There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  6. Accidentally deletes my DVRed Monday-night sitcoms every time a game is on that night.

  Then I brace myself, take a deep breath, and write down the really painful ones.

  The ones that sometimes do make me hate him.

  7. Wouldn’t let me move in.

  Seema’s eyes widen. I never let on to anyone that he didn’t want me to move in. Never admitted to her (back when she, Nic, and I were roommates) that I gave him an ultimatum one night: let me move in, or we’re over. He did—eventually. But he kept all of his furniture exactly where it was. All of my stuff went into storage. So I always felt like a guest in my own home.

  8. Wasted six years of my life.

  I scribble angrily.

  “Great start,” Scott says. Then he puts out his hand. “House keys.”

  I am confused for a moment. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re moving out,” Scott says matter-of-factly. “What do you need most between now and Monday?”

  Seema sighs again, then says to Scott, “Um … honey? With all due respect, you’re pushing too hard here—”

  “No, no,” I interrupt quickly, giving him my keys. “I either need a pair of Banana Republic blue jeans or the ones I bought from Target. My fat jeans, not my thin ones. And my flat Steve Maddens, my gray Ann Taylor long-sleeve T-shirt, a long T-shirt to sleep in, preferably the one with the Grinch and Max the dog on it, a toothbrush, and my Kiehl’s moisturizing lotion.”

  Scott looks at me blankly.

  I clarify, “I need pants, shirts, shoes, and a toothbrush.”

  Scott smiles at me. “I’m proud of you. Most women would be curled up in a ball right now.”

  He gives me a kiss on the forehead, kisses Seema good-bye, then takes his leave.

  The moment the door closes behind him, Seema warns me, “Just so you know: he might very well come back with a pair of Gap blue jeans from 1993, tennis shoes, and your beat-up old Spice Girls T-shirt. I’ve gone on weekend trips with him: there is no rhyme or reason to what he packs.”

  “I don’t care,” I say, feeling myself smile. “He could come back with a box of Tampax, a pair of pantyhose, and a flashlight. Tonight, I have a hero taking care of me.”

  And as awful as this night has been, how politically incorrect and wonderful is it to be able to say that?

  Seven

  Nicole

  “And chances are,” I gleefully read to Malika, my soon-to-be stepdaughter, “if she asks for some syyrruup…” I drag the word syrup out five syllables to wait for Malika to finish the sentence.

  Malika looks up at me, her face brightening as she squeals, “She’ll want a pancake to go with it!”

  “Yes, she will! Won’t she?!” I say, tickling Malika, who giggles as she squirms her little body beneath me.

  We’re both in our pajamas, lying in her bed, and I have just finished reading her Laura Numeroff’s If You Give a Pig a Pancake while Jason reads Harry Potter to her nine-year-old sister Megan in the other room. On alternate nights, Jason reads to Malika, and I get to read Harry Potter.

  “Switch!” Jason, clad in his nighttime ensemble of his team T-shirt and gray shorts, yells happily from the doorway.

  I rapidly kiss Malika on the cheek five times. “I love you,” I tell her.

  “I love you too.”

  “I love you more. Who’s the cutest five-year-old?”

  “Me!”

  I smile, stand up, and walk past Jason. “Tagging out!” I say, making a show of high-fiving him.

  “Tagging in!” Jason says.

  I head to Megan’s room and catch her reading the next chapter of Harry Potter.

  “Hey, that’s cheating.” I pretend to lecture.

  “I just have to know how it ends,” Megan says, as I walk over and sit on her bed. She looks up at me and whispers, “Do you think I could use my flashlight? Just for a little bit?”

  How can I resist that angelic smile and those pleading eyes? I lean in and whisper, “Okay, but just one chapter.”

  Megan smiles and pulls a flashlight from under her pillow. “Don’t tell Dad.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me,” I assured her conspiratorially. I give her a kiss on the forehead and say, “I love you.”

  “Me too.”

  I take my leave and watch Megan throw the covers over her head, turn on her flashlight, and begin reading again as I turn out the light and close the door.

  Jason closes Malika’s door and meets me in the hallway. “Did she have the flashlight?” he asks me under his breath, amused.

  “Of course,” I say, my heart melting at how cute she is. “So, you mentioned something about wine?”

