There's Cake in My Future (5 page)

“Antonin Scalia,” I respond, still reeling from Scott’s obvious misinterpretation of me and my “type.”

“The Supreme Court justice?” Scott asks, as he finishes looking through the cards. “Not really a celebrity. Who picked Stephen Colbert?”

“I don’t have a type,” I continue. “There’s no type.”

“Please,” Scott says, flashing me a patronizing look. “No offense sweetheart, but you like the westside type: blond hair, or had blond hair as a kid at least, a little bland, has some sort of nonartistic job that he’s a bit bored with, but which is stable. You know, like an actuary or a strategic planner. Lives in a condo west of La Cienega…”

Now I’m fuming. “That is so not true. I dated an actuary
once
, and I have dated a lot of artists.”

“Not for more than a date or two. Then you find something wrong with them, and move on.”

I have nothing to say back, but my feelings are hurt. He doesn’t see it: he genuinely has no idea how much I like him. And the only way for me to ever let him know how much would be to go so far out on a limb that my weight could easily shatter the branch.

Scott smiles. Tickles me under my chin. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I don’t like dating artists either. I’ll admit I’d rather have a downtown lawyer than a westside computer geek, but we’re pretty much the same.”

I still look sad. Scott knows this, but he has no idea why.

My phone rings. Saved by the bell. I walk over to my landline and answer. “Hello?”

“Is Scott there?” Nic whispers into her end of the phone. “Am I disturbing anything?”

“Never,” I say, maybe a little too brightly. “We’re just drinking champagne, going through your gifts, and figuring out which ones you won’t miss.”

“Ginger just called me,” Nic tells me in full panic mode. “She got engaged tonight.”

The guest who pulled the ring charm.

Shit.

“And it’s all my fault!” Nic continues. “If I hadn’t tried to get Mel hitched, none of this would have ever happened. I wouldn’t be checking my birth control pills to make sure the pharmacy didn’t accidentally switch them with mini SweeTarts, you wouldn’t be doomed to a life of hard work, and Karen wouldn’t be avoiding going to Oklahoma City next week.”

“Oklahoma City?” I ask.

“She got the tornado charm,” Nic tells me, her voice getting more anxious and high pitched. “Which was supposed to go to Samantha to guarantee a whirlwind life. I fucked everything up.”

“Okay, take it down a notch,” I advise. “Don’t go off all half cocked, it’s just a coincidence.”

“It’s not a coincidence, and I am completely cocked,” Nic insists, sounding more frightened than the babysitter in a slasher movie. “It’s happening.”

“You say that with a tone of voice like we’re in the middle of Armageddon.”

“I can’t have a baby right now,” Nic says. “I have no job.”

I resist the urge to point out that she’s thirty-two, has found the love of her life—the holy grail for all of us singles out there still searching—and that he has money and wants to fill their house with their laughing babies. Right now is the perfect fucking time to have a baby. I have a job—they’re not all they’re cracked up to be.

Instead, I cover the phone’s mouthpiece and whisper to Scott, “I need cake.”

“I’m on it,” he says, standing up. “Fridge?”

“Cake stand on the counter,” I tell him.

He makes a show of closing his eyes, shaking his head, and opening his eyes again. “Cake stand? Another thing women don’t really need.”

I playfully push him. “Just get me cake.” Then I turn my attention back to Nic. “No, I’m still here. Just talking to Scott for a second.”

“I would
not
be a good mother,” Nic insists. “Even the idea of changing a diaper disgusts me. The
Teletubbies
bore me. I’ll admit, I like
Sesame Street,
but a Snuffleupagus fan does not a mommy make.”

I sigh. “Are you still taking your pills?” I ask her.

“Religiously. I’m starting to wonder if they come in extra-strength.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about,” I assure her. “I’m not saying that I believe in the magic of the charms. But even if I did, maybe the carriage just symbolizes that you’re about to have children in your house part-time. Maybe it’s just about the girls.”

Nic takes a moment to consider that possibility. “Yeah, it could be that, I guess…”

As Nic continues talking, I watch Scott in the doorway of my kitchen. Man, he is so cute. And he’s here with me on a Saturday night. To watch wedding movies. Why won’t I make a move?

“Malika’s calling for me to read to her,” Nic says, “I gotta go. Any chili pepper hotness going on?”

