A Total Waste of Makeup (26 page)

He smiles, and we have an awkward couple of seconds. I think maybe he’s going to kiss me, but instead he turns to the bartender to order a Sam Adams for himself and a Merlot for me.

“Make that two Merlots,” I hear Dawn say to the bartender from behind me, “and I think it would be easier on all of us if you just handed over the bottle.”

Jordan and I turn around to see Dawn, looking stunning as ever in a dark green cocktail dress. “Have you met them yet?” I ask, referring to Drew’s parents.

“Yes. They’re out parking the car. Drew told them it was valet, but no, his father wants to find a space on the street. ‘No point in your company paying for us to park. It’s just a waste of money,’” Dawn says, imitating Drew’s dad perfectly. Then she turns to Jordan and puts out her hand. “Hi, I’m Dawn. Jordan, isn’t it?”

She says it like, ‘I’m not sure if we’ve met,’ and Jordan knows she’s lying. But he bows and kisses her hand. “Charmed. You are looking lovely tonight.”

Dawn looks at me and winks. “Love this one. Keep this one.”

When Dawn sees Drew and his parents walk in, her whole body deflates. “Oh God, round two.”

“They’re really nice,” I insist. “They’re just a little small-town, that’s all.”

“Do I look small-town?” Dawn asks me.

“No,” I admit.

She turns to Jordan. “When
you
see me, is there anything about my appearance, my attitude, or my demeanor, that says small town?”

“I would have to say no,” Jordan admits.

The bartender sets down our drinks, along with a full bottle of Merlot. Dawn throws down a five-dollar tip, takes her glass of wine, and thrusts the bottle at me. “Take this, bring it to a table where I can get at it, and keep ’em coming all night.” Then she gulps half her glass of wine and turns to face her accusers. “Damn—why can’t we meet parents on the wedding day? Then you only have to do it once.”

Jordan and I watch her cross the room toward Drew and his parents.

“Is she always this nervous?” Jordan asks. “She seemed so cool and confident at the dinner party. Almost conceited.”

As I watch Drew’s parents light up when Dawn gets to them, I smile. “Under that confident woman is a pretty insecure little girl,” I say, thinking I’ve just described every woman I’ve ever met.

Jordan picks up his beer between two fingers, laces the wine bottle between another two fingers, then takes me by the hand and leads me to an indoor table. “Well, I guess we better stay close by. You know, I don’t get why women are so afraid to meet the parents.”

He puts the wine and beer down on the table, and pulls out a chair for me(!). “I mean, you should meet my mom,” he continues. “She’s got to be the easiest person in the world to get along with.”

“Really?” I ask, pretending to be interested, although what I really want to say is a bitchy, “Yeah, easy for you to say, you’re not the one who risks a woman hating you and referring to you as ‘that slut my son is sleeping with.’”

“Oh, sure,” Jordan assures me. “You’d love her. You both like spa days, and you both like beautiful shoes. I’m sure you’d have a lot to talk about.”

My face immediately lights up, and I pull my legs out from under the table. “Don’t you love these? They’re Jimmy Choo. Dawn and my friend Kate got them for me for my birthday!”

“They make your legs look amazing,” Jordan says in a tone that is getting me nervous and breathless.

A waitress walks up with a silver tray of plastic squirt guns and plastic handcuffs. “Would you like a souvenir from the movie?” she asks.

“Hmm,” I say, grabbing a pair of handcuffs. “I may want to use these later.”

I give my Groucho Marx eyebrow raise, and take a squirt gun as well.

“Would you like one too, sir?” the waitress asks Jordan.

“No, I’ll pass,” Jordan says.

“When people start squirting you later, you might want ammunition,” I point out, so he reluctantly takes the plastic props.

We have an awkward few moments of silence again. More like a minute or two, which when you’ve got a crush on a guy is the equivalent to a month and a half. Jordan looks deep in thought. I wave to a few people, say hi to a few people. He does the same.

Think, girl. Think of something witty to say.

Finally, I take my plastic handcuffs and try to put them on him. He pulls back—but in a playful way. “Hey, lady!”

“What?” I say, smiling.

“You don’t know me well enough to be doing that,” Jordan jokes.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Let’s see. I know your favorite book is
Auntie Mame
—which I’ve read since the dinner, and I have to say, I loved it. And that you have a married sister. What else should I know about you?”

