Liar's Guide to True Love (11 page)

“Maybe I’ll stop here then and grab a cab uptown. Wouldn’t want him to give you a hard time about strange men bringing you home, right?” He has turned me toward him so that his arm is around my waist. His arm is strong and warm against my back. “Or about strange men kissing you good night.”

“Right,” I whisper. I am not unaware of what we would look like to a bystander (or my doorman for that matter). We are That Couple who stand at the corner as if waiting for a light to change, but then miss it when it does. That Couple who annoys people walking past because we would be in their way if there was anyone trying to walk by. Luckily no one is walking by and I appreciate his desire for a little privacy from my doorman, well, as private as one can get on a Manhattan street corner. His breath smells like a mix of pasta sauce and mint—for a second I wish I had taken a mint on the way out of the restaurant as well, I can’t believe I forgot. But oh, we ate the same thing, so who cares.

He closes his eyes, and is kissing me, a slow, soft kiss. It ends before I can even fully enjoy it, but not before I recognized it for what it was—that undeniable spark that promises to become fireworks. We stand there for what feels like forever, but in actuality is probably only fifteen seconds. He is suddenly shy and doesn’t really look at me when he says, “I had a great time. I hope we can do this again.”

“Definitely,” I say, and he looks up. “I guess this is good night.”

“I guess so.” He drops his arms from my waist and stands there waiting. We say good-night and I walk toward my building. In my mind I am skipping, floating, flying, when I turn around to wave. He is still standing there facing toward me, with his hands in his pockets, as empty cabs pass behind him. When I get into my lobby I say hi to Frank as I move toward the elevator.

“Late night for you, little lady. People getting married on Wednesdays, now are they?”

I groan inwardly at the memory of the lie I just told, and lower my head from the clouds. And that is when I notice. My left shoe has a wide black satin strap across the front and black satin flower. My right shoe has narrow straps crisscrossing the front. In my haste to pack my bag and change my shoes in the cab, I had worn two different shoes.

Did he notice? He
must
have noticed—he even noticed my earrings for Pete’s sake. He’s an architect, trained to pay attention to every detail. He stared at my legs—no wait, he must have been
staring at my shoes.
What an idiot I am, thinking he was a leg man. Well, he did kiss me, so he must find me attractive enough to compensate for my apparent lack of brain cells. Most women primp for a date, right? Which includes looking at what they put on? I go on an internal rant for a few minutes more. I’m dying to call him—to explain right away what happened, how I was in a rush, and it was dark in the cab. But that would be too much right? I mean, he’s still in the cab, not even home yet. This was a First Date. I don’t have any rights to immediate phone calls.

I check my phones on the off chance that he may have called already. My cell phone shows three missed calls, but they are all from my mother. There are two messages on my landline and I hit play, just before I slump down on my couch to stare at the ceiling.

“Cassandra, it’s your mother. My you’re out late on a Wednesday. Emma says you haven’t called her. You really should, you only have one sister you know. Mrs. Haskins down the street, you remember her don’t you? You used to play with their daughter, Sheila. Well Sheila calls her brother every day.
Every day,
Cassandra—” I hit the delete button before she finishes, recognizing that it is one of those rambling stories that I will have to hear whenever I actually do speak to her anyway.

Message two: “Hey, gorgeous. Give me a call. My parents are coming to town and wanted to know if we were free for lunch. Talk to you later.” Kevin. He thinks he has “me” status now? I’m supposed to go to lunch with his parents? We are a “We” now? This is completely out of character and unexpected, just like the flowers he sent. What is he up to?

The last (and only) time I met his parents, it was a disaster—an entire weekend of disaster. It was our senior year, and we thought it would be nice for me to meet his mother and father some time before they came to New York for graduation. We thought Easter would be a nice weekend to drive up to Boston, and I remember being so excited and anxious. I was excited that we were finally taking this step together to meet his parents (he’d already met mine almost immediately after we had started dating because my mother insisted). And I was anxious, wondering if the set of handmade lavender soaps from a downtown shop was nice enough (hey, I was in college).

The intimidation I felt the entire weekend didn’t start when we pulled up to the meticulously landscaped house that his parents lived in. Nor did it start when we entered—his parents weren’t even home. It started when he showed me his childhood bedroom. His parents redecorated after he’d left for college, but I didn’t expect it to have been turned into a shrine of Kevin’s youth. My own parents had turned my room into a guest room, complete with flowery bedspread and chintz love seat. Emma’s room was turned into a study.

Kevin’s walls were filled with framed photos of him at various ages, a combination of formal class pictures and family shots. There were also framed awards, and of course his high school diploma, next to a shadow box of his cap and tassel. He was sheepish about it all, right down to the Boy Scout of the Year award and faded Star Wars sheets on the twin bed. But at the same time he showed a definite pride in his high school baseball trophies and didn’t seem to think any of this was at all odd. His mother had gone through some old boxes, and decided to do something with the contents rather than just wait for him to get his own house.

