He gets down on one knee and opens the box to show me a beautiful amethyst ring surrounded by a diamonds. “Will you…?”
I can’t breathe. I can’t take it! This is exactly how I pictured it in my mind—him on bended knee, the ring, a perfect little jewel tucked in a blue velvet box. It’s even more perfect than I imagined.
Naturally, I do what any woman in my position would. I interrupt him. “Are you fucking kidding me? We’ve slept together once.”
Scott rolls his eyes, stands back up, and corrects me. “Three times.”
“One night. That’s once! Which technically means we’ve only been on one date,” I say, as Scott slips his arm around my waist. “You can’t ask someone to marry you after only one date. That’s crazy.”
Scott shakes his head. “I knew you would say that.”
“There’s no way you can know if we’re compat—”
Scott pulls me into a kiss. Which lasts for at least five minutes.
And, again, he wins the argument.
When we finally come up for air, he makes a show of popping the box closed, and slipping it into his pocket. “You are such a pain in the ass,” he says, smiling as he takes my hand and pulls me toward his bed.
“No, no, no. Maybe I was too hasty. Maybe I should take the ring.”
Scott shakes his head. “I’m sure I’ll ask again at some point.”
“Don’t be like that,” I plead. “It’s just that I would feel bad if you were only proposing because the sex was so good. I mean, I have a lot of issues.”
Scott pulls me onto his bed. “True. Plus, how the Hell are we going to raise kids with a king-size mattress in the middle of the room, and paint, glue, and metal instruments all over the place,” he says in a mocking tone of voice as he lies down.
“Yeah—there’s that too!” I answer back, propping myself up with my right elbow. “And I have a mortgage, and in this market, I think I’m stuck. I can’t really move…” I stop talking for a moment. “Wait,” I say, “You didn’t actually propose, did you?”
Scott smiles at me, very proud of himself. “No. Kinda knew what you’d say if I did.”
I make a show of looking into his pocket for that box. “Well, then, what was that?”
“A promise ring,” he says, pulling out the amethyst ring again. “One year from today, I want you to promise me we’ll talk about it.”
I smile. My voice catches as I ask him, “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
I kiss him once, and then fall back onto his bed. “So, the charm was right,” I say. “This is going to take nurturing, caring…”
“And hard work,” Scott says.
I look over at him. “So, now that we’re dating, that means I can have you Sunday morning, right?”
Scott looks at me lasciviously. “What do you have in mind?”
Ah, this is perfect. I am now at the point where I can allow myself to be happy. To be hopeful about the future. Which means I am comfortable enough to say to him, “I want to buy you a box spring.”
Scott laughs. “But I love this bed.”
“Why?” I whine.
Scott leans over me and, right before he kisses me again, tells me, “Because you’re in it.”
Forty-eight
Melissa
So I’m sitting in my calculus classroom after school, a yellow notepad on my beat-up wooden desk, staring at a blank sheet of paper and wondering if this is going to help me.
Danny has called me three times. Fred has called me twice. I haven’t returned any of their calls.
Tempted though I may be to go back to my old life, I’m never calling Fred back. I blocked his phone number from our home phone and my cell phone and blocked his e-mails.
Danny is another story. I desperately want to call him back, but I know I shouldn’t. That would be like an alcoholic going to the bar for one last drink—might feel good at first, but I’ll pay for it later.
The romantic girl inside of me wants to fall into the trap of thinking that my prince has come. But the thirty-two-year-old woman with the series of failed relationships under her belt knows better.
I decide that it’s time for me to just focus on me for a while. Not try to have a man save me from my life, and not focus on a man’s happiness to bring me my own.
To just focus on what makes me happy.
It’s been so long since I asked myself what makes me happy, I decide to take pen to paper and just write down any thoughts I have on the subject.
I pull a blue fountain pen from my desk drawer and begin scribbling:
Am I happy?
I may be doing what I set out to do when I graduated from college, teaching math. But now that I’ve reached my goal, is it still something I want? And for how long? Ten more years? Next Tuesday? A lifetime? And at what expense? I don’t like that I’m thirty-two and still single. I hate that I just wasted six years on something that ended up meaning nothing.
Am I moving forward, backward, or staying in one place? I start to get nervous when I go home for Christmas and I don’t have any exciting news to tell everyone that they didn’t already hear last year. One of the worst things you can be in life is stagnant. Am I stagnant?
Where am I compared to other people my age? Most of the people I went to high school with are married with children. I used to justify my lack of marriage by thinking that I had chosen a demanding career. But now I have friends who graduated from medical school and who are married and pregnant and home owners, which makes me start to question my own priorities and timeline. I know it’s taboo to compare yourself to others, but I do it ALL THE TIME.
Is there a balance in my life? I usually think of life as a struggle to balance three things: my health (physical and spiritual), my profession, and my relationships. I usually can only seem to manage to keep two of these balls in the air at once—every once in a while I get all three in the air at the same time, but it’s never for long. And when there’s a particular leap in one area, sometimes I wonder if it means as much without the other two parts of my life in order. (Is a promotion at work worth something without a partner to share it with? Is it worth it if it means I’m tired and run-down all the time health-wise?)
