Me vs. Me (19 page)

I'm not sure what the right thing to do is here. Obviously, it's not to sleep with the talent. I didn't get to where I am by sleeping with anyone, and I don't intend to start now. On the other hand, if I'm rude to him, he can easily have me fired. “I appreciate the offer, but I can't. Honest, I'm already running late.” While I talk, I stare at the yellow gold wedding band on his left hand, hoping he'll get the message.

He smiles at me now, bemused. “I like you, Arizona.”

“Thanks, Ron. I like you, too.”

“No, I mean,
I like you.
”

He was never very good at ad-libbing.

“You're married,” I say, with a half laugh, trying to keep all this light.

“So?” he says, eyes roaming over my body. “You're very attractive. You should have been a reporter, you know. Come on, one drink.”

I stand up. And give him a smile. “Thanks, Ron, but I can't.” I take my jacket and bolt through the door.

Fuck, fuck, fuck,
I think as I dart through the hallway. How dare he? I'm a professional here, yet he's treating me like some sort of producer-whore.

 

“Do you think Lila is pretty?” I ask. I'm lying on Cam on the couch. He's watching the his all-time favorite movie,
Caddyshack
, and I'm trying to stop thinking. About the Cookie Cutter. About Ron. About Alice. About Nate. About Lila. I'm exhausted. Mentally exhausted. Two lives means two exhausting sets of problems. When did I sign up for that?

“She's all right.”

“If you had a thing for her, would you tell me?”

He looks at me funny. “I don't have a thing for her.”

“How do I know that?”

“Because we're getting married.”

“Are you saying that you'd go out with her if we weren't engaged?” You know, I think all my cooking is making Cam gain weight. He seems softer. Not quite his best.

“Gabby, this is crazy. We
are
engaged.”

“But how do I know that I'm the right one for you?” I think about Nate. How do I know Cam is the right man for me?

He pauses the DVD and kisses my neck. “I just know. I promise. Have I ever lied to you?”

“No,” I sigh. Unfortunately I can't say the same.

He kisses me again. “And I never will.”

 

It's Saturday evening and I'm alone in the New York apartment. Heather is visiting her parents for the weekend, which is a nice break. She's become the roommate from hell. Without this date to look forward to, I don't know how I would have made it through the week. With Heather yelling and moping at home, and Ron practically leaping on me at work, it's been a disaster.

Ron's glances have become more lecherous. Now that the cat is out of the bag, he sees no reason to hide his feelings, or more likely, his hard-on. I try to come late to meetings, but he saves me a seat. During the meetings he likes to see how long he can leave his hand on my thigh before I push it away. His record is ten seconds, and that's because my hands were above the table showing Curtis something on my BlackBerry.

Every night, he's asked me to do extra research so that we're both there late, and every night he's tried to get me alone in his office. Every night, I tell him I have to leave to meet Nate. I am not going to let him ruin everything I've worked for. No goddamn way.

But I don't want to think about him tonight. Because tonight I have plans. Tonight is the night I plan on sleeping with Nate.

Heather's dating rules notwithstanding, I think going home with a guy on the third date is acceptable. But the truth is, I don't care. I need to move on physically in my New York life. Cam's moved on with Lila; why shouldn't I move on with Nate?

The other advantage to Heather being out of town is that I have offered to make Nate dinner. I will use some of my newly expert housewifery skills to impress the new man in my life. I ordered the colossal shrimp from FreshDirect, deshelled
and
deveined. I privately enjoyed the irony that I'm using Alice's recipe to seduce a new man.

By the time the doorman calls up at eight that Nate is here, my room has been cleaned, sheets changed, apartment swept, candles lit, nails painted, bikini line waxed, hair straightened, wine chilled, Barry Manilow CD on deck, cleavage perfumed, legs and underarms shaved and moisturized.

Oh, baby, I'm ready.

“Hi,” I say in my sexy Manhattan demure voice, handing him a wineglass. “Hope you like white.”