“You read
Auntie Mame
just because I recommended it?” Jordan says, surprised.

I shrug. “Yeah…,” I say, not sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing. “I read a lot of books.”

“I’m flattered,” he says, taking a sip of beer. “Now I wish I had read something you liked.”

“Well, you’ve been reading our instant messages. I like those a lot,” I say.

We stare into each other’s eyes. The DJ slows down the music, switching to an oldie, “Save the Best for Last” by Vanessa Williams.

“Would you like to dance?” Jordan asks me.

“I would love to.”

He takes me by the hand and brings me to the middle of the dance floor. He takes my right hand in his left, puts his right hand around my waist(!), and leads me around the floor.

I’m in heaven. Never has a dance gone by so quickly, and yet gone on forever. Oh, and does he smell good! What is that? Lagerfeld? Chanel for Men? Old Spice? Who cares—I just want to stay in this moment forever.

The song ends, and Jordan stares into my eyes. This is it—the first kiss. That magical, delicious…why is he staring past me—what’s going on?

I turn around, and Drew is at our table, madly waving at us to come over.

I swear, I’m going to go over to that man’s house one night, and smother him with a pillow.

The next three hours were fine. I mean…they were fine. I shouldn’t complain. I got to see people I’m not going to be seeing anymore who I’ve been working with for months. I got to help Dawn get through the “Meet the Parents” night. I got to see Drew’s parents, who really are a nice couple.

But I did not get to have one more romantic moment with Jordan. I mean, really, how can you have a romantic moment when squirt-gun fights are breaking out all over the ballroom?

Around midnight, Drew’s parents say they’re tired, and the four of them decide to go home.

Jordan and I say good-bye to them, I make promises to call everyone tomorrow, and they leave.

Thank goodness.

Now’s the time. Without giving myself a moment to chicken out, I say to Jordan, “Do you want to take our drinks outside, and look at the view?”

“That sounds great,” Jordan says, taking me by the hand and walking me outside. We walk to the fence overlooking the water, and sip our drinks in silence. A full moon shines over the harbor, reflecting off the black water and making everything sparkle. It’s so romantic. I wish I had the nerve to just lean over and kiss him.

But I don’t.

But this is the last time I may ever see him—so I have to do something.

“So—who on the crew would you sleep with?” I blurt out.

Think before you speak.

Jordan nearly chokes on his beer. “Excuse me?”

“You know how Keenan does that pool among the guys about who on the crew you would most want to sleep with. Who did you choose?”

He smiles, and takes another sip of beer. “Did you talk to Keenan?”

“No. Why?”

Jordan glances over at the party inside. He takes my hand again, and silently leads me around the corner, behind some trees. Then he takes the plastic handcuffs, and puts one around my wrist. I move my drink to my other hand.

This can’t be happening! This gorgeous, stunning, spectacular man might kiss me! No, I gotta be wrong.

“I thought we didn’t know each other well enough,” I say stupidly.

Jordan smiles, puts the other cuff on his hand, and stares into my eyes. “Now we do.”

We both pause, cuffed together, waiting for the kiss. Maybe I’m supposed to lean in.

“This must be one of those awkward silences you always read about,” I say, looking down nervously at my shoes.

Jordan smiles even wider, and leans in to kiss me. As his lips touch mine, I feel like sparks hit my mouth—my lips get all tingly. Then the rest of me starts to get tingly.

We kiss for a minute, five minutes, an hour, who knows? Oh, this is one of those times when it’s great to be single. Every time we stop kissing, if only to take a moment to breathe, I grin from ear to ear, looking like an idiot.

After a while, I ask him, “Do you want to go back to my house and have a drink?”

“I would love that,” he says. “Is it nearby?”

“No. Actually, it’s in Silverlake. About thirty minutes from here, in no traffic,” I stammer. Shit—why did I even say anything? Now, he’s going to think I mean “spend the night,” which I don’t.

I mean, I don’t think I do.

No, I don’t. I definitely don’t.

“That sounds great,” Jordan says, uncuffing our hands and finishing off his beer. “Meet me in the parking lot in ten minutes. I’ll follow you in my car.”

Hmm, maybe I do mean spend the night.

