Me vs. Me (9 page)

As I'm about to answer, Heather, who has magically reappeared, plops herself onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “Tell me, good-looking, what have you been up to? Did you miss me?”

Brad's cheeks turn even redder. “Uh…yup.”

I return to my drink. And then get another. And another.

By ten o'clock, the room is slanted and my eyelids feel heavy. I wonder what would happen if I fell asleep right here. I make a fuzzy mental note to try taking an afternoon nap sometime. Just to experiment with the time zones.

Heather is still talking to Brad, but he looks like he's trying to keep himself from falling asleep, too.

“Heather, I'm getting kind of tired,” I say, but she ignores me. Whenever Brad tries to talk, she interrupts him with a high-pitched giggle, a squeeze to his shoulder and a toss of her hair. He keeps stealing glances at me, as if he'd rather be talking to me. But even though I'd like to, I really can't go after the guy Heather so obviously has a thing for.

One of the couples leaves, and then another. “I'm going home. I'm wiped,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Brad.”

“Bye!” Heather sings.

Brad stands up, basically pushing Heather off his lap. “It's late for me, too. I'll walk you out.”

“All right, all right,” Heather says, putting on her rain jacket. “I guess it's time for bed.” She gives him a look and another nails-on-a-blackboard shrill giggle.

Outside, we discover it's stopped raining. “Wanna share a cab?” Heather asks Brad.

“No, but thanks. I'm staying here at the Bolton.”

A rush of headlights illuminates Heather's face as she breaks into a smile at the news. “You are? And you walked us out anyway? You're so sweet. Look, I know how lonely it can get at a hotel. If you ever want a home-cooked meal, you should come over. I know you have my number. I gave it to you this summer.”

“We could have an indoor picnic,” he says, grinning at me.

Whoops. Okay, he's definitely flirting with me. I hurry into the street to hail a cab. Heather shouldn't waste her time with all those “how to get guys to notice you” books. She should start reading “how to not scare the hell out of them” books.

When we're finally in a cab, Heather is humming to herself. I'm humming, too. Not because of tonight, which turned out to be annoying, boring and embarrassing, but because the streets are bright and lively, I have a great job, I live in the best city in the world, and I'm drunk. I peer out of the open window and see stars twinkling over the towering buildings. “I thought you couldn't see the sky in this city!”

“Isn't Brad gorgeous?” she asks, also drunk, in her own dreamworld.

“He's cute.” I wonder if I'll have a hangover in Arizona.

“I've always liked him. But he never seems to get it.”

Oh, yes,
that's
the problem.

 

I wake up on Friday in Arizona hangover-free. Wahoo! I still have the reality-switching headache of course. Nevertheless, when Cam asks me if I want a mimosa, I decline. One round of drinks a day is plenty for me—even if a day does consist of forty-eight hours. Since he has another day off, we spend it watching movies in bed, scanning the automobile section in the
Arizona Republic,
all the while ignoring the ringing, and ringing, and still ringing phone. Not for one second do we have to wonder who it is.

“I should probably call her back,” he says at around four.

“I'm sure your mom can go one day without hearing from you,” I say, lying my head on his stomach so he can't get to the phone. I'm still annoyed with her for railroading me into asking Cam's cousins to be bridesmaids. Cam apologized to me later, but he didn't seem to think it was as big of a deal as I did.

Leslie and Jessica both pulled me aside after dinner and told me they felt awful, and they were not holding me to making them bridesmaids.

“No, I want you two to march for me, really,” I lied. Sweet of them to give me an out, but it wasn't as if I could take it.

Five minutes later, the phone rings again. And rings. I hate her. Really, I do. Once it's stopped ringing, I grab the cordless from the night table, click it on, march out of the bedroom and stuff it in the linen closet under a pile of towels. I wait for the annoying yet muffled “If you'd like to make a call” message to end before I return to the bedroom and announce, “I want one day of no phone calls from your mother. One day. Please?”

“Whatever makes you happy. Now bring that hot ass back to bed.”

We watch more movies, fool around, make dinner. As we're loading the dishes into the dishwasher, I take a moment to appreciate the blissful quiet.

When the phone rings.

“How is that possible?” I shriek. “How does she do it?” She is a witch.