  “Indeed I did,” Jason says, taking my hand and walking down the hallway, toward the stairs. “I want to hear about all those wedding gifts we got today.”

  Our home phone rings as I joke with him. “Well, I know you had your heart set on a traif dish.”

  We ignore the phone as Jason continues with the joke. “Not nearly as much as the fingertip towels.”

  “We didn’t register for fingertip towels,” I tell him.

  “Yes, we did,” Jason insists.

  “No, we didn’t,” I assure him.

  He actually looks confused by this. “Yes, we did,” he insists.

  “That must have been for your first wedding,” I joke.

  Jason mock glares at me for my joke as our answering machine picks up.

  “Well, then, what were those tiny purple towels in the linen department if not fingertip towels?” Jason asks me.

  “Those were washcloths.”

  “No. I called them washcloths and was strongly chastised by the woman at Bloomingdale’s.”

  “That was because you were looking at fingertip towels at the time—the ones in tea rose. We went with another manufacturer, so that we could get them in aubergine. But the other manufacturer didn’t make fingertip towels, they made washcloths.”

  “Okay, you know the next time I talk about the differences between a zone trap and a pressing man to man, you are allowed to say nothing.”

  “Hi Jason and Nicole, it’s Jacquie,” we hear Jason’s ex-wife say happily on the machine. “Listen, I know it’s getting kind of late, but I have some stuff I want to run by you both when the girls aren’t around. I was hoping I could just drop by tonight for ten minutes.”

  Jason and I share an inquisitive glance.

  “You know what?” Jacquie continues. “You might still be out with the girls. I’ll try you on your cell. But call me back the second you get this. Or Nic, call me back the second you get this. Whoever. Just someone please call me back.”

  The machine beeps. About thirty seconds later, Jason’s cell phone begins ringing in our bedroom.

  “What’s that about?” Jason asks me.

  I shrug. “I have no idea.”

  Jason makes a detour to our bedroom. “Are you sure she was okay being at your shower today? Did she seem weirded out at all?”

  “No,” I say. “She seemed cheerful. As a matter of fact, she…”

  I stop talking.

  The charm. She got the typewriter.

  Jason picks up his cell. “Hey, Jacquie,” he says into the phone. “What’s up?”

  Jason looks at me in confusion as he talks to her. “No, Nic didn’t mention anything.… Yeah, I guess so. Is everything okay?”

  I watch Jason as he listens to the voice on the other end of the phone. He occasionally looks in my direction in total confusion. I try to stare blankly back at him, like I don’t know any more than he does. Which, really, I don’t. But I have a nagging suspicion Charm #2 is about to come true.

  “No, come on over,” Jason says tentatively. “Okay, we’ll see you in a few minutes. Yeah, bye.” Jason hangs up the phone. “Did Jacquie mention a job offer to you today?”

  Shit! I knew it! I just knew it. Seema may think I’m half cocked, but I’m onto something here. “She said something about being up for a speechwriting job,” I tell
Jason. “But she said it was a long shot, so I didn’t think too much about it.”

  “Huh,” Jason says. “Well, she got the job. And she told me to tell you not to say anything until she came over. What doesn’t she want you to tell me?”

  I open my mouth to answer him. But before I can say, “Your ex-wife wants to move your girls five hundred miles away,” the doorbell rings.

  Jason quickly heads downstairs and over to the front door, with me half a step behind him. He opens the door to his beautiful ex-wife, Jacquie, who is beaming. “I got it!” she screams, then slips past her ex to pull me into a hug.

  I look over Jacquie’s shoulder to watch my confused fiancé widen his eyes (couple shorthand for “What the hell is going on?”). Before I can answer him, Jacquie pulls away from me, then excitedly grabs Jason. “I start Monday!”

  “Um … congratulations,” Jason says, feigning enthusiasm. “You start what Monday?”

  Jacquie pulls away from him. “Didn’t Nic tell you?”

  Shit.

  “I didn’t think anything was definite,” I say weakly.

  “Tell me what?” Jason asks. “What job did you get?”

  Jacquie proudly tells him, “I am the new junior speechwriter for the governor.” Then for added emphasis she happily screams, “Ah!”

