Colette smiles (although it is not a warm smile) and puts out her hand. “Je suis très heureux de faire votre connaissance.”
Jay shakes his head. “Melissa ne parle français,” he says to Colette sweetly.
“It’s okay,” I begin quickly “I can parle. I took high school—”
“Oh, sorry,” Colette says in a thick accent. “A plaisir to meet you.”
I take her hand and shake it. “A pleasure to meet you as well.”
“So, someone has finally caught ze playboy.”
I turn to Jay to see his eyes bulge out slightly at her. Then he forces a smile.
She notices his reaction and apologizes to me. “Sorry. My English is bad.” But then she turns to Jay and almost smirks as she asks him, “Un play-boy jouisseur?”
“Colette…,” he begins rather tersely.
She ignores him, turning to me. “I have tried to entice Jay to spend ze evening with me, but he says he has a girlfriend he sees this weekend. She is his love. I assume that is you?”
Girlfriend? His love? Wait, what? Je suis intrigued.
Jay emits a nervous laugh as he puts his arm around me. “Okay. Great to see you, Colette. We should do it again soon.” He kisses her once on each cheek, then drags me by the hand over to Baggage Claim.
“Isn’t she just going to follow us?” I ask, turning around to see Colette’s eyes darken as she watches us leave.
“No. She’s on the next plane back to Paris. She followed me out just to meet you. Now she’ll have to go through security again, which is going to take at least an hour.” Then he mutters something in French under his breath.
“You know I did take high school French. You can say stuff out loud.”
“Not what I just said.”
We quickly walk through the sliding glass doors and into Baggage Claim. The moment we are lost in the crowd and away from Colette, Jay turns me around and his smile returns. “I missed you,” he almost whispers, then pulls me into a long kiss.
After the kiss is over, I murmur, “I missed you too.” Then I kiss him again.
As much as I’m loving this kiss, that incident with Colette was weird. When we stop kissing long enough to come up for air, I ask, “Is she, like, an old girlfriend or something?”
Jay shakes his head and exhales a loud breath. “Or ‘something’—yes. I slept with her a few times a few years ago. Total bunny boiler. I don’t want to talk about it.”
I knew it! “Oh. Okay,” I say to him nonjudgmentally (or at least with as little judgment as I can muster). Then I try to casually ask, “So what happened?”
Jay looks confused. “I just said…”
I shrug. “Yeah, I know but … here’s the thing: we just started sleeping together. So when you say, ‘I don’t want to talk about’ what happened with a girl, I cannot help but get obsessed. So you might as well just tell me now before I start getting all girlie and tense while you’re trying to be all cute with me later this evening.”
Jay leans in. “So you think I’m cute?”
“Don’t change the subject. Just tell me what happened. I’m sure it’s not nearly as bad as whatever I will conjure up in my pretty little double-X-chromosome head.”
Jay debates for a moment, then shrugs. “Okay. Well, she was engaged when we met, and it was supposed to be a fling. But then a few weeks in, she started talking about how she loves me and has to break off her engagement, and I knew she didn’t mean it. But then she met this other girl I was dating, and she totally freaked out in the middle of the Saturday farmers’ market. I don’t judge—you and your fiancée have an open relationship, that’s cool. But don’t expect me to be exclusive when you’re going home every night to another guy. You know what I mean?”
He slept with an engaged person? Definitely sorry I asked. But instead of showing any emotion, I answer, “Perfectly.”
Jay smiles a relieved smile. “Good. And I’m sorry about the playboy thing, and telling her you were my girlfriend. I just needed an escape—I didn’t think she’d follow me out to meet you.”
Rats. I was kind of digging the girlfriend part. But again, I don’t give anything away. Instead I smile and say, “No problem.”
Jay rubs my shoulders. “Excellent. Now let’s get my luggage, and the massage oils I bought for you when I was in San Francisco, and see where the afternoon leads us.”
We spend the next ten minutes kissing, then getting luggage, kissing, then finding my car, stealing kisses at every light on the way home, and finally kissing as we walk up the pathway to my door.
