“Ash? It’s Kevin. How goes the wedding plans?”
“Fine,” I offer cheerily, showing teeth just to make it real. They say if you act the part, you believe it.
“Is that my brothah? Let me speak to him.” Emily rips the phone out of my hands. “Keh-vin, I came out here to help you, but I really must have creative freedom to plan the weddin’. This will be the social event of the year in Georgia—even though it’s in California,” she adds with distaste. “I thought we agreed on a Southern theme so that Mothah would be at ease, and your bride is fightin’ me at every step.” She pauses, tapping her foot and staring me down. “She didn’t even want to select a Tussy Mussy.”
I’ve spent my entire thirty-two years wanting to be married. And suddenly, I want to run to the security of my singles group. I want to watch science-fiction movies with engineers and my dog. I want to sketch out patents on my laptop and remind myself that I’m good at something. As I listen to Emily rant about me to my fiancé, the first sting of tears hits. A dream wedding is a myth. A dream wedding would not have Scarlett O’Hara on steroids in it, and it would not include a family that thought purchasing my wedding gown was acceptable. Boundaries, people!
“I have to get something,” I hear my voice say, and I run out of the shop, down the street—without my cell phone, as Emily is still yelling into it. I’ve got my coffee card, and that’s all that matters at the moment. Jaunting into the coffeehouse, I hand over my card with desperation. “Double shot, on ice.”
“Bad day?” Nick, my barista, asks.
“The worst.” He pulls the shots, and my mouth starts watering. “I’m beginning to think my brother had the right idea getting married in Vegas. You know, you should just announce to people you don’t want to go through the trouble. Vegas it is.”
Nick hands me the espresso, which is as thick as sludge. I down it straight.
“Whew, I feel better. Let me have another.” I bang the plastic cup on the counter.
Nick’s eyes widen. “I don’t think so, Ashley. You’re hyper enough without caffeine. I’m not going to be responsible for you going over your limit. Weren’t you arrested once in that state?”
I slam the cup down on the counter again. “I was arrested for lack of caffeine. I had jet lag from Taiwan and no espresso, unless you consider bubble tea strong enough. I don’t. And the cop grabbed my Prada!”
He just stares at me, blinking.
“There’s a Starbucks on the corner,” I threaten.
“I’m cutting you off, Ashley. And I don’t think you’d make good on your threat for corporate coffee. I know you too well.”
Ack. Foiled again.
Brea walks into the coffee shop, tossing her purse the size of a small African nation over her shoulder. She has my cell phone in her hand. “You’ve got Kevin worried. Why don’t you call him?”
“I’m getting married in Vegas. Southern beauty queens are banned from Vegas, aren’t they?”
“Vegas? Now you’ve got me worried. Did you forget that Seth showed up in Vegas? There are no good memories in that cesspool for you. Call Kevin now.”
I’ve abandoned my future sister-in-law in a bridal boutique. “Brea, maybe I shouldn’t be getting married after all. Kevin’s family has issues. Major issues, and I’ve got enough of my own. Think of my kids’ gene pool! Do you know, his sister asked me to take the IQ test again for his mother? I mean, what if I didn’t pass? What if our kids are stupid, and they blame me? I mean, would it really matter if they were stupid? I’d dress them cute.”
“It’s impossible that they could be more stupid than asking someone to take an IQ test.”
“All right, you’ve got a point, but that doesn’t change this.” I look down at my cell phone. “I don’t know how I can share any of this with Kevin. What if he thinks I should have the right Tussy Mussy?”
“Then isn’t it better to know? Kevin works with sick children every day of his life, Ashley. He doesn’t care about a bouquet holder any more than you do. You’re getting delusional with stress.”
Deep down, I know this is true, but Kevin has a hard enough time with his family. I don’t want to make things worse. I look back to Brea. “I’ve got to get back to work. Purvi is going to wonder what’s going on with me. She’s already bailed me out more than once.”
