Me vs. Me (8 page)

After lunch, I spend the day shopping online, admiring my not-bitten fingers as they tap on the keyboard. I buy a flat-screen TV for my bedroom. (Which leads me to mention one of the plusses in living a dual reality. Think of all the time saved by not watching so much TV. Once I've seen an episode in one reality, why see it in another? I've never been one for reruns.) Then I order groceries from this site called FreshDirect. How crazy is that? Heather claims you can get everything delivered right to your apartment. Groceries. Pot (not from the same place, of course). The wash. Heather sends all hers out. Since there's no washer and drier in our apartment, we'd otherwise have to do the wash on the fifth floor (at two dollars a load!), but Heather says it's practically cheaper to pay someone else to do it at seventy-five cents a pound. I don't know about cheaper, since I have never weighed my loads, but it sounds far easier. Not sure how she affords it as an FIT student, but it's not my issue.

I add orange juice to my online FreshDirect shopping cart. Then I click on cereal bars. I can eat those on my way to work. So far I've put eighty dollars of food in my basket. It's so easy. Avocados! Bananas! Carrots! Chicken breasts! Shrimp!

“I'm off to Long Island,” Heather says, popping her head into my room. “Last chance to come along. My mom's a great cook. You won't regret it. You'll get to be grilled by my entire family about why you're still single.” She reconsiders. “Can I stay home with you?”

“You're welcome to. I'm planning a wild night of Chinese takeout. I wish I had known about this FreshDirect thing before. I could have cooked us a real dinner.”

“You cook?”

“Not really. But I'm planning on learning.”

She shifts her overnight bag to her other hip. “Sure you don't want to come?”

“Honestly, I'm fine. But thanks.”

“Suit yourself. I won't see you in the morning, since I'll probably take a midday train. What are you up to tomorrow night? Will you come with me to a party? Jeff—that's Mindy's husband—is having birthday drinks uptown. Are you working tomorrow?”

“Yeah. And I don't know what time I'm going to get out. I was looking forward to just coming home and crashing.”

“Please? There might be some eligible guys there. You never know.”

Am I eligible? “I'm not sure I'm ready to date yet.”

“It's time for you to meet some new people.”

“I'm meeting new people every day. At work.”

“Come on. I really don't want to go alone.” Her eyes look big and needy. “It will probably be all boring married people.”

“Sounds tantalizing. Where do I sign up?”

“Pretty please?”

I want to say no, but she looks so desperate. I hope I don't regret this tomorrow. “All right.”

“Thank you! You're the best. It's at the bar in the Bolton Hotel uptown. Meet me there at eight,” she says and then closes the door before I can change my mind.

Sigh. I guess it's a good thing to explore the non-work side of the city. That was my plan. To go out and have fun. To laugh and flirt. To drink Cosmos and eat pâté.

I wonder if I can order pâté online.

What is pâté, anyway?

I find it and add it to my basket. Because I can.

 

Happy Thanksgiving (again) to me! Happy Thanksgiving (again) to me! Happy Thanksgiving (again) to—

“Surprising, really. Since Gabrielle is so quiet.”

Since Alice is obviously talking about me to Blair, I pause outside the kitchen before bringing in the salad plates.

“Did she bring you anything?” Blair asks.

I heave a sigh of relief. Even though Cam said it wasn't necessary, I brought flowers.

“Nada, can you imagine? I put out a whole spread for that woman, and she brought nothing. It's not every day you meet your future in-laws for the first time. It wouldn't have killed her to pick up a little something.”

My relief, obviously, is short-lived. They're talking about my mother. We might not be all that close, but no one, absolutely no one, gets to knock her except me. Hell, I don't even let my father bad-mouth her.

“How rude,” Blair says.

I back away from the kitchen, feeling as if I've been slapped. And they call my mother rude. I eat here once a week! Isn't that enough? My mom has to pay her dues, too? Anyway, I told my mom not to bring anything.

“What's wrong?” Cam asks, coming up behind me and nuzzling his chin into my neck.

“Nothing,” I say, embarrassed. I pull away and pass him the plates. “Here, take these in for me.”

“Everyone ready for turkey?” Alice hollers from the kitchen. “It's coming out of the oven.”

I'd like to put
her
in the oven. Isn't that what Gretel does to the wicked witch?

“Hey, Cam, have you guys seen the new complex out in north Scottsdale?” Rick asks us from across the twenty-person table. “Each home has a two-acre lot. And what a view.”