And I know this afternoon is going to be perfect.
Until I unlock the door.
I should have known my luck would run out. After all, this is my life we’re talking about.
Nic sits on the couch, her pregnant hugeness leaning back on several pillows. She has a notebook in hand. Seema, wearing a giant Native American headdress, complete with multicolored layers of feathers, sits on the floor, surrounded by gifts, some wrapped in silver paper, some wrapped in white paper, and some unwrapped and pulled from their boxes. “A five-piece place setting of our stainless, plus a silver nut bowl,” Seema tells Nic.
Nic gives an approving nod. “Nice.” She writes it down in her notebook, then looks up and smiles. “Hey, guys! You’re just in time for final wedding preparations. Today we’re doing thank-you notes! You can never thank too early.”
Jay makes a show of turning around to leave, but I stop him. As he drags his luggage in, I take a seat on our couch arm, the only free space in the room. “Have you had a good haul?” I ask Seema.
“Embarrassingly good, actually. A lot of my family sent checks.”
“Always in season,” Nic chimes in.
“And I always know just what to wear it with,” Seema jokes. She looks up to Jay as he kisses her on the cheek. “How was San Francisco?”
“Exhausting, but not nearly as much as spending the weekend with the family will be. And now I must ask: What the hell are you wearing?”
“It’s a Native American headdress.”
“Oh, God!” I spit out, shocked.
“I’m trying not to be offended,” Seema says, clearly offended. “Scott’s great-great-aunt, who as far as I can tell is a million and two, was apparently confused over which kind of Indian I was. Not to mention what I might want to wear … ever.”
“Good Lord,” Jay says, shaking his head slowly.
“Surprisingly, this is not the worst gift I have received. Or the strangest for that matter.”
“What was the strangest gift?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
Seema hands me a white envelope. Inside is a $200 gift card for the Burj Al Arab hotel. “What’s the Burj…”
“It’s the world’s only six-star hotel.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“It’s in Dubai.”
“Wait. Are you going…”
She shakes her head no.
“Then why…”
“I have no idea.”
“Does that one count as worst or strangest?” Jay asks.
“It’s in the running for strangest—although the earthquake kit was a bit odd. Nic, show them the worst.”
Nic reaches down next to the couch and pulls up two fairly large clay jars: one purple, one red, both with black squares pasted to the front. The purple one’s black square has Seema’s name engraved in gold, with her birth year underneath and slightly to the left, and the red one’s black square has Scott’s name engraved with his birth year underneath. Nic sets them down on the table. Jay and I exchange a look.
I shrug, “Well, it’s a little odd, but…”
“Urns for our ashes—one for each of us. That black plate is engravable for the years of our deaths.”
“Oh, yuck!” I blurt out.
“Creepiest bookends ever,” Jay elaborates.
Seema shoots a pleading look to Jay. “Please tell me you brought wine.”
“I did. But it’s for Mel and me.”
“Have I shown you the painting of Elvis yet?” Seema asks Jay.
“Because nothing says class like crushed velvet,” Nic says.
“So, three glasses then,” Jay says, heading for the kitchen.
NINETEEN
I’d say, overall, Seema got a pretty good haul: lots of checks, plenty of silverware they’ll never use to complement towering stacks of china they won’t use, some nice nonbeige towels (from me), and a Wii game system (which Scott registered for, and Jay bought).
Jay and I spent the evening with the bridal party and their families at an understated Italian restaurant with an incredible view of the Pacific Ocean. I divided my time between reminiscing with the girls about our single days (okay, for them it was reminiscing, for me it was more like reliving a horror movie), talking to the older people about their weddings, and trying to keep Jay’s hand from going too far up my skirt underneath the table.
We left the restaurant by nine, as Seema pointed out that we all needed to go to bed early in preparation for the Christian-wedding rehearsal at “nine o’clock in the fucking morning” (Seema’s words, not mine).
I had no problem going to bed early. She didn’t say anything about sleep.
