Acknowledgments
First off, I’d like to thank Matthew Shear, my publisher, and Kerry Nordling, in Foreign Rights. If you guys didn’t sell my books, I could never sit in my pajamas writing my books, and for that I am eternally grateful.
Many thanks to Jennifer Weis, my editor, for supporting my books and helping steer me through the whole writing process on project after project.
To Kim Whalen, my agent. Again, how do you thank the person who has guaranteed that pajamas can be work clothes?
To Jennifer Enderlin, for coming up with the title for my book. (I still believe it every day!)
To Dorothy Kozak, for saying, “You should write a book about a cake pull.”
To the people I trust so much that I let them read the “crappy first draft”: Carolyn Townsend, Brian Smith, Jennifer Good, and Anne Bensson. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have found a group of people who have enough faith in me to tell me the truth about what doesn’t work in my books and what needs to be fixed. I do know that it’s easy to lie to the people you give up on. It’s harder to plod through with those you know have more in them. I treasure you.
To Erin Dunlap for helping me so much with Mel’s “Am I happy?” monologue. You should be writing novels—I’m just sayin’.
To Seema Bardwaj and Reena Singh, for letting me take your names for my character and giving me tidbits of info about Indian American culture. Obviously Seema isn’t either of you (you are both much more fabulous), but I’d like to think a few of your cracks and quips made it in.
To my family: Brian and Alex, of course. Carol, Edmond, Janis, Jenn, Rob, Haley, Declan, and Maibre. And on Brian’s side: Caryol, Walter, Eric, Sonia, Eric Jr., Kyle, Emily, and Korie.
And one other family I have to thank: the friends my son Alex thinks have the first name “Uncle” or “Aunt”: Jeff Greco, Brian Gordon, Robert Sexton, and Suzi Hale Sexton. To “the winetasters”: Dorothy, Missy, Gaylyn, Jen, Nancy, Reena, Christie, and Marisa, for all of your encouragement. And to Laurie, for her encouragement.
Finally, I want to thank a particular group of writers whom I’ve met since A Total Waste of Makeup. These writers don’t all know each other, and they’re not all in the same field of writing. But they have one thing in common: they are all artists who are also incredibly good and supportive people. That’s hard to find—and somehow I found you. Joe Keenan, Bob Daily, Jennifer Coburn, Beth Kendrick, Quinn Cummings, Jeff Greenstein, and Nancy Redd. Whether it’s coming to book signings, sending me a picture of my book on a bookstore front table, bantering about agents and editors, or letting me pitch asinine ideas at you until something interesting came out, I am grateful.
And if I missed anyone—you know who you are—yell at me and I promise you will be in the acknowledgments for Book 4.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Also by Kim Gruenenfelder
Advance Praise for There’s Cake in My Future
Copyright
Prologue
Melissa
Is it a really bad sign when the bride has locked herself in the bathroom? Or is it just one of those things that all brides are secretly tempted to do right before the ceremony?
I am standing in the back room of a beautiful old church in Santa Monica wearing a sparkly satin aquamarine dress with a giant bow at the hip, dyed-to-match aquamarine pumps, and an aquamarine hat so ostentatious it could make Liberace climb out of his grave just to tell me to tone it down a bit.
Obviously, I’m the bridesmaid. An honor that currently affords me the task of knocking politely on the bathroom door of my good friend Nicole (aka The Bride) and begging her to come out.
“Nic? Honey,” I say gently, tapping lightly on the door. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No,” she whispers to me through the locked door. “I’m an awful, selfish person who doesn’t deserve a wedding, or a marriage, or happiness. And I am going to die alone with a bunch of potbellied pigs.”
“Pigs?” I ask, confused but trying to sound understanding and sympathetic. “Why would you end up with pigs?”
“I hate cats.”
I can’t tell if she’s overreacting or not. I mean, when you think about it, a wedding is an astonishingly big leap of faith. Any ceremony that specifically mentions “sickness,” “poverty,” and “death” as part of the agreement—that should at least give a girl pause. Right?
Maybe that’s why society has encouraged women to focus more on the glittering diamonds, the gorgeous dress, the flowers, the presents, the cake.…
Oh … the cake. After this past week, I’m pretty sure the bride doesn’t even want to hear the word cake, much less look at one.
Our friend Seema, Nic’s maid of honor, opens the front door of the bridal room and backs her way in, careful to keep the door as shut as possible while she slithers through the doorway. Seema wears the same ridiculous ensemble as I, but her luminous Indian skin can handle the hideous shade of blue Nic has picked for us. And her hourglass figure easily pulls off the lacy décolletage of the V-neck top and the stupid bow at the hip.