Purvi is my fabulous boss, originally from India. She got fired from Selectech for being a decent mother, and they offered me her job, but I turned it down (along with the immediate ticket to Taiwan). I got a new position at Gainnet as General Counsel. However, I had no idea what I was doing, so they hired Purvi as Executive General Counsel (at my request) and things are back to normal. I’m a grunt patent attorney again. I make enough to live and dress well. What more do I need?
Brea speaks, reminding me I’m not yet in the peaceful place of my familiar chaos: work. “You’ve got to go back to the boutique, Ashley. Emily is paying for the gloves now, and she’s waiting for you. I made an excuse for your rude behavior, but I’ve got to get home to the boys soon.”
I draw in a deep breath and feel my fear. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Get used to it. Marriage is all about compromise. That’s why you have to plan a wedding together first,” Brea says. “If you make it through that, you’ll be ready for what’s to come.”
“So you’re willing to wear ruffles and a hoopskirt?” I ask with my arms crossed.
“Not on your life. Compromise, Ashley, but don’t put me in a tacky bridesmaid gown or I’ll have to hurt you, and I won’t lend you Miles as ring bearer.” She winks. “And please don’t have the dog; that’s just weird.”
Turn the other cheek. That’s what being a Christian is all about, but I have to admit, I’d like Emily to get an eyeful of a big satin bow when I do. I slam my hand on the counter and throw my shoulders back. I’ve handled my brother for years; an unemployed Southern belle from Atlanta has nothing on me. Bring it on!
I look down at Kevin’s grandmother’s ring, and I’m reminded that he’s worth an exhaustive search for the perfect Tussy Mussy. In it, I’ll place heather to remind me that wishes do come true and red tulips for my everlasting love for Kevin, the man who made me see that pining for someone who doesn’t love you isn’t really love at all. Love is steadfast and consistent, not filled with courtroomlike drama.
“Ashley?” My future sister-in-law comes into the coffee shop holding a pink bag, which I can only assume is filled with silk gloves.
“I’m sorry, Emily. I had an urge for caffeine.” And room to breathe.
“Your boss called the bridal shop after you left. Apparently she couldn’t get through to you on your cell.” Emily looks at my cell in Brea’s hand.
“Did she give you a message?” I ask anxiously.
“That unless you’re appearin’ on the cover of Bride this month to get back to work.” Emily giggles and looks upward in deep thought. “Oh, and Microsoft . . . hmm . . . wait a minute, I’ll remember . . . Microsoft just filed for a patent on your process.”
I drop my head in my hands.
Mental note: Mensa membership has no bearing in reality.
“I gotta go!” I leap from the shop and rush back to the office. Lord forbid I fail at everything today.
2
There are no perfect men. There are no perfect men. Well, there is One, but He’s more than marriage material. Here on earth, there are no perfect men. I love my fiancé, Dr. Kevin Novak. He’s charming, gorgeous, treats me like a princess, and looks like he stepped off the silver screen. Everything a girl could want, right? But he also comes equipped with a textbook-quality dysfunctional family. My ex, Seth: normal family, freaky self. See? Life is all about weighing your options.
Kevin’s mother is the plastic-surgery queen, and while she looks great, there’s still something “off” about her appearance. Like she’s wearing a frightening yet beautiful mask. It makes me want to break into the song “Phantom of the Opera” and maybe a tad afraid to walk under c
handeliers.
Kevin’s surgeon-father is as cold as his scalpel and just as cutting. He has this fascination with beauty and his narrow definition of it: eerily thin with facial skin pulled taut. I think his dream woman is probably one of those ultrathin actresses like Lara Flynn Boyle after liposuction. Dr. Novak’s issues will probably be the death of his wife. Age has a way of catching up with all of us eventually. Even Cher one day.