He's looking extra adorable in a pale blue shirt and black pants. When I kiss him hello, slowly, deliciously, I can smell spicy cologne on his neck, gel in his hair.

“You look beautiful, as usual,” he says and hands me a bottle of red. “For the next course then.”

The conversation and the wine flow. We're sitting at the kitchen table, which I have set to perfection. I even bought flowers for the centerpiece. The non-orange centerpiece.

“These are amazing,” he says after he swallows another bite of the coconut shrimp. “You're a terrific cook.”

I've made this for Cam at least six times. And he never once told me I was a terrific cook.

I think my fiancé has been taking me for granted. It wasn't always like that. Not before we were engaged. But ever since I said yes…ever since I gave up New York…

“You still with me?” Nate asks, interrupting my thoughts about Cam.

I shake my head in apology, slightly flushed. I should not be thinking about Cam tonight. I should be thinking about Nate. The hot, sensitive Aries who is sitting in my apartment. “Sorry. I'm here. Spaced out there for a second.”

“You look cute when you space out.”

Cam doesn't tell me I look cute when I space out. He tells me I have to be more assertive. Which I'm not. Not in Arizona, anyway. Not these days. But in New York, I'm superwoman. I asked Nate out! I think I even ask fewer questions here. I'm the same person; it doesn't make sense that I'd act differently in both. Although, maybe everyone acts differently in different situations. With Melanie, I'm the listener, the comforter. With Lila I'm the talker, the patient. With Curtis, I'm capable. With Nate, I'm confident. Aggressive. With Cam, I'm…weak. When did that happen?

I push my thoughts aside and serve dessert, a chocolate cake made from scratch. After desert, there's more wine, and we move to the couch, where his glasses come off and there's more kissing. And more kissing. Nate is a great kisser. Different from Cam but—

Must stop thinking about Cam. He's certainly not thinking about me. He's probably in bed with Lila right this second. I try to push the ugly image out of my head. “How about we move to the bedroom?” I ask. Yes, it's a question, but it's completely rhetorical. I can guess his answer.

He jumps off the couch, smiling and nodding. I guess that's a yes.

I lead him toward the bedroom, shedding my clothes as I go. Top—on the hallway floor. Bra—in the air, landing over the door handle. When I get to my room, I shimmy out of my jeans and leave them in a heap by my bed. I climb under the covers.

He rips off his clothes in ten seconds flat and slides in next to me. He runs his fingers through my hair.

In the next few seconds, his hands are all over me, and mine all over him. I'm going to do this. I'm really going to have sex with another guy. I really want to have sex with another guy. I get more turned on by the second, and then he whispers, “I can't wait to make love to you.”

I freeze.

That's what Cam said to me. The first time. Who is this strange guy I'm in bed with who is using Cam's words? I barely know him.

“Let me get something,” he says and reaches onto the floor. I'm guessing he's searching for a condom in his jeans' pocket, and the thought makes my hands shake.

I can't do this. “Stop,” I say, breathlessly.

“Huh?”

“Nate, I can't. Not yet.”

“You need more stimulation?” he pants.

“No, that's not it.” I pull back from him. There's something else. “I just…well, I thought three dates would be enough for me, but it's not. I need to know you better. I'm sorry.”

“Okay,” he says, still winded. “We can take it slower.” He starts kissing me again, and I kiss him back, and he plays with my hair until we both fall asleep.

 

Headache. Green light.

“Nate?” I say, his hands in my hair.

“Who's Nate?”

I open my eyes and find myself back in Arizona. Shit. I close my eyes again.

“Who's Nate?” Cam asks again, slightly more seriously.

“I said knot,” I mumble.

“Not what?”

“Knot. My hair is knotted.”

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him. “It sounded like Nate.”

“I don't even know a Nate,” I say, turning around so he can't look into my eyes. “Not in this life,” I add so that I'm not lying. But he'll be able to tell that something's not kosher. How can he not? I was naked in bed with another man. Naked. In bed. I can't look at Cam. I just can't.