“No, no problem at all,” Seema insists with forced cheer to someone out in the hall. “We just need a few more minutes. The bride…” She glances over at me as she struggles to finish her sentence. “… smaid!” Seema continues. “The bridesmaid is depressed that it’s never going to be her and has locked herself in the bathroom. We’ll be right out.”
Seema slams the door shut, locks it, then runs over to me, still camped out at the bathroom door. “I think I bought us a few more minutes,” Seema whispers to me hurriedly. “I don’t think anyone suspects anything yet.”
My eyes bug out at her. “Who was that?”
“The church lady. She wants to know why we’re behind schedule.”
“Why did you tell her that I was the depressed one?” I whine to her in a whisper. “Like I’m not having enough problems today. Do I really need three hundred people thinking I’m holding up a wedding because I can’t get my love life togethe
r?”
“I panicked,” Seema admits in a whisper. “Besides, it could be an excuse.”
“Did it ever occur to you to use your sorry excuse for a love life as an excuse?” I challenge her. (An outburst that is completely out of character for me but I believe well within my rights.)
“Fine,” Seema concedes, her tone of voice clearly brushing me off. “So next time, you can go out there, and use me as the excuse.” Seema begins rapping on Nicole’s bathroom door several times. “Nic, drama time’s over,” she says firmly, but ever so quietly. (Can’t have the wedding guests hear anything in the back room, after all.) “Now come on out.”
“No!” Nic whispers back urgently through the door.
“Don’t let my whispering fool you,” Seema warns Nic. “I swear to God, I will kick down this door! Put me in an aquamarine skullcap in front of three hundred people. Oh, you will get married today! I don’t care if I have to drag you down the aisle with a chair and a whip.”
“First of all, it’s not aquamarine—it’s aqua,” Nic begins with a hint of condescension. “As a matter of fact, if we’re getting technical, I’d say it’s more of an electric blue.”
“Really?” Seema responds dryly. “This is what you want to do right now? Lecture me on your chosen bridal color palette?”
Nic whips open the door to haughtily tell Seema, “Well, you make me sound like some tacky little bride from 1984. And, secondly, it is not a skullcap. That is a lovely—vintage!—forties hat and veil.”
Nicole looks exquisite: the quintessential California girl ready for her wedding at the beach. Her sun-kissed skin glows, her emerald eyes sparkle, and her platinum-blond hair practically shimmers under her long veil. She looks flawless in her gorgeous Monique Lhuillier strapless princess A-line gown in ivory satin. A vision, ready to walk down the aisle.…
Until she slams the bathroom door shut again before we have the chance to ram our way in and force her to get married.
I let my head fall into the palm of my hand.
Seema tries the door, but it’s locked again.
“It’s a costume for an extra in an Esther Williams movie,” Seema yells as much as possible while speaking in a stage whisper. “Now get your butt out here!”
There’s a polite knock on the front door. I walk over to it. “Yes?” I ask through the door in the most carefree and breezy tone I can muster.
“It’s Mrs. Wickham,” the lady from the church says on the other side of the door. “People are starting to ask questions. Is everything okay in there?”
I watch Seema stand up, determinedly walk back a few steps, then run like a bull right into the bathroom door.
It doesn’t budge.
“It’s fine,” I lie. “I was…”
Seema grabs her shoulder in pain, and starts rubbing it. “Son of a…” She pounds on the door with both fists and stage-whispers, “You get out here, woman!”
I open the front door as little as possible, then squeeze through the tiny crack and step out into the hallway. As I do, I take my left hand and push Mrs. Wickham away from the door and farther out into the hallway while simultaneously closing the door behind me with my right hand. “I’ve been vomiting,” I lie. “And crying. Nic was just helping me clean up my mascara.” I grab her by the collar and whine, “Oh God, Mrs. Wickham, why isn’t it me? Why is it never me?”
Suddenly I hear a loud, rhythmic pounding inside the room. I quickly let go of Mrs. Wickham’s collar, open the door a crack, then peek in to see Seema holding a fire extinguisher and ramming it repeatedly into the locked door.
I close the door quickly to block anything unseemly from Mrs. Wickham, and force a toothy smile. “But I’m good now.”
POUND!
I continue to smile, “You go make sure the groom is okay…”
POUND!
My cheeks hurt, I’m smiling so hard. “After all, without a groom, we don’t have a wedding.”
POUND!
PSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!
“Oh shit!” I hear Seema roar on the other side of the door.
I open the door a crack for a second time to see Seema covered in fire extinguisher goo.
I slam the door shut again, then turn around to the church lady and force myself to admit, “Okay, we might be having a little problem with Seema’s dress. We’re gonna need two more minutes.”
* * *
One week earlier.…
One
Seema
Date not bad. She’s pretty cool actually. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Have drinks ready. ; )
Love ya!
I stare at the text on my phone.
My God, men are just glorious in their ability to send mixed signals. I look over at my friends Melissa and Nicole, both scurrying around my kitchen, setting up an assortment of food and drinks for Nic’s bridal shower.