“Not yet,” I admit. “But the night is young, and he’s still sober. Give me time.”

Nic laughs. “Remember, it’s that or you have to revert to your original shovel.”

“Thanks for the incentive.”

“I love you,” Nic tells me.

“Love you too. Bye.” I hang up the phone just as Scott appears with two slices of chocolate cake. “I cut big slices, as there really is no such thing as too much cake,” he says, as he hands a massive slice to me.

“A man after my own heart,” I (half) joke as I take the cake and settle in on the couch to take a huge bite.

Scott sits down next to me. “Who was that?”

“Nic. She’s a little stressed.”

“Cold feet?” Scott asks, as he takes a bite of cake.

“No. It’s silly, really. We just played this game where—”

“Ow!” Scott yelps, grabbing his mouth. He sticks out his tongue and pulls something silver out of his mouth. “What the…”

The charm is not attached to a ribbon, and I can’t see which one it is. Scott opens his hand to examine it. “There’s a heart in my cake.”

The heart charm: the next one to find true love.

Four

Melissa

I hate to be a bad friend, but really, is there any woman over the age of sixteen who actually
likes
going to bridal showers? I mean, besides happily married pregnant women who can gloat, and tell us in excruciating detail how their husbands proposed.

I’m sitting with my boyfriend, Fred, in a ridiculously romantic restaurant, with an incredible view of the city lights. He looks positively dapper tonight: his swimmer’s body looks fantastic in his new navy-blue suit; his brown eyes sparkle as he tells me a story about his day, and he seems to be in a really good mood. We’re having lovely wine and fantastic sushi. But instead of focusing on what I do have (a boyfriend who showers me with romantic dinners), I am paying attention to what I don’t have (a ring on my finger).

I can’t believe Ginger got the ring charm. Of course she’ll be the next one to get married. She’s one of those beautiful women who always has ten doe-eyed suitors doting on her at any given moment. Women like that don’t need to force the issue of marriage—it’s just part of the natural course of things for them. Like having exactly one boy and one girl, so you don’t miss out on the experience of parenting either one. And being supported by your husband if you choose to quit your job to go be a mom for ten years. And by that I mean supported both financially and emotionally—like having a guy around who loves you enough to want to have kids with you.

Fred doesn’t want kids. Or at least not with me. I’m a high school calculus and physics teacher, and any time I mention kids, he counters my hints by pointing out that boys with mothers who are freakishly good in math have a much higher incidence of autism and Asperger’s.

Which might be true. I wasn’t the easiest kid to raise, and maybe these days I’d be diagnosed with one of those disorders. I have to force myself to look people in the eye—I hate doing it. Always have. That’s a sign of both Asperger’s and autism. Plus I have a high IQ: 177. That’s frequently another sign.

Fred’s laughing as he finishes his story about someone at his law firm. (He’s a divorce lawyer. Which might be why he’s so anti-marriage.)

Instead of laughing with him, I’ll admit I’m kind of in my own world tonight. Fred takes my hand and asks me sweetly, “Are you okay? You seem … distant.”

“Sorry,” I say, sad but trying to cover.

Should I tell him about the ring charm? Ruin a perfectly good evening by bringing up marriage again? Maybe. I mean, honesty is supposed to be the cornerstone of a good relationship. Why shouldn’t I let him know how much his actions are hurting me?

I chicken out. “I was just thinking about how happy Nic and Jason looked earlier today. Like they’ve never not known each other. Pretty amazing after only one year together.”

Fred starts chuckling. He says playfully, “Here it comes.”

I know very fucking well what he means, but I still ask in irritation, “Here what comes?”

“Oh, isn’t marriage wonderful?” Fred says in a dreamy voice. “We should think about getting married. We’d have the cutest children.”

He playfully touches my nose and jokes, “Trying to give me ideas.”

God, I am so sick of this. I push his hand away from me. “I wasn’t doing anything except telling you how happy they looked.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. Now you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m tired,” I say. “It’s been six years. A girl gets tired after six years.”

Fred gets a pained expression on his face. “Mel, I’m just not there yet.”

“Six years,” I repeat, my voice rising. “When are you going to be there? Seven? Eight? Twenty? Just give me a number, so I know what my options are.”

Fred looks around the restaurant self-consciously, then leans in toward me and lowers his voice. “Honey, please don’t do this.”

