There's Cake in My Future

by Gruenenfelder, Kim

  But right now, sitting at table sixteen and holding hands off and on all night, I can think of nothing else. As he talks to a mutual friend, I find myself staring at his pink lips and desperately thinking about how much I’d like to kiss those lips. I glance down to check out his rocking body (rocking—a term I never use, and yet every time he takes off his shirt in front of me that’s the word that pops into my brain—rocking).

  Maybe tonight I can get him to spend the night. He would take off his shirt, and this time would be different. This time I would put my hands up to his chest. I’d caress his perfectly toned belly. I’d kiss his neck and see if I get any reaction. I’d learn once and for all if he is more of a neck guy, or possibly weakened by ears? Could I make him go crazy by kissing his ears? Blowing in his ears. Putting my tongue …

  I lean over and blow into his ear. He turns to me, furrowing his brow but smiling. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say, quickly sitting back. “You have a little something on your chin.”

  Scott furrows his brow at me a bit more, wipes his chin, then goes back to talking to our friend Karen, who’s in midstory. “So I got the camera charm. I’m thinking, how depressing, I’m never going to direct a film, and BAM! I get a grant to do this documentary in Beijing for the next four months.”

  “That’s amazing,” Scott says, genuinely happy for her. “And you shoot such great stuff! I can’t wait to see it.”

  “Thanks!” Karen says to Scott. She beams as she looks over at the dance floor, then says to me, “I see Mel’s hot little chili pepper is coming true, too.”

  I turn to look at Mel and her guy du jour (de soir?) dancing sexily with each other to Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” as Karen happily asks me, “So what charm did you get?”

  I force a smile. “The shovel.”

  Karen’s face falls, and she looks embarrassed. “Oh,” she says. “What’s that mean again?”

  My cheeks hurt with forced frivolity as I say, “A lifetime of effort and hard work.”

  Karen actually winces. It was a small wince, but I’m sure I saw it. “Well, it’s probably all a bunch of hooey anyway,” she assures me. The three of us share an uncomfortable moment before she says, “I should get back to Gerri. It was great seeing you guys.”

  And off she goes. I must have had a sad look on my face, because Scott starts rubbing my shoulders. “It’s not real,” he reminds me.

  “I know,” I say, sighing.

  “Of the twenty or so people who got charms, I’ll bet more than half haven’t had anything come true.”

  I watch Mel shimmy a little for John, and John smile as he watches her. “Mel’s is coming true,” I point out.

  “One of the reasons Mel is acting the way she is tonight is because she believes in that stupid charm, so she’s going to make it come true.”

  I shrug, halfheartedly agreeing with him.

  “Come on,” Scott says, rubbing my shoulders. “Do you really think you’re going to be stuck toiling away for no reason for the rest of your life?”

  What the Hell am I doing with you right now? I think to myself.

  I shrug noncommittally again.

  Scott shoots me a look of mock disapproval. “You think I’m gonna find true love next?”

  I try not to look sad as I ask him back, “Why not?”

  He smiles at me. Moves his hand up and down. “Who’s going to want this? I’m a mess.”

  “I think you’re pretty great,” I say sadly.

  “Eh, so I got you fooled,” he says humbly.

  I look over at the dance floor, desperate to be as happy and flirty as Mel. I turn to Scott and smile. “Do you want to dance?”

  “God, no.”

  “Come on.”

  “I don’t dance—you know that.”

  “But it would mean a lot to me.”

  Scott looks over at the dance floor. He seems to entertain the idea for a moment, but then shakes his head. “I don’t know—maybe for a slow dance.”

  I cross my arms, and I guess I pout.

  “What’s that look for?” he asks me.

  “Nothing,” I say. “I just want to dance.”

  “You’ve been dancing all night,” Scott points out.

  My face falls. “Hardly.”

  “Oh, come on. You danced with Mike, you danced with Nic’s dad, you danced with that boyfriend of Carolyn’s, you actually samba’d with Nic’s gay cousin, you bunny hopped with the guy Mel likes, and you danced with Nic when all of the girls got on the floor to dance and sing along to Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Will Survive.’ ”

  “You could have joined me for that one.”

