There's Cake in My Future (18 page)

Disappointed girls slowly peel off of the pile and let me stand up with my bouquet.

I glance over at Scott, who can’t stop laughing.

“Ahhhh!!!” Nic screams gleefully as she runs up and hugs me. “So you’re next!”

Um … yeah. “I thought Ginger was next,” I tell Nic grumpily as I look at the bouquet.

“No, no, she’s already engaged,” Nic tells me. “Maybe Scott’s going to propose.”

“I can’t even get him to propose brunch,” I point out.

“And now it’s time for the garter toss!” Jason says into the microphone. “Gentlemen, I need you up here.”

Scott stands up with the other single gentlemen. We pass each other on the way to and from the dance floor.

“Good luck,” I tell him.

“With all of the basketball players here, I’m gonna assume you’ll have a new dancing partner in moments,” Scott teases.

Nic sits down on a chair Jason has provided. She lifts her dress hem ever so slightly to reveal a blue garter, which Jason takes off to fling at the bachelors.

Such bizarre customs we Americans have when you think about it.

Jason makes a big show of turning around so that he can’t see the other guys.

And the next thing that happens makes my heart skip a beat.

The garter flies over the group of men, just like the bouquet had flown over us. Only, to my surprise, Scott steps back and catches it, throwing his left hand back and up in an insanely lucky catch.

Not that anyone else was trying to catch, but still—it was inspired.

I am stunned. My eyes must look like saucers. Scott smiles as he walks up to me, puts out his hand for me to take, and asks, “May I have the honor of this dance?”

I smile, put the bouquet down at our table and give him my hand. “I thought you hated dancing.”

“Oh, I do,” he says. “But I knew you weren’t going to shut up until I danced with you once, and at least with this I’m guaranteed a slow dance.”

We walk onto the dance floor, and Nic and Jason’s guests applaud. The lights dim as Etta James’s “At Last” begins to play. Scott donuts his arm around my back and pulls me in close. I lean against his chest, completely content.

We dance for all of thirty seconds before I get self-conscious. “Isn’t anyone else going to join us up here?” I ask, looking around at the sea of faces watching us by our lonesome on the dance floor.

“I’m not sure,” Scott answers, pulling back from me a bit to look around. “Are they supposed to?”

“I don’t know,” I say. I spot Mel watching us from table thirteen. I motion for her to join us with a slight wave of my hand. She shakes her head.

I motion more obviously. Then I look past Scott’s shoulder to yell, “Everyone come join us.”

A few people join us on the floor, and I relax into his chest again.

This is nice. I could get used to this. I lift my chin up to look into his eyes, and I almost kiss him.

But I don’t. Instead, I turn away and watch the crowd.

Coward.

I hate myself for this. If I’m not going to make a move, I should try to stop obsessing.

I know logically that he doesn’t want me, or he would have tried to kiss me by now. Whatever reason he may have for not kissing me (loyalty to another woman, worry about rejection, thinking I’m too fat, whatever), I cannot combat that reason.

But, in my heart, I guess I just keep hoping. And wonder what I can do differently this time that will make him want to kiss me. How can I act? What can I say? What thing can I do differently than before, that will make him want to make out with me for the next six hours? Hell, make him want to rip off my clothes—the relationship be damned—because I am just too enticing for him to resist?

And suddenly something he said pops into my head.

Weddings beget weddings.

I’ve never been to a wedding with Scott before. That’s what’s different. He was trying to tell me that earlier: Weddings beget weddings.

I look back up at Scott again, and this time I move in for the kiss.

I kiss him on the lips.

Just a tap kiss really. He kisses back though, and smiles.

Now what?

Does a tap kiss count as a real kiss? Should I lean in and open my mouth? How pathetic would that look at a wedding?

Or maybe it’s romantic. As he said, “Weddings beget weddings.”

I lean in to kiss him again just as his phone rings.

I pull back a few inches but continue the dance.

The phone rings again.

“You gonna get that?” I ask as we move around the floor.

“In the middle of a slow dance?” Scott asks me incredulously. “What am I, mental?”

He spins me around with a flourish, flinging me out, then spinning me back. And just as Etta belts out her final sultry, “For you are mine … at last,” Scott lowers me into a slow dip.

