Kate’s eyes bulge out of her head as though she’s seen a ghost. “Will,” she says breathlessly. “What are you . . . I mean . . . how did you . . .”
Will smiles widely as he pulls her into a bear hug. “My God, you look good.”
“Thanks,” Kate says, her body noticeably going limp.
And the two keep hugging.
Yup, just gonna keep hugging. Even though Dawn and I are exchanging glances, wondering how long a hug can go on for. A minute? Two minutes?
Dawn jerks her head toward Will and silently mouths to me, “The Will?”
I shrug.
Will Davies was Kate’s high school sweetheart back in Houston. The two dated for three years before she went off to UCLA, and he headed to an Ivy League school. As most high school sweethearts do, they tried the long-distance thing during the fall semester of their freshman year. And their long-distance freshman romance went the way of most: he met someone else, and he broke her heart. When Kate got back from Christmas vacation, her eyes were red rimmed, and her sense of optimism about the world was shattered. She spent the next three months so heartbroken, she could barely eat. Forget about gaining the freshman ten; Kate lost fifteen.
To make matters worse, every time Kate started to date, Will would call. I have a long-standing theory that men just instinctively know when you’re getting over them, and choose that moment to come back and mindfuck you all over again. That’s what Will did for two years. It was always under the pretense that they were “still close friends.” Will was a good guy, and I’m sure he meant well, but those calls always sent Kate spiralling down into an abyss of self-hate: “Why did he dump me? What’s wrong with me? Am I fat?”
It wasn’t until she met Jack, her boyfriend for the next nine years, that she stopped talking to Will.
And Jack’s now gone. And Will isn’t acting like a jerk. And I don’t know what to think.
Dawn breaks the hugging monotony by taking Will’s left hand, and lifting it up for me to inspect. “No ring, and no tan line.” She turns to Kate. “That’s a step up, don’t you think?”
Suddenly jolted back to reality, Kate awkwardly pulls away from the hug. “I’m sorry. Will, these are my friends Dawn and Charlie.”
Will gives us the most engaging smile, and I can see why Kate fell for him so hard all those years ago. “Nice to meet you.”
“So,” Kate begins, searching for a topic of conversation. “How’s Stephanie?”
Will’s eyes squint a bit in confusion. “Who?”
The slut you dumped her for, I want to blurt out.
“Stephanie,” Kate manages to eek out. She cocks her head a little. “You know the, uh . . .”
Will juts his chin forward, trying to figure out who Kate is talking about. “Steph . . .” Then he gets it. “Oh! Uh, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her in almost ten years. How’s Jack?”
“He’s good,” Kate says, a little too quickly. “Running his own company now. Gets to work from home.”
“So, you’re still seeing him?” Will says, a trace of disappointment crossing his face as he looks at Kate’s ring finger.
He’s looking at her ring finger, I think to myself. Interesting.
Kate doesn’t know how to respond to that. She looks down at the ground, then looks back up at Will. “No, actually. We broke up a few months ago.”
Will’s face lights up. “Really? So, are you seeing anyone?”
I watch Kate as she notices Mike from the corner of her eye. She smiles confidently as she says to Will, “Nope. It’s just me for now.”
Five
Overall, the party was a total waste of dinosaur. By midnight, everyone had abandoned me. Dawn was flirting with Patrick, but vehemently denying she was doing any such thing. Kate had disappeared with Will, who had single-handedly rid her of Mike. Liam had to take a very drunk Megan home, and Drew was trying to convince me to come with him to a trapeze class. By one o’clock, I had cabbed it out of there.
I’ll admit, I had an ulterior motive. Although I knew from my iPhone that I had no new e-mails, calls, or text messages from Jordan, that wouldn’t stop me from composing a light and breezy e-mail to Jordan to subtly show him that I had not picked up anyone at the party, and that I had gone home to snuggle up in my best red negligee, to have a glass of wine, and to think of him. And when I say think of him, I will make it obvious that I mean I am thinking of him. . . .