“Okay, this is the last text, I promise,” I say, showing the screen to Nic as she pulls a giant glass pitcher of peach puree from my refrigerator. “What do you think Scott meant when he wrote this?”
Nic takes a moment to read the words on the screen. “That he’s a typical guy who wants you to carry a torch for him but doesn’t actually want to kiss you, make out with you, or take any responsibility for leading you on.”
“I hate it when she minces words,” I joke to Mel, who laughs and nods as she diligently wraps prosciutto slices around melon wedges.
“Okay, I give up,” Nic admits to me in confusion as she holds up the glass pitcher. “What is this?”
“Fresh peach puree,” I tell her, with just a hint of defensiveness. “For the champagne.”
Nic looks horrified. “Since when does perfectly good champagne need to be sullied with sugared fruit?”
“Since every bridal magazine and online article I read told me that proper bridal showers need to have peach Bellinis,” I answer her, with just a hint of “Bring it on, Bitch” in my voice. (I have spent the last week perusing wedding magazines and online wedding sites getting ready for this damn shower. I’ll admit, reading about all of these deliriously happy fiancées has made me a tad sullen.)
“Seriously?” Nic asks. From the scowl on her face, I’m going to guess this is the first she’s heard of it.
“Tragically, yes,” I say. “I also bought orange juice for mimosas. Apparently destroying twenty dollars’ worth of sparkling wine with fifty cents’ worth of sugar during a bridal shower is as traditional as the bride throwing the bouquet, unmarried wedding guests having a fight on the way home about why the guy won’t commit, and a bridesmaid waking up on top of someone horribly inappropriate the next morning.” I hand Mel my phone to read Scott’s text. “What do you think this means?”
Mel clutches her chest. “Oh my God! The poor guy. He liiiikes you. Why don’t you just let him be your boyfriend already?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Is it worth jeopardizing a really good friendship just because I want to have sex with him?”
Mel answers with, “It would be so romantic. The best relationships start out as friendships,” just as Nic talks over her with, “Absolutely. Pin him to a wall and show him who’s boss.”
Mel glares at Nic disapprovingly. Nic shrugs. “What? I didn’t say she had to be the boss.”
They’re both right in their own way, of course. I desperately and achingly want to have sex with Scott. I think about it all the time.
Actually, that’s not true.
What I desperately want is to have that first six-hour make-out session where you just kiss and dry hump on someone’s couch until one of you falls asleep and the other one sneaks off to the bathroom to wash off her makeup, brush her teeth, and prepare to look radiant when you both wake up three hours later. At which time, hopefully he suggests brunch, and you both keep sneaking kisses all day.
But I’m afraid what would happen instead would be the morning that has haunted every girl for months or years after the actual event. When, the next morning, the man that you have fin
ally caught, the man that you have dreamt about kissing for so long, now has that look on his face that men get when they want to find a way to nicely let you know that you were a giant mistake, and that they wish the night had never happened. But it’s not you, it’s him. Really. And can you still be friends? Because he just loves you so much … as a friend.
And what do we girls typically do when presented with this humiliating situation? Most of us stupidly pretend that nothing happened, that everything is okay, and that we can go back to being “just friends.”
But not one of us has ever really felt comfortable around the guy again. How can you relax around someone who doesn’t think you’re enough?
In my experience, the breakup goes one of two ways: either you pretend to stay friends and slowly drift apart—canceling on dinners or not scheduling movie nights anymore. Or, worse, you do keep seeing each other. And while a taste of honey is worse than none at all, a taste of tequila is deadly. Someone inevitably makes a move, someone says no, you both start yelling, and you never see each other again.
Oh, or I guess there’s the third dreaded kind of breakup: the one that happens three months later, after you’ve declared your undying love for him, he has said he loves you back, everything’s going incredibly smoothly, you’re picking out wedding china in your head, and Bam! He breaks up one night. Doesn’t even give a good reason, just doesn’t “feel the sparks” you feel.
This is the biggest reason for why I haven’t kissed Scott. I’ve already felt the heartbreak of him breaking up with me hundreds of times—all in my head. Depending on the night, I either go to bed fantasizing about him kissing me or I think about the breakup that would inevitably follow.
It would happen. I know this logically. We are completely wrong for each other.
I am a key fund-raiser for the Los Angeles Museum. It’s a job I kind of fell into, but I like it very much, and I’m pretty good at it. I organize sophisticated parties and showings for the well-to-do in Los Angeles, and try to get them to become patrons and donate money to the various programs and exhibits within the museum. I have no artistic ability whatsoever, but I am the biggest fan of a good exhibit. I’m stable. I have a steady job, a mortgage, and a 401(k). I get my teeth cleaned twice a year.
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