Brad’s head snaps up.
Ella, this is perfect. I’ve been waiting for a reason to move back into our room. I’ll get my things out of the guestroom as soon as possible, and we’ll go back to sharing a bed together again, and everything will be just like it was when we were first married.
But of course that’s not what Brad says. Instead his eyes become unreadable again as he says, “Why can’t Julio stay in a hotel?”
“Because,” I say, “because he’s my friend, and I offered him a room.”
“Without asking me?” Brad says.
“I didn’t think you would mind so much.” And it hits me that he does. All these months of deluding myself into thinking he was staying in the guestroom because of the babies, because of the noise, because he didn’t want to disturb me. It’s finally clear they were just that. Delusions. The real reason hits me, and I feel like an idiot for not realizing it sooner. My husband doesn’t like me.
I clutch my robe more firmly around my flannel nightgown. “It’ll only be for a few days,” I say, turning my back to Brad so he doesn’t see the tears I can feel welling up in my eyes. I’m not sure why I’m so surprised to find out that my husband doesn’t like me. We’ve barely spoken in the last few weeks, and when we have it’s usually a fight.
“I don’t have time for guests, Ella. I don’t even have time for this damn barbeque you’re throwing. I’m swamped at the clinic.”
Right, at the clinic. With Karen Richardson.
“You don’t have to do anything. He’s my friend. You won’t even notice he’s here.” I can almost guarantee this because I’m here almost all the time, and Brad barely notices me.
“I can’t believe you’re moving some guy in here without even asking me.”
“I’m asking you now.”
“Right, when it’s too late to say, ‘no.’”
“I don’t need to ask your permission, Brad. I live here. This is my house.”
“Our house, Ella. Our house.”
And I realize as he storms out of the room, leaving his pile of dirty clothes on my bed, that isn’t even true. It’s not our house. It’s Brad’s house. Brad’s mother decorated it. Brad’s money pays for it. Brad even hired Sylvia and Juanita to take care of it for Christ’s sakes. And what am I? I’m nothing. I have no purpose here at all. I might as well be the houseguest. But unlike Julio, I don’t get to leave. I get to stay here like a shadow that haunts the halls. Like a memory of the woman he used to love but now can’t be bothered with.
A memory that, like it or not, come Monday night he’ll be sleeping with.
Chapter Ten:
Mary, the Queen of Hearts
I can’t believe I’m going on a blind date. Why don’t I just get a Brazilian bikini wax, or pierce my tongue instead? It would be much less painful.
The last blind date I went on was three summers ago when I actually let my mother set me up. I know. What was I thinking? It was my cousin Carla’s wedding, and I had just broken up with a guy who left me to pursue a career as a park ranger in Montana. So you can see why I was upset. My mother insisted that I have a date to the wedding, and in my deepest depression I said, “Okay,” when she offered to find me one.
Carla’s wedding was beautiful. My date, however, was not. He was forty-five years old, balding and wore braces. If there are two things that should never happen at the same time it is balding and braces. I couldn’t tell whether I should assure him he’d grow out of the awkward stage or ask about his glory days gone by. Needless to say, I am not now a big fan of blind dates.
So, one might ask why I agreed to go on this one in the first place. Truth be told, I’m asking myself the same question as I stand here assessing my 35% off GAP skirt in the mirror. (That inexplicably seems to be adding five pounds to my thigh region even though the salesperson assured me that black was very slimming.)
I take the skirt off and grab a pair of lime green Capri’s instead. By themselves, they are a fashion disaster, but put together with this crocheted sweater I found at the Vintage Chic Boutique downtown (fuchsia, 15% off), it is a fashion statement. There’s a very fine line between the two.
I turn around to inspect in the bathroom mirror. Fabulous.
My only concern is the sweater. I tend to sweat when I’m nervous, and I can only hope the vintage yarn is cotton and not funky polyester blend. I do another twirl. What the heck, I look good, I’ll chance it. I quickly apply a little blush, eyeliner, and a lot of powder. (Just in case it’s polyester and I get “shiny.”)
