There's Cake in My Future (36 page)

“I’ve been working on a small piece for a while. It’s still in the ‘Oh, God, it’s crap’ phase. But do you want to see it?”

Before I can answer, Scott opens his closet door. “I call this piece
Love Takes Work
.”

As I look at the installation, Scott confides in me, “This was actually in the middle of my living room until you buzzed, and then I quickly hid it. I’ve been working on it ever since the night of Nic’s bridal shower.”

I walk around the piece, completely stunned that he has thought about me even one tenth of the time I’ve dreamed about him.

Scott continues, “I don’t know if you remember, but that night you were complaining about your shovel, and how it wasn’t what you wanted because all it meant was hard work, and you wanted a different one, and then I got the heart, and I thought to myself, ‘Yeah—this is the universe trying to tell us something. But I’m too much of a douche to ever do anything about it.’ ”

The installation has rendered me speechless. The background is a series of pictures: one of us at Nic’s wedding, another of me holding the penises the night Britney was here, another of us at the beach the first weekend we spent as friends. Then there are various souvenirs from our adventures together strewn around in what looks like a random fashion—but I’m sure he thought out their exact placement to the millimeter. My business card with my home phone number written in Scott’s handwriting, in black pen. Tickets to a suite at Staples Center to watch the Kings play ice hockey. The copy of
Ulysses
I bought him for his birthday. A book of matches from a restaurant in Ventura.

And, in the center of the installation is his silver heart charm, next to a silver shovel, next to a small velvet box.

“Is that my shovel?” I ask Scott.

“Yeah,” Scott says, donuting his arms around my waist from behind and resting his chin on my left shoulder. “Only you were wrong about what it means. According to my research, the shovel doesn’t stand for a lifetime of hard work. It symbolizes nurturing and caring. The theme of the piece is: relationships take nurturing and caring. And, yes, sometimes hard work. Some people don’t want to acknowledge that. They want the red hot chili pepper romance. And that works great for about ten of us on the planet. There are some people who just happen to be totally available when they find the person they want, and there are no complications. No boyfriends or girlfriends already in the picture, no money or career problems, no getting used to the other person’s habits or quirks. People totally ready to lose their last Trader Joe’s vanilla bon bon from the freezer, even though they were waiting for it all day.”

Scott moves his head over to my right shoulder to declare, “I hate those people.”

Scott reaches around me to take the velvet box next to the shovel off of its clear plastic stand. “I need this for one sec, then I’ll put it back.”

He gets down on one knee and opens the box to show me a beautiful amethyst ring surrounded by a diamonds. “Will you…?”

I can’t breathe. I can’t take it! This is exactly how I pictured it in my mind—him on bended knee, the ring, a perfect little jewel tucked in a blue velvet box. It’s even more perfect than I imagined.

Naturally, I do what any woman in my position would. I interrupt him. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’ve slept together once.”

Scott rolls his eyes, stands back up, and corrects me. “Three times.”

“One night. That’s once! Which technically means we’ve only been on one date,” I say, as Scott slips his arm around my waist. “You can’t ask someone to marry you after only one date. That’s crazy.”

Scott shakes his head. “I
knew
you would say that.”

“There’s no way you can know if we’re compat—”

Scott pulls me into a kiss. Which lasts for at least five minutes.

And, again, he wins the argument.

When we finally come up for air, he makes a show of popping the box closed, and slipping it into his pocket. “You are
such
a pain in the ass,” he says, smiling as he takes my hand and pulls me toward his bed.

“No, no, no. Maybe I was too hasty. Maybe I should take the ring.”

Scott shakes his head. “I’m sure I’ll ask again at some point.”

“Don’t be like that,” I plead. “It’s just that I would feel bad if you were only proposing because the sex was so good. I mean, I have a
lot
of issues.”

Scott pulls me onto his bed. “True. Plus, how the Hell are we going to raise kids with a king-size mattress in the middle of the room, and paint, glue, and metal instruments all over the place,” he says in a mocking tone of voice as he lies down.