The audience applauds as he lifts me back up and pulls me into a hug.

After the hug, I keep my arms around Scott’s neck. “One more dance?” I ask flirtatiously.

Scott smiles, almost shyly. “Okay.”

And the two of us begin our slow dance again.

Until the bass starts kicking in from Eminem’s “Without Me.” Bah-nah-nah-nah-nah.

The slow dance is over, and possibly so is my only shot at romance for the night. Scott smiles, takes my hand, and leads me away from the dance floor.

Heavy sigh.

His phone beeps a text. Scott opens it to look. His brow furrows.

“What is it?” I ask.

“It’s from the owner of the gallery that sells my stuff. The place has been robbed.”

Scott’s phone rings again. He immediately picks up. “Dude, what happened?”

His face falls as he listens. “Well, are the cops there now?” He looks at me as he says into the phone, “I can’t. I’m at a wedding right now … Well, I can’t just announce to my date that I have to leave. Let me just tell you which pieces I sent over:
Chode, Requiem for a Hershey Bar, True Love in a Cucina,
and oh…”—he starts snapping, trying to remember—“the one with the high heel and the bright red paint … crap, what’s it called…?” He snaps again.

“Wedding,”
I remind him.

“Wedding,”
he repeats into the phone. He winces at the irony. “No,
Chode
wasn’t a painting. It was an installation, a collection of things over a painting … You know what? I took photos of everything. Just … let me know who’s investigating the robbery, and tomorrow I’ll bring them everything they need.”

“You should go,” I whisper to him as he continues to insist to the person on the other end of the line, “No. I can’t abandon my date. I’m her ride home.”

“Abandon your date,” I insist in full voice. Scott looks at me. “Really? But I…”

I start waving my arms toward the door. “This is your livelihood. Go!”

“Okay, Jack, I’m in Santa Monica, but I’ll be right over.”

Scott hangs up the phone. “Thank you. Do you want me to come pick you up at the end of the night?”

“No, I can cab it home,” I assure him. “Do you want me to come with you?”

He looks around the room. “No. Nic hasn’t left yet. I don’t want you to get into trouble.” He kisses me good-bye quickly. “But can I call you late tonight?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And Scott runs out the door.

Damn it.

Damn it, damn it, damn it!

Twenty-one

Melissa

Have you ever been on one of those perfect dates that is only perfect because you didn’t know you were on a date? That’s what it has felt like being with John all evening. He has been funny, attentive, ridiculously attractive, and, for some reason, all mine.

Up until ten minutes ago, when everything changed. I don’t know if he got a text message that I didn’t see, or saw an ex I haven’t heard about, but John has gone from being interested to distant, flirty to quiet. And I have gone from being a confident seductress to an insecure mess.

I have just finished the single woman’s rite of humiliation (wait—I mean passage), and tried and failed to catch Nic’s bouquet, and have come back to the table to see John with this weird look on his face.

Did it seem desperate to want the bouquet?
I think to myself.
Did it look like I was too marriage minded? Or make me look like one of those girls who constantly jumps ahead in a relationship?

“Are you going to go up for the garter toss?” I ask John, determined to scoot past this awkward moment.

“Um … no,” he says, looking over at the dance floor as the single men gather around to do something men hardly ever do: avoid lingerie.

“Are you okay?” I ask him, concerned.

“Yeah, I just … Will you excuse me for a moment?” John asks me.

“Sure,” I say, not sure what I did wrong.

John quickly walks out of the Grand Ballroom. I sit there, stunned, wondering what to do to salvage the situation.

I watch Scott catch the garter, then head over to Seema for their romantic “First Dance.”

Okay, I can’t go talk to them to get advice. They’re having a nice moment. So I sit at table thirteen by my lonesome, and try to dissect what I did wrong.

I spend the next few minutes running through all of the causal possibilities for the change in dynamics. That’s a math teacher’s way of saying I try to figure out where I screwed up.

A drunken twenty-something comes up to me. “That is one ugly dress,” he slurs at me.

“I’m sorry?” I say to him.