Kevin’s parents came home with dinner for all of us, and we sat around the cherry wood table of the formal dining room with candlesticks and takeout Italian food. We even had wine with dinner now that we were twenty-one. I had just taken a sip when the questions started.

“Do you cook, Cassandra?” his mother asked.

“Not really,” I said, lightheartedly. “I don’t think instant noodles count.”

“Neither do I,” she said. I relaxed a bit since clearly she wasn’t expecting me to play happy homemaker. “Although I do make sure my men have a well-balanced meal at the end of the day.” She gestured to the spread of three types of pasta, two kinds of salad, and bread rolls. “So you major in Art, Kevin said?”

“Art History, actually. I’m not quite the fine artist,” I say modestly.

“And what will you do with a degree in
Art History?
Answer the phones in some tiny gallery?”

“I’m actually hoping to be a curator one day,” I respond confidently.

“Oh my dear, you need a pedigree for that,” she said flatly.

I looked over at Kevin, but he and his dad were engrossed in a conversation about the Red Sox.

“What time do you get up in the morning? We could go for a little run together, just us girls.”

“Oh, I didn’t bring my stuff.”

“I saw your sneakers strewn across the hallway.”

“I didn’t bring a jogging bra,” I said bluntly.

“Oh. Well.” She looked at me for a moment, and I thought I was off the hook.

“Well, dear, it’s not like you need a lot of support. You’ll manage just fine.” I felt my face turn red, as Kevin finally looked over at me.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

His mother beamed at him. “Of course, sweetheart, we were just planning to go for a run tomorrow since the weather’s been so beautiful. 6:30 then, all right?” she said to me.

I gulped my wine. Kevin could have stepped in then. He knew I hated jogging or exercise of any sort. He should have known not to leave me alone with his mother. He could have said I needed rest because I had been studying so hard recently. He could have said he would come with us. He could have said
anything.
But he didn’t. “Absolutely,” I said into my glass.

After dinner Kevin was carrying my bag up to the guest room. I had known we would stay in separate bedrooms, and was fine with it, but I had planned to at least close the door behind us for a few minutes to make sure Kevin would come with us on the run. He had barely dropped my bag to the floor when his mother came in. “Oh, sweetheart, you didn’t think you’d be staying in your old room did you?” she laughed at Kevin. “Such the gentleman, always,” she said to me. She placed a hand on his arm. “You can’t possibly sleep in that tiny bed, a big guy like you. You’ll sleep in here, and I’m sure Cassandra won’t mind sleeping in your old room.” I felt like telling her that Kevin and I both managed to squeeze into the twin beds of our dorm rooms,
together
and on multiple occasions. But I just pasted a smile on my face while Kevin shrugged his shoulders.

I lay awake in Kevin’s room that night, with all his younger selves staring down at me tucked in next to his R2D2 pillow, thinking about how his mother
just didn’t like me.
I would have to grin and bear it, I had told myself. She would come around eventually. She had to, since Kevin
loved
me. I slept pretty well that night, with a couple of glasses of wine in me, secure in Kevin’s love.

The next morning, his mother claimed that we would “just go for a stroll,” even though she was dressed in full workout gear—black spandex shorts and a neon yellow tank top. She even had little hand weights. I felt completely inadequate in an NYU T-shirt and a pair of old boxer shorts—
Kevin
’s old boxer shorts. I had mentioned going to ask Kevin if he wanted to come, but she claimed he “needed his sleep.”

We hadn’t even made it down the walkway to the street before she started asking about our relationship. How long had we been seeing each other, if I had had a serious boyfriend before Kevin. She lifted her chin slightly and said, “You’re the first girl he’s ever brought home.” I couldn’t help but smile at that memory, remembering how my heart had swelled at the time. Kevin hadn’t told me that. And then I frowned at the next memory. “Do you think he’ll marry you?” she had asked, as she stepped up the pace.

“I don’t know,” I stammered. “We haven’t exactly talked about it.” Oh, but we had. More in a theoretical way than anything else. How could we not when Suzanne and Michael were already planning to get married as soon as they could? Kevin would have law school of course. He had already gotten into NYU, but was waitlisted for Harvard. Waiting on his dream school didn’t exactly put him in a happy mood of looking to the future. The possibility of his going to Harvard didn’t exactly put either of us in a happy mood, since I knew I would be staying in New York.

“Kevin is going to Harvard you know,” his mother continued, puncturing my thoughts. “His godfather’s made a call to the admissions board.” She looked at me then, to make sure I was listening. “I’ll tell you now because it’s just us girls. Kevin will find out on Monday. I do hope you’ll be happy for him.”