Sometimes, when you’re single, it’s good to make your married friends jealous.

Okay, I may let him spend the night, but I am not going to sleep with him! Just kiss. For eight or nine hours. Now that would truly be perfect. No over-the-sweater action, no letting his hand rub my stomach (because then, you know, if he moves his hand up, you’re sweeping your hand over his in such a way as to sweep his hand back down, but if he goes too far down, then you’re really toast). No kissing of the neck or ears—well, maybe a little.

I cannot believe I have turned thirty, and I am still having mental battles with myself over men and sex.

I also cannot believe how much I want to get this guy back to my place!

We each make a hasty, separate exit from the party, then meet up in the parking lot ten minutes later, excitedly kissing before we reach our cars, then making out at my car for a good twenty minutes.

And Jordan follows my car back to my place.

As I fumble for my house keys, I warn him, “The place is a mess. I didn’t know I was having company.”

He stands behind me, rubbing my shoulders seductively. “Well, we could keep the lights out, so I don’t see the mess.”

I smile, turn around, and kiss him again. This is so great!

I put the key in the lock, do not turn on the light, and when we get inside, I pull Jordan down on the couch, so we can continue making out.

He tries to undo my top, but I swoop my hands over his, and gently push him away. He stops kissing me, and sits up. “Is it okay if I take off my jacket? I’m kind of hot.”

God, yes, you are,
I want to say. But I’m not that drunk. “Sure,” I say, and stand up from the couch. “Can I get you that drink?” I ask, suddenly nervous, and wanting to cool down the room a bit.

“Um, sure,” he says, I think a bit confused as to why I suddenly stopped kissing him.

I make my way to the kitchen, and turn on a light. I am so nervous. I don’t want to go too far tonight. I want Jordan to call me again. I like him. I don’t want to blow it (no pun intended).

Jordan comes into the kitchen, looking around. “This is a really nice place. Do you have roommates?”

“Nope,” I say, pulling out a bottle of Stag’s Leap. “It’s just me. Merlot okay?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” he says, still looking around the room. “How many bedrooms?”

“Three,” I say nervously, rummaging around in the cupboard for a few decent wineglasses. Why is it we only give people decent wineglasses when they get married? Shouldn’t we be giving them to the single people who are still trying to impress potential mates?

I manage to scrounge up some Crate and Barrel wineglasses. “I actually bought the place last year,” I say, putting a wine opener into the bottle. “I think I bought at the wrong time. They say the market’s going to go down.”

What am I babbling about? I’m supposed to tone down the mood, not kill it.

Jordan looks around. “It’s a nice place. I love old houses. Built in the 1920s, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, surprised, as I open the bottle and pour his wine. “1925. How did you know that?”

“I grew up in L.A., We moved to Orange County when I was twelve, but I still consider this home. I love these older places.”

“Really? I grew up in L.A., too!” I say in that, “Oh my God, I love pizza, too” first date tone as I hand him his glass. “I grew up in Beverly Hills. You?”

He chuckles as he takes his glass. “We weren’t so well off. Just a little house in Burbank. But it was nice. Built in the 1930s. The schools were good….” He shakes his head. “God, the schools were good…could I be sounding any stupider right now? I’m never good at the in-between-kissing conversation. I think I better shut up.”

He puts down his glass, takes me in his arms, and French-kisses me again, making my knees lock.

“So,” he asks after we come up for air, “can I get a house tour?”

“Maybe soon,” I say, flirting. “Why don’t we have our wine in the living room first?”

“Okay,” he says, picking up his glass in one hand and taking my hand with the other.

I take my wine and follow him.

But instead of leading me back to the living room, he pulls me upstairs. “I thought we were waiting for that house tour,” I remind him.

“We are. You can show me the backyard in the morning.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he turns to me and sticks his tongue in my mouth before I can say anything. Oh well, so we end up in the bedroom. The important thing is—no sex tonight.

I’m serious.

We put the wineglasses down on the nightstand, and continue kissing on my bed. The phone rings. I let the answering machine pick up.

“Hi, it’s me,” my voice comes on the machine. “Do it now.” BEEP.

“Hi, it’s your father. I know you’re not at home, but I just wanted to wish you good luck with that guy Jordan tonight. I hope he takes your mind off that jerk David.”