Cam looks bewildered, but before I can stop him, he picks up the kitchen phone and says, “Hi, Mom.” He smiles at me sheepishly and mouths, “Sorry.”

Not sorry enough.

I slam open the closet, dig for the phone and try to turn it on. It's dead. The goddamn phone needs to be recharged. I want to hurl it to the floor and watch it shatter, but because I'm basically nonviolent, instead I plop down inside the closet and pull the door closed. I need a time-out.

Alice, two. Me, still zero.

Too bad it's only a little after four in the afternoon. Now would be an excellent time to call it a night.

Deliver Me from Annoyance

I
wake up on Saturday morning in New York in pain. No, not mother-in-law pains. Severe hangover pain. Feel sick. So. Goddamn. Unfair.

I stagger into the bathroom, gobble down a handful of Tylenols and climb back under my covers. My FreshDirect order, however, arrives at ten, ruining my plan to die in bed.

Not that I entirely mind. All these fresh ingredients look yummy. I don't need Alice to cook for me. So there. I can cook all by myself, thank you very much. After I organize my side of the fridge, I collect my dirty laundry and send it out. Except for the hangovers, isn't New York life wonderful? If it weren't for work, I would never even have to leave the apartment.

Now what should I do? I need to start doing some research for wedding locations in Arizona, but surely that can wait until I'm back there. I hear Heather in the shower and decide to prepare brunch with all my new ingredients.

Ten minutes later, she peers over my shoulder. “Smells delicious. What are you cooking?”

“I'm making us omelets.” Trying to anyway.

“You are so sweet!” She dances over to the fridge and pours herself a glass of juice. “So what did you think of last night?”

“Your friends seem nice.”

“They're not. But what did you think about Brad? Isn't he adorable?”

I was hoping she'd forget about Brad. I drop the egg yolks into the pan, pretending to be deeply involved in my cooking so I don't have to look her in the eye. “He's all right.”

“Just all right! You shall not speak ill about my future husband.”

How could she not have sensed that he wasn't interested?

I've never seen her in such a good mood. I've also never seen her butt look so good. She's wearing a pair of low-slung tight black pants. She has the best clothes.

“We had fun together at Jeff and Mindy's wedding. I knew we could have something together, but he's not into long distance.”

Aha. “The drunken one-night wedding stand.”

“I didn't
sleep
with him. We just had a connection. I could sense it. Couldn't you feel the electricity last night?”

Sure. Except he was plugged in to me. I admit I felt a little spark, but I'm no potential-boyfriend stealer. Just an ambitious heartbreaker. “I was exhausted. I wasn't paying too much attention.” Like I'm not now. I put all my energy into attempting to grate the cheddar. This isn't as easy as you would imagine. I think I just grated my finger.

“He couldn't take his eyes off me.”

“Yeah?” Maybe because you wouldn't get off his lap.

“I know he's going to call.”

I sprinkle the cheese into the pan. My eggs aren't looking so good. “I hope so.”

“But I'm not sure I want a long-distance relationship. It's tough. Isn't that why you broke up with your guy back home?”

Her allusion to Cam catches me off guard and I almost drop the spatula. “It's more complicated than that.”

“It always is,” she says, and steals a piece of cheese.

 

When I wake up Saturday morning, in Arizona, first thing I do is straddle Cam.

“And good morning to you,” he says. After a quickie, I roll over and he disappears to the shower.

“What are you going to do today?” he calls.

“Relax.”

“We relaxed yesterday. Today, I have to go to work.”

“Ca-am,” I whine. “It's Saturday.”

“But I have a big case. Don't you have wedding stuff to do?”

“No,” I lie. I don't feel like researching hotels. Boring. Although I am concerned that if I show up to Alice's meeting on Tuesday empty-handed, she'll say we have no choice but to have it at the house.

“Do you think you can do the laundry then? I've run out of boxers. And maybe clean the bathroom. We need some Drāno—your hair seriously clogs up the drain. I just showered in a pool of water. And it would be great if you could pick up some groceries.”

“No problem,” I say, wishing I could order food online and send out our laundry.