He laughs. “I know, I know. In another life when we're both cats.” Cam loves that movie,
Vanilla Sky
. He made me see it twice in the theater and rent it three times.

My stomach hurts. Badly. I feel queasy. What did I do? How could I have almost slept with another guy when I'm getting married in six weeks? What am I doing? I can't do this. I can't. I don't care if it's a separate world. For me, it still feels wrong. I can't hook up with guys when I'm getting married. And what am I going to do when I
am
married? Never see a man in New York? Marriage is supposed to be forever. Marriage means no one else. I can't date other guys and wake up next to Cam. I won't.

I can't deal. I'm never going to get over Cam if I keep seeing him every morning. And I'm never going to feel like I'm being true to Cam, to the idea of marriage, if I keep seeing other guys. Or if I keep living a life that he doesn't know about. He told me he'd never lie to me. I want to—have to—be able to say the same thing.

“Be right back,” Cam says and hurries off to bathroom.

Lying in bed, alone, I realize that I can't keep doing both. It's making me an emotional wreck. It's not worth it. I'm never going to be able to give a hundred percent to either life if I'm doing them both. I must get rid of the safety net.

I'm right back where I started, back in November, back in the desert.

I have to choose.

Phoneless in Seattle

T
he only questions now are which life to choose, how to choose and can I choose? I've got to get out of this weird existence warp. If there's a way in, there must be a way out. The whole situation races through my mind as soon as I wake up on Sunday in New York, with not only the usual mammoth headache, but with Nate beside me. I knew he was going to be here, of course I did, but it still weirds me out.

“Morning, beautiful,” he says, kissing my forehead.

“Hi.” I let him wrap his arms around me.

“How'd you sleep?”

Interesting question. Ever since the switcheroos started, I don't think I do sleep. Not much, anyway. Maybe that's why I'm so tired all the time. “All right.”

We have breakfast and, after a quick kiss on the lips, he takes off. He has to get home to pack for a weeklong business trip to Seattle. “I'll call you when I get there,” he says, and kisses me again, this time on the nose.

As soon as he's out the door, I search on the Internet for information on how to make wishes come true. I check back on the multiple-worlds sites but find nothing helpful. Getting desperate, I start randomly searching how to undo a wish.
Christmas wish, wishbones, wishing wells, wish upon a star, Make a Wish Foundation.
It would probably be wrong to ask the Make a Wish Foundation for help. If only it was my birthday and I could blow out the candles.

I wonder if killing myself in one life would work. But what if one of them is just a dream (a really weird, lifelike dream, mind you) and I end up killing the real me? Or what if both are connected in some way like Siamese twins? Kill one and we both die. Anyway, how would I do it? Shoot myself? I don't have a clue where to buy a gun in New York. Although, in Arizona you can practically buy them at the local convenience store. But do I want to kill off the Arizona me, or do I want to kill off the New York me?

It's also possible that I'm totally off the mark about this whole multiple-world theory. There's still a chance that I've just gone crazy. And in that case, killing myself won't help.

Moral, practical and theoretical issues aside, the bottom line is that I'm just plain chicken.

I wonder what would happen if I stayed awake all night in the life that I like. Would that close out the porthole to my other life?

Or maybe it has to be a wish. I can try out various techniques to see if they work. If wishing is what got me into this predicament in the first place (I think), why can't it get me out? Of course, first I have to decide which life I want. I start by making lists:

Sigh. I wish I could have all of the pros and none of the cons. Oops. Better be careful what I wish for…

 

Monday: New York

 

Surely Nate will call me tonight. We'll talk, we'll laugh, we'll make plans for the weekend.

 

Monday: Arizona

 

Why didn't Nate call me? He said he would call. He'll call tomorrow. Won't he? If he doesn't, I'll choose Arizona.

 

Tuesday: New York

 

I'm sure he's just really busy in Seattle. That's why he hasn't called. And if not, I'll move on. I'm not wasting my time on some guy.

