Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Seema trots over to her bedroom, and Jay and I exchange a disappointed look.

  Which Scott notices. “Um, Seema, maybe we should just go back to my place and let Jay get some rest. I’m sure he’s had a long flight and would like to catch his breath.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she yells from her room. “I only see my big brother twice a year! I wanna make the most of it!”

  Scott glances knowingly back and forth between Jay and me. “Seema, you might not be the only person making the most of his visit.”

  Seema pops out of her room wearing an adorable pair of red silk pj’s. “What are you talking about?”

  Scott points to our glasses of wine on the table. “I think we may have been intruding.”

  Seema bursts out laughing. “On them? Please. Mel would never have him.” She points to my wine. “I’m gonna grab a glass of that, and I’ll be right back.”

  Seema heads to the kitchen to get herself a glass of red and get Scott a pint of IPA, and I spend the next hour sneaking flirtatious glances and smiles back and forth with Jay while listening to Seema monologue about her wedding.

  I have a brief moment of hope when Scott announces he’s calling it a night and heads to bed, but this is quickly dashed when I hear Seema uncork another bottle of wine in the kitchen. Half an hour after that, I concede that she has outlasted me and announce that I’m going to bed.

  Once in my bedroom, I change into a pretty silk robe, a pretty lace camisole, and nonperiod underwear. I brush my teeth and spritz both my neck and my bed with Chanel No. 5.

  Then I wait for Seema to go to bed so I can sneak back out to see Jay and finish that kiss.

  As I wait, I accidentally glance at my silver money-tree charm, and for the first time in my life I seriously consider going to Paris. Okay, so it’s not a passport. Maybe it’s not supposed to be. Maybe there is a giant sculpture of a money tree in some small avant-garde gallery in the middle of the Latin Quarter. I mean, the last time Nic did a cake pull, I had wanted the engagement-ring charm. Instead, I got the red-hot chili pepper, which was supposed to represent a red-hot sex life. Since I desperately wanted the man I was living with to propose, the charm made no sense to me at the time. But then I realized my boyfriend was cheating on me, and I broke up with him and met another guy, who gave me red-hot sex, and it all made sense. Maybe this charm will make sense too—I just need to help it along a bit.

  My hint of retiring early didn’t do any good. All I heard from my room was an excited Seema babbling to her brother until 3:14 A.M., at which time my eyes got too heavy to stay awake any longer, and I drifted off.

  And just before I fell asleep, while I was in that hypnagogic state when you’re neither asleep nor awake, I thought about Paris. And the charm. And the charming man in the other room.

  And my future started to make a little more sense.

  SIX

  I was hoping my going to bed last night would inspire Jay to encourage Seema to go to sleep, then engage in a little silent nocturnal traffic. True to my usual run of luck in the romance department, this never happened.

  I wake up at 6:15 in the morning, alone in my bed.

  This will not do. I have a charm to live up to.

  I tiptoe out of my bedroom and into our living room to see Jay asleep on the couch.

  He must be dreaming because he looks dreamy. His bare chest peeks out from under the light pink covers Seema loans out to guests.

  “Jay,” I whisper.

  With his eyes still closed, he moans ever so slightly, puckers his lips a bit, then rolls over to face me. It’s a coincidence—he’s still out cold.

  I tiptoe to the couch and sit down quietly next to him. Then I lean toward his ear and whisper louder, “Jay.”

  He effortlessly (there’s that word again) wraps his arm around my waist and whispers back in a sleepy voice, “I’m up. One more minute.”

  The he pulls me into a spooning position.

  Hmm. On the one hand, yummy. On the other hand—does he have any idea he’s just pulled me into a spooning position? Or does he think I’m a Yvette or a Laura or some other French girl?

  I let his warm breath caress my neck for a while and dream of a life with him near the Seine. Without thinking, I take his hand, bring it to my mouth, and lightly kiss it. Then I rest my head onto his chest, grin like a Cheshire cat, and fall into a comfortable sleep.

  * * *

  I wake up a while later to a soft kiss on my cheek. I can feel the warmth of Jay’s body, and his arms wrapped around me. I turn to him, and he smiles.

