need to be wearing jeans.”

“I have jeans.”

“Not good ones.”

“I'm not sure I want to wear jeans on a date.”

“Don't be stupid. Of course you do. You're not going to the prom. Do you want my help or not?”

It's true that I know nothing about fashion. And let's face it, living in Arizona did nothing to heighten my fashion consciousness. Sure, there's the Biltmore Fashion Park and let's not forget Nordstrom, but I confess, my high-couture experience ended at Tar-jay. Maybe having Heather around isn't the worst idea. She's certainly more stylish than I am, and she is studying fashion. She must have picked up some tips, white seventies pantsuit notwithstanding. “Yes, yes, I want your help,” I say. Who wouldn't want an FIT student as a personal shopper? And what's the worst that could happen? If she starts acting crazy, I can always jump in a cab.

If she doesn't push me in front of one first.

 

At a cozy store called Sude, Heather unfolds a pair of low-cut James jeans that would maybe cover a quarter of my butt cheeks, appraises them, then hands them to me. “Try these on,” she orders.

“Are you crazy?” Unfortunately, I already know the answer to that.

“Just try them on. This, too,” she says, tossing a brown blouse at me.

I get into the changing room, strip, and then sigh when I unfold the jeans. They are gorgeous. They look perfectly soft and worn, like they've spent many years in the drier, even though I'm sure they cost over a hundred and that they're never supposed to see anything but a dry cleaner.

There is no way these are going to fit. No way! Is she insane? I point my toe and squeeze the first leg in. This is never going to work. She didn't even ask for my size. I squeeze the other leg in and heave the jeans over my hips. I suck in my breath and zip them up. No way. What a waste of time and—hey, they fit! I look in the mirror. They're low, yes, but they look great. It must be the Pilates. I've been going twice a week. There's no way these would fit on me in my other life.

I pull away the curtains and twirl. “How did you know?” Okay, so maybe I misjudged her. Maybe she really does have the hots for Library Lad and wants it to work for me and Brad.

She's rifling through another rack and has two more shirts in hand. “It's my job.”

“I love them,” I say and do another twirl. My ass looks terrific.

“Now put on that blouse.”

“Anything you say, my fashion guru.”

I try on the blouse. It's tight and frilly, and I love it. “Perfect!” I sing, stepping out of the changing room.

She looks me over. “No. Take it off. That color is awful on you. You look like an albino. Do you know you have a big head?”

“What?” I examine my silhouette in the mirror. “I do not.”

“Yes, you do. Compare it to mine.” She squashes her face next to mine. “See?”

She's right. Apparently, I have a massive head. Jumbo sized. “Maybe that's why I'm so smart.”

She rolls her eyes. “Maybe.”

By the end of the excursion, I've found a second pair of jeans, two pairs of shoes, a new tight silky pink top to wear tonight and a pair of crazy gold feather earrings that I would never have looked twice at on my own. Heather buys a new pair of jeans and a tight V-neck gold dress.

We stop at one of the five hundred nail salons on the way home.

A bell chimes as we step inside the small shop. There are at least ten women at tables in the midst of having their nails done.

“Manicure?” asks the Korean woman at the desk.

“Two,” Heather says, then turns to me. “This place is the best. Cheap, clean and good.”

I look at the prices on the wall, and read Manicure, Seven Dollars. That is cheap. “Pick your color,” the woman at the cash tells us.

“I'm getting a French,” Heather says.

We walk over to the rainbow wall of polishes. I hate this part. Red or clear? I've always liked cherry-red, but it's so much. What about a light pink? That's pretty. Or should I just get a French? When I was a kid, I used to love to paint each of my fingers a different colors.

I shuffle through the many shades of pink and finally pick a clear one.

“Ready?” asks my manicurist. Her name tag says Annie. She's wearing her dark hair in a tight bun, and a clean white smock over a pair of tight dark jeans and stiletto heels.

You know what? I really want red. I pick up the bottle and pass it to her. “Yes, thanks.”