After showering in a pool of water (I do need to get some Drāno), I do two loads of laundry, go to the grocery store and clean the apartment, all the while not answering the ringing phone.

She. Is. Out. Of. Control.

I need someone to talk to about this. Jessica and Leslie seemed sympathetic to my plight and I'm sure they have their own mother-in-law stories, but I don't fully trust them yet. I call Lila and invite her out for lunch. Also, I want to ask her to be my maid of honor before Alice asks Blair.

“I'm working,” Lila says. “How is almost-married life?”

“Good. Come on. It's Saturday. And I have to ask you something important.”

“Sounds mysterious. Okay, for you I'll ditch work. Where do you want to meet?”

“The Mexican place on Mill.”

“Gabby, there are two thousand Mexican restaurants on Mill.”

“The new one near the bookstore.”

“Fine. See you in twenty.”

Twenty minutes later, she's begging, “Let me see the ring again.”

I chomp on a tortilla chip, then wave my adorned hand under her nose.

“So gorgeous. Can I try it on?”

“Of course,” I say and slip it off.

She admires her new look. “Wish I was marrying a guy like Cam. Lucky bitch.”

“I know.” I finish chewing and say, “Big question coming up. Will you be my maid of honor?”

Her eyes widen. “Really?”

“Of course. You've been like a sister to me.” As I say it, I wonder if it's true. A sister? Really? If we were that close wouldn't I have called her at least once from New York? I should so e-mail her from there. Anyway, even if she's not a sister, she's still my best friend. We've done everything together since freshman year.

“I'd be honored,” she says. “Wow. Thank you. It's a big job.”

I chomp some more. “It shouldn't take too much time.”

She takes a big sip of her water. “Perfect. Did you set a date?”

“May sixth.”

She coughs her water. “Are you kidding?”

“No, why? Is there something else that day I've forgotten about?”

“No, but it's so soon. You can't plan a wedding in six months!” She peers at me closely. “Are you pregnant?”

“God, no.”

“So what's the rush?”

“It's Alice. She insisted.”

“Whose wedding is it, exactly?”

Good question. “An excellent lead-in to the second subject I want to discuss with you. My crazy future mother-in-law.”

After I relay my wedding struggles, Lila says, “She sounds horrendous. At least Cam's worth it.”

“He is,” I say uncertainly. “He is.”

 

Since I now have two bridesmaids and one maid of honor, I figure I might as well ask the others and go for the whole circus. I call Blair first. She gives me a courtly thank you and then makes a lame-ass excuse to hang up. I mean come on, water her cactus?

Next, I search through my Palm for Melanie Diamond's number.

“Hi,” she says in her extra-breathy voice. “How have you been?”

“I've been getting engaged.” I wriggle into Cam's un-comfy couch, trying to make myself comfortable. “And I'm not moving.”

“No way—congratulations! I'm so happy for you.”

“Thanks. How have you been?”

“Oh, all right. I'd be better if the tabloids stopped running that horrendous ugly picture of me—”

“You don't look ugly.” Granted, it doesn't capture how gorgeous she actually is, but she definitely doesn't look unattractive. It's very difficult to make Melanie look unattractive. You'd have to draw a mustache over her lip or something.

“Anyway, I'm thinking about writing a tell-all book.”

“Oh God, no.”

“Why not? You only live once.”

Or twice. “I suppose…”

“I might as well take some risks.”

Maybe I should learn to take more risks. Without keeping a back-up life as a safety net. “Listen, I want to ask you a question. Will you be a bridesmaid?”

“Me?” She sounds surprised.

“Yes. I know we've only known each other a few months but…okay, this is going to sound cheesy—”

“You feel like we've been friends since high school?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, then I'd be pleased to. Awesome. Sounds like fun.”

I smile into the phone. “It'll probably be a pain, actually, but thanks.”

“What do I get to wear?”

“Not sure yet. Something pink and horrible.”

“Super.”

“I'll make sure to take a picture for the tabloids.” The call-waiting beeps and I excuse myself. “Hello?”

“Hey, it's me,” says Cam. “Come outside!”

“Now? Why?”

“It's a surprise.”