Then there’s the daughter, my bridal consultant: Emily. Emily is not thin by her father’s standards but borders on anorexic to the rest of us. She’s five-foot-nine and maybe weighs 130, blond, with exceptionally dewy Southern skin. She’s an overachiever in everything except employment. Kevin says she’s had ten jobs in the last four years, but they always end in disaster. She has either dated the boss, taken stock from an elderly stockholder, or once, nearly married a man of fifty-eight years. Additionally, she has been unable to get along with the other employees—which I can only assume means other female employees. In her repertoire, she’s been a dental office manager, a doctor’s assistant, a front-desk clerk at an elegant hotel, and a radio intern. Her last job was managing a small florist’s shop in Alpharetta, Georgia. Currently, she’s got the best gig going as my bridal coordinator. She can’t marry the boss (her brother), and she can’t get fired unless she succeeds in finding a better bride for her brother, which seems to be her priority.
My cell phone rings, and I plug the earpiece in. I’m tooling down the road, anxious to get to work yet understanding my presence will make no difference today other than the fact that Purvi will have someone to yell at about our patent being “stolen.” Purvi’s yelling has no effect on me any longer. She just gets it out of her system, and we’re back on track. I love her, and she loves me. We can handle our lack of communication skills. Though we probably drive those around us crazy.
“Hi, Kev,” I say into the phone as I turn my CD off.
“Ashley, what’s going on? How come you didn’t answer your phone?” His voice sends that surge of fear through me again.
“I’m just not having a stellar day. Thought I’d spare you the angst.”
“We’re sharing our angst, remember? That’s what married people do, share the angst.”
Not when my angst has a name and it’s your sister. “Right. You’re right. Emily went with Brea. They were going to continue to shop. I hope that’s okay.” It was either that, or I had to take her out.
“I don’t expect you to babysit her, Ashley, but they’re shopping without the bride? Isn’t that a bit odd?”
“I told Brea she has free reign over the bridesmaid dress, and they didn’t have long because of Brea’s kids. She knows what my dress looks like, and I’ll get final approval.” Here, I pause a minute. “Do you have a thing about Confederate soldiers?”
He laughs. “What?”
“I mean, what would you think if I had period soldiers at our wedding?”
“I’d think you’d gone over the edge, Ashley.”
Whew. “Just checking.”
“My sister is not trying to have a Southern wedding, is she? We talked about that.”
Can’t let Emily know I tattled. “I just wondered if you might want to include your heritage in the wedding, that’s all.” I don’t want to tell Kevin his sister is not the dream wedding coordinator. Scarlett’s maybe, but definitely not mine.
“Ashley,” he says with the utmost patience. “The Confederate flag would not go over big in California. Correct? I don’t want my coworkers thinking skinhead as you walk down the aisle.”
I start to giggle. “Skinhead. That’s funny. I just wanted to make sure. No Confederate flags.” I scribble onto scrap paper sticking out from my dashboard. No Confederate flags. As though I need a reminder.
“Are you coming to the hospital for dinner?” Kevin asks. I can almost see him staring at his watch, calculating the time window he might squeeze me into.
“You’re working again?” I groan.
“It’s Friday night. Why do you even have to ask?”
“Because I’m ever-hopeful, Kevin.” A fool, if you will. Once I had a boyfriend who never had the motivation to see me. Now I have a fiancé who never has time to see me. Like I said, you pick your battles. “I probably won’t be in tonight, Kevin. I need to work too. We lost a key patent today, and I need to let Purvi know I’m committed to getting this right next time. She thinks I’m doing nothing but planning the wedding.”
“Well, you’re only getting married once. She ought to understand, but it’s fine you’re working. I’ll probably only take half an hour for dinner anyway. I want to get home before Emily goes out. The last thing I need is her falling for another old man at some karaoke bar.”
“Some women like older men,” I say coyly. Kevin is a year younger than me. While I’ve grown accustomed to this fact, I’m not exactly comfortable with it. I was raised old-school, I guess: guy is taller and older. Well, we’re half there. At least I can wear heels with him.
“Some women know better than going older. You and Demi Moore have something in common. You know how to pluck a piece of fruit from the tree when it’s ripe for the taking. Not wait until it’s all raisinlike and requires prescription meds.”
I know he’s trying to make me feel better. But really, when he reminds me of my age, I feel like Mrs. Haversham standing around in my dress . . . waiting.
