What a Girl Wants

by Kristin Billerbeck

  Dreams of Scarlett float away. I was named Ashley Wilkes for a reason. I was not meant to spend my life with someone who makes my heart beat wildly; I’m destined for someone practical who will sit beside me while I knit us into old age.

  Kevin will undoubtedly meet some gorgeous model who’s at the Mark for a fashion shoot. In the meantime, Seth and I will get a group rate on false teeth and long-term care, while simultaneously running the aging singles group. I am so definitely a Reason.

  13

  I slept in the airport and now feel like my rumpled shirt that’s missing a button—and hanging on my abandoned treadmill. What is it about exercise equipment and how it always finds its way to becoming an expensive hanger? It’s just like that ironing basket full of clothes that will never get worn because I’m never going to iron. “Press with a cool iron” should read, “wear once only.” Good intentions buried beneath my overbooked schedule of work, reality TV, and nights out with the Reasons.

  I slept sitting on my passport because I figured I’d know if someone grabbed for it there. Now I feel like it’s imprinted on my bum, and I’m not about to rub that kink out. I’m remembering those nights I’d study until 3:00 a.m. in college and wake up with an actual adrenaline rush. Now, my over-thirty body is rebelling, and rather than adrenaline I’d settle for a good dose of Ben Gay. I take out a compact and try to blot my way into sanity. It’s almost time for the plane to board and I’m anxious to start the long journey home to a weird culture I at least understand.

  Yesterday’s plane was canceled for mechanical problems, apparently the only reason the airlines can legally cancel a flight. I checked. The plane spent the night stuck on a Japanese runway, but it’s magically appeared this morning, suddenly ready for trans-Pacific travel. I’m torn between wanting to get home so badly that I could rush the plane and wondering if the “mechanical problems” have truly been assessed properly. But the call of American food wins out over my fear of actually using my seat cushion as a floating device, and so I hand the attendant my ticket with fervor.

  Checking my watch, I realize it’s nearly noon in the Silicon Valley. I’ll call the hotel and let them know to tell Kevin I can’t meet him. The thought of him traipsing up to the city in traffic for nothing has me tense, but what can I do? It’s not like a surprise episode of The Bachelor came on—I have a legitimate excuse.

  The passengers board quickly, and after takeoff I swipe my credit card into the onboard phone and wait for information. “Yes, I need to get the bar, Top of The Mark, at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco, California.”

  This plane is nearly full and my neighbor, an American businessman, is listening to my humiliation with intrigue. How I wish I could offer him something more interesting than what I’ve got. With all those reality shows in my system, you’d think I could write myself a better script.

  The phone rings through to the front desk at the Mark Hopkins, but that’s okay, they can transfer me. And they do.

  “Top of the Mark,” a friendly male voice answers.

  I turn my head ever so slightly so the businessman is not forced to listen to my sad story at full volume. “Yes, I’m supposed to meet a man there. Dr. Kevin Novak. He’s about six foot two and we’re meeting there at noon. He should be sitting at the bar some-where. He’s very clean-cut looking.” Stunning, I add silently.

  “Hang on a minute.”

  To my absolute horror, I hear him call out Kevin’s name. This bar is incredibly swanky, and the thought of my “date” being bellowed at makes me cringe. All the women must be thinking, Who on earth is dense enough to ditch Mr. Perfect? I think I’ll just comfort him. Luckily, Mr. American Businessman can’t hear the other side of my conversation. Right now, I’m only half a fool. I look at my airplane neighbor and he smiles condescendingly. Yeah, I’m a loser, what of it?

  “No one answering by that name, Miss. I’m sorry.”

  “If he happens to come in and ask for Ashley Stockingdale, would you tell him my plane was delayed in Taiwan?” There, that sounds important. I have just served papers on a major telecommunications company here in the East. My company’s stock has ascended due to my incredible brief. Tell him all that, too!

  I can hear the man scribbling my note and he offers me something to relieve the sting. “There’s not very many people here now. I think I’ll recognize him if he comes in.” Have I just been stood up on the other side of the earth?

  I thank the man and hang up, suddenly realizing it’s probably a dollar every ten seconds to use this phone. “You were on yesterday’s flight too, huh?” my airplane neighbor asks.