Anyone under fifty always sits on the left side, the over-fifty crowd on the right. Next to me and Cam we have Rick, his wife Jessica, Jeremy, his wife Leslie, Blair and Matt. Next to Matt is the kids' table.

“Are you two looking to buy?” Jessica asks, reaching over for her glass of wine.

As she sips, I hear an audible sigh from her mother, Tracy, Alice's sister-in-law, on the other side of the table. Tracy's daughter-in-law, Leslie, has been married for more than a year now, and Tracy is not happy that the union has not as yet produced an heir. Leslie either doesn't hear the sound of her mother-in-law's anguish or has decided to ignore it.

Oh, God. Am I going to start getting those same sighs as soon as we're married? Probably. Except with Alice, they're more likely going to be jabs. I take a big gulp of my wine.

Cam squeezes my knee under the table. “We just started looking.”

We did? When? I know we discussed the house thing briefly, but did I miss something?

“Would anyone like more stuffing?” Alice asks, circling the table. Then she adds, “Why don't you look at houses here in Mesa?”

I almost spit out my wine. Sure. Why don't we buy the place next door? Wouldn't that be swell. We can be the Arizona version of
Everybody Loves Raymond.

“We'll see,” Cam says.

“As long as you don't move all the way out to Tucson, I'll be happy,” Alice says, looking pointedly at her daughter.

In case Blair missed it, that was a shot.

Blair rolls her eyes. “Mom, I know, I know, I've ruined your life by moving to Tucson.”

“I didn't quite say that, dear,” Alice says. “But you can't deny that it's not exactly next door.”

“Which is why we make the drive back to see you once a week.”

“Once a week is very nice, dear. Tracy, how often does your daughter come and see you? Gabrielle, you didn't touch the turkey. Take some turkey, please.”

“I had some. I'm full,” I say. I'm not eating. I'm secretly protesting how she bad-mouthed my mom.

“I babysit the grandkids twice a week, and then there's dinner Friday nights, and…I don't know, about three to four times a week,” Tracy answers.

That is insane.

Alice shoots Blair an accusatory look.

“Mother, I live in Tucson. I can't come by four times a week. Think of the gas.”

“Gabrielle,” Alice continues. “You didn't have any stuffing. You're insulting me by not eating.”

The witch is trying to fatten me up.

“Mom,” Cam says, spooning stuffing onto my plate. “Blair didn't move to Tucson to spite you. Matt's practice is there.”

“And why can't he be a dentist here? Mesa doesn't need dentists?”

As usual, Matt decides just to stay quiet. He and Blair met when she was a senior at the University of Arizona in Tucson. He's from Tucson and had opened his practice two years earlier. I'm sure he's thanking his lucky stars that he doesn't live in the same area code as his crazy mother-in-law. Actually, lucky for Alice. No telling what would happen if he had her in his dental chair, with a lethal weapon in her mouth.

“At least Cammy is going to buy in the Valley,” Alice says. “He won't desert his mother. Families have to stay together. Always. Right, sweetie?”

“Right, Mom,” Cam answers, while stuffing his mouth with sweet potato.

For some reason, I look up at Alice and see that she's looking right at me. Is that a smirk on her face? She's daring me to challenge her. She's warning me. She knows that I had the job offer in New York. She knows that Cam wouldn't come with me. She knows that she won. Alice = 1, Me = 0.

Cam gives my knee another squeeze. “While we're all here, Rick and Jer, I want to ask you two a question.”

“Shoot,” Jer says.

“You've always been like brothers to me. And I'd like you both to march at our wedding.”

What? I nearly drop my empty fork. Again, I know we talked about it, but when was it decided? Aren't the bride and groom supposed to make the decision together? A cumulative
aw
comes from everyone in the room. I try to kick Cam under the table, but it's not so easy to kick sideways.

“Sure, man,” Jer says.

Rick high-fives Cam across the table. “Of course.”

“Who are your other groomsmen?” Jer asks.

“Dan and Joshua. And Matt is my best man.”

An even louder
aw
floats through the room.

Matt smiles shyly.

I'm too taken off guard to react.

Reading my mind, Cam says, “I asked him earlier.”

Would have been nice if he'd told me.

Alice leaps out of her chair and throws her arms around Cam's shoulder. “I'm so happy! That is so wonderful!”

It would have been nice if he'd warned me that he was going to pop the big question tonight. I slump into my chair. Please don't, please don't, please don't—

“And who are your bridesmaids, Gabrielle?”

Crap. “Oh, I don't, um, I haven't, um…”

“It would be nice if the groomsmen could walk down the aisle with their wives. You should ask Leslie and Jessica.”