The second I get home, I change out of my dinosaur costume and into my favorite old Eeyore nightshirt that’s shredded at the collar and a comfy pair of UCLA sweatpants. I know . . . how kitten-with-a-whip, right? I kill what’s left of a bottle of cabernet and head to my computer.
Never mix wine and e-mail.
I take a sip of wine, and prepare to send off an erotic e-mail.
First, I check my inbox, just in case something happened in the five minutes since I’ve checked my iPhone. Still nothing from Jordan. One from my sister Andy, recently back from her honeymoon in Europe.
I have news. It’s huge. I will call you tomorrow at precisely nine in the morning.
Love,
Andy
I hate it when people say “I have news,” but don’t tell me what the news is. The worst is when you get a message on your machine where someone says, “Call me. I have big news. It’s huge. Call me back.” And then you spend the next hour tracking down someone, only to hear that they’ve won in fantasy baseball or saw something on Dr. Phil that applies to you.
The next e-mail is from my cousin Jenn. It has an attachment, probably of her ridiculously adorable boys Alex and Sean, or the latest ultrasound of her baby girl, due in late November. I open the e-mail.
Subject: Well, isn’t that always the problem?
To: Charlie Edwards
From: Jenn Smith
With a three-year-old and a four-year-old comes a proliferation of birthday parties. And birthday parties mean birthday gifts. Which brings us to Barbie. The hot gift this season is “Wedding Barbie”: she is blonde, she has a killer body, and she has an engagement ring that is so big, it takes up her entire finger. And it lights up. ’Cuz nothin’ says class like a light-up ring.
Anyway, on the back of the box are other toys to go with Barbie to make her wedding complete: the flower girl, the ring boy, and, of course, the groom. Which brings me to my favorite picture of the year. . . .
I click on the picture of the pink Barbie box. On the box is “Ken Groom,” wearing a tuxedo and dancing with Barbie. Underneath the picture of the happy couple is the caption: THE GROOM (SOLD SEPARATELY, SUBJECT TO AVAILABILITY.)
Isn’t that just always the problem with grooms—you need one for a wedding, but they’re subject to availability?
On another subject, Rob just got a text from Patrick that he saw you guys tonight. Ah, you glamorous single people and your glamorous Hollywood parties. So Rob wants to know, does Patrick have a shot with Dawn?
As for the Jordan e-mail you forwarded—I think Rob said it best. We’re not sure what it means, but if he is not hurling himself at your door over and over again until he’s a bloody pulp, he’s a Goddamn fool.
Love,
Jenn
I look at the Love, Jenn, and wonder: Had e-mail been around when she was first dating her husband, how long it would have taken Rob to write Love, Rob. Then I remember. . . .
Try to avoid being jealous. The only jealousy that is productive is the kind that tells you what you really want in your life. If you are jealous of someone’s house, this is your mind’s way of saying you want a house. If you are jealous of someone’s success in a chosen field, in anything from acting to zoology, that is your mind’s way of saying you want to be an actress or a zoologist. If you are jealous of someone’s relationship—you are in trouble. Knock it off, and stay away from your friend’s boyfriend.
And if you are jealous of a Love, Jenn in the middle of the night, it means you are a complete lunatic.
I click REPLY.
Subject: R
e: Well, isn’t that always the problem?
To: Jenn Smith
From: Charlie Edwards
And not only are those grooms subject to availability, but they also don’t have penises.
Remember the Pregnant Barbie that Wal-Mart pulled from its shelves? I wonder if the Dad doll that was sold separately was also listed as “Subject to Availability.” Perhaps that was the problem.
I have no clue what is going on with Patrick and Dawn. They were still together when I left them at one.
I have no clue what is going on with Jordan, either.
Be happy you’re married and never have to wait by the phone again.
