Say Never (44 page)

I dial the number on the business card.

Sixty seconds later, I’m talking to my ex-husband about the
Meg Monroe Morning Show
on KTOC
.

Twenty-five

Meg:
I never said I hated holidays, Barry.

Barry:
Well, actually, Meg, you said ‘What use are they? These days holidays have no more value than the pithy phrases inside Hallmark cards.’

Meg:
That definitely sounds like me. But I didn’t say I hated them.

Barry:
You also said that holidays are all about the candy. No one cares about the birth of Jesus, but they’re overjoyed by the red and green M&Ms.

Meg:
I do remember that show.

Barry:
And that nobody really believes in anything anymore, but holidays are just an excuse for people to get drunk, spend money, and go on vacation.

Meg:
Really? I said that?

Barry:
And that having to spend time with family during the holidays just because they’re your family is like being water-boarded.

Meg:
Well, maybe a little.

Barry:
And that when you’re single, the holidays turn you into a pariah because you don’t dare show up to a Christmas party or a Passover Seder or a Kwanzaa celebration alone lest you be the recipient of pity, disdain and disgust.

Meg:
Okay! All right! Fine! I hate the holidays! Holidays suck! Are you happy now?

* * *

The aroma of roasted turkey and baked sweet potatoes and pecan pie fills the air, and the dining room is alive with conversation, laughter and gustatory delight. The table has been extended to accommodate all nineteen people present.

Caroline is home from the rehab facility for the day and is seated in her wheelchair at the far end of the table. Thankfully, her doctor downgraded her to a soft cast, so she is far more comfortable than she’s been in weeks. Beside her, my new niece sleeps in her portable bassinet, her tiny hands tucked into little cotton mittens, her cheeks rosy red. Danny is to Caroline’s right, gazing at both of them with such tenderness I almost can’t bear to look at him.

Cera’s dad Richard and his wife Eliza are here. They buried Elizabeth’s mother on Monday and graciously accepted Danny’s invitation to join us, as they couldn’t fathom putting together a holiday feast on their own. I’m glad Cera is here, and although her dad and step-mom checked into a nearby hotel, she has opted to stay with Danny for the rest of the weekend.

Patsy Gates and her husband Dennis are also present, with their five kids who line the table alongside Cera, McKenna, and Tebow. Patsy and I have come to an understanding that neither of us will go out of our way to annoy, patronize or undercut the other. For my part, since I can’t even remember the name of the boyfriend she stole from me, I am prepared to let bygones be bygones. The few times I’ve caught her ogling Danny I’ve let pass without comment. Patsy, for
her
part, has bitten her tongue when witnessing my ongoing child-related faux pas, like when I handed her ten-year-old son the electric carving knife which he immediately began to swing around like a light-saber. (Thank God no one got hurt.)

Buddy stands at the head of the table, proudly carving the bird while Bettina stands next to him whispering instructions in his ear about how to slice the meat. I sit on Bettina’s right, and Matt, who is in a deep unintelligible conversation with one of Patsy’s kids, sits beside me. He looks over at me and smiles. Beneath the table, I feel his hand slide across my knee. I reach down and intertwine my fingers with his as he leans over and whispers in my ear.

“I’m sorry about you missing your Thanksgiving plans back in New York.”

“I’m not,” I tell him.

I gaze around the table at this group of people of which I have become an integral part in such a short time. My
family
. I turn to Matt and grin.

“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Epilogue

Matt and I collapse onto the sheets, our bodies intertwined and slick with sweat, our breathing labored, our hearts pounding in sync. He starts to laugh and I know exactly why. This thing between us, this connection, this attraction, this bond, makes the sex unbelievably good each and every time. We’ve been doing it for several weeks now and it’s only gotten better. And yes, we’ve also been going out on proper dates. I have to admit, I enjoy our time outside the bedroom as much as our time inside. Well,
almost
as much.

“I think you should marry me,” he says seriously, rolling onto his side so that we are face to face. His hand slides down my waist and comes to rest on my right butt cheek.

“Don’t you think this is a little fast?” We’ve joked about marriage a couple of times, but I can tell this is different.

“We’re not getting any younger.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, frowning at him.

“Well, I know how you feel about being forty.”

“Funny thing…I’m actually fine with it now. Not that I’m going to shout it from the rooftops or anything. But I’m in a good place. I’m happy with my life. Truly happy, not just pretending to be or telling myself I am. So, you know. It’s okay.”

“Wow. Your new shrink must be pretty good.”

A referral from Dr. Rabinowitz. “She is. She told me that forty is the new twenty-five.”

“You’re like a twenty-five year-old
in the sack
, that’s for sure,” he says and gives my butt a gentle smack.

“Ah. You say the sweetest things to me.”

“So, marry me.”

“No! It’s too soon.”

“It’s not too soon and you know it. Tell me the truth. You’re just stringing me along, aren’t you?” He grins. “You’re just using me for sex until you find Mr. Right.”

I suspect I’ve already found Mr. Right in the man beside me, but I keep that to myself. “I don’t believe in Mr. Right,” I lie. “And, just for the record, you haven’t even told me you love me.”

“I love you,” he proclaims, without hesitation. “I love everything about you. Even the not-so-pleasant stuff.”

“What unpleasant stuff?” I feign annoyance.

“Like the fact that you are a total grumpy Gus before coffee. Like the fact that you think you’re never wrong. Like the fact that you watch
The Bachelor
religiously. Seriously, Meg, your dad gives me the fish eye at every family dinner because he knows I’m violating his precious daughter. He wants me to make an honest woman out of you. I do too, as you well know.”