“You sound exhausted already. I’m thinking delirious. How long have you been working?” I pull into my company parking lot. I’m probably making this conversation last longer than it needs to, but I’m not ready to face Purvi or everything I’ve done wrong for the day. Emily’s coordinating is mistake enough.
“I’ve been working too long. I’ve lost count and I’m starting to have Ashley-humor. Meet me for breakfast tomorrow?”
“I’d love to.” I feel my stomach surge with excitement. How does he do that?
“I can’t wait to marry you, Ashley Stockingdale. I’ll make you breakfast in bed every Saturday, and I won’t have to meet you anywhere. I’ll open my eyes, and you’ll be there.”
“I’ve tasted your cooking before. Breakfast is not a big draw for me, actually.” I know he can hear the smile in my voice, but better to tease than actually think about my future. What if it doesn’t happen this way? It’s all about expectations, and if you don’t have any, you can’t be disappointed.
“I’ll have you know,” Kevin says, “there are women out there who would die to have my waffles for dinner.”
“I don’t doubt that, but it has nothing to do with your waffles. I think it’s probably closer to the fact that you look like Hugh Jackman on one of his good days, and skipping dinner to get right to dessert is probably why they want your waffles.”
“Whew! Getting hot in here. Definitely getting hot in here. I need to get back to work. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow. Wear jeans. I miss my woman in jeans. How’s that for a sexist comment?”
“It’s California lawsuit material.”
“So sue me.”
“Is eight going to give you enough rest?” I ask, even though my mind is still wandering to Kevin in a robe with coffee.
“It’s going to give me enough time away from you. I’ll be up at six, regardless. Put me in your Blackberry.”
“I’ll be ready.” As I start to have romantic fantasies, reality strikes. “Is Emily coming to breakfast?”
“She’ll probably still be sleeping. But if she’s awake, I’ll invite her. It’s nice to see you getting to be friends. I’ll tell her you’re hoping she’ll come.”
“Right.”
I hear his name paged in the background. “Love you, gotta run.” He clicks off the line.
I turn up my CD and have one last listen to Chris Tomlin at full blast. Anything to pump me up for “losing” another patent. I’m bracing for Hurricane Purvi. Is it my fault that most patent examiners have minimal experience? Or that sometimes the concepts are just difficult for them to grasp? But I’m thinking
negatively. Our patent hasn’t been denied, and it has to be different from Microsoft’s process. I just hope it’s different enough to warrant its own patent. I button up my suit coat and square my shoulders. I am Super Patent Attorney. If anyone can do it, I can. I’m strong to the finish.
I yank open the door to Gainnet. I’m ready for anything; just check out the squared shoulders. I have just survived the Ya Ya wedding coordinator; patents have nothing on me.
Purvi is in the hall, arms crossed over her chest, her foot tapping. She’s in Indian dress today. I’m thinking this does not bode well for me.
“The world must stop for you to get married?” Her hands are now flying.
“How long did your wedding last in India?” I shot back, knowing full well an Indian wedding is a much bigger deal. And judging by Purvi’s pursed lips, she knows I’m right, which only makes her angrier.
“You are an insolent thing. Just never mind. Did you see the patent pending?” she asks.
Obviously, I haven’t been into my office yet, but whatever. “No, I’ll get to it right away. Just calm down, Purvi. Yell at me when I know what you’re yelling about. It’s much more effective that way.”
She pounds her fist in her palm. “I want you to go back to engineering, and I want a new process. A better process that outstrips this!”
Yeah, like engineering suddenly works for us. In Silicon Valley, there is the engineering department, and then there are the rest of us “support” systems. Give me a break, I’m going to march in and tell engineering what to do. Right before they consider me the daily entertainment and fire my bum. Deep down, I know Purvi understands this. She’s got to be stressed, and judging by the Indian dress, it’s not a good day to upset her. When her husband is home, her mother-in-law (who lives with the family) tends to mark her territory and show Purvi who is woman of the house. I once heard that the Chinese symbol for unhappiness is two women under the same roof. If Purvi is any indication . . .
With This Ring, I'm Confused Page 2