  Jason’s face falls. “Of California?”

  “No. Of Rhode Island,” Jacquie jokes. “Of course, of California. He announces his candidacy for the U.S. Senate in the next week or two, so he’s expanding his staff. The mayor put in a good word for me. I didn’t think I had a shot in Hell, but I flew up there yesterday, and I guess I made an okay impression, because I got it!”

  Jason looks shell-shocked but like he’s trying to cover. “You flew up to Sacramento?”

  “I did!” Jacquie says, looking so happy she might burst out of her own skin. “I didn’t bother telling you because I didn’t think it was going to happen. But senator. Can you believe I have a shot at working in Washington, D.C., next year?”

  “But what about the girls?” Jason blurts out. “We have a custody agreement.”

  “Yeah, what about the girls?” I hear from the staircase. The three of us look up to see Megan standing at the top of the stairs. “I’m not moving to Sacramento,” she states firmly as she walks downstairs.

  “Oh, honey, you don’t have to,” Jacquie says, walking halfway up the stairs and hugging her daughter. “I’ve got it all worked out. Sacramento is only an hour’s flight away. You girls will live with your father during the week, I’ll fly home every Friday night, pick you up, then drop you off on Sunday night, and fly back up. It’ll be exactly the same schedule you had before, just with your dad and me having you on opposite days than we did last year.”

  “But what about our family cruise?” Megan asks. “It’s next week.”

  From the look on her face, I can tell Jacquie hadn’t thought that one through. “Well…” she stalls. “We can still go. Just not next week.”

  Megan gets a look of disgust on her face that should be reserved for teenaged girls and Simon Cowell. “Malika has been looking forward to that trip for six months!” she nearly screams at her mother. “You already postponed it once. How can you do it again?”

  “Honey, I have to work,” Jacquie tells her apologetically. “We’ll find a different time.” Jacquie looks over at us. Her face lights up as she says, “And you’ll love Italy.”

  Say what now?

  Jason and I have the conversation that only couples can, which consists of no words and fleeting looks.

  First look, a pleading expression from Jason: I’m sorry.

  Second look, a shrug from me: It’s okay. It’ll be fine. They can come.

  Third look, relief from Jason: I love you so much.

  “Who goes with their dad on his honeymoon?” Megan asks in disgust.

  “Lots of kids go on honeymoons with their parents,” Jacquie assures her. “I’ve read about the trips. They’re called familymoons. Why, I’m sure your dad and Nic could find you guys amazing things to do in Venice. They have gondolas, and pizza, which you love. Plus there’s…”

  As Jacquie continues to sell her firstborn on the idea of Italy, I look up to see Malika, standing at the top of the stairs, silent and devastated. “But why can’t they just come on the cruise with us?” she begs her mother.

  The girl looks heartbroken. Utterly heartbroken. As her mother walks up to her, she bursts into tears.

  How can I enjoy the romance of Italy, knowing it came at the expense of a five-year-old’s happiness?

  I immediately walk up the stairs and kneel down to be at eye level with Jason’s little girl. Then I muster up all the enthusiasm and excitement I have in me and tell her, “You know what would be really cool after the cruise is if the four of us went to Epcot. I hear they have a pretend St. Mark’s Square that’s even better than the real thing.”

  Eight

  Melissa

  By 3:00 A.M., Scott has gone home, Seema is in her room, and I’m in my old bedroom at her place, the one I lived in before Fred and I moved in together.

  My old room.

  God damn it. I loved living here—don’t get me wrong. I love my friends, I loved feeling like part of a family that I picked out, and being surrounded by people who loved me and accepted me for who I really am.

  But, at the same time, when I moved out, I felt a little smug. Not smug—that might be the wrong word. But I was the first one of us to move in with the love of her life. And, at the time, I thought I was just months away from being the first of us to get engaged.

  Back then, I was absolutely giddy that my life was moving forward. I had been sure that I was the smartest and the luckiest of the three of us. In my mind, I was the chosen one, because someone had literally chosen me! I wasn’t quite thirty yet, but I had managed to figure out the secret to having it all: a job I loved and a boyfriend who wanted me to move in. (Fine, allowed me to move in. But I’m not the first woman in the world who ever gave an ultimatum. I’m not even the first one today.)

