There's Cake in My Future (37 page)

“I just can’t do this again,” I tell him apologetically from inside the hug.

He rubs my back. “Do what?” he asks. “I’m just asking you to a wedding.”

“No,” I say, pulling away. “You’re asking me to care about someone again, and I can’t do it. You seem like this really amazing guy. And you’re gorgeous, and smart and funny, and great in bed…”

As I stumble over my words Danny nods and says, “Well, I can see why you need to get rid of me then. I’m a menace.”

I sigh. “I’m just so tired of hurting.”

“Oh, honey,” Danny says sympathetically. “I’m just asking you out on a date.”

“But to me, it wouldn’t just be a date. I’d fall in love with you. And then you’d dump me, and I’m not strong enough to handle it anymore. I’ve been dating since I was fourteen years old. It’s a battlefield, and I’m tired and want to lick my wounds and go home.”

Danny pulls me into a hug. “Go home with me instead.”

I eye him suspiciously. “And then what?”

“Then you use me for sex. Again. And I let you, because that’s the giving kind of guy I am. Although we have to go to the mall first to pick a wedding gift, because you’re going with me to this wedding, if only for the promise of getting more sex from me. Which, because I so desperately need a date, I am willing to give you. Then…”

I can’t help myself. I start laughing. “Please stop being so charming and cute.”

“Not until you agree to come to the wedding. Where, by the way, you will get to know me and discover, I am (a) a pretty nice guy and (b) not even vaguely all that cute.”

Dem’s fighting words. “You’re
so
cute.”

“Please,” he counters. “People at the wedding are going to think the beautiful lady lost a bet to the geek. And I already want to ask you to my high school reunion to prove to those jerks that the head of the chess club can go on to date the prom queen.”

My face lights up at the coincidence. “I was in chess club!”

“You were not.”

“I was!”

“No. Girls who looked like you did not join chess club. They were too busy dating college students who were premed.”

My smile widens. Ah, Hell, what’s one more trek into battle? “Your house is only a few miles from here,” I tell him sexily. “Want to fool around?”

“I promise you, this is the only time I will ever say this, but mall first,” Danny tells me firmly. “I really do need to go get this wedding gift. I’m not kidding—the bride is a bitch, and if I don’t have something for them by the rehearsal dinner, she’ll make
me
wear an aquamarine dress to the wedding.”

I laugh. “Well, at least it would be something you could wear again.”

*   *   *

An hour later an escalator whisks us up to the third floor of the Bloomingdale’s in Century City.

I love the third floor of Bloomingdale’s. It’s so inspirational—if I could figure out a way, I’d be buried there. (Or maybe they could cremate me and put me into one of the beautiful Baccarat crystal vases on display.)

“Doesn’t this entire floor just reek of hope for the future?” I say, beaming, as I look around.

Danny gives me an amused smile. “How so?” he asks.

I shrug, grinning like a five-year-old in a candy store. “Well, unlike the clothing floors, which always make me feel like I should jog off those last five pounds, or the shoe department, which inspires in me a deep-seated insecurity about my teacher’s salary, the third floor of Bloomingdale’s represents all that I have to look forward to. Dreams about my future, and how great it’s going to be. The sparkling china reminds me that one day I can have eight people over for a fabulous dinner. The glittery crystal reminds me of the champagne flutes I will toast with my gorgeous husband on our wedding night, and every anniversary thereafter.”

I watch Danny smile at me, then I look down in embarrassment. “Never mind. It’s stupid. I know.”

“Personally, I like the linen department,” Danny tells me.

“Really,” I say, surprised that he has an opinion about this kind of stuff. “How come?”

“Looking at the beds makes me dream that, one night soon, I will have you back in mine.”

I smile, and we kiss.

Danny takes my hand and walks us over to the registry computer. Danny types in a name: David Devereaux.

“So, when’s the wedding?” I ask.

“This Saturday. Rehearsal dinner’s Friday. Wanna come to that too?”

“Don’t you think the bride might get mad that you’re bringing a date on such short notice?”

“If so, the bride can bite me.”

“You don’t like her?”