“Of course I will be. I mean, I am, that is.” And I genuinely was.

“Good. I wouldn’t want anything, or anyone holding him back from his dreams.”

“I would never do that. We’ve talked about him going to Boston. I knew he would get in,” I had said, trying to show that I had confidence in him as well, and it wasn’t just her pride.

“He needs to focus if he’s going to be at the top of his class and become a top attorney. He can’t be worried about any broken hearts left from his youth, or distracted by weekend jaunts to New York all the time.” Any trace of a smile, however false, had been wiped from her face. “Do you know what I mean?”

I had gulped hard. “Yes. Of course.”

She smiled then, suddenly chipper. “I’m so glad that we had this chat. Now why don’t you trot along back home? I’m going for a real workout now.” Without another word she had taken off at a jog, leaving me to walk back to the house. There are no more messages after the one from Kevin. I can
not
call Nick. I can’t call Kevin either for that matter.

I get out of my date clothes—damn the matching bra and panties. Why couldn’t I match when it
mattered?
I change into my pajamas—my comfiest terry lounge pants and a tank top—and sit down at my computer to check some emails. From client brides. The bride who wants a teal theme is excited to see the table-setting ideas and is free to meet next week. There is a thank you email from one Bride who is back from her honeymoon. I am still too bothered by my own idiocy to do anything more than wallow in it for a few minutes longer. It’s a little too late to call any of the girls, so I slip on my mismatched shoes again and send them all a photo text from my BlackBerry, with a brief message: way to impress a first date. At least they can have a laugh at my expense in the morning.

Wedding Planning Tip: Choose a photographer carefully, but sometimes you are best captured in a way you don’t expect.

I didn’t set my alarm since I didn’t have any early morning appointments today, so I wake up to the text message beep on my cell phone, which I keep on the nightstand. I expect it to be from Suzanne—the early riser who probably got a good chuckle from the photo I sent.

It is from Nick! It reads: Is it too early to call?

I jump out of bed and brush my teeth as I text him back with one hand: No, I’m up.

The phone starts ringing as I’m rinsing my mouth, and I try not to gurgle out the hello. Unfortunately my voice is still husky from just having woken up.

“Are you busy? I figure you advertising types are at work pretty early.”

Oh. Yeah. “Not too busy, no. Not busy at all actually. I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk today.”

“Why don’t you come down for a quick coffee break? I’ve been at work since seven, and I’m about to have my second Starbucks.”

Could it be that I have a chance to redeem myself for the mismatched shoes already? “I would love a Starbucks. Where should I meet you?”

He chuckles. “The one right near your building. It’s the closest one. Hurry up and I’ll wait for you in your lobby. You said you weren’t busy, right?”

My lobby? Right. Mia’s lobby. Shit. “Right, no, not too busy. Give me a few minutes though, okay?”

“Sure. Just not too long, I feel my Venti wearing off as we speak.”

We hang up and I rifle through my closet for something to wear. Conservative, right, this is an office after all. Black skirt suit with low kitten heels and diamond studs. I run a brush through my hair and am hailing a cab in less than ten minutes. Of course, ten minutes is way longer than it would take for an elevator to get to a lobby. And why the hell is it so hard to find a cab? Oh, right, it’s rush hour for all the nine to fivers. I start thinking of excuses for why I’m late—got hung up on a phone call with a client? My boss called me into a meeting? Are those plausible? Mia is always complaining about her clients. Finally, a cab! I give directions to one block from Mia’s office. Or at least directions to where I think is one block away since I’d only ever met her there a handful of times.

Makeup goes on in the cab, and since it is a short ride of stop and go traffic, I can only apply a bit of mascara and some of my new lip gloss. It’s not the glamorous me that Nick saw last night, but an all right daytime look for an unplanned coffee meeting. I get out of the cab and start doing the speed-walking that is standard in New York in the direction that I
think
the Greyson building is. Oh thank goodness I am walking in the right direction, I think, as I see the sign. Of course I don’t really see a side entrance that I can sneak into as if I was coming from
inside
the building. I blot my face with a tissue—it also wouldn’t do to look as if I hadn’t spent the morning in an over air-conditioned corporate office. I slow my walk as I see Nick checking his watch, scowling a bit and looking toward the elevator bank. Oh God, am I that late? Thank goodness there is a bit of a bustle in the lobby, with several people coming in at once during the morning rush.

“Nick!” I call out. “There you are!” He gives me that charming smile from the night before. “I must have walked right by you! I just walked outside to see if you were out there. I’m so sorry, I got caught up. Uhhh, on the phone, you know? I just had to take the call.”

He kisses me on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it. You look great! Found your shoes, I see?”