  Scott looks horrified. “A GUY dancing to ‘I Will Survive’?! You gotta be kidding. And there is no way I could ever samba—that guy rocked.”

  “But I haven’t danced with you, and I really want to dance with you,” I say, maybe a little pleadingly.

  Lady Gaga finishes, and the music dies away. Nic takes the microphone from the DJ as couples make their way back to their tables. “First of all, my groom and I would like to thank you all for coming tonight. It has truly been the most wonderful night of my life, and I am so grateful to all of you for traveling, buying new dresses and suits…”

  Scott leans into me and whispers, “Did you notice she said suits?”

  “And spending waaayyy too much on our gifts,” Nic continues.

  Everyone laughs.

  “Jason and the girls and I have to leave the party now so that we can to get on a plane and begin our familymoon…”

  Cue the polite applause.

  “But I want to assure the drunks out there that the bar will be open until one…”

  Laughter.

  “And the band will be playing until one, as well. Also, the hotel is happy to arrange any cabs or rooms you might need at the end of the evening. So get home safely.” Nic holds up her Cascade bouquet. “And now it’s time for my favorite tradition, the tossing of the bouquet.”

  “Oh great,” I mutter, hearing a collective groan of ughs and oh, shits from the crowd.

  Scott smiles, wildly amused. “Go on. It’ll be fun.”

  Against my better judgment, I slowly stand up. “Like the cake charms weren’t a bad enough harbinger for my future.”

  “Hey, at least she’s not throwing a shovel at you,” Scott jokes, his face shining with glee.

  Mel and I meet halfway between our tables, then trudge up to the dance floor for the traditional spinster mockery. “So are you going to try and catch it?” Mel asks.

  “No-oo!” I say, knitting my brow and looking like I smell a skunk. “You?”

  “I can’t decide,” Mel tells me as we line up behind two blond girls in four-inch heels who have their arms held up high. “On the one hand, it would be fun to catch. I’ve never caught the bouquet before. On the other hand, you have to dance with the guy who catches the garter, and I don’t want to let John out of my sight.”

  “Ladies!” Nic says into the microphone, as she turns around so as not to see us.

  I look at Mel. “Back row?”

  She nods quickly. “Back row.”

  We walk farther behind the flock of women and wait for a delighted scream to emanate from one of them.

  “One…” Nic begins. “Two…”

  “So things seem to be going pretty well with John,” I say to Mel.

  “Yeah,” Mel says, pleasantly surprised. “He hasn’t tried to kiss me yet, but he certainly seems interested.”

  “Three!” Nic yells.

  And I guess she must have thrown the bouquet, because I looked up just as it was going over my head.

  I turn to see the bouquet land right behind me on the ground, so I turn and bend down to pick it up.

  And promptly get tackled by a million other women trying to grab the bouquet.

  Once I realize that I am at the bottom of a scrum, I decide to hold onto the flowers fiercely. I mean, seriously, this pile is embarrassing. I’m not rewarding their beha
vior by giving up my flowers.

  Disappointed girls slowly peel off of the pile and let me stand up with my bouquet.

  I glance over at Scott, who can’t stop laughing.

  “Ahhhh!!!” Nic screams gleefully as she runs up and hugs me. “So you’re next!”

  Um … yeah. “I thought Ginger was next,” I tell Nic grumpily as I look at the bouquet.

  “No, no, she’s already engaged,” Nic tells me. “Maybe Scott’s going to propose.”

  “I can’t even get him to propose brunch,” I point out.

  “And now it’s time for the garter toss!” Jason says into the microphone. “Gentlemen, I need you up here.”

  Scott stands up with the other single gentlemen. We pass each other on the way to and from the dance floor.

  “Good luck,” I tell him.

  “With all of the basketball players here, I’m gonna assume you’ll have a new dancing partner in moments,” Scott teases.