While Jay went to the kitchen to uncork a second Napa red he’d bought (and give a little to his sister—I could hear their mumbled talking), I raced around my room lighting scented candles, rinsing my mouth out with mouthwash, reapplying powder, squirting myself with a bit more perfume, squirting Jay’s pillow with a mist of perfume, throwing off my dress and tossing it into the closet, and putting on a black, satin, short robe that matched the bra and underwear I bought earlier today.
I wasn’t going for the red lace tonight. That would go under my bridesmaid’s dress on Saturday. After all, part of the fun of the beginning of the relationship is the chase and the buildup, right?
I wonder if men spend half as much time thinking about this stuff as we women do.
My iPhone rings: Jeff. I pick up immediately. “Don’t come home yet.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not even ten. I’m still getting ready to go out. But don’t wait up for me. I’m just going to crash at Paul’s place.”
“No, no…,” I practically whine. “You’re only here for a few days. Come home, just not until … saaaayyyy … one?”
“Please. Go bag the best man. I’ll see you in the morning, after the rehearsal.”
Jay chooses this moment to make his entrance. He looks so effortlessly hot: his hair is lightly tousled from the Pacific air from earlier, his shirt cuffs are rolled up, his tie is gone and replaced with two unbuttoned top buttons.
Yum.
Carrying the wine bottle and two empty wineglasses intertwined in his fingers, he looks so polished, suave, and debonair. “Hey,” he says quietly in his sexiest voice, “you look phenomenal.”
“Sssshhhhh!!!!” I blurt out loudly, quickly raising my index finger to my mouth.
“Did you just shush the man you plan to have sex with to talk to the man you’ll never have sex with?” Jeff asks me over the phone.
“Come home,” I tell him sternly as Jay sets the bottle down on my desk and begins pouring. Then I whisper into the phone, “Just not until one.”
“How is theoretical physics like leftover wine?” Jeff asks (knowing I have the answer).
I roll my eyes. “Because, while the concept makes sense to some people, it is totally lost on me.”
“Exactly. Much like begging a gay man to come to your house to cockblock a hot straight man makes no sense to me. So how does he look?”
Jay hands me my wine. “Perfection,” I grudgingly admit to Jeff.
“Have fun. Oh—final joke of the night. A neutrino walks into my bar—”
“Congratulations. You just found a way to make me hang up.”
“Love you,” Jeff says to me with a smile in his voice.
“Love you too.”
And he’s gone.
As I hang up the phone, Jay begins lightly kissing my neck. “Have I mentioned how gorgeous you look tonight?”
“I suck,” I say, staring at my phone guiltily. “He invites me to visit him in Hawaii all the time. The one time he comes here, I’m pawning him off on a friend.”
Jay continues to kiss my neck. “I doubt he cares.”
“I’m still feeling guilty.”
“Why? I haven’t asked you to do anything weird yet,” Jay jokes. (Well, I hope he jokes.) He lifts up his wineglass for a toast. “Here’s to being pawned off on a friend. I’m hoping Seema does it for the rest of my trip.”
I smile, and we toast. I taste the wine. “This is … exquisite. What’s it called?”
“Opus One. An exquisite wine for an exquisite woman.”
“Opus One?! Holy crap! You must really like me!” The words rushed out of my mouth before I could hustle them back in. Seriously, why do I say things like that? Am I just determined to ruin everything?
“I do really like you,” Jay assures me in a matter-of-fact tone that makes it sound as if we’ve been dating for years. “So, when are you coming to visit me in Paris?”
I take another glorious sip of my wine as I take his hand and walk him to my freshly made and freshly perfumed bed. “Oh, I don’t know. Someday.”
“Someday?” He sits on the bed. “One of the most insidious words in the English language. Someday we will be dead. For now we live. Come next weekend.”
“Next weekend?!” I blurt out. Then I decide not to have this conversation. Not right now. Not with a gorgeous man in my bed whom I’ve spent years dreaming about. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”
“Maybe this will convince you,” Jay says gently, putting down his wineglass, then taking my face in his hands and giving me a kiss that makes my knees buckle. Actually buckle.