  Mr. American Businessman is not wearing a wedding ring. I could have sworn he was wearing one five minutes ago. “Yes. I spent the night in the airport.” I hope this explains my very sloppy appearance. At least my hair is in check. I kind of have a Ryan Seacrest thing going on this morning. In auburn of course, and without the expensive highlights.

  “I was in Japan on the plane when they deemed it unworthy of travel.” He thrusts a hand towards me. “Rob Nasser.”

  “Nice to meet you. Ashley Stockingdale.” We shake hands. Very unusual on a flight where passing a soft drink is the only contact I generally have with my neighbor. Rob is nice looking but salesy, which doesn’t appeal to me. Too slick for my tastes. Like a NASCAR racetrack, his hair is shellacked above his ears. I’m also not fond of men who have nicer nails than me or who wear more jewelry, which Rob does.

  With sudden clarity, it’s obvious to me: I like engineers. This scares me because one, they don’t appear to like me, and two, I know I’m forever doomed to try to garner the attention of men who’d rather watch The Matrix than me naked.

  This is my reason. It must be. If I lived outside of Silicon Valley, the men would probably be knocking my door down. I’m a victim of geography!

  “You’re missing an appointment. That’s too bad.” Rob is overly concerned. I guess that he’s going to offer to make me feel better in the lavatory.

  And here it comes, my first fib of the flight. “It’s just my fiancé. He’ll understand that I couldn’t make it.”

  “Doesn’t he have a cell phone?” Panic. I’m the worst liar on earth.

  “He’s a surgeon,” I hasten to add. “I hate to bother him on his cell because he gets nervous that there’s an emergency or something. You know, if he’s in the car, he’ll pull over—that kind of thing.”

  “Oh. That’s very considerate of you, Ashley. Very.”

  The way he emphasizes my name is reptilian. His eyes move shiftily, like a lizard, and I almost expect his tongue to snap out of his mouth at any moment.

  “Well, I try to be considerate. Kevin is so busy.” I dig through my bag for a People magazine. I want to prove how very shallow I am and hopefully add that I’m not interested in striking up a conversation. Or anything else. Pulling out my magazine, he looks at the cover.

  “You like People?”

  “Yes.” It’s a form of escape for me, but I don’t say that. I want to be as undesirable as possible here. Maybe if I play up the TV Ditz part of my persona, he’ll leave me alone. “I just love knowing what all the stars are up to and what they wear to every event. It also covers my favorite TV shows.” I cannot wait to tell Brea this story.

  The neon L has to be appearing on my forehead by now. But then it dawns on me—this is the wrong approach for a man who isn’t concerned with my intellect. Get out the real conversation killer and litmus test. I pull out my Bible. It’s ragged and worn edges show that it’s not just a good-luck charm for the plane. I actually read this Book, and often.

  The lizard swallows and shifts. He crosses his legs, looking towards the window. I open to Ephesians, and the passage about husbands and wives, which is all marked up. Oooh, I am bad today. But I’m hoping the reptile goes home and appreciates any woman slow enough to marry him.

  And thus, our conversation has ended. This Bible has told him everything he needs to know. One could argue that this isn�
�t a very good use of the Bible, but I’ve been on enough business trips to know his ring-ditching type, and he has one thing in mind.

  Besides, I need to think about my “reason” and plan my escape route, not spend the whole flight politely avoiding a man six inches to my left. Getting out my prayer journal, I write out my course of action. Engineers do not find me attractive, so I must plan an alternative route if I have any hope of a new season. I must either change what I find attractive or get comfortable with a life of lawyerly singleness.