No, she didn't. My future mother-in-law didn't just tell me I should ask Cam's cousins right in front of them.

Cam squirms in his chair. “Mom, let's not put Gabby on the spot. She can ask whoever she wants.”

“And why wouldn't she want to ask Leslie and Jessica? They'll be beautiful bridesmaids.”

I don't believe this. I really don't. I peek over at Leslie and Jessica who are also slumped in their chairs, looking equally horrified. All sound has been sucked out of the room. I want to tell Alice to go to hell. But I don't. Instead, I say, “Leslie and Jessica, would you two like to be my bridesmaids?”

Silence.

“Sure,” Jessica croaks out.

“Great,” squeaks Leslie.

Silence.

“Wonderful,” declares Alice. “And what about your maid of honor? I'm assuming you're going to ask Bl—”

“Mom,” interrupts Cam. “Leave it alone. Dad, pass the cranberry?”

Richard passes it to him, clearly ignoring us all.

Jessica lets out a nervous laugh, and all I want to do is put down my head, fall asleep and go back to New York. Instead, I carry on with my secret hunger strike.

When we get home, I have a killer stomachache. I'd like to blame my ailment on the Pilates class, but we all know that's impossible.

The Skeleton in Your Closet Is Ringing

I
t's eight-thirty Friday night, and I've completed an entire workweek in New York. Granted, I had one day off for Thanksgiving. But still.

As I wait for the elevator to open to the TRSN lobby, my eyes, fingers, legs, feet and brain are exhausted. But what a day. Hurricanes. Bird flu. Crazy kidnappings. And I'm at the center of it all. Okay, not the center obviously, since then I'd be wet, in isolation or missing, but at the center of the reporting of it all. I can't believe it took me so long to get to New York. What was I thinking? I should have moved here years ago.

Ding!

The elevator door opens and I step into the lobby. Crap. It's raining outside. And, of course, I don't have an umbrella. I wish I didn't have to go for drinks. I just want to go home, get into my new bed and relax. Not that I'm in a rush to fall asleep and get back to Arizona, but I desperately need some shut-eye. I live twice as much, so I guess it's expected that I'm twice as tired.

I push through the glass doors and press my back against the outside wall to avoid getting drenched. This isn't rain. This is a falling swimming pool. I was supposed to be at the Bolton Hotel a half hour ago. Not only am I late, but I have to meet all of Heather's friends looking like a wet mop.

Cab! Wahoo! Damn, someone's in the back. Another one…no lights…someone's in it. Another…also taken. If it weren't pouring, I could just walk, since it's not that far. There's one—and his lights are on. Which means he's free, right? I jump into the middle of the street and wave frantically. He whizzes by.

I creep back onto the sidewalk, cursing.

“He's off duty,” a voice beside me says. Suddenly I realize an umbrella is shielding me. I turn to see who my mystery umbrella-man is, and it's the hot guy from the elevator on Monday.

Hello there.

But instead of an exuberant yet sexy
hello there,
I offer a restrained, “How can you tell?”

“The two side lights mean he's off duty. See how they say ‘off duty'?” He points to a passing cab. “You want only the center light to be on.”

“Got it, oh, cab guru,” I say, hoping the rain hasn't made my mascara run down my cheeks. I can't believe it's him. Not that I've been looking for him or anything. Okay, fine, I've been keeping an eye out.

Shit, that sounded sarcastic. Why can't I flirt properly? I must be out of practice. Being engaged will do that. “I appreciate your advice,” I add, smiling brightly as a measure of precaution since sarcasm just won't do.

He looks at me oddly. Do people not smile brightly in New York? “Right,” he says. “Don't worry about it.”

“I'm Gabrielle.” Oh, God, did I just introduce myself? He didn't ask for my name. Now he thinks I'm some clueless loser who not only doesn't know how cabs work, but also goes around introducing herself to random people.

He juts out his free hand. “I'm Nate.”

Hurrah! His shake is strong and warm. I have a feeling mine is limp and cold because of the rain. You know, like shrinkage. “You can call me Gabby for short.”

“Nice to meet you, Gabby-for-short. You're a producer?”

“Yes. You?”

“Sales.”

“What floor is that?”

“Thirteenth.” He leans in close and I notice that his glasses have fogged up.

“Isn't that bad luck?”

“Good luck for me.”