“Yeah—there’s that too!” I answer back, propping myself up with my right elbow. “And I have a mortgage, and in this market, I think I’m stuck. I can’t really move…” I stop talking for a moment. “Wait,” I say, “You didn’t actually propose, did you?”

Scott smiles at me, very proud of himself. “No. Kinda knew what you’d say if I did.”

I make a show of looking into his pocket for that box. “Well, then, what was that?”

“A promise ring,” he says, pulling out the amethyst ring again. “One year from today, I want you to promise me we’ll talk about it.”

I smile. My voice catches as I ask him, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I kiss him once, and then fall back onto his bed. “So, the charm was right,” I say. “This is going to take nurturing, caring…”

“And hard work,” Scott says.

I look over at him. “So, now that we’re dating, that means I can have you Sunday morning, right?”

Scott looks at me lasciviously. “What do you have in mind?”

Ah, this is perfect. I am now at the point where I can allow myself to be happy. To be hopeful about the future. Which means I am comfortable enough to say to him, “I want to buy you a box spring.”

Scott laughs. “But I love this bed.”

“Why?” I whine.

Scott leans over me and, right before he kisses me again, tells me, “Because you’re in it.”

Forty-eight

Melissa

So I’m sitting in my calculus classroom after school, a yellow notepad on my beat-up wooden desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper and wondering if this is going to help me.

Danny has called me three times. Fred has called me twice. I haven’t returned any of their calls.

Tempted though I may be to go back to my old life, I’m never calling Fred back. I blocked his phone number from our home phone and my cell phone and blocked his e-mails.

Danny is another story. I desperately want to call him back, but I know I shouldn’t. That would be like an alcoholic going to the bar for one last drink—might feel good at first, but I’ll pay for it later.

The romantic girl inside of me wants to fall into the trap of thinking that my prince has come. But the thirty-two-year-old woman with the series of failed relationships under her belt knows better.

I decide that it’s time for me to just focus on me for a while. Not try to have a man save me from my life, and not focus on a man’s happiness to bring me my own.

To just focus on what makes me happy.

It’s been so long since I asked myself what makes me happy, I decide to take pen to paper and just write down any thoughts I have on the subject.

I pull a blue fountain pen from my desk drawer and begin scribbling:

Am I happy?

I may be doing what I set out to do when I graduated from college, teaching math. But now that I’ve reached my goal, is it still something I want? And for how long? Ten more years? Next Tuesday? A lifetime? And at what expense? I don’t like that I’m thirty-two and still single. I hate that I just wasted six years on something that ended up meaning nothing.

Am I moving forward, backward, or staying in one place? I start to get nervous when I go home for Christmas and I don’t have any exciting news to tell everyone that they didn’t already hear last year. One of the worst things you can be in life is stagnant. Am I stagnant?

Where am I compared to other people my age? Most of the people I went to high school with are married with children. I used to justify my lack of marriage by thinking that I had chosen a demanding career. But now I have friends who graduated from medical school and who are married and pregnant and home owners, which makes me start to question my own priorities and timeline. I know it’s taboo to compare yourself to others, but I do it ALL THE TIME.

Is there a balance in my life? I usually think of life as a struggle to balance three things: my health (physical and spiritual), my profession, and my relationships. I usually can only seem to manage to keep two of these balls in the air at once—every once in a while I get all three in the air at the same time, but it’s never for long. And when there’s a particular leap in one area, sometimes I wonder if it means as much without the other two parts of my life in order. (Is a promotion at work worth something without a partner to share it with? Is it worth it if it means I’m tired and run-down all the time health-wise?)

Am I getting the most out of life? Am I taking enough chances? Am I traveling enough? Am I opening myself up to new experiences? Are my morals on track? Am I appreciating my family while I still have them? Am I learning as much as I can? Am I doing things I’m afraid of? Do I have too many regrets already? Or not enough? Am I being too easy on myself? Too hard?

Am I happy?

“I don’t ever remember the teachers being this hot when I was in school,” I hear from my doorway.