Outfit conquered. Next step – hair. Which is a bigger hurdled to cross than you might think. I curled it not ten minutes ago, but now it’s flat as a pancake. I heat up the curling iron for another go, pulling out an industrial sized can of hair spray to solidify the results this time. Separating my hair into fifteen equal pieces, I begin attacking it. Curl, spray, curl spray. I’m so going to need a hot oil treatment when this day is over, but if it stays fluffy for Mr. Wonderful, it’ll be worth it.
Unfortunately, even the mega hold formula isn’t helping. Before the curling iron is even cooled off, my hair is flat again. Only now it’s slightly frizzled on the ends too. Damn. So, instead, I pile it all on top of my head in a pretty little bun. Capped off by a silk orchid and I’m actually looking damn good, even if I do say so myself.
Blind date. Right, I can do this.
I’m still chanting this to myself as I pull up in front of Ella’s house twenty-three minutes later. (Three minutes late. Rats. Ella hates it when I’m late.)
I can hear voices inside laughing as I approach the front door. A good sign. People are happy. I will be happy. Mr. Wonderful and I will be happy together.
I raise my hand to ring the bell, but Ella must have seen my little Jetta pulling up, because she opens the door before I have a chance.
“Mary! Hi, sweetie,” she says loudly, planting an air kiss on either cheek. She has a wine cooler in her hand and by the super-happy grin on her face, I’m guessing it’s not her first.
“Hi Ella,” I say, then in a low whisper, “Is he here yet?”
“Yes,” she whispers back. “He’s in the back with Brad. Everyone’s already here. You’re late,” she says closing the door.
“Hair issues. Sorry.”
We thread our way through her perfectly manicured house to the perfectly manicured backyard. I can see Ella’s twins playing in a playpen under an oak tree with a slim, Hispanic woman that I take for their nanny. The teakwood deck spans the length of the house, set up with groupings of lawn chairs and umbrella tables. In the corner a group of men in chinos stands around a smoking barbeque that looks like it could double as a car. The thing is huge, and I wonder how many people Ella plans on feeding.
Ella steers me to an umbrella table where a group of chattering women sit. The wives. They are a vision of khaki and white polo shirts as they sip wine coolers under the pale peach sun umbrella. I look down at my own lime colored Capri’s.
“Everyone, this is my friend, Mary,” Ella says, introducing me to The Khaki Bunch. “Mary this is Jennifer, Karen, and Jennifer,” she says, pointing to each one.
There is no way I will remember who is who as they all kind of blend together in a white teethed, Land’s End kind of blur, but I smile politely and will them not to notice my day glo pants.
“Let me get you a drink,” Ella says, walking back into the kitchen.
I almost protest that I don’t need one, but then I see one of them (a Jennifer I think) eye my orchid that looked so fabulous at home but is now making me feel like a cheesy Hawaiian wedding singer. Maybe I do need a drink.
I sit down in a vacant lawn chair as I scan the men clustered around the smoking beast. I can pick out Ella’s husband, Brad, and four other men. Three must be the husbands to the matching sets here at the table. So, the question is, which one is Damon?
Well, there’s the blond standing next to Brad. He’s about a head taller than the other guys and looks like a basketball pla
yer. Hmm… I’m thinking he’s a match for the tall brunette sitting between the Jennifers. (Karen, I think?) They’re both wearing the same color shirt and I’d bet anything Karen picked it out for her husband.
Next to Karen’s husband is a shorter guy, balding a little in back, but very fit looking. Two dark haired men stand next to him, laughing over a couple of Heinekens. One is pleasantly cute and the other is drop dead gorgeous. I mean, movie star material, right down to the cleft chin and George Clooney eyes. I’m assuming the cutie is for me, and the gorgeous one is for the blonde downing the peach wine cooler like it’s water.
Cutie has dark hair and dark eyes (from what I can tell squinting across the deck at him) and a comfortably average body in Dockers and a pale blue polo shirt. I could see myself dating him.
My guessing game is cut short when Ella arrives with two more wine coolers and hands me one.
“Come on,” she says steering me away from the table. “Let me introduce you around.”
I take a deep breath. Here we go. I am officially entering the blind date zone.