And (lucky for me!) that wasn’t the only thing he did that night to convince me to visit.
TWENTY
Sex is confusing.
Well, the act itself isn’t confusing. Or at least it hasn’t been since that guy … Why am I thinking about that guy? Oh, yeah, because he was the first person to make me wonder, What the hell just happened here? I suppose that’s one advantage of being in your thirties: at least you no longer stare at a dark ceiling in silence, or worse yet snoring, and wonder, Did I do something wrong?
On the flip side, perfect, multiple-orgasm sex that literally shows up at your doorstep can be confusing too. Particularly when you know it’s going away in a few days.
I don’t react well to things going away. No one does, but I’m obsessed with worries of loss. I bought twenty boxes of Twinkies after Hostess declared bankruptcy, and I hadn’t had a Twinkie since I was twelve. (Side note: any cream filling whose name begins with a k should be sucked out with a straw, spit into the trash, then replaced with Reddi-wip. If you use the nozzle properly, it will blow your Twinkie up to twice its normal size and be almost palatable.)
Back to sex being confusing. What am I going to do? I don’t know if I’m feeling love or lust, or just a rush of pride at having finally conquered my crush after all these years. But I do know I don’t want to say good-bye.
It’s now about 2:00 A.M., and I am in my living room, finishing off a pint of Ben and Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream, and surfing the net on my notebook computer.
Jay putters out of my bedroom, wearing only pajama bottoms, and looking so perfect that I want to lock him in my bedroom and keep him here forever. “Hey,” he whispers, “Are you okay?”
I quickly close my computer window and shut the notebook. “I’m fine,” I whisper back. “I couldn’t sleep. Sorry to wake you.”
Jay smiles sleepily and quietly takes a seat next to me. “It’s okay. You can make it up to me later. So … talking to an old boyfriend online?”
“What? No. Why would you think that?”
“You could not have closed your computer fast enough. And I think I know you well enough to know it’s not porn. Although if it were, I think I just found the perf
ect woman.”
Without thinking, I glance at my computer, then awkwardly say, “It’s not a big deal. I was just looking up…”
And then I stop talking. Shit. I turn to Jay, who waits for me to finish my sentence.
Which I do not want to do.
I shake my head. “It’s silly. I was just looking up this restaurant in Paris called L’ Arbre d’ Argent,” I admit sheepishly.
I can tell from Jay’s look that I have surprised him. “You mean La Tour d’Argent? Wow, you’ve got good taste. But we can go there if you want.”
“No. Not La Tour d’Argent, L’Arbre d’Argent. It means ‘money tree’ in French and … wait, is that La Tour place, like, a really nice restaurant or something?”
He chuckles to himself. “Yeah, you could say that.”
My curiosity gets the best of me, so I flip open my computer and type in La Tour d’Argent.
Jay stands up and heads to the kitchen. “I’m peckish. Can I go forage around your kitchen for snacks?”
My fingers are racing around the keyboard madly. “Go for it. There’s ice cream in the freezer hidden behind the Lean Cuisines, and a bag of M&M’s hidden behind the low-fat popcorn.” Then I see La Tour’s website. “Holy Mother of God! Look at this view!”
I hear Jay open the refrigerator as he calls out, “It’s pretty spectacular, isn’t it? Hey, are there Chee•tos up for grabs?”
“Sure. Bring them out. Oh my God, they have pictures of the plates!” I say, staring at a different kind of Internet porn—food porn! (aka porn for women!) “Look at these crêpes! And the meat! Is that duck? Canard means ‘duck’ right?”
Jay emerges from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne, two flutes, and a family-size bag of Chee•tos. “They are known for their duck. And lobster and, you know, pretty much everything. It’s a Michelin-starred restaurant.”
As I drool over the restaurant’s website, Jay pops the cork of the bubbly. “Ah, one of my favorite sounds in the world.” He pours me a glass. “So, does that mean you’re thinking about visiting?”
I sheepishly look at him. “Kinda. Maybe?”
Keep Calm and Carry a Big Drink Page 11