“She’s okay,” Danny says, shrugging. He reads from the registry list. “She told me she wants a place setting of…” He looks farther down the registry page. “Of William Yeoward. The pattern is called ‘Avington Magenta.’ ”

We walk over to the wall displaying an assortment of plates in the various William Yeoward patterns. When I find the plate, I gasp in delight. It is a stunningly beautiful solid magenta china, with a thick gold border around the rims of each piece. I take a deep breath and once again feel the inspiration of hope for the future. I know I’m jumping ahead, but maybe Danny is the one. Maybe one day the two of us will be engaged and picking out china and saying things to each other like …

“Christ. That’s hideous,” Danny says behind me.

“It is exquisite,” I counter. “It’s stunning. It’s sophisticated. It’s…”

Danny picks up a plate and reads the back. “It’s two hundred dollars for a salad plate!”

“Close your mouth, dear,” I admonish. “Your Y chromosome is showing.”

“You cannot seriously tell me you
like
this pattern,” Danny blurts out.

“And you cannot seriously tell me you don’t,” I contend. “What’s wrong with it?”

Danny’s eyes bug out. “What’s wrong with it? Well, for one thing, it’s pink.”

“It’s not pink,” I correct him. “It’s magenta.”

“Dishes aren’t supposed to be magenta. They’re supposed to be white and silver, maybe a little black or gold. But not pink.”

“Who says?”

“Who says?!” Danny repeats. “Everybody says. What kind of a girlie girl picks pink china? And what the Hell is Dave thinking that he agreed to it?”

“Yeah, like the groom cares what the china looks like.”

“The groom cares. What kind of a sexist statement is that?”

I’m mad at myself for allowing the thought of Danny being my groom to creep into my brain. But it makes me smile. I look at him engagingly and say, “Okay. So let’s say you’re the groom. What china would you pick?”

“Something that matches whatever else you put on the table,” he says, glancing around the room. “Like this one.” Danny walks over to the Bernadaud section and takes a white and platinum plate from its rack. “This one is simple, elegant…”

“Boring,” I say, not bothering to suppress a mild sneer.

Danny gives me a pretend glare. “I see registering with you is going to require a lot of compromise.”

“Wow. I’m impressed,” I say, eying him flirtatiously and giving him my best
kiss me
face. “You managed to go from talking me into another date to registering for china with me.”

Danny smiles back. He puts his arms around my waist, flashes me a captivating smile, and tells me confidently, “It’s charming as Hell, you gotta admit.”

And he pulls me into another romantic kiss.

In the middle of the china department at Bloomingdale’s.

Maybe that cake charm was right—maybe it is my turn for a red hot romance.

I smile at the thought as Danny and I pull away from our kiss. “I’ve changed my mind,” Danny says seductively. “You want to go back to my place?”

Yes, I do. But instead of agreeing right away, I tease, “Don’t you want to get your shopping done?”

He moves his hand down my thigh and pulls me closer as he says, “You know, I really don’t right now. I want to…”

And he whispers into my ear, and my knees give out slightly.

Still smiling, Danny takes my hand and begins to lead me out of the store.

Then he stops dead in his tracks. “Oh, shit,” he says under his breath.

I follow his gaze to see a strikingly beautiful Asian woman looking in our direction. I say “striking” because right now I want to strike him.

My God, I am a fucking idiot. Of course he’s dating other people. I knew this would happen if I let my guard down even for a second.

The woman notices us for the first time. Her face lights up at the sight of Danny.

“Will you excuse me for just one second?” Danny says, dropping my hand like a hot potato and touching me lightly on the arm before he runs across the room to get to the girl.

As he runs toward her, I want to throw up. She’s so gorgeous, she makes Fred’s new girlfriend look like Cinderella’s wicked stepsister. Five-foot-ten, although six-foot-two in the five-hundred-dollar suede heels she wears. Impeccably dressed—the woman’s got money, and style … I’m definitely going to throw up.

I watch Danny as he kisses her on the cheek quickly and clearly tries to talk his way out of something. She looks over at me curiously.

I need to leave. Just put one foot in front of the other, walk purposefully out of the store in a self-righteous huff, and never see that motherfucking two-faced little weasel again.