  I scribble heartily in my notebook. This is the first day of being fabulous after all. Isn’t that what I told Dr. Kevin Novak? Well, I don’t need him to prove it. I need to prove it to myself. I will not be attracted to guys who do the following:

  1. Play video games.

  2. Watch science-fiction movies more than once.

  3. Confuse Jesus with Frodo.

  4. View Dutch-treat as an acceptable first-date option.

  5. Take me for a meal with a coupon in hand. (They should value me!)

  Instead I will:

  1. Plan more evenings out with my girlfriends.

  2. Get over being the single at couple events with Brea and have fun.

  3. Do something fabulous of my own volition at the Top of the Mark.

  4. Revel in my single status!

  5. Start up conversations with strangers more often! (Not smarmy married ones.)

  My list looks good. Today is Friday, the day after I am suddenly fabulous. It’s a good day for it, because really it was Friday when I left, so I have lived First Fabulous Day twice. It’s been an hour, and I decide to call the bar in San Francisco again. That way, the host can tell me how disappointed Kevin looked and I can restart Fabulous Friday feeling valiant.

  The same voice answers again. “Top of the Mark.”

  “Hi, it’s Ashley Stockingdale. Is Dr. Novak there yet?”

  A pause. Not good.

  “I never saw someone fitting his description, Ashley.” Ack. The use of my first name. Host now knows I am jilted. Not desirable and pursued. Not valiant. Dumped long-distance and my pathetic phone calls only prove my desperation. I am definitely The Dumpee.

  “Great!” I answer into the phone too excitedly. “That means he got my message.” Insert fake breath of relief here. Neighbor businessman is smirking. I’m fighting air rage at his joy over my misery. Rob, my married buddy, knows I couldn’t reach my said date. I didn’t even have a cell-phone number for my supposed fiancé.

  I’m a liar, a loser, and a hypocrite. That’s a good Christian message to send, don’t you think? My spit-and-polished neighbor seems quite pleased with my failure, and I offer up a little confessional prayer silently. It serves me right for lying. Christians can be the death knell for God’s good work sometimes.

  I hang up the chunky airline phone and settle in for a movie I won’t be able to hear through the lousy, cheap headphones they distribute for five dollars a whack, but I’ll be thankful for the diversion. But after the movie starts and my humiliation wears down, I realize with crystal clarity the bigger issue here: Dr. Kevin Novak didn’t show. Does he think fabulous Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale is someone who can just be deserted at some fancy restaurant? Doesn’t he know about women scorned? Well, “hell hath no fury” doesn’t begin to cover women over thirty.

  Kevin Novak stood me up at a famous San Francisco land-mark. He didn’t call the restaurant. He didn’t leave me a message. He just ditched my fabulous self ! What was he thinking? Thoughts of petite Arin and her perky enthusiasm enter my mind, and I want to strangle my pastor for making me believe beauty is all about the inside of a woman. Her heart. It’s so not about the inside. It’s about being the perfect Christian woman wrapped in a lingerie model’s body.

  I can hear myself breathing. I am ticked. It’s not just about today and the beginning of my new life. It’s that I really don’t have anyone to take to my brother’s wedding as a date. No one to introduce like I would have Dr. Novak—and he’s not even an engineering Ph.D., but a real doctor. But today is different. I have resolve. I’m not going back to sit with the Reasons. I am a Season girl, and I will prove it with everything in my being. Just as soon as I get beyond this mounting fury that Kevin stood me up.

  After a tumultuous flight, I arrive in San Francisco angrier than I thought I knew possible. I’m repeating my new mantra for men. Leave room for God’s wrath. Leave room for God’s wrath.

  Outside of customs, in my hurry, I fumble with my suitcase and briefcase and end up dropping both in a spectacularly clumsy move worthy of a Samsonite commercial. Of course, rather than help me upright my suitcase and gather the documents that are spilling out of my briefcase, businessmen are stepping over me. I so hate the Silicon Valley.

  Looking up, I blink several times as I see a man hotter than Dr. Kevin Novak himself. He’s standing with a bouquet of peach roses wearing a navy suit, and he’s looking at me. Subconsciously, I rub my hair and pull up my chin. It’s Fabulous Friday after all; anything is possible.

  I pick up my bags, and walk resolutely by Mr. Perfect. Flirtatiously, I smile at him and nearly keel over when he hands me the flowers.

  “Ashley, it’s me, uh, Kevin.”

  I’m blinking like I’ve got a permanent tick. It is Kevin. He looks incredible. I had forgotten he was this handsome, scaling him back in my head to something my heart could handle. And he’s standing here holding flowers. Did I miss something? “But you weren’t at the Top of the Mark today—I mean yesterday,” I stammer.