I stuff my bare feet into my flip-flops and hurry outside. And see Cam. Driving my Jetta. He honks twice and then backs into a parking spot. I can tell it's mine since it has the scrape on the fender from last year's parking-lot incident. I run over to him, clapping my hands. “Hurrah! How did you get it back?”

“I'm Superman,” he says, stepping out of the car and smiling broadly.

I plant a kiss on his lips. “Seriously. How?”

“I reasoned with him.”

“That's it?”

“I'm a very good reasoner. And I know how much you loved this car.”

“I see that. I guess law school was good for something.” I throw my arms around his waist as we walk back to the apartment.

“Love you,” I say.

“Love you, too,” he says, kissing me on the forehead.

 

I spend Sunday afternoon in New York brainstorming stories. I spend Sunday afternoon in Arizona brainstorming hotels.

At Sunday night dinner, Alice asks me how my research is coming and gazes longingly at her backyard. I do my best to ignore her.

Monday in New York is tough and exhausting but still fun. I keep my eyes open for Nate aka Elevator Boy, but don't see him anywhere. I pick up sushi for Heather and myself on my way home from a place called Sushi on Third. Not too many places in Arizona where you can get good sushi. Mexican, yes. Japanese? Not so much.

When I get back to the apartment, I see that Heather has uncorked a bottle of wine and set the table with wine-glasses, two sets of chopsticks, two plates and two…steak knives? I did tell her we were having sushi.

“What's the deal with the knives?” I ask, opening the plastic container and digging in.

“Huh?” She takes the steak knife and slices her California roll in half.

“I've never seen anyone cut sushi before.”

“I have lockjaw,” she says. “I have to be very careful with my mouth. If I open it too much, it hurts.”

The way she can go on and on, life must be a constant source of pain. “I see. Can't you stretch the muscle?” I make wide-mouth expressions, partly kidding.

“It's not a joke. It's a medical condition. I can't give blow jobs.”

Not quite ideal dinner conversation. “Interesting,” I say, pick up a full roll with my chopsticks and insert it into my mouth.

“Guys understand. I tell them the truth. It's a condition.”

A condition as in
disease,
or a condition to their relationship?

We polish off the bottle of wine. After dinner, I decide I need a long, hot shower. I wish I could take a bath, but the bath here isn't deep enough for a baby. I'm pretty sure if I sat down in it, my boobs would pop over the top and they're not even that big. Tomorrow I'm definitely taking a bath in Arizona.

As I rinse, I notice a brown-and-blue bruise on my upper thigh. What is that? I notice another one on my calf, and then another one on my elbow. What is wrong with me? Did I have some sort of accident and not even know it? Maybe jumping realities is causing physical damage.

When I'm done, I wrap myself in a fuzzy towel (brand new and recently ordered online) and open the door. And walk straight into a pissed-off-looking Heather.

“What's wrong?” I ask her.

“Nothing,” she snaps.

“Okay.” I try to step around her, but she blocks me as if she's a quarterback.

“Oh, there is one thing. Brad just called. He wants you to phone him back.”

Pow. Brad? Called me? Ouch. I imagine the look on Heather's face when Brad asked to speak to me. Glad I was in the shower for that. “Shit, Heather, I'm sorry.”

“Why? He likes you. Nothing to be sorry about. You should go out with him.”

“I don't want to go out with him.” I mean he
is
cute. And a date or two would certainly help me get over my fear of new men. But he's not worth sacrificing my relationship with my still-new roommate.

She crosses her arms. “You think you're better than me?”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“I don't want to go out with him,” she mocks, using a squeaky voice. “You think you're better than me.”

“I do
not
think I'm better than you.”

“Oh, I think you do. The guy I like isn't good enough for you. Well, fuck you. I think he's good enough for you. I think he's too good for you. I don't want any of your pathetic pity. You will go out with him. Or else. You
will
go out with him!”

I cling to my towel in alarm. She's gone crazy. My first instincts were right. My roommate is a nut job. Totally psycho. “Heather, I'm not dating the guy you like.”

She wags her finger at me. “You will. You'll either go out with him or move out. Capisce?”

What, is she channeling the Sopranos now? I hope she's put away those steak knives. “Heather—”

“Here's his number.” She hands me a sticky memo, the number written on it and underlined multiple times. “Call him back. Tonight.”