The Queen of Minor Disasters (5 page)

“I know you want to get married.”
He looks away. “But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I just don’t think
I’m ready to marry you.”

Suddenly the room gets hot and
I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale and wait for him to say “just
kidding, I’d be honored to spend the rest of my life with you.” Only, he
doesn’t say anything.           

“Ok,” I say, still wondering
if this is part of the surprise.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’ve just
been thinking this through and I realized you’re not the one for me.”

His words hit me like a slap
in the face. This can’t be part of his proposal speech. I feel numb.

“Stella, say something.”

“What about the Tiffany’s
catalogue. I saw it on your nightstand.” I confess.

Drew sighs. “That’s sort of
what started me thinking about all of this. I went to buy you a ring and I
couldn’t do it.”

Ok this all makes sense now.
It’s not as bad as I thought. I reach for his hand.  “Drew, I don’t need a
Tiffany’s ring.” I look at him, but his face is blank. “I don’t need a ring at
all,” I lie. “Just as long as I’ve got you in my life, I’m happy.”

He looks like he might get
sick. “Stella, you don’t get it. I don’t want to marry you. Ever. We’re not a
good pair. I live in New York and you live in your parents’ house.”

“I’m saving up for a place!” I
yell as if I need to defend myself. I stand up quickly and feel the blood drain
from my face.

“Look, Stella, you manage your
family’s restaurant in the summers and waitress during the year, that’s what
makes you happy and it’s all good. But I’m more career-minded than that. I’m
working my way up the corporate ladder and I need a wife who can keep up.”

I’m about to yell “I can keep
up,” but I stop myself. What’s the point?

I grab my bag off the floor
and fling it over my shoulder then turn towards the door.

“Do you want me to drive you
to Pietro’s?” he asks.

I look at him incredulously.
“No!” I snap and head for the door. This is his last chance to stop me.

I take a pause in the open
doorway, but he doesn’t follow, so I ceremoniously cross over into the hallway
and slam the door shut.

Yields 2 servings

Ok, I don’t really know who
the hell Norma is, but apparently, this is
her
pasta, (or my version of it anyway). I’ve taken the liberty of naming this the
Last Supper. You can figure out why.

1/2 pound penne

1/4 cup extra virgin olive oil

1 medium onion, finely chopped

7 Roma tomatoes, diced.

2 cups eggplant, diced

salt and pepper to taste

1/4 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano
cheese

1/4 cup grated ricotta salata

4
       
fresh basil leaves, chopped.

1)
     
Bring ten cups of water to boil. Add salt to flavor
the pasta.

2)
     
Heat olive oil in a medium saucepan. Add the
onions, salt and pepper and cook until translucent.

3)
     
Add the tomatoes and eggplant. Reduce the heat to
low and allow the sauce to simmer for 15-20 minutes, adding a few spoonfuls of
the pasta water if necessary. (While the sauce is simmering, you can cook the
pasta).

4)
     
Once the pasta is cooked, add it to the saucepan,
and toss to coat it.

5)
     
Top the pasta with grated Parmigiano Reggiano,
ricotta salata, and fresh basil.

Julie just doesn’t get it
though. She thinks the whole idea of marriage is a farce. But that’s only
because her parents’ dysfunctional relationship screwed her up at a young age.
Her mother rivals Elizabeth Taylor in marriages and divorces, and her father, a
plastic surgeon in LA, changes Botox Bunnies like some men change their ties.

Julie’s on the same path,
unfortunately. I can’t even count the number of guys she’s been through since I
met her freshman year of college and she seems to only get worse with age.
Plus, now that she’s a staff member at
GQ
she’s all into the models that roam the place in their boxer-briefs.

But the thing is, Julie’s
never been in love—not like Drew and me at least. She’s never had that lasting,
withstanding love that bonds people together for life.

As I walk I try to call her,
but I get her voicemail. I don’t bother leaving a message.

I board the 1 train going
downtown to West 4
^th
Street, and snag myself a seat next to an old
man. The train is filling up with college students (Columbia trust-funders) who
are making their way downtown, probably to get liquored up at some dive bar. I
try to ignore their idiotic chatter as I fumble through my bag. When I finally
find my compact, I almost wish I hadn’t.