Love,
Charlie
P.S. Patrick probably doesn’t have a shot in hell, though. Sorry.
I leave it at that. I think about elaborating by writing, “She’ll play with him for a while, the way a cat plays with a mouse. But remember what always happens to that mouse.” But I decide against it.
As I hit SEND, a new e-mail beeps in, this one from Jamie. I click it open.
Subject: For my great-grandniece
To: Charlie Edwards
From: Jamie Edwards
Hey, here’s my first article for the mag. I think you should put it in your book of advice.
I quickly read the article and decide, yes, it’s worth repeating to my great-granddaughter.
This is from your great-granduncle. It was an article he wrote for Metro magazine, a woman’s magazine from the twenty-first century.
Lines Men Will Use to Get You Into Bed.
By James Edwards
First of all, know that everything men say, from “Hello” to “Looks like rain,” is designed to get you into bed. And every teenage girl who has ever been on a fifth date has heard the line, “If you loved me, you would.” But here are some other classics you might want to avoid:
I have an amazing bottle of Dom Pérignon (Opus One, Cristal) at home. I keep waiting for a reason to open it, but maybe tonight should just be “Open that Bottle Saturday.” Would you like to join me?
Oh, I have a print from that artist, over my couch at home. He’s so (deep, real, interesting—insert your favorite adjective here). Would you like to come see it?
I don’t use lines per se, because they are transparent and I think women are smarter than that. (This, if you haven’t realized already, is a line.)
For you teenagers out there: Just let me for one minute—I’ll pull out.
I’ve always wanted a Christmas wedding. (June wedding, etc.)
I can’t wait to meet your family.
I want to fill our house with our laughing babies.
Would you like to hit the beach with me and see the midnight submarine races?
At the bank: I’m making a deposit. Does $100,000 have the comma after the second zero, or the third?
I love you. (By the way, this last line, if we’ve waited more than two weeks, will get any nonvirgin into bed. However, we try to use it judiciously. If we say it on the first date, sometimes we freak you out.)
Just then, Jamie IMs me.
CalienteJamie: Well, what do you think?
AngelCharlie: Mom’s going to be mad when she sees you stole her Dom Pérignon line.
CalienteJamie: Who do you think edited this and gave me notes? She thought it would class up the piece. I had opened with number four.
“Eewwww . . . ,” I say out loud, dragging the word out. Then I type in:
AngelCharlie: Eeeeewwwwwww . . .
CalienteJamie: You mean to tell me no guy has ever said that to you?
AngelCharlie: Of course they have, but it’s still Eww . . .
CalienteJamie: Hold on, I think I’m getting a booty call.
While I wait for Jamie to get back to me, I decide to begin composing my e-mail to Jordan.
To: Jordan 1313
From: AngelCharlie
Dear Jordan,
It’s about 1:30, and I just got home. I wish you could have been there. I went as a cheerleader.
Well, that’s lame. He knows I was planning to go as a dinosaur. And he can see from the time stamp it’s 1:30.
I erase everything, and begin again.
Hey, Sweetie,
Got your message. Sorry I missed your calls. I got stuck at Drew’s neighbor’s house dealing with this hippo
I stop typing, and stare at my screen. Should I really be sending an e-mail that will end with me describing myself covered in hippo poop? The story might be funny now, but I’m not going for funny, I’m going for sexy. I erase, and start over.
Jamie IMs me.
CalienteJamie: Make fun of my costume all you want—I’ve just been invited to Swingers Coffee Shop to meet a gaggle of drunken women.
AngelCharlie: Have fun. Quick—before you go. If I were sending an e-mail to Jordan to make him miss me, should I go with humor or sex?
CalienteJamie: Humor. Gotta go. Love you.
And he signs off.
Humor. He wrote that immediately. Must be the way to go. I begin again:
Hello my love,
Backspace, backspace, backspace.
Hi Babe,
No . . . .
Dear Reason for Living,
All right, that’s just going to freak him out.