Am I getting the most out of life? Am I taking enough chances? Am I traveling enough? Am I opening myself up to new experiences? Are my morals on track? Am I appreciating my family while I still have them? Am I learning as much as I can? Am I doing things I’m afraid of? Do I have too many regrets already? Or not enough? Am I being too easy on myself? Too hard?
Am I happy?
“I don’t ever remember the teachers being this hot when I was in school,” I hear from my doorway.
I look up to see Danny, looking amazing in a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, standing by my door and holding a bouquet of silver roses. “Seriously, do the boys just play Van Halen’s song ‘Hot for Teacher’ all day, every day?”
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
Danny smiles and lets out a large sigh. He shrugs as he walks into the room. “Well, you wouldn’t return my calls. I would have stalked you at home, but that’s not nearly as creepy as coming to your work.”
“How did you find out where I worked?” I ask him, as I flip over the notebook to hide my innermost thoughts.
“You told me where you worked. Honey, it’s not rocket science,” Danny says as he walks to my desk. “Although you probably actually teach rocket science, which means I should grab every time you look impressed with my intelligence and hold onto it like a poodle holds onto a tuggy toy.”
Danny holds out the flowers for me. I take the roses and sniff. “They’re beautiful,” I say, genuinely surprised. “My favorite color too. How did you…”
“Again, you told me,” Danny says kind of mockingly. “Do you not listen when you talk?”
I smile and sniff the flowers. “They smell amazing. But you didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I figured it was the only way to get you to
have sex with me again.”
I frown, mad at myself once again for being such a slut. Danny quickly says, “I’m kidding. I brought you flowers because I thought it would be nice to bring you flowers. And to apologize for punching your boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” I correct him.
“Good. I’m glad to hear that. Because I also want to ask you to a wedding.”
I’m confused. “What?”
“My friend Dave is getting married this weekend. I need a date.”
I look at the roses, and debate. “I can’t,” I finally say.
“Sure you can!” he says lightly. “You can put on that ugly aquamarine dress you told me about, tell the bride you actually wore it again, and you’re good to go.”
I laugh politely, and maybe a little sadly. “Danny, you’re a great guy, but this isn’t going to work out.”
“So you’ll have sex with me, but you won’t go to a wedding with me?” Danny asks, only half joking.
“Right.”
“Man, suddenly I know how girls feel.”
“You have no clue how girls feel,” I assure him. “Look, I really like you, but I think you should leave.”
Danny gets this look on his face like he plans to fight for me. He leans against my desk. “Why?”
“Honestly? I can’t go out with someone who’s going to cheat on me.”
“Why do you think I would cheat on you?”
“Because you already have,” I say.
Danny looks totally confused, so I clarify. “A random girl walked up to you and asked you to sleep with her—and you did!”
“Yeah, but … you’re the random girl.”
“That’s not the point. How low are your standards that you would sleep with some slut you just met?”
Danny looks like his head is going to explode. “Wait a minute. You’re the slut. You’re mad at me for sleeping with you?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you propositioned me?”
“You didn’t know it was me propositioning you. You just knew some desperate girl was propositioning you.”
“I knew a hot desperate girl was prop—”
“Did you just call me desperate?!” I interrupt.
“No. I mean yes. I mean … no, you called yourself desperate. I just said you were hot.”
“Well, you’re hot too,” I concede, but now I’m getting angry. “You’re a hot guy who will cheat on me. You’ve already proven it.”
“Wait,” he says, putting up his hands in a T to signal time-out.
I stop talking.
“So you’re mad at me for cheating on you…” he struggles to finish his thought, “… with you?”
“Yes!” I say immediately. I realize how stupid it sounds, but I know exactly what I’m talking about. “You slept with some random woman who just walked up to you and asked you to have sex with her!”
“Uh-huh…” Danny says, staring at me like he’s trying to figure out where I’m headed with this.
“Well, who’s to say you won’t do it again?” I argue.
Danny blinks several times. “I don’t know. Casino odds. It’s not like random women normally come up to me and offer me sex.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say, crossing my arms. “You could have any twenty-year-old supermodel you want. And don’t think I don’t know you’ll leave me the second she shows up.”
Danny squints at me. “It sounds like you’re complimenting me. And yet, really, you’re insulting me.”
He’s right. My anger isn’t really directed at Danny. It’s at Fred. I slowly walk up to Danny and give him a hug.
“I just can’t do this again,” I tell him apologetically from inside the hug.
He rubs my back. “Do what?” he asks. “I’m just asking you to a wedding.”
“No,” I say, pulling away. “You’re asking me to care about someone again, and I can’t do it. You seem like this really amazing guy. And you’re gorgeous, and smart and funny, and great in bed…”
As I stumble over my words Danny nods and says, “Well, I can see why you need to get rid of me then. I’m a menace.”
I sigh. “I’m just so tired of hurting.”
“Oh, honey,” Danny says sympathetically. “I’m just asking you out on a date.”