 

Tuesday: Arizona

 

But why hasn't he called? I almost slept with him, for heaven's sake. Actually, I did sleep with him, but not sleep-sleep with him. Is that why he's not calling? Because I didn't do it? What, is he sixteen?

 

Wednesday: New York

 

I change the channel to the news. Partly for work, partly to see if there's been an accident in Seattle that would explain his lack of calling.

“He's probably met someone else,” Heather says. “Maybe he hooked up with a coworker. Late nights, business travel, a few too many cocktails…It happens. When a guy likes you, he calls you every day.” She grabs the remote from me and changes the channel to some reality makeover show.

True, when Cam and I first hooked up, he called me daily, but that was in college. I'm sure grown-up daters don't call each other every day. And anyway, Heather is the last person I'd take advice from.

I'm not going to let some random guy turn me into an insecure mess. I clench my hand into a fist. No way. I didn't come this far in this world to slip back to where I was. My nails are digging into my palm, so I unclench my hand and admire them. My beautiful strong nails.

No, I'm not going to let some guy, even if he is an Aries, make me doubt myself.

 

On Wednesday in Arizona, Alice comes with me to my next dress fitting.

And it's all Cam's fault. I told him I was going, and he said his mother kept bugging him about why I didn't invite her to come and that she wanted to come, and could she come, and then he asked me to please invite her along. If Cam knew I was in the process of choosing between a life in Arizona and New York, he probably would have kept his mouth shut. Not that I even know if I
can
choose. But still. There's no way a full day alone with Alice is going to help his cause.

But anyway, here she is. “What do you think?” I ask nervously, stepping out of the changing room. I don't think I can handle her telling me it's all wrong. I just can't.

But her eyes actually tear up. “You look like a princess,” she says, then gingerly pats my satin skirt.

“Thank you.” Holy shit. We are having a moment. Is it possible?

“Put on the veil so I can get the full picture,” she says.

“I'm not wearing a veil.”

“Of course you are, dear.”

“No, really, I'm not. They symbolize…I forget, but it's not good.”

“You can't
not
wear a veil. Excuse me, Aurora? Can we see some veils, please?”

“Absolutely,” says Aurora. She scurries off.

So much for a moment. “I told you, I don't want one,” I say, and then I wonder if that's even true. My mother didn't want me to wear one, so I didn't order one. But I'm not even sure if I want one or don't want one, or if they're sexist or sexy or what.

“It won't kill you to try it on,” Alice says when Aurora returns, practically invisible behind a handful of veils.

“Personally, I think this one is the nicest,” Alice says, grabbing the one at the top of the heap. Its train is at least six miles. She fixes the veil to my head and stands back to scrutinize.

“I think it might be a little much,” I say. “I prefer one that comes down just past my shoulders.”

She shakes her head. “That's a mistake.”

Of course it is. After all, I suggested it. I want to tell her to get off my case. To go nag someone else. I want to, but I can't. I just don't have the energy. How can I be so different in New York than I am here? It makes no sense. Shouldn't my personality from my other life spill over? I want to stand my ground here. I'm itching to tell her where to get off, but I can't. I just can't. I'm frozen in a role I can't stand. “Fine,” I hear myself say. “The long one. Whatever.”

“So beautiful,” Aurora says, nodding her approval. Of course, she approves—the long one is two hundred dollars more. “Your wedding is your day. You should go all out. Soon enough, it'll be all over, the honeymoon, too. Before you know it, you'll be chasing after two or three kids.”

“It does happen fast,” Alice says.

“Not that fast,” I add quickly. I don't want her to think there are grandkids on the horizon. At least not in the next few years. If I choose Arizona, I absolutely have to get my career on track before I even think about having kids.

Alice waves a finger in my veiled face. “You can't wait too long. You never know what could happen.”

“I'll be right back,” Aurora says. “I'm going to find you some different combs to go with the veil.”