Dear Sex God,
I’ve just thought about you—twice. I have some fun ideas about what we can do with whipped cream, a hot tub of Jell-O, and a cattle prod.
Delete, delete, delete.
Then again, it might be funny.
With Katie Couric and a cattle prod.
Now I’m freaking myself out. Backspace, Backspace.
My home phone rings.
I pick up on the first ring without bothering to look at the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Do you think I have a Peter Pan complex?” someone asks me.
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation.
There’s a pause. “Do you even know who this is?”
“No, but I know it’s a male voice, so you do.”
“It’s Drew.”
“Then I stand by my answer.”
“Okay, then, what exactly is a Peter Pan complex?”
“Go to bed,” I order.
“Well, I’d like to,” Drew tells me. “But there’s this girl in my bed right now, and at first she was very charming and really into me. But then she started crying about her ex-boyfriend, who just dumped her, and now she’s saying I have a Peter Pan complex.”
I start to respond, but he interrupts me. “And I need to know what that is, because if it has to do with flying during sex, I just can’t. Maybe the Spider-Man thing confused her. The webs might be realistically sticky, but I don’t think they’d support my weight. Certainly not both of ours.” Drew sighs loudly. “I think I’m getting too old for the new sex.”
I furrow my brow, and look up at my ceiling, confused. “I . . . um . . . what exactly is the new sex?”
“Oh, shit!” Drew exclaims. “She just found the harness—I gotta go. Love you.”
And Drew’s gone.
Great—a man who calls me right before he has sex with another woman can say he loves me, but the guy I’m dating can’t. Perfect. My life is right on schedule.
I backspace myself back to an empty screen, and stare at the page.
Then, following in the footsteps of great writers everywhere, I decide to find inspiration by raiding my fridge.
Don’t eat unless you’re hungry.
A few minutes later, I realize I have nothing fun to eat in this house. No candy, no ice cream—not even an old can of Duncan Hines frosting hiding behind a jar of mustard. I decide I can’t face a 2 A.M. Ralph’s run, so instead I open a bottle of Guenoc Claret, microwave some popcorn, and head back to my computer screen.
Ten minutes later, I’m still at my computer screen, staring at my empty e-mail box. Other than a job offer from the Bank of Kenya, and yet another ad for a penile implant, no one wants to talk to me.
I take another s
ip of wine, hit COMPOSE, then type.
Dear Jordan,
I miss you. I’m sorry I missed your calls. Call me again sometime when you’re free.
Love,
Charlie
It’s probably best to go with the classics.
I hit SEND.
Six
Get plenty of sleep.
I spent the rest of the night with terrible insomnia. I didn’t mean to wait by the phone, but I kept expecting Jordan to call the minute he woke up. He didn’t. Instead, when the phone finally rings at a little before nine in the morning, I look at the caller ID to see it’s my mom’s house. Probably my dad—he tends to call early in the morning.
Dad’s temporarily staying with Mom, his ex-wife, while he divorces Jeannine, his current wife.
Yup—my parents are divorced, but living together. I mean, not living together, living together—just living together as roommates. They have separate bedrooms. Mom shares her bed with Chris, her thirty-year-old yoga instructor.
One big happy family.
Did I mention I grew up in Los Angeles? Did I have to mention it? Is there anyone outside of California who can utter the phrase, “My parents are divorced, but living together”?
Maybe a few in Oregon . . .
Anyway, hopefully it’s Dad, not Mom. It’s too early for Mom.
“Hello,” I mumble groggily into the phone.
My father tells me over the phone:
Never get a tattoo on your lower back.
“What?” I ask, sleepily.
“It’s for your book of advice to my great-great-granddaughter,” Dad says. “Never get a tattoo on your lower back.”
“Doesn’t that sound a little old and judgmental?” I ask as I instinctively reach for a phantom cigarette.
Misery Loves Cabernet Page 6