  Nic sits down on a chair Jason has provided. She lifts her dress hem ever so slightly to reveal a blue garter, which Jason takes off to fling at the bachelors.

  Such bizarre customs we Americans have when you think about it.

  Jason makes a big show of turning around so that he can’t see the other guys.

  And the next thing that happens makes my heart skip a beat.

  The garter flies over the group of men, just like the bouquet had flown over us. Only, to my surprise, Scott steps back and catches it, throwing his left hand back and up in an insanely lucky catch.

  Not that anyone else was trying to catch, but still—it was inspired.

  I am stunned. My eyes must look like saucers. Scott smiles as he walks up to me, puts out his hand for me to take, and asks, “May I have the honor of this dance?”

  I smile, put the bouquet down at our table and give him my hand. “I thought you hated dancing.”

  “Oh, I do,” he says. “But I knew you weren’t going to shut up until I danced with you once, and at least with this I’m guaranteed a slow dance.”

  We walk onto the dance floor, and Nic and Jason’s guests applaud. The lights dim as Etta James’s “At Last” begins to play. Scott donuts his arm around my back and pulls me in close. I lean against his chest, completely content.

  We dance for all of thirty seconds before I get self-conscious. “Isn’t anyone else going to join us up here?” I ask, looking around at the sea of faces watching us by our lonesome on the dance floor.

  “I’m not sure,” Scott answers, pulling back from me a bit to look around. “Are they supposed to?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I spot Mel watching us from table thirteen. I motion for her to join us with a slight wave of my hand. She shakes her head.

  I motion more obviously. Then I look past Scott’s shoulder to yell, “Everyone come join us.”

  A few people join us on the floor, and I relax into his chest again.

  This is nice. I could get used to this. I lift my chin up to look into his eyes, and I almost kiss him.

  But I don’t. Instead, I turn away and watch the crowd.

  Coward.

  I hate myself for this. If I’m not going to make a move, I should try to stop obsessing.

  I know logically that he doesn’t want me, or he would have tried to kiss me by now. Whatever reason he may have for not kissing me (loyalty to another woman, worry about rejection, thinking I’m too fat, whatever), I cannot combat that reason.

  But, in my heart, I guess I just keep hoping. And wonder what I can do differently this time that will make him want to kiss me. How can I act? What can I say? What thing can I do differently than before, that will make him want to make out with me for the next six hours? Hell, make him want to rip off my clothes—the relationship be damned—because I am just too enticing for him to resist?

  And suddenly something he said pops into my head.

  Weddings beget weddings.

  I’ve never been to a wedding with Scott before. That’s what’s different. He was trying to tell me that earlier: Weddings beget weddings.

  I look back up at Scott again, and this time I move in for the kiss.

  I kiss him on the lips.

  Just a tap kiss really. He kisses back though, and smiles.

  Now what?

  Does a tap kiss count as a real kiss? Should I lean in and open my mouth? How pathetic would that look at a wedding?

  Or maybe it’s romantic. As he said, “Weddings beget weddings.”

  I lean in to kiss him again just as his phone rings.

  I pull back a few inches but continue the dance.

  The phone rings again.

  “You gonna get that?” I ask as we move around the floor.

  “In the middle of a slow dance?” Scott asks me incredulously. “What am I, mental?”

  He spins me around with a flourish, flinging me out, then spinning me back. And just as Etta belts out her final sultry, “For you are mine … at last,” Scott lowers me into a slow dip.

  The audience applauds as he lifts me back up and pulls me into a hug.

  After the hug, I keep my arms around Scott’s neck. “One more dance?” I ask flirtatiously.

  Scott smiles, almost shyly. “Okay.”

  And the two of us begin our slow dance again.

  Until the bass starts kicking in from Eminem’s “Without Me.” Bah-nah-nah-nah-nah.

  The slow dance is over, and possibly so is my only shot at romance for the night. Scott smiles, takes my hand, and leads me away from the dance floor.

  Heavy sigh.

  His phone beeps a text. Scott opens it to look. His brow furrows.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “It’s from the owner of the gallery that sells my stuff. The place has been robbed.”