Then, to my utter surprise, she steers me over to Mr. Gorgeous.
“Damon, I’d like you to meet my friend, Mary. Mary, this is Damon. He works at the clinic with Brad.”
Ohmigod. I get Mr. Gorgeous? I’m trying to remember, did I ask for gorgeous? No, I’m pretty sure I just asked for cute. There is a difference. Cute is nice, appealing, safe, and utterly datable. Gorgeous however makes my mouth go dry, my tongue swell up three sizes too big, and the itchy sweater I so stupidly picked out cling to my body with nervous sweat. Gorgeous is not good.
“Hi,” I say wishing I could come up with something (anything!) more witty, but imminently relieved I can even manage, “hi.”
“Hello. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Oh, good one. Pleasure to meet you. I wish I had thought of that.
“You too,” I say. Cop out. But again, I didn’t trip over my own tongue.
Damon shakes my hand and I cringe, feeling my palms sweat already. To his credit, he pretends not to notice and doesn’t even wipe his hand on his pants afterward.
“Ella,” Brad says, coming up behind her. “We need more steaks.”
“Brad, you remember Mary,” she says, gesturing my way.
“Sure,” he says, barely glancing at me. “The steaks, Ella.” And Brad turns back to the grill.
I swear I see Ella’s happy party face falter for a fraction of a second as she watches her husband. I flip back to Ella’s paranoid conversation at the gym the other day and wonder what’s going on between them. Honestly, I can’t imagine Brad actually cheating on her, but things are obviously strained in happily-ever-after land. But before I can comment Ella’s perfect hostess face is back in place again, big smiles and all.
“Well, hostess duties call,” she says, then walks away.
I repeat walks away. No, no don’t abandon me with the gorgeous man. Help! What if I say something stupid?
“So, you com here often?” I say. Too late. Stupid flows.
“Uh, yeah. I mean, no, not really.” He takes a sip of his beer and looks down at my lime green Capri’s. I can see him mentally wondering at the thought process behind my loud outfit. Quick, Mary, say something to distract him.
“So, you’re a doctor?” I ask.
“Yes. I’m a dermatologist.”
“Ohmigod, did you see that Seinfeld episode where they called that dermatologist Pimple Popper, MD? That was so funny!”
Did I take a stupid pill this morning? See, I told you gorgeous was not good.
“I mean, of course I’m not calling you that. You’re clearly a real doctor,” I quickly cover. “I mean, duh,” I thunk myself on the forehead for emphasis. Very graceful I know, but I’m dying out here. “Of course a dermatologist is a doctor.”
“Right,” he says, smiling a little before he takes another sip of his beer.
“So, uh, I used to have bad skin,” I say. “I mean, when I was a kid. Well, a teenager really. But I didn’t have to go to a dermatologist, it just kinda cleared up.” Shut up. Just shut up now. “But, I guess that happens to all teenagers. I mean, maybe not all, you don’t look like you ever had bad skin. I mean, not that I have like pock marks or anything from my teenage acne…” Shut up, shut up, shut up. Oh why won’t I shut up? “…but of course you can tell that because, duh,” I thunk myself on the forehead again, “you are looking right at me. Haha,” I finish, laughing weakly. I take a sip of my drink, hoping that with my mouth full it might close.
“Yes I am,” he says. A concerned expression puckers his gorgeous features. His thick eyebrows pull together and his Clooney eyes crease at the sides as he scrutinizes me like one might a subject in a mental institution.
I take another sip. Okay, sip is not quite the accurate term. I down half the wine cooler in one gulp, wishing like anything it had a higher alcohol content.
“So,” he says clearing his throat. “Ella says you work at a wedding chapel?”
“I do.”
“How nice.”
“Get it? ‘I do.’”
He looks at me blankly.
“It’s a joke,” I explain. “You know, ‘I do,’ wedding chapel…”
“Right,” he says. He still doesn’t crack a smile.
“Right.”
My sweater is really starting to itch, and I hope I’m not visibly sweating. I push my sleeves up past my elbows, remember my flabby armed image from the gym’s wall of mirrors, and pull them back down again. Yes, I’m fidgeting. And he’s still looking at me with a bit of concern on his face.