  And now, at thirty-two, my life has just taken a giant fucking U-turn, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  I feel completely powerless, helpless, and useless.

  And as much as I know I have to leave, my mind is racing for something he can do to win me back.

  The rest of the evening wasn’t too bad. Fred called a bunch of times but, with the help of my friends, I had the strength not to answer the phone. Scott went to Fred’s house and packed a whole suitcase for me. I have no idea what he said to Fred, but somehow he managed to convince him to give me a night or two to cool off.

  Then Scott came back to Seema’s and tried to cheer me up as I continued writing my list of things I hate about Fred.

  I had written sixty-two things down and left room at the bottom of the last page for more. The list zigzagged from petty to huge: his blaring U2 I guess is minor—his lying and cheating is gigantic.

  And now, sitting in bed alone, I look through my list and add number sixty-three.

  63. Knew if I ever found out that he had an affair, it would break my heart. Did it anyway.

  I begin to cry again. Soon, my crying turns into loud sobbing, and my stomach hurts again from my violent hyperventilating.

  Seema is through my bedroom door in no time flat and pulls me into a hug. “I know…” she says gently. She hands me a box of Kleenex, and I quickly pull out a fistful of tissues.

  After a few more minutes, I stop crying enough to blow my nose and dry my eyes. “I think I might be running out of tears,” I tell her through my stuffed-up nose.

  “Do you want me to get you some water?” Seema asks me. “Or a cocoa or something?”

  “Water,” I say weakly. She stands up. “You want to try and get some food into you too?” Seema asks. “I have tons of leftover cheese and crackers.”

  I shake my head. “If I eat, I’ll throw up.”

  “Booze?” she asks.

/>   “If I drink, I’ll throw up.”

  “Cigar?” Seema asks.

  I raise one eyebrow. She found my weakness. I might be pathetically clutching at straws for any way to make myself feel better, but I do love cigars. They are decadent, and bad for me, and Fred hates them on my breath.

  Perfect.

  Two minutes later, we’re on Seema’s front porch, sitting in her side-by-side white wicker chairs. As she lights my cigar, I suck in deeply, attempting to enjoy the intoxicating caramelly aroma of a good smoke. I can taste it, but I still feel like crap. I hold the smoke in my lungs, then slowly exhale out.

  “I just didn’t even see this coming,” I say to Seema, as she lights her cigar. “I mean, I knew he had a problem committing, but I just figured it would happen eventually. I figured if I could just stick it out long enough, he’d realize he couldn’t live without me.”

  Seema gives me a sympathetic look. She doesn’t say anything. How could she? What can you say when your best friend gets cheated on?

  I take another puff of my cigar and try to savor this treat that usually brings me such joy. “God, I’m such a fucking idiot,” I say angrily.

  “You’re not an idiot,” Seema assures me, as she sucks on her cigar to get the whole thing lit. “You’re a woman in love. It happens to the best of us.”

  “You’ve never been this stupid,” I point out to her.

  Her cell phone beeps a text. She lifts up the phone so I can see Scott’s text. “Wanna bet?”

  “What’s it say?” I ask, unable to focus through my watery eyes.

  She reads the screen, “Just got home. Is she okay?”

  “Nice someone cares,” I say.

  “A lot of us care,” Seema says while texting something back.

  “What are you writing back?” I ask.

  “Just telling him we’re smoking cigars,” Seema says. She hits send, then tosses the phone onto the white wicker table between us. “So when do you want to move your stuff in?”

  I love that it’s not even a question, it’s a statement. It’s not an offer, it’s a given. I’m family, I’m wounded. And I’m home now.

  Nonetheless, Nic just moved out six months ago. I feel guilty for intruding on Seema’s new life without roommates. “I don’t want to cramp your style,” I tell her. “What happens when you finally begin your torrid affair with Scott? How’s it going to look that first night? I can just see it: the two of you are making out in a frenzied heat on your front porch. Clothes are unbuttoned, but still on. Tongues are flying everywhere. You unlock the door, bursting into the living room ready for a night of passion … and the two of you see me, in my pink fuzzy bathrobe, watching bad TV, a spoon of ice cream sticking out of my mouth and my face tearstained and red.”