  “Good morning,” he says to me in the most romantic way.

  “Good morning.”

  “I missed you,” he says softly, then leans in to kiss me.

  And we kiss. And it is amazing. His tongue is playful, but not trying to give me a tonsillectomy. His breath is slightly minty, yet not yet Colgated beyond recognition. His lips are soft and warm.

  I have thought about this moment since my freshman year of college. It is at once totally different from I thought it would be, yet amazingly perfect.

  We kiss for a while. Ten minutes, an hour, who can say?

  At some point, he pulls away from me, smiling. “I’m sorry to wake you,” he whispers softly.

  I can feel myself smirk as I lean in to continue kissing him. “No, you’re not.”

  He’s not. And neither am I. Until he moves his hand up to my bra area.

  As I have no bra on, I jump a foot.

  “Do you want coffee?!” I ask, jumping off the couch as if it were on fire. “Or mimosas? We still have a lot of champagne left from yesterday.”

  Jay sits up. Seema’s pink blanket drops down to reveal he has pajama bottoms on, but from the waist up he is naked and exquisite. He puts out his hand to me. “No, I’m good. Come back.”

  I do, and we kiss some more. “What if Seema wakes up?” I whisper.

  “Then you’ll just have to defend my honor.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  Despite my fear of getting caught, we continue our makeout session. Every few minutes, his hand moves up toward my chest. I push it down, then he moves down to my underwear. Where I push his hand back up.

  “What? Are we in college?” I ask, laughing a little.

  “I hope not. In college, you would have never let me get to third.”

  “Third? You’re not even at second.”

  “I know. But I have my sights on third.” Once again he moves his hand to my chest, over my camisole, but this time something in my little brain decides it’s okay.

  It’s fantastic, as a matter of fact.

  “Do you want to move into my room?” I whisper.

  Jay smiles, wordlessly stands up, takes my hand, and leads me to my room.

  We begin kissing again before we even get to my doorway. “You’re not getting to third,” I assure him.

  He moves his hand toward my left breast. “Isn’t Jeff gay?” Jay asks, as his hand and mine meet and wrestle for the umpteenth time.

  “Wait. What?” Where did that come from?

  Jay kisses my neck, licks my neck, then stares into my eyes seductively. “Your date for the wedding—your old boyfriend. Isn’t he gay?”

  “He might be. Why do you ask?”

  “Just making sure he’ll be okay with you having your way with me all weekend.”

  I’m torn between giggling and slapping him. “What makes you think I’m interested in having my way with—”

  Jay breaks my concentration with another fiery kiss. How did he get his hand under my clothes that quickly? “And that he’ll be okay with you coming out to Paris to see me.”

  I halfheartedly push Jay’s hand away. “Okay, just because you’re being really cute right now…”

  Jay pushes me farther into my room. “Shut up,” he flirtatiously commands.

  “Shut up?”

  “Yeah. Shut up.”

  “I’m not—”

  I am silenc
ed by his kiss again.

  It’s a really good kiss. One that lasts for several hours.

  And, no, I did not have sex with him.

  But I sure thought about it. Every minute for several hours.

  SEVEN

  The time flew by. If it hadn’t, we might have thought through a few things.

  Such as avoiding a pounding on my door by Seema around 10:00 A.M.

  “Jay, you better not fucking be in there!” she yells through the door.

  “I think you may have switched your infinitive and verb there!” Jay yells back jokingly.

  Fortunately, we are both still fully clothed (well, relatively) when she bursts in.

  “Oh, hell no!” Seema says at the sight of Jay jumping off of me, then quickly trotting to the other side of the room.

  He puts his palm up to his sister. “Before you overreact…”

  Seema ignores him completely, setting her sights on me. “He has a girlfriend.”

  “I do not,” Jay insists, grabbing one of my shirts to try to cover himself. “Why does everyone keep assuming that?”

  Seema’s eyes bug out at him. “I don’t know. Maybe because Mom and Dad met her last year.”