Might as well take this opportunity to set Alice straight. “You should know, I'm not even trying to get pregnant until I'm at least thirty.”

“And what if you have problems?”

“Why would I have problems?”

“You never know, dear,” she says as she fluffs out the top of my veil. “I wanted to have four children, each two years apart.”

“But Cam is five years younger than Blair.”

She pulls the bottom of my veil so that it perfectly covers the train of my dress. “I had three miscarriages in between,” she says matter-of-factly.

I am unable to hide my surprise. “You did?”

“Yes. It was horrible. Absolutely gut-wrenching.”

For the first time I notice how tired her eyes look. “I'm sorry,” I say. “Cam never told me.”

She pats my bare shoulder through the gauze. “That's because I asked him not to tell anyone. It was so hard for me,” she says quietly. “The worst time in my life. I pray every day that neither of my kids ever feels that type of pain.”

For a moment I'm speechless. And then I sense she wants to tell me more, but that she won't talk unless pressed. “When did you have the miscarriages?” I ask gently.

She stares at the ceiling when she talks. “I miscarried the first time when Blair was a year old. The second time a year later. The third time, about a year and a half after that.”

“How far along were you?”

“The first time, seven months. Three months the second time, five months the third. The first and third were boys. The one in the middle, I don't know.”

“That must have been terrible.” Which might explain why she is so overprotective of Cam and Blair. Especially of Cam, after losing two boys.

“It was. But you move on.”

Aurora returns with a handful of sparkling combs. “I have a few options for you.”

“That one is beautiful,” Alice says, smiling and admiring a jeweled comb. “We'll take it.” Her shift in mood is so swift that I wonder whether our conversation took place or if I imagined it.

 

The closer the wedding approaches, the more I obsess about Nate.

The weekend comes and goes. Nate doesn't call. They must have asked him to stay longer in Seattle. That must be it. He's working his ass off and he's too busy to call. We've only gone out a few times anyway; it's not like we were ever on a daily phone schedule. I'm sure he'll call me when he gets back, no matter what Heather says. She claims that the hardest part of dating in New York is that everyone's always traveling somewhere and that it totally kills the relationship's momentum.

When my phone rings at 1:00 a.m. the following Thursday, I'm certain it's Nate. Finally! It's been almost two weeks since I've seen him, and I was about to (unhappily) write him off. I reach out of bed and pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Did I wake you?”

It's not Nate. It's Ron. Since I have to listen to that voice all day, I'd recognize it anywhere. I have no idea why he's calling me at home. He's never called me here. “No, I'm still up.” What would have happened if I had fallen asleep? Would I have awakened in New York? Or would he only get me after a day in Arizona? Where the hell am I in the middle of the night? “How can I help you?” I ask tepidly. This had better be work-related. And, at this hour, it had better be important.

“I can think of plenty of ways, Arizona. I'm at the Soho Grand and I'm feeling lonely. You can start with coming over here.” His words are slurring together. I can practically smell the booze through the phone.

“Ron, you know I'm not coming over.”

“You're upsetting me, Arizona. You don't want to upset me.”

Is this a threat? I've managed to avoid his stupid come-ons so far, but I'm not sure what I can do if he puts my job on the line. I'm obviously not the first woman this has ever happened to, but it doesn't mean I know how to handle it. “I don't want to upset you,” I say, “but I can't come over.”

“Is your boyfriend there?”

“No.” Mistake. “Yes.”

“Tell me what you're wearing,” he says, ignoring my answer.

“Give me a break.”

“Don't be a baby, just tell me. Do you sleep naked?”

I cannot deal with how highly improper this is. But I can't hang up on him. I can't make him angry. “Come on, Ron. You need to go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning.”

“What's the big deal? I sleep in the nude all the time. There's nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Ron, I don't want to be having this conversation.”

“You're right. It's ina-inap—”

“Inappropriate,” I finish for him. Ad-libbing sober is hard enough for him, never mind drunk.