  “I know, because I checked the Internet and your flight was canceled.” He shrugs. His shoulders are bigger than I remembered them. I wonder if he has shoulder pads in that jacket. Do men wear those? Or is that like male eyeliner? I pat his shoulder in a slight hug. Nope. Hard as a rock. It’s all him.

  “You checked my flight?” Be still my heart. He is perfect.

  “Mine was late coming in the other day, so I wanted to make sure you’d be on time. I didn’t want to sit in that elegant place staring at that beautiful view without company. I’d be like Cary Grant standing on the Empire State Building waiting.”

  Oh my goodness. He said Cary Grant. Not Tom Hanks, not Warren Beatty—none of the sorry remakes. It’s destiny!

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” I say.

  He smiles a lopsided smile like George Clooney’s and it’s everything I can do not to melt into a little puddle around his feet.

  “We had a date,” he says. “Are you up for it?”

  We did have a date. Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my Season.

  14

  While Dr. Kevin Novak looks like he’s starring on ER, I look like Casanova’s unmade bed. This is going to be an issue—dating a man who looks like Kevin. I always considered myself well-dressed and concerned about my appearance, but it’s not a natural look. I don’t wake up that way. It’s a process, a long process—even without flowing tresses. Doc undoubtedly looks like a million in scrubs and now I’m wondering, do I need this kind of pressure in my life? Whoever marries this guy is in for an everyday occurrence of meeting him in the morning. Oh, it’s far too much to think about.

  In the airport restroom, I’m rifling through my suitcase like a homeless person, trying to find something worthy of wearing to the Top of the Mark. If Kevin only told me he was coming, I would have been all made up getting off the plane. And frankly, more careful about toppling over my suitcases while leaving customs. Whatever.

  My skin is looking thirsty, like an Arizona parched desert. I drank plenty of water on the plane, but apparently all it did was force me to visit the toilet-in-a-dank-closet four times, because my skin desperately needs moisture. After washing my face and trying to dry it with one of those cheap, non-absorbent public restroom paper towels, all I’ve succeeded in doing is smearing mascara about my cheeks like war paint.

  “Oh, Lord, help me,” I say to the mirror, but I’m calm. I wash my face again. Can’t find my $40 cleanser, so I’m making do with the s
ickening-sweet public bathroom soap and hoping my scent doesn’t make Kevin suddenly want to urinate in Pavlovian-style.

  Luckily, my moisturizer is right where I’ve left it and I slop it over my skin with too much zeal. Now I look greasy, like a cooked pizza with fake cheese. Trying the soap one more time. It’s been ten minutes and I haven’t even gotten to makeup, not to mention clothes. The fear of my date leaving me in the airport because I’m too high-maintenance drives me forward.

  The third time is the charm. Face is washed and patted with moisture. Ready for makeup! I pick out an outfit that I didn’t get to wear in Taiwan because it was too blasted hot there. It’s black, long-sleeved, and made from a light wool crepe. It hugs my figure and is quite slimming. I twist and turn in the mirror. Looking good.

  I put some soft gel in my hair, powder my face with a little blush, and dab on bright pink lip gloss. I am actually having a great hair day. What are the chances? Sucking in a deep breath, I walk out of the restroom.

  Kevin’s jaw drops. Okay, I am actually enjoying this. I smile coquettishly, feeling not a day over twenty-four, with the exception of my bum which I’m sure still has the passport indentation.

  “Now that was worth waiting for.” Kevin smiles and crosses his arms.

  He has to be gay or something. He’s just too good to be true and this freaks me out. “Thank you,” I manage.

  “My car’s in the short-term lot.” He grabs my bags and puts his free hand on the small of my back. He is chivalrous! He must be from Savannah. Or, like I said, he’s gay.

  The weather is perfect. Brisk and sunny, the best kind of day for San Francisco when there’s enough of a breeze to blow out the fog and allow you to see for miles past the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s going to be breathtaking overlooking the scene from the Top of the Mark and with Kevin in my view to boot. I’m a Season girl! I’m like Spring and Summer all wrapped into one wonderful package! Fall and Winter are long over, baby!