Since thirteen is good luck in the Jewish religion, I deduce that he might be of the tribe. Funny, I've never dated a Jewish guy. Not that I wouldn't (if I weren't already engaged, that is—but wait! I'm not engaged, at least not here). Fact is, I never met many Jewish guys in Arizona. They exist, of course, my school even had a Hillel, but the Jewish guys at ASU always seemed so…short. What can I say? I like my men over six feet tall. I'm sure Arizona has tall Jewish guys somewhere; I just never met any. And none of them looked like Cam. Then again, Nate here doesn't look like Cam, either. He has dark hair for one thing, and even though he's just as tall, he isn't as built. Not that he's scrawny. He's just leaner. And I've already confirmed his taut stomach….

“Where you off to tonight?” he asks.

“Meeting friends at the Bolton. A half hour ago,” I add, glancing at my watch.

A cab passes by with its off-duty lights flashing, but Nate waves it down, anyway.

“Where to?” the driver grunts.

“Which way are you going?” Nate asks me.

I smile hopefully. “Times Square.”

“Get in,” the cabbie says.

Now I'm totally confused. “But I thought the lights meant—”

“The rules only apply to newbies,” Nate says with a wink. “Have a great weekend.” He holds the door open. A gentleman.

“Do you need a lift?” I ask. Do you want to come? I can't ask him out. Can I? Why not? I'm single now. Half-single, anyway.

“I'm good, thanks. I'm going to grab the R downtown.”

I slip inside the cab. Nate waves from under his umbrella as we drive away.

I might be only half-single, but I'm totally disappointed.

 

I get to the bar about ten minutes later. It's packed with a crowd of hipster twentysomethings whose wet jackets and umbrellas make them far less hip. The walls are all mirrored and the ceiling is covered in spotlights, making the room seem exceptionally bright for a bar. I peek at the faces, looking for Heather, but can't find her. Excellent. I try her cell. “Where are you?”

“I can't find a cab.”

Groan. “What am I supposed to do until you get here? I don't know anybody!”

“Get a drink,” she orders and then hangs up. That girl is always ordering me around and then either leaving or hanging up. I don't think I'm ever going to get the last word in.

I inch my way to the bar, find an empty stool and order a vodka cranberry.

“—such an asshole, I don't know what she sees in him—”

“—thinking of spending a few days in Carmel next month to get away from the weather—”

“—told me his wife is frigid—”

As I catch snippets of conversations, I feel a wave of loneliness. There are so many people in this city, and everyone here is a stranger.

I scan the room and wonder which group I'm supposed to be meeting. The two women sitting beside me having the asshole discussion are wearing tight, low-slung pants and draped, metallic blouses. Those women maybe? No, their left hands are ringless. Not the party of couples that Heather is dreading.

I gaze at my own ringless left hand. In this life, anyway.

At the other side of the bar, on the other side of the door, there's a cluster of people that seems to be a group of couples. Four couples, to be exact. And one single guy. Hmm. Cute. Tall, broad, short reddish brown hair, chocolate-brown pants, beige untucked button-down shirt. As I'm looking at him, he looks back at me. And smiles.

I quickly turn back to the bar and my drink. The men in this city are so friendly. Who would have thought? I always assumed New York men would be cold and pompous. Banker types. But now everywhere I go, I spot cute ones. All I have to do is relearn to flirt, which can't be that hard. Besides, this guy looks harmless. Any guy who looks like Archie, from the comic book, has to be relatively undangerous. Who doesn't want to cuddle with Archie? A sexier, broader Archie no less. All I have to do is look back up and smile. I look back up. And smile. Too late. Archie is no longer looking at me.

By nine, I'm on my second drink and, since I haven't eaten all day, feeling a few degrees north of tipsy. Heather
finally
walks in.

“So nice of you to join me,” I snip as she pushes toward me.

“Sorry about that. Clothing crisis,” she says, folding her soaking wet jacket over her arm. She's wearing an off-the-shoulder black lace shirt, skintight camel leather pants, and a cluster of beaded necklaces around her neck that remind me of Mardi Gras. But somehow she pulls it off in a funky way. Guess you learn how to do that in fashion school.

“I thought you couldn't get a cab.”

She shrugs. “That, too. Ready to meet the couple brigade? I'm going to need a drink first. Apple martini,” she orders the bartender. “What a day I had. What a fucking day. I think my mother needs to be institutionalized.”

“Whose doesn't?”

After she pays for and downs her drink, she grumbles, “Let's get this over with, roomie.” She leads me toward the big group in the back, the one I spotted earlier. The one that once included Archie. Who has somehow and unfortunately disappeared.

“Hi, everyone,” Heather says. “Happy birthday,” she says, kissing the guy I'm assuming is Jeff, aka the birthday boy, on the cheek.