My reflection shows a tired
girl with mascara streaked cheeks and rumbled up hair. If I were a little
skinnier, I’d almost have the whole heroin-chic look down, but instead, I just
look like a hot mess.

No wonder Drew broke up with
me.

I furiously dig for a tissue
and find a crumbled up Starbucks napkin in the bottom of my bag. I lick it and
wipe it over my cheeks repeatedly, like a stray cat trying her best to groom
herself.

By the time we hit 59
^th
Street, I almost look presentable.

For the rest of the ride, I
just stare out the window and replay the events in my head. On one hand, I hate
Drew for being so shallow, but on the other hand, I can’t help but feel a small
spring of hope. I mean, he was close to buying a ring. We dated for three
years. He’s not just going to throw all of that away on the spur of the moment.

And neither am I.

I reach Julie’s by 8:15 and
unlock the front door of her building. Even though Julie is a trust-funder, her
apartment building is pretty average and doesn’t even have an elevator.
Thankfully, she lives on the second floor.

I try to call her as I walk up
the stairs but her phone goes to voicemail again.

Honestly, I don’t even
remember when I talked to her last. For all I know she could be on a business
trip.

Once the thought enters my
head, I can’t help but hope it’s true. I’d really love to just be alone
tonight, take a hot shower, and roll up in bed.

But as soon as I get to her
door, I know she’s home. I can hear her fake laugh, which can only mean one
thing.

I almost don’t want to knock
on her door, but I’m desperate.

I ring the bell.

She doesn’t answer.

I ring it again and wait a few
minutes.

I can still hear her laughing
so I ring the bell again and bang my fist on the door. “Jules, it’s me,” I
yell.

The door opens a crack and
Julie peeks her head out. Her hair is pulled back and her neck and shoulders
are bare. I almost think she’s naked, but then I see her hot pink tube top.
Thank God.

“Hey Stella,” she whispers.
“Why didn’t you call?”

“I did, your phone is off.”

She wrinkles her nose and
looks back into her apartment. “Oh, sorry. I’m kind of busy. Do you want to
hang tomorrow for lunch or something?”

I sigh. “I sort of need a
place to crash.”

“Just stay at Drew’s. Tell
Momma DiLucio you’re staying here. I’ll cover for you.” She’s about to close
the door when I stop her.

“He dumped me, Jules.”

Her face softens. “Oh shit.
Give me a minute.”

I nod and she closes the door.
Two minutes later she opens it and a short, pudgy, balding man walks out. “I’ll
call you,” she says and waves him good-bye. So much for the
GQ
models.

I give her a strange look as I
enter her apartment. “Who was that?”

“That’s George. He’s a photographer,”
she says and plops onto an oversized pillow in the center of her living room
floor. Every time I visit Julie’s apartment she’s got some new theme going.
From the orange and purple sheers billowing from the ceiling, I’m guessing
she’s doing Moroccan now. Even Winston, her enormous Chow Chow, has a purple
doggie bed, which he’s snuggled into. He’s supposed to be a great watchdog, but
the thing is so friendly that if a burglar ever did get through her fifteen
locks, Winston would just sniff him a few times and lick his feet.

“He doesn’t seem like your
usual type,” I say trying to be nice, in case this is the one time she’s
actually in love.

“Ew, Stella!” she squeals and
flings her long blonde hair to one side. “I can’t believe you thought that.”

I give her a look.

“George is a photographer that
freelances with us. He’s helping me with a project.” She pauses to light a
cigarette and the offers me one. I decline. “I’m starting a fashion blog.
George’s doing the photography and I’m doing the styling.” Her blue eyes flash
with excitement.

It’s just like Julie to take
on a new project and give it her all. She’s motivated, driven, and successful.
The exact opposite of me.  Drew should be with her. “Do you have any wine?”

“Oh my God, of course,” she
says jumping up from her pillow. I take a seat on an embroidered foot stool and
wait for my drink.

“So, tell me everything.” She
hands me an oversized goblet of white wine, pours one for herself, and sits
back on the floor.

As painful as it is to
recount, I give her all the details.

“What an asshole,” she says
when I finish. “You’re better off without him.” She blows a puff of smoke, and
stands to get another bottle of wine.

“Maybe,” I say half convinced.
As I was retelling the story though, things started falling into place. In my
heart of hearts I know I can get Drew back. Now I just need to figure out how.