Wait—she’s walking over to me. No, no, no! I will not have my hair ripped out and be in a catfight in one of my favorites places in the world. I clench my jaw, keep my hands down at my side as I ball them up into fists, and prepare for combat.

“Hi, I’m Scarlett,” the woman says to me cheerfully as she puts out her hand. “You must be Mel.”

I watch as Danny stands behind her with a pleading look. An apologetic look. A look that says,
Yes, I’m sleeping with both of you. Can’t we all pretend we’re French and get past this?

“I must be,” I say, shaking her hand tentatively and having no clue about how to act. (I’m just not that cosmopolitan.)

“My brother has told me so much about you,” the embodiment of female perfection tells me, excitedly. “So are you coming with him to the wedding?”

My jaw drops slightly. I blink several times as I stare at her. I think maybe I can breathe again. “I’m sorry. What?”

“My wedding,” she clarifies, smiling brightly at me. “I know it’s last minute, and who the Hell wants to meet their future mother-in-law this early, right? But are you going?”

I look at her blankly. She turns to Danny. “You
have
asked her to the wedding, haven’t you?”

He glares at her. “I have. But I hadn’t quite gotten around to the family part—I was leading up to it.”

“Why? Are you embarrassed by us?” she asks.

“Constantly,” he answers. “By the way, thanks for the ‘future mother-in-law’ comment. Couldn’t have nailed that better myself.”

Scarlett waves her hand at him. “Please. You told me yesterday this could be the woman you want to marry. I’m just greasing the wheels. Faint heart never won fair lady.”

“I’m not so sure ‘Wildly obvious heart’ did much better…” he tells her, irately.

Scarlett grabs my hand, her face beaming. “I notice you were coming from the china department. What did you think of the William Yeoward?” she asks me.

“It’s pink,” Danny says, disapprovingly.

She turns back to him. “No one’s talking to you,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. Then she pulls me back toward the china section. “Come on. Let’s go make him buy me a place setting. I think my man of honor should do that, don’t you?”

Forty-nine

Nicole

Some things never work out the way you thought they would.

Well, okay, probably most things. I mean, does anyone really plan to grow up to become a crab fisherman, a radiologist, or a
Dancing with the Stars
contestant?

And if we met the person we were going to marry when we were five, that would ruin all the fun we have making such bad decisions about dating.

Another example of things not turning out the way you thought they would—and I’m just pulling this out of thin air—pregnancy tests.

I’ve always had this
I Love Lucy
idea of what it would be like to tell my husband that I was pregnant. I’m not delusional—I never really thought the father would be a bandleader who could sing “We’re having a Baby, My Baby and Me” to me in front of a national audience. But, I have to admit, I did not think he’d be three thousand miles away either.

Or that he’d hear the news from my stepdaughter.

The week after Megan had her surgery was awful. The good thing about laparoscopic surgery is that a kid can go home the following morning and recover in the comfort of her own room.

The bad thing about laparoscopic surgery is that a kid can come home the following morning and spend the next week of her life driving her stepmother crazy.

I had never seen a person eat so much ice cream. Somehow, Megan had confused an appendectomy with a tonsillectomy and ate us out of house and home.

And she hogged my laptop computer for a week playing Club Penguin, refused to so much as bring a dish to a sink because she “needed to stay on the couch or in bed to recover,” and TiVoed so many
iCarly
episodes and Taylor Swift specials the she filled up our machine and I missed the latest episodes of
30 Rock
.

And I could not have been more content, or felt more blessed.

So I did something I thought I’d never do. I asked Jason if I should go off the pill. We figured we wouldn’t be trying, but we wouldn’t be not trying either. I was in my thirties, I had read the statistics: it could take me a year to get pregnant, maybe more. Plus, I had been on the pill for over a decade. Who knows how long it would take my body to get back to being fertile after being chemically infertile for so long?

Plus, in October, basketball season officially began. My husband wouldn’t just be working long hours prepping for the season, he’d be in the season. Games until ten o’clock locally, plus the road games. We’d never have time to schedule sex, so keeping track of my ovulation cycle would be fruitless. (Pun intended.)

I should have known my plans would go awry. It’s been five weeks since I got off the pill, and I haven’t had my period.