“Heather!” screeches the woman clinging to Jeff's arm. “We haven't seen you in ages! Where have you been?”

“Out,” she says and then rolls her eyes at me. “Everyone, I want you to meet my new roommate, Gabby. Gabby, this is Mindy and her husband Jeff, Lindsay and her husband Peter, Dahlia and her husband Jon, and Amy and her husband Erik.”

I shake everyone's hands. And then suddenly Archie is back and standing in front of me. He's even cuter up close—he has a big smile, two dimples, the bridge of his nose is covered in tiny freckles and his cheeks are flushed pink. And those shoulders are awfully broad. “Hi,” he says. “I'm—”

“Brad!” Heather shrieks, throwing her arms around him. “What are you doing in town?”

Brad untangles himself from my overstimulated roommate. “I'm on a project in the city.”

“How lucky for us!” she says, still gripping his hands. Is that Heather…flirting? She's even worse than I am. At least I don't attack the men I'm interested in. Either I call them gurus or totally ignore them.

“Who's your friend?” Brad asks, looking me over.

“What friend?”

Thanks, roomie.

He cocks his head in my direction.

Heather dismisses me with a flip of her hand. “Oh. That's just Gabby.”

“Hi, Gabby,” he says, leaning in closer. “Nice to meet you.”

His eyes are big and green and laughing. And suddenly my fear of flirting is thwarted and I smile. “You, too,” I say. Fine. Not the most risqué of responses, but after three years, it's a start.

Heather scoots herself over so that she's between us. “So how long are you in town?”

What looks like annoyance clouds his face. “I'll be in and out of town a lot in the next year.”

“That is
amazing,
” she says. “Why didn't you call me? I told you to call me any time you come in.” She runs her fingers through her hair. “Jeff should have told me you were going to be here tonight.”

“Jeff didn't tell me that
you
were going to be here tonight, either.”

Jeff perks up at the sound of his name, and I catch Brad jutting his chin out at him, which I assume is his “save me” look.

The night is definitely starting to get interesting. Apparently, Jeff had a reason for not telling Heather that Brad was in the city. And another reason for not telling Brad that Heather would be here. I brilliantly deduce that both reasons are connected.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Brad says, shaking free of Heather's grasp. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Heather downs the rest of her martini. “I'd love one,” she chirps. “I'll go with you.”

I don't know what the backstory is here, but Heather is being so obvious. She re-grabs hold of Brad's wrist like a handcuff and pushes him toward the bar, leaving me staring awkwardly at the group of strangers.

So.

All four couples stare at me. I sit down in a empty, cold, black metal chair.

Cough. Sip. Cough, cough.

“Gabby,” Jeff finally says. “How long have you and Heather been roommates?”

“About a week.”

“Where did you used to live?” asks one of the others.

After chitchatting for a few minutes, I start to feel almost at ease, but then the conversation turns to people they know, and I obviously don't, and I end up sitting there, drinking, feeling like a cardboard doll. I hated the bar scene in Arizona. Why on earth did I think I would like it in New York? I'm dying to bite my nails, but I can only imagine how grimy and diseased my fingers are, so I refrain.

Finally, Brad (with Heather trailing behind him) returns to the table. He deposits some sort of clear drink onto the table in front of me as Heather excuses herself to the ladies' room. I figure she must really have to go, or she wouldn't leave him alone for a sec.

“Thanks,” I say with a smile. Not what I normally drink, but a nice gesture.

Brad lifts his beer and clinks it against my glass. “So, Gabby. You have a great smile, you know that? What do you do?”

“Thanks. I'm a producer.”

His eyes light up. “Movies?”

“No, news.”

“Even cooler,” he says, smiling. “I'm a news junkie. What network?”

“TRSN.”

“Cool. Maybe you'll give me a tour one day.”

Is he flirting? He's flirting! “Maybe,” I say. I take a sip of the drink. Whoa, it's strong. “And what do you do? And I'm not talking about work,” I add smoothly. Hey, I'm flirting! I'm doing it! It's not so hard, after all. But was I too subtle? I don't want to be obvious. Flirting is an art. Although I should stop flirting with the guy Heather likes. Immediately. Bad roommate. Bad.

His forehead nearly touches mine when he says, “I like picnics. Boat rides in the park. Romantic moonlit walks on the beach.”

“Interesting.” Even I know that was a line. Why am I talking to him anyway? This is wrong. I should excuse myself and join Heather in the bathroom.

“Not really. Just trying to butter you up. Is it working?”