  Scott’s phone rings again. He immediately picks up. “Dude, what happened?”

  His face falls as he listens. “Well, are the cops there now?” He looks at me as he says into the phone, “I can’t. I’m at a wedding right now … Well, I can’t just announce to my date that I have to leave. Let me just tell you which pieces I sent over: Chode, Requiem for a Hershey Bar, True Love in a Cucina, and oh…”—he starts snapping, trying to remember—“the one with the high heel and the bright red paint … crap, what’s it called…?” He snaps again.

  “Wedding,” I remind him.

  “Wedding,” he repeats into the phone. He winces at the irony. “No, Chode wasn’t a painting. It was an installation, a collection of things over a painting … You know what? I took photos of everything. Just … let me know who’s investigating the robbery, and tomorrow I’ll bring them everything they need.”

  “You should go,” I whisper to him as he continues to insist to the person on the other end of the line, “No. I can’t abandon my date. I’m her ride home.”

  “Abandon your date,” I insist in full voice. Scott looks at me. “Really? But I…”

  I start waving my arms toward the door. “This is your livelihood. Go!”

  “Okay, Jack, I’m in Santa Monica, but I’ll be right over.”

  Scott hangs up the phone. “Thank you. Do you want me to come pick you up at the end of the night?”

  “No, I can cab it home,” I assure him. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  He looks around the room. “No. Nic hasn’t left yet. I don’t want you to get into trouble.” He kisses me good-bye quickly. “But can I call you late tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  And Scott runs out the door.

  Damn it.

  Damn it, damn it, damn it!

  Twenty-one

  Melissa

  Have you ever been on one of those perfect dates that is only perfect because you didn’t know you were on a date? That’s what it has felt like being with John all evening. He has been funny, attentive, ridiculously attractive, and, for some reason, all mine.

  Up until ten minutes ago,
when everything changed. I don’t know if he got a text message that I didn’t see, or saw an ex I haven’t heard about, but John has gone from being interested to distant, flirty to quiet. And I have gone from being a confident seductress to an insecure mess.

  I have just finished the single woman’s rite of humiliation (wait—I mean passage), and tried and failed to catch Nic’s bouquet, and have come back to the table to see John with this weird look on his face.

  Did it seem desperate to want the bouquet? I think to myself. Did it look like I was too marriage minded? Or make me look like one of those girls who constantly jumps ahead in a relationship?

  “Are you going to go up for the garter toss?” I ask John, determined to scoot past this awkward moment.

  “Um … no,” he says, looking over at the dance floor as the single men gather around to do something men hardly ever do: avoid lingerie.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him, concerned.

  “Yeah, I just … Will you excuse me for a moment?” John asks me.

  “Sure,” I say, not sure what I did wrong.

  John quickly walks out of the Grand Ballroom. I sit there, stunned, wondering what to do to salvage the situation.

  I watch Scott catch the garter, then head over to Seema for their romantic “First Dance.”

  Okay, I can’t go talk to them to get advice. They’re having a nice moment. So I sit at table thirteen by my lonesome, and try to dissect what I did wrong.

  I spend the next few minutes running through all of the causal possibilities for the change in dynamics. That’s a math teacher’s way of saying I try to figure out where I screwed up.

  A drunken twenty-something comes up to me. “That is one ugly dress,” he slurs at me.

  “I’m sorry?” I say to him.

  “I said that is—”

  “No. I meant I’m sorry,” I say firmly, then wave good-bye. “Off you go. Chop, chop.”

  I decide to take matters into my own hands. I grab my purse, and head out of the ballroom in search of my new infatuation.

  I walk around the lobby. Various couples are flirting with each other, people are starting to pull out their valet tickets and prepare to go home.

  John is nowhere in sight.

  Damn it. Is he secretly on his cell phone with his fiancée, telling her not to wait up? Did he head out to the lobby bar to trade up for the evening? Has he gone up to his hotel room to tuck his four children into bed for the night?