“But to me, it wouldn’t just be a date. I’d fall in love with you. And then you’d dump me, and I’m not strong enough to handle it anymore. I’ve been dating since I was fourteen years old. It’s a battlefield, and I’m tired and want to lick my wounds and go home.”
Danny pulls me into a hug. “Go home with me instead.”
I eye him suspiciously. “And then what?”
“Then you use me for sex. Again. And I let you, because that’s the giving kind of guy I am. Although we have to go to the mall first to pick a wedding gift, because you’re going with me to this wedding, if only for the promise of getting more sex from me. Which, because I so desperately need a date, I am willing to give you. Then…”
I can’t help myself. I start laughing. “Please stop being so charming and cute.”
“Not until you agree to come to the wedding. Where, by the way, you will get to know me and discover, I am (a) a pretty nice guy and (b) not even vaguely all that cute.”
Dem’s fighting words. “You’re so cute.”
“Please,” he counters. “People at the wedding are going to think the beautiful lady lost a bet to the geek. And I already want to ask you to my high school reunion to prove to those jerks that the head of the chess club can go on to date the prom queen.”
My face lights up at the coincidence. “I was in chess club!”
“You were not.”
“I was!”
“No. Girls who looked like you did not join chess club. They were too busy dating college students who were premed.”
My smile widens. Ah, Hell, what’s one more trek into battle? “Your house is only a few miles from here,” I tell him sexily. “Want to fool around?”
“I promise you, this is the only time I will ever say this, but mall first,” Danny tells me firmly. “I really do need to go get this wedding gift. I’m not kidding—the bride is a bitch, and if I don’t have something for them by the rehearsal dinner, she’ll make me wear an aquamarine dress to the wedding.”
I laugh. “Well, at least it would be something you could wear again.”
* * *
An hour later an escalator whisks us up to the third floor of the Bloomingdale’s in Century City.
I love the third floor of Bloomingdale’s. It’s so inspirational—if I could figure out a way, I’d be buried there. (Or maybe they could cremate me and put me into one of the beautiful Baccarat crystal vases on display.)
“Doesn’t this entire floor just reek of hope for the future?” I say, beaming, as I look around.
Danny gives me an amused smile. “How so?” he asks.
I shrug, grinning like a five-year-old in a candy store. “Well, unlike the clothing floors, which always make me feel like I should jog off those last five pounds, or the shoe department, which inspires in me a deep-seated insecurity about my teacher’s salary, the third floor of Bloomingdale’s represents all that I have to look forward to. Dreams about my future, and how great it’s going to be. The sparkling china reminds me that one day I can have eight people over for a fabulous dinner. The glittery crystal reminds me of the champagne flutes I will toast with my gorgeous husband on our wedding night, and every anniversary thereafter.”
I watch Danny smile at me, then I look down in embarrassment. “Never mind. It’s stupid. I know.”
“Personally, I like the linen department,” Danny tells me.
“Really,” I say, surprised that he has an opinion about this kind of stuff. “How come?”
“Looking at the beds makes me dream that, one night soon, I will have you back in mine.”
I smile, and we kiss.
Danny takes my hand and walks us over to the registry computer
. Danny types in a name: David Devereaux.
“So, when’s the wedding?” I ask.
“This Saturday. Rehearsal dinner’s Friday. Wanna come to that too?”
“Don’t you think the bride might get mad that you’re bringing a date on such short notice?”
“If so, the bride can bite me.”
“You don’t like her?”
“She’s okay,” Danny says, shrugging. He reads from the registry list. “She told me she wants a place setting of…” He looks farther down the registry page. “Of William Yeoward. The pattern is called ‘Avington Magenta.’ ”
We walk over to the wall displaying an assortment of plates in the various William Yeoward patterns. When I find the plate, I gasp in delight. It is a stunningly beautiful solid magenta china, with a thick gold border around the rims of each piece. I take a deep breath and once again feel the inspiration of hope for the future. I know I’m jumping ahead, but maybe Danny is the one. Maybe one day the two of us will be engaged and picking out china and saying things to each other like …
“Christ. That’s hideous,” Danny says behind me.
“It is exquisite,” I counter. “It’s stunning. It’s sophisticated. It’s…”
Danny picks up a plate and reads the back. “It’s two hundred dollars for a salad plate!”
“Close your mouth, dear,” I admonish. “Your Y chromosome is showing.”
“You cannot seriously tell me you like this pattern,” Danny blurts out.
“And you cannot seriously tell me you don’t,” I contend. “What’s wrong with it?”
Danny’s eyes bug out. “What’s wrong with it? Well, for one thing, it’s pink.”
“It’s not pink,” I correct him. “It’s magenta.”
“Dishes aren’t supposed to be magenta. They’re supposed to be white and silver, maybe a little black or gold. But not pink.”
“Who says?”
“Who says?!” Danny repeats. “Everybody says. What kind of a girlie girl picks pink china? And what the Hell is Dave thinking that he agreed to it?”
“Yeah, like the groom cares what the china looks like.”
“The groom cares. What kind of a sexist statement is that?”
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