  Jay looks relieved. “Oh. That.” He turns to me. “That’s just Jacqueline.”

  Ah … the French pronunciation. Zhah-ke-leen. It’s a wonder French people ever get anything done with that accent—you’d think they’d just die happily in bed.

  “Seriously, with my roommate?” Seema angrily whines at him, walking over to Jay and smacking his arm. “You’re really going to take advantage of a girl who’s depressed about not being married this week?”

  Wait—whoa!

  I want to yell that aloud, but Jay and his sister are in midfight, and I learned long ago not to try to break up two dogs when they’re snarling at each other.

  “Do you really think if I had a girlfriend I’d be sleeping with your best friend?” Jay asks his sister self-righteously.

  “We didn’t sleep together,” I quietly assure Seema.

  Nobody hears me. Instead, Jay continues to make his point, “Don’t you think if I had a girlfriend, she’d be here with me this week? I mean, do you really think I’m such an asshole I’d cheat on my girlfriend? What kind of a guy would that make me?”

  “Pretty much any guy she’s dated in the last ten years,” Seema answers.

  “Hey!” I exclaim.

  Seema turns to me. “I’m just trying to protect you.” Then she turns to Jay, still not buying what he’s selling. “So who is Jacqueline then?”

  “It’s pronounced Jacqueline,” Jay corrects her with his French accent.

  Seema crosses her arms, not dissuaded.

  Jay rolls his eyes. “She’s just a friend I had come to dinner a few times last fall so Mom and Dad would get off my back.” He turns to me. “I swear.”

  Good. I feel better, but Seema still eyes him suspiciously.

  He continues to make his point. “She’s a lesbian. Her girlfriend’s Genevieve.” He turns back to me. “I promise, I’m telling the truth. If you come to Paris, I’ll invite them out to dinner the first night you’re there. We’ll make it a foursome.”

  Seema opens her mouth, but Jay points his index finger at her before she can respond. “I heard it as soon as you did. That is not what I meant.”

  Seema stares him down. “So did you sleep with her?”

  Jay doesn’t answer for a moment, then rolls his eyes, a presidential candidate not wanting to dignify the question. “Like, a million years ago,” he says offhandedly.

  “I think she meant me,” I tell him.

  “Oh,” Jay says, relieved. “Then, no. Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” Seema and I ask in unison.

  Jay shrugs. “Oh, come on. I’m a guy. Do you ask Colin Kaepernick if he plans to score a touchdown?”

  Seema squints her eyes and puts out the palms of her hands. “What does that even mean? It’s like you’re just saying random words now.”

  Scott appears in the doorway, wearing Seema’s purple bathrobe. “Honey, I’m really hungover. Let’s go out for breakfast.”

  “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?” Seema tells him.

  “Yes. I’m hungover, not blind,” he tells her patiently. “And this is really none of your business.”

  “Says the man without any siblings or roommates,” Seema snaps at him. “I’m sorry you don’t get it, but this most certainly is my business.”

  Scott turns to Jay. “Dude. You gonna be a dick after the wedding’s over?”

  “Of course not. I’ve already invited her to stay with me in Paris for her birthday.”

  “Oh,” Scott says, a bit surprised. He visibly relaxes as he says to Seema, “Well, there you go.” Then he disappears from my doorway. “I need bacon.”

  “I’m not done here,” Seema yells toward him.

  “I’ll let you make another case against my loft,” Scott tempts her from the other room.

  Seema clenches her jaw, torn. Finally, she walks up to Jay and wags her finger in his face. “I swear to God, if you hurt her, I will break you like a twig.”

  “That’s exactly what I just told him,” I hear Scott call calmly from their room. “I just said it in guyspeak.”

  Seema turns to leave. “Yeah, but I actually meant it!” Seema yells to Scott as she walks to the doorway. She turns back around to Jay. “I will be back at two, and then I’m taking you shopping.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jay says a little mockingly.

  Seema puts her hands on her hips. “Do you even know what I’m taking you shopping for?”

  “Nope. Don’t care. I promise I’ll go wherever you want and do whatever you say at two o’clock. For now, I’m half-naked and in a pretty girl’s bedroom, so go away.”