“I said that is—”

“No. I meant I’m sorry,” I say firmly, then wave good-bye. “Off you go. Chop, chop.”

I decide to take matters into my own hands. I grab my purse, and head out of the ballroom in search of my new infatuation.

I walk around the lobby. Various couples are flirting with each other, people are starting to pull out their valet tickets and prepare to go home.

John is nowhere in sight.

Damn it. Is he secretly on his cell phone with his fiancée, telling her not to wait up? Did he head out to the lobby bar to trade up for the evening? Has he gone up to his hotel room to tuck his four children into bed for the night?

Dejected, I start to head back to the ballroom just as John emerges from the men’s room. “There you are,” I say, very happy to see him.

“Oh, hey,” John says to me awkwardly. “Miss me?”

“I did,” I tell him sweetly. “Say, do you want to go out and take a walk on the beach?”

John takes a moment to think about my suggestion.

That can’t be a good sign.

“Um … sure,” he tells me, taking my hand. “Let’s go.”

We walk hand in hand out onto Santa Monica beach. The night is wildly romantic. It’s late August, so it’s not cold yet. I smell the salty air, and listen to the ocean’s waves pounding against the sand mixed with the sound of a bass pounding out from the ballroom.

I look up into John’s eyes, then I lean in and kiss him.

He politely kisses me back. (That’s bad.) And when I pull away from him, he has an almost pained expression on his face.

I try to give him a hopeful expression. “Shall we try again?” I joke, and lean in just as he looks down at the ground and …

Bwahh …

He throws up wedding cake all over my dyed-to-match shoes.

“Oh God!” I yell, involuntarily stepping back in horror as he grabs his stomach and says, “Jesus! I’m so sorry. I … Bwah…”

And there goes the filet mignon with Roquefort, all over the sidewalk.

Ew! Ew! Ew!!!! What kind of a red hot chili pepper is this?!

I rub John’s back as he stays bent over, ready for the next assault on his system. “Are you okay?” I ask him. “What happened?”

John starts hyperventilating as he tells me, “I thought the ice cream I picked up at the airport tasted funny, but I figured, ‘Oh, I don’t eat much ice cream, I guess this is how it tastes. And now … Bwahhhh…”

I bring John over to a nearby chair and help him take a seat. He clutches his stomach as he finishes his story. “For the last hour I’ve been feeling queasy, but I was hoping it would go away.”

I rub his back for a few moments. After the next wave of vomit, I ask him, “Do you have a room here?”

John painfully nods yes.

Twenty minutes later I have helped get John into bed and returned to the ballroom, where I see Seema sitting at a table, looking forlorn.

“Hey,” I say, throwing down my purse. “Where’s your date?”

“He’s with the police.” She sighs.

I do a double take.

Wonder if there’s a cake charm that can predict that?

Twenty-two

Nicole

A writer has to write. I can’t help it. I am going nuts on this family cruise, and I need to vent.

I am sitting at the teeny tiny pool on the cruise ship, a watered-down mai tai at my side, watching the girls slide down the waterslide and into the pool over and over again.

Any mathematician who insists there is no such number as “umpteenth” has clearly never had kids.

Today, I have to write.

And by that I don’t mean real writing—I mean sending e-mails to my friends to complain.

I place my portable computer on my lap, click online, and begin writing to Mel and Seema.

To: [email protected], [email protected]
Subject: Are we there yet?

I will not, WILL NOT, at $0.55/minute Internet cafe rates, click on the Hotel Danieli live cam in Venice, Italy to see what I’m missing. Nor will I look up pictures of the Tuscan villa that Jason and I should be staying at later this week.

I am in the first ring of Hell—there are no real criminals here, but I am in Hell nonetheless.

First off, I had forgotten that I am my mother’s daughter. As you both know very well, this means that I get seasick in spite of my love of water sports, and that water from any country other than my own makes me … oh, what’s the word I’m looking for? Sick on both ends.

But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

So, as you two know, my darling husband (all right, I’ll admit I am LOVING that word) and I had to leave our wedding reception early to take a limo over to the airport for a red-eye flight to Orlando. (By the way—both of you seemed to be doing very well when I left. What’s the latest with each of you? Am I going to be an aunt anytime soon?)