I roll away from him and gaze at the ceiling. “I’ve told you before, Matt, I can never marry you. Your last name is Ryan and my first name is Meg and if I married you I’d be Meg Ryan, and there is only one Meg Ryan and I am not her. She’s so cute and perky. I eat cute and perky for breakfast.”

“She’s not all that cute and perky anymore.”

“She is eternally cute and perky. Don’t you read
People?”

“We could go to Paris for our honeymoon. Stop in New York on the way so you can meet your sub-letter in person.”

“I can’t go on a honeymoon right now. The show is just getting started.”

“Okay, we’ll take a long weekend. We’ll find an expensive hotel in San Diego and order room service and stay in bed the whole time.”

I won’t deny how appealing his scenario sounds, but still.

“I’m not going to change my name, Matt. It’s important to me to retain something of my old self. But I know what the whole name-thing means to you.”

“Don’t change it.” He leans over and kisses me and the feel of his lips on mine is something I might be able to stand for the next thirty or forty years. “I’ve realized that the whole name-thing isn’t that important to me. Not anymore,” he says. “
You’re
important to me.” He kisses me again, then slides his tongue lightly across my neck. I am breathless within seconds.

“I’m not sure I can give you kids,” I tell him, gently nudging at his chest. “I mean, unless we…you know…get going on it…I guess we could adopt.”

“You want kids?” he asks, his expression somber and hopeful at the same time.

“I might not mind having a little Aspasia or Euthanasia running around the house.”

He pulls his away and narrows his eyes at me. “Little who?”

“Aspasia and Euthanasia.” I grin at him, then draw him back into my arms. “I’ll explain later.”

* * *

Happy New Year! This is the Meg Monroe Morning Show, coming to you live from KTOC in the dingy little grey stucco building in Santa Monica that I’m hoping will get painted one of these days. I am your host, Meg Monroe, and I’ll be with you as you make your way to work, or your doctor’s appointment or to drop your children off at school or while you’re standing in the unemployment line. But whatever you’re doing, wherever you’re going, I’m glad to be with you.

Up ahead on the show, we’ll be talking to Lindsay Lohan about her hundredth stint in rehab and why she thinks she’s finally ready to be successful again. And aren’t you all just on the edge of your seats for that one, huh? Well, take a pill, because she’s not here yet, and if she actually ever shows up, I might drop dead with shock. Oh, wait, my producers are assuring me that she’s coming. Right, boys. Like I said. I’ll believe it when I freaking see it.

Anyway, I was at Target yesterday, and don’t even start with me about what I was doing in that godforsaken store, except I will say that it had nothing to do with the dollar section or the toy department or the kiddie clearance racks. But while I was there, I glimpsed the employees stowing away all of the holiday items. The decorations had been taken down by the time I walked into the store, but a huge pallet holding all of the Christmas crap was right outside the doors to the storage area, just lying there, forlorn and discarded. And do you know what I did when I saw all that stuff? I did a happy dance. And you know why? Because winter in Southern California is like a blizzard in the Bahamas. The two just don’t go together.

That’s not to say that I didn’t enjoy my Christmas. I have regained a huge appreciation for family holiday dinners and exchanging gifts with my loved ones, particularly my new niece who was named for me and who is changing and growing before my very eyes. It’s not the holidays themselves I take issue with, but the Southwest region’s need to pretend they understand what a White Christmas really is.

I think all Southern California holiday decorations should be relegated to things like Santa on a surfboard and reindeer sunning themselves by the pool and menorahs made of palm trees, even though I recently discovered that palm trees are not indigenous to Southern Cal. I was glad that Frosty got deflated and stuffed back into his box and all the big twinkling snowflakes got yanked from the ceiling. If I want snowflakes and snowmen and winter wonderlands, I’ll go where they actually exist in reality. I’ll fly back to my beloved New York or to Siberia or the Antarctic. Because, really, when we put up these preposterous winter decorations, we are being complete hypocrites. We live here because the weather is better than Heaven. We live here because we don’t want to shovel snow in December or put on four thousand layers of clothes or freeze our bazoombas off. Of course, we live here for other reasons too, like family and friends and jobs, but seriously, weather plays a huge role.

But, anyway, back to Target. While I’m in the middle of my very Ellen DeGeneres celebratory dance, I spy two little kids, maybe four or five years old, standing by the pallet of Christmas decorations. One of them actually has tears in her eyes, and the other one was shaking his head sadly. “Santa’s going bye-bye,” the girl said. And the boy said wistfully, “So long, Santa! We’ll miss you.”

And you know what I said to them? I said, “Get the hell over it! Santa isn’t even real, you chumps.” (Pause) I’m kidding! Do you think I would actually say that? Squash the dreams of a couple of half-pints right there in Target? Shame on you. I have learned some things about kids lately. What I did say was, “Don’t worry kids. Santa’s going on vay-cay, but Cupid’ll be here any minute.”

And sure enough, at that exact moment, a Target employee pushes a huge cart out of the storage area loaded with pink and red and purple hearts and teddy bears with love signs pasted to their furry middles, and fat naked cherubs with bows and arrows in their chubby little fingers. Yes, that’s right, New Years has come and gone and Valentine’s Day is just around the corner. Better get your wallets out, people. Although, I admit, nowadays I resent Valentine’s Day a lot less than I did previously being that, this year, I actually have a Valentine.