  Seema opens her mouth to speak. Then for some reason she takes a moment before saying sternly, “I’m not kidding. Two o’clock.…” Then she warns “And she better still be intact when I get back.”

  “Dude!” I yell at her.

  “Sorry,” Seema quickly apologizes to me. “I’m backing off.”

  Seema makes a show of putting her left index and middle fingers up to each eye, flipping them toward Jay’s eyes, then back to hers as she slowly backs out of my room and walks away.

  The second she’s out of view, Jay races over to the door and closes it silently.

  I am still in bed. “How did you know my birthday was on Bastille Day?”

  He smiles sexily as he strolls back to bed. Before he kisses me he says, “I think the more important question is … does that get me to third base?”

  EIGHT

  Seema took Jay out all afternoon, ostensibly to return some wedding gifts, show him her wedding venues, and have a nice, quiet lunch, just the two of them. I totally understood, she wanted and deserved to spend time with him. But I was disappointed anyway. Jay did text me around five o’clock to ask if I wanted to join them for dinner, and I said yes.

  Texting. Man, do I hate texting. I know it makes me old, but I feel so disconnected from someone whose voice I can’t hear. You’re not talking, you’re typing. As if men weren’t uncommunicative enough before, now they’ve invented something that allows them to have entire relationships without ever having to speak to you. (What do you bet texting was invented by a group of guys? I’m just sayin’…)

  Scott was still at the house, so at some point I meandered into the kitchen to hang out with him. I watched him as he sketched on a white pad.

  “What’cha working on?”

  He seems startled. “Hey, didn’t hear you. You want me to get out of your hair?”

  “No, no. This is your house in a week. I’m the one who should be leaving.”

  Scott raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, well…”

  What I want to say is Yeah, well … what? But instead, I head for the coffeemaker. “You want some coffee?”

  “I’d love some. Thanks.”

  I grab two blue mugs
Scott and Seema just received as wedding gifts from the cabinet, pour us some French roast. “Do you take anything in your coffee?”

  “Nope. Just black.”

  I bring his coffee to the kitchen table, place his mug down, then grab an ice cube from the freezer, throw it in my cup, and take a seat. I crane my neck a bit to see what Scott is working on.

  On his sketch pad I see a graphite-pencil drawing of a thin, yet curvy, woman dressed in an early-1960s swimsuit. Very Mad Men, very cool. Next to her, written in bright red, are the words I Love Her More Than Anything. “Wow. That’s amazing.”

  “Thanks. This is for my next series of pieces. It’s loosely based on the Six-Word Memoirs books. Each piece will be titled with six words.”

  The more I look at the picture, the more I realize the girl looks as if the weight of the world is on her shoulders. Yes, she looks great, lounging on a beach chair with a martini glass in her hand, and donning a fabulously stylish hat. But …

  “Her eyes look so sad,” I almost whimper.

  “They’re supposed to. The person looking at this will hopefully have a whole group of questions in his or her head: Why is she unhappy? Is she a mistress? Is she a beautiful woman who won’t let anyone in? Is she unable to have children? Secretly in love with another? What is it?”

  “It’s really good,” I tell him, haunted by her green eyes. I wish I had his passion and talent. I’d love to be able to communicate with people with nothing more than a picture. “What are the Six-Word Memoirs?”

  “You’ve never heard of the Six-Word Memoirs?” Scott says, visibly surprised. “Seems like the kind of book you would have bought. Huh. Well, anyway, these editors at Smith magazine, Larry Smith and Rachel Fershleiser, asked people to write their lives in exactly six words. They put the best six-word sentences into a book called Not Quite What I Was Planning. It was on The New York Times bestseller list for a while.”

  “Hmm,” I say, still looking at the girl. “So why is she so unhappy?”

  Scott looks at his picture, purses his lips, thinking. “Not sure. I suppose that’s up to the person looking at her.”

  He slowly closes his pad, looks up at me, and forces a smile.

  “Are you unhappy?” I finally ask him.