“So, ah, you must see some pretty interesting things working in a wedding chapel,” he says.
“No kidding! You should see some of the freaks I’ve married. Oh, well, not that I’ve married any of them. I mean, I’ve never been married. Nope, I’m single. Very single.” Gee, I wonder why?
You know what? Maybe I shouldn’t have sent Brandon’s ring back to him so soon. I mean, if I were still in relationship mourning, I would have an excuse not to be here. In fact, almost any excuse not to be here would be welcome right now. Hmm… you think if I trip over Ella’s garden hose and break my leg it would qualify as an excuse not to be here? I look around. Her gardener has (of course) put all hoses away. Rats. Damn perfect Ella and her perfectly neat gardeners.
“Yes, Ella mentioned that you were single,” Damon says, sipping his beer again and looking longingly at the group of men at the barbeque.
This is so not going well. I feel like I’m on the blind date Titanic and we hit the iceberg at, “Hello.” Must abandon date. Lifeboats overboard. Women and children first.
“So, speaking of weddings, my little sister is getting married on Valentine’s Day.” I know, I know, I should just walk away from this one and cut my losses. I mean, how can I possibly expect to start a relationship with a guy this gorgeous when I can barely even speak in front of him? Truth? I don’t. But, could you imagine the look on my mother’s face if I showed up to Sam’s wedding with this? A doctor, no less. (No one needs to know he’s only a dermatologist.)
“That’s nice. In your chapel?”
“My chapel. Oh God no. In a church. My chapel is way too cheesy.”
“Oh,” he says, looking concerned again. In fact he does the over-the-head-glance as if signaling to one of his pals to save him from the loony in green pants. But do I give up? No.
“Not that it’s really my chapel. I mean, I would never have a chapel with Elvis as the reverend. And I would at least have an organ.”
“An organ. That’s… that’s nice.”
I take a deep breath. Okay, one last shot before the ship sinks entirely.
“Look, we’re not hitting it off are we?”
For a second he looks relieved.
Then I open my big mouth again.
“Really, I’m not looking to date you per se, I really just need a date to my sister’s wedding and you are like so gorgeous and would so make my mot
her so jealous. Are you busy on Valentine’s Day?”
He looks at me with concern again. Then the look changes. Almost amusement. Oh good, he things I’m amusing. Well, that beats him thinking I’m insane.
“No thanks,” he simply says, then walks away, looking over his shoulder, presumably to make sure I’m not following him.
Amusing or insane?
Either way, the ship has sunk.
* * *
Luckily, the food was excellent at Ella’s barbeque and I avoided talking much more at all by thoroughly stuffing myself with everything in sight. However on the down side, the next morning I am suffering the aftereffects of pork rib binging with the worst cramps of my entire life.
I’m sitting at my desk at The Chapel of Love noticing for the first time that the paper-maché hearts hanging on the altar are the exact same shade as Pepto-Bismol. Which I could really use right now. In fact, maybe I could run across the street to the Spee-dee Mart for some as soon as Reverend Thicket (dressed as G.I. Elvis today) finishes the current ceremony. They wrote their own vows, and the groom is having a hell of a time reading them without bawling.
I squirm in my seat as another bout of nausea hits me. I called Kit this morning to whine about the bloating and cramps and generally feeling like a stuffed pig. Her advice was to vomit and get it over with. Unfortunately, I just can’t bring myself to do that. One reason I would never make a good eating disorder candidate. Another would be, I guess, my amazing love of food. Just not ribs. Ever again.
The pink phone rings on my desk, pulling me out of my overeating misery.
“The Chapel of Love, how may I help you?” I answer.
“Mary, is that you?”
Great. The one person in the world who could make my indigestion worse.
“Yes, Mother. It’s me.”
“Oh. Well, you sound funny.”
“Thanks.”
“Anyway, Samantha asked me to call and tell you that the bridesmaid fitting has been moved to next Sunday.”
Me in a pink bridesmaid dress. Just one more image to make my stomach twist.
What Happens in Vegas Page 10