I take a seat at Annie's station and dunk my hands in a warm bowl of water. Heather is already sitting next to me soaking and chatting on her cell.

My own cell rings as my fingers are soaking.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Gabby, it's Brad.” He's screaming again. What is it with him and cell phones?

“Hey.” After all this, he better not be canceling.

“Listen, my friend's date just bailed on him for tonight. Does Heather want to come along?”

What? Does my roommate who wants to steal my date want to come on my date? Probably. I'm debating what to say when I notice Heather watching me. She for sure heard his question. “Let me ask,” I tell him. “Brad's friend has an extra ticket to the movie. Do you want to—”

“Yes!” she shrieks clapping her hands and smearing her polish. “Careful,” she tells her manicurist.

“She's in,” I say to Brad. Guess she's not quite saving herself for Library Lad.

“Okay, he's going to meet us there, but I'll swing by your place at seven.”

“All right, see you then.” I flip back down the phone and Heather returns to her phone call.

As my nails are pruned and filed, I try to make sense out of what just happened. I don't get it. Brad acted like he wanted nothing to do with Heather at the hotel, so why is he inviting her along now? Can't his friend find another date?

As Annie applies the base coat, I decide that he must just be a really nice guy, who doesn't want my roommate to feel left out. Which is quite sweet when you think about it. Annie takes out the red and begins painting. First my thumb, then my index finger, and then—

“Wait,” I say, my heart rate speeding up. “The color is
so
red.”

“Yes, cherry-red,” she says, smiling and nodding.

My fingers look like lollipops. “Too red?”

Her forehead furrows with concentration. “You don't like? I can take off.”

“I don't know.” I tap Heather, who is still chatting on the phone, on the elbow. “Do you like the red?”

“Mindy, hold on a sec. What did you say?” she asks me.

“Do you like the red?”

“No. Too madame,” she says and then returns to her conversation.

I have no idea what that means. “Sorry?”

“Too…oh, hold on. Mindy, I'll speak to you later.” She flips closed her phone and deposits it on her table. “It's trying too hard. And anyway, you bought a pink top to wear tonight. Use a champagne color.”

“Do you have a champagne color?” I ask Annie.

She nods, pulls a beigy pink color from her drawer, and removes my polish with a cotton ball.

I feel Heather looking at me, and turn to her. “Yes?”

“You're not very good with decisions, huh?”

I laugh. “Not personal ones.”

“You're different at work?”

“They don't stress me out in the same way,” I say. It's weird actually. At the station, when I'm working on a show, I usually have about four seconds to choose a direction, and I never look back. But I am a bit of a stuttering freak when it comes to my personal life. Red or pink? Chicken or pasta? Too many choices make me want to pull out my hair. (One strand or two?) Or bite my nails. Or get married and let Cam make all my decisions for me.

“You need to relax,” Heather says.

“You want ten-minute shoulder massage?” Annie asks, while painting my thumb for the second time.

“Oh, I don't know….”

“Do it. I'll have one, too,” Heather says to her manicurist. “You guys always get me on the up sell.”

“You want lip wax, too?” Annie asks me.

Yikes. “Um, no thanks.” I turn to Heather. “Do I need a lip wax?”

She peers at my face. “It wouldn't hurt. And an eyebrow wax, too. You're starting to look a bit Bert-ish.”

“Yes,” says Annie pointing at my brow. “Like
Sesame Street.
”

Excellent. I'm so glad they all agree.

After an hour of intense pain, I agree, too. My nails are gorgeous, my eyebrows sculpted, and my upper lip, hairless. Heather might be my new BFF. Back at the apartment, I drop my bags onto the floor of my room and notice that I only have an hour to get ready for my date. I'm about to step into the shower when I realize that Heather has beaten me to it. Damn her. It was my date first—I should so have shower priority. My upper lip is stinging a bit, so I check out my appearance in the hallway mirror. Fantastic. I have a red mustache-like line from the lip wax. Perhaps my new BF only encouraged me to have my hair removed to make me look weird so she could steal my date.