I make a conscious effort to keep my voice low, but can still hear myself getting angrier. “Seriously, what is it going to take? What event has to happen that you suddenly realize that you love me, and that you want to spend the rest of your life with me?”

Fred looks down at the tablecloth, and away from me. “I don’t know,” he says sadly. “But can’t we just have a nice evening? Do we have to have this fight again tonight?”

I sigh, too. I hate not getting through to him. He either doesn’t know how important this is to me, or doesn’t care.

And I know exactly what’s going to happen tonight. First, I will have a fleeting thought in my head of how I will live without him. About how I’ll go home, right after dinner, pack my bags, move out of his house, and move back in with Seema. I’ll think about how I will finally have the courage to get on with my life. I’ll daydream that I’ll find a new guy who can make a commitment. Who loves me enough to make a commitment. I’ll imagine what it’ll be like and wonder whether or not I am strong enough to do this—to be by myself after six years. And by the time dessert comes, in my head we’ll be broken up. It will just be a matter of saying it aloud.

And then, over dinner Fred will become the sweetest, most attentive boyfriend ever. He’ll tell me how much he loves me, hug me, passionately kiss me, give me the best sex of my life, and then fall asleep, with me fitting perfectly in his arms.

The next morning he’ll do something incredibly romantic: breakfast in bed, complete with champagne. Or an impromptu trip to Santa Barbara for the day. And I’ll be happy again (for the most part) and feel loved and treasured (mostly). And I won’t bring up marriage again.

Until the next event happens that breaks my heart.

Fred gently takes my hand. “I have an early birthday present for you,” he says.

Yes—I am an idiot. As he fishes in his pocket, I feel a rushing surge of hope that he will pull out a square-shaped, velvet box.

Instead, he pulls out a travel magazine. “Here. Go to the page with the Post-it on it.”

I flip through to page ninety-seven, where I see a yellow Post-it over an article about Bora Bora, and a picture of overwater bungalows looking out over a large mountain. “It’s beautiful,” I say, confused.

“We’re going,” Fred says, flashing me a wide grin. “For ten days. Tahiti, then Bora Bora. Starting the day after Nic’s wedding. Check out the next page—it shows what our room looks like.”

I go to the next page to see the inside of a bungalow built right over the turquoise-blue water. It is stunning: there’s a high ceiling with a thatched roof, teakwood furnishings, a king-size bed with a fluffy white comforter, and plenty of cushy pillows everywhere. In the step-down living room part of the suite is a glass coffee table that you can flip open to feed the tropical fish swimming beneath.

“You got off work?” I ask him incredulously. Fred works all the time. We haven’t had a vacation together in two years, and even then it was a four-day weekend to see his family in New York.

“I thought I needed to take some time for us to just be alone together and reconnect,” Fred tells me. “As much as I love you, it seems like we’ve been drifting apart lately.”

I smile as I read about ladders that take you from your room right into the warm turquoise waters of the Pacific. “You can swim with dolphins at this hotel?” I ask, happily surprised. I look up from the magazine. “I’ve always wanted to swim with dolphins.”

Fred is clearly excited to elaborate about his surprise. “I’ve signed us up for that. And we’re going to do this picnic on a private island that’s only accessible by boat. Plus there’s snorkeling and water sports. And this amazing gourmet restaurant…”

I smile, stand up, and give Fred a big hug. “I love it. Thank you.”

Fred hugs me back. “I love you so much,” he says softly, then kisses me.

I give him another kiss, then sit back down.

Life is pretty good. I look at the pictures dreamily again and sigh. “I’ll bet they have a spa there. Maybe the two of us could get a couple’s…”

And then the strangest thing happens. Fred looks over my shoulder, and all of the color drains from his face.

I turn around to see a strikingly beautiful woman staring at him from the maître d’s podium. She is stunning. Looks like Bar Refeali’s way cuter sister.

I turn back to Fred. “What?”

“Uh … nothing,” he barely manages to squeak out. “Just a client. I did her divorce a few months ago. I’ll be right back.”

Fred throws down his napkin and quickly rushes up to the woman. She looks beyond thrilled to run into him, quickly giving him a tight hug and moving in for a kiss. I watch Fred pull away from her uncomfortably. He then kisses the woman’s cheek demurely. She looks a little thrown by his reaction—not angry, just puzzled.