I look up to see Danny, looking amazing in a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, standing by my door and holding a bouquet of silver roses. “Seriously, do the boys just play Van Halen’s song ‘Hot for Teacher’ all day, every day?”

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

Danny smiles and lets out a large sigh. He shrugs as he walks into the room. “Well, you wouldn’t return my calls. I would have stalked you at home, but that’s not nearly as creepy as coming to your work.”

“How did you find out where I worked?” I ask him, as I flip over the notebook to hide my innermost thoughts.

“You told me where you worked. Honey, it’s not rocket science,” Danny says as he walks to my desk. “Although you probably actually teach rocket science, which means I should grab every time you look impressed with my intelligence and hold onto it like a poodle holds onto a tuggy toy.”

Danny holds out the flowers for me. I take the roses and sniff. “They’re beautiful,” I say, genuinely surprised. “My favorite color too. How did you…”

“Again, you told me,” Danny says kind of mockingly. “Do you not listen when you talk?”

I smile and sniff the flowers. “They smell amazing. But you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I figured it was the only way to get you to have sex with me again.”

I frown, mad at myself once again for being such a slut. Danny quickly says, “I’m kidding. I brought you flowers because I thought it would be nice to bring you flowers. And to apologize for punching your boyfriend.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” I correct him.

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. Because I also want to ask you to a wedding.”

I’m confused. “What?”

“My friend Dave is getting married this weekend. I need a date.”

I look at the roses, and debate. “I can’t,” I finally say.

“Sure you can!” he says lightly. “You can put on that ugly aquamarine dress you told me about, tell the bride you actually wore it again, and you’re good to go.”

I laugh politely, and maybe a little sadly. “Danny, you’re a great guy, but this isn’t going to work out.”

“So you’ll have sex with me, but you won’t go to a wedding with me?” Danny asks, only half joking.

“Right.”

“Man, suddenly I know how girls feel.”

“You have no clue how girls feel,” I assure him. “Look, I really like you, but I think you should leave.”

Danny gets this look on his face like he plans to fight for me. He leans against my desk. “Why?”

“Honestly? I can’t go out with someone who’s going to cheat on me.”

“Why do you think I would cheat on you?”

“Because you already have,” I say.

Danny looks totally confused, so I clarify. “A random girl walked up to you and asked you to sleep with her—and you did!”

“Yeah, but … you’re the random girl.”

“That’s not the point. How low are your standards that you would sleep with some slut you just met?”

Danny looks like his head is going to explode. “Wait a minute. You’re the slut. You’re mad at me for sleeping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you propositioned me?”

“You didn’t know it was
me
propositioning you. You just knew some desperate girl was propositioning you.”

“I knew a
hot
desperate girl was prop—”

“Did you just call me desperate?!” I interrupt.

“No. I mean yes. I mean … no, you called yourself desperate. I just said you were hot.”

“Well, you’re hot too,” I concede, but now I’m getting angry. “You’re a hot guy who will cheat on me. You’ve already proven it.”

“Wait,” he says, putting up his hands in a T to signal time-out.

I stop talking.

“So you’re mad at me for cheating on you…” he struggles to finish his thought, “… with you?”

“Yes!” I say immediately. I realize how stupid it sounds, but I know exactly what I’m talking about. “You slept with some random woman who just walked up to you and asked you to have sex with her!”

“Uh-huh…” Danny says, staring at me like he’s trying to figure out where I’m headed with this.

“Well, who’s to say you won’t do it again?” I argue.

Danny blinks several times. “I don’t know. Casino odds. It’s not like random women normally come up to me and offer me sex.”

“I don’t believe you,” I say, crossing my arms. “You could have any twenty-year-old supermodel you want. And don’t think I don’t know you’ll leave me the second she shows up.”

Danny squints at me. “It sounds like you’re complimenting me. And yet, really, you’re insulting me.”

He’s right. My anger isn’t really directed at Danny. It’s at Fred. I slowly walk up to Danny and give him a hug.