I blush, but somehow feel at ease with how casually he has brought it up. No awkwardness at all, and he thinks I look great with almost no makeup on? Last night
must
have been a great date for him too. “I can’t believe you didn’t say anything! I didn’t notice until I got all the way home.”

“Hey, a first date—what’s a guy to do? I didn’t want to embarrass you. Actually, I thought it was—cute.” He looks bashful and flirtatious at the same time. He leans in a little, and I almost think that he is going to kiss me again, right then and there in the middle of the lobby! Of my fake office! Instead he does a stage whisper next to my left ear “Anyway, it’s not like they were purple polka dots or anything.” He raises a brow, and takes my hand, not giving me time to react. “Let’s get that coffee, shall we?”

We are heading for the main doors, when we almost run into Mia. I mean, literally, almost run into, because she has her glasses on (which are not an updated prescription, but she can’t be bothered to get new ones), and is reading “Page Six” while walking. “Cass! What are you doing here?”

“Mia, you’re too funny! I got in a little early today, it’s true.” I try to give her a Look, a read-my-eyes-we’ve-known-each-other-forever-you-should-be-able-to-read-my-mind Look. “You remember Nick from the other night, don’t you? We’re just getting coffee.”

“Oh hi, Nick! Great to see you! Are you on a project here?”

Nick looks a little confused, but Mia’s nutty professor look today seems to negate his confusion. “Yeah, I’m just around the corner.”

Mia isn’t even looking at me anymore, so my attempts at ocular sign language are completely useless. “I’ll see you later, Mia,” I say as I take my turn to lead Nick out the door. “Maybe we’ll have lunch,” I call over my shoulder. Behind Nick’s back I give her the universal pinky-thumb sign for “call you to explain later.”

Once we are outside, I breathe an almost audible sigh of relief. “I didn’t know you knew each other from work,” Nick says, “I thought Mia mentioned something about school the other night.”

“Oh yeah, school. The work thing was sort of coincidence.” He still has that furrowed brow look like something doesn’t add up. “I mean, Mia referred me. You know, after college. I was unemployed. She passed my resume along. We aren’t on the same account or anything.” I am babbling now, and I don’t know if it is because the lying is uncomfortable (I’m normally not a bad liar, like I explained earlier), or if it’s because we are still holding hands. In broad daylight! During the morning rush! On the way to Starbucks! I need to change the subject. Thank goodness we have arrived at our destination and are on line to order. “What are you going to have? This one’s on me.”

“Okay, as long as you let me get the next one. I’ll get a Venti coffee. No funny flavors or foamy stuff for me.” A man’s coffee. He even takes it black. Kevin would sometimes get one of the macchiato things, with the whip and caramel on top. Why am I thinking of Kevin now?

We make a little more small talk and then decide to sit down for a few minutes since most customers are rushing to their cubicles and offices, and there is an empty table by the window.

My nervousness post-Mia run-in is gone, and I feel like I can broach the subject that I haven’t stopped obsessing over. “So I can’t believe you didn’t say anything last night about the ummm, underwear—or the shoes! I am so embarrassed. It is so unlike me.”

“Like I said, I thought it was cute.” He smiles again when he calls me cute, and I want to melt into my chai latte (I like the foamy stuff). He lowers his gaze a little. “To be honest, when you first walked in last night, I thought you were going to be high maintenance, like the girl who takes three hours to get dressed, who orders everything on the side and then sends her food back? I know it sounds bad. You just looked so
just-so,
you know? Even during the rain, your hair was brushed, your makeup like you just had it done.” He looks at me again. “But I figured, a person with purple polka dot underwear must have a sense of humor at least. And then I saw the shoes.” He chuckles, and I do too. “And I thought, well, she probably didn’t spend all afternoon getting dressed after all. A little imperfection is cute.”

“Like your tooth,” I say, without thinking. I press my lips together. He knows I’ve been studying his mouth now? Way to play hard to get, Cassandra.

“This one?” He taps his index finger against it. “Parents didn’t really have the extra money for braces. And I didn’t want to have a mouth full of metal. Not so hot with the ladies at age twelve as it was.”

Nick’s cell phone starts vibrating. He checks it and we both agree that we have to head back to “the office grind,” even though I don’t really have an appointment until 10:30. We part ways outside of Starbucks. Thank goodness he doesn’t think he needs to walk me back to “my” lobby. Once I am certain he is out of sight, I turn the corner and start walking back to my apartment.

On the way I send a text to Suzanne, Mia and Kate, telling them it is my turn for an emergency girls’ night, and we agree to meet at the diner near Kate’s tonight. I also decide to give my sister Emma a call. But to tell the truth, I am relieved when her machine at home picks up. I leave a quick message, not giving enough time for her to pick up in case she is screening calls.