Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  I hit PLAY.

  “Message one,” the automated voice continues. “Sent at 12:52 P.M.”

  “Hey, it’s Kate. I have big news. Call me back. Bye.”

  “I have big news.” Argh. She sent me a text saying, “I have big news,” when I was at Drew’s, but I ignored it. The last time she had “big news,” I dropped everything to call her and find out she got front row tickets to “Former Olympians on Ice.”

  “Message two,” the automated voice continues. “Sent at 12:54 P.M.”

  “Damn it! I can’t get ahold of you on your cell. I’ve called and sent you an e-mail,” Kate continues excitedly. “Call me back!”

  Well, okay, maybe it is big.

  “Message three. Sent at 2:07 P.M.”

  “Oh fuck,” Dawn says. “I just got Kate’s messages. Call me back.”

  “Message four. Sent at 2:20 P.M.”

  “I just talked to your parents. Hoped you were there, but you weren’t,” Kate says, her face practically beaming over the phone. “Call me back.”

  She called my parents? Shit—I don’t like the sound of that. I pick up the phone to call Kate as I hear the last message.

  “Message five. Sent at 2:22 P.M.”

  “Darling,” Mom says excitedly. “Your father just popped some champagne, and lit up the pipe. Isn’t it fabulous?”

  By now I’ve dialed Kate, who picks up on the first ring. “Finally! Where have you been all day?”

  “I’ve been at Drew’s listening to his thoughts about living on a budget.”

  “I’m getting married!” Kate blurts out gleefully.

  Uh . . .

  I try to think of something to say to that.

  I got nothin’.

  “Isn’t that great news?!” Kate asks me, so deliriously happy that she obviously hasn’t picked up on my stunned silence.

  “Um . . . sure,” I say, thoroughly confused. “Who’s the lucky groom? Jack?”

  “No. Will, of course,” Kate says, still not noticing my complete lack of any type of enthusiasm.

  “From the party?” I ask, taking my phone up to my room to find my nicotine gum.

  “Of course from the party. Okay, now, I know I’m supposed to be seeing you guys Thursday night, but instead of doing the thing we were going to do, could I get you to come to that bridal salon your sister went to so we can pick your bridesmaids’ dresses?”

  “The thing we were going to do?” I ask, still confused. “You mean the New Year’s resolutions?”

  “Ssshh,” Kate whispers into the phone. “Will doesn’t know about my self-help books. I hid them all in a box when he was taking a shower.”

  “What else did you hide when he was taking a shower?!” I ask, ready to lurch into a lecture. “Nine years’ worth of Jack photos? Does he know you just got out of a nine-year relationship?”

  “Yes, he does,” Kate says, sounding surprised at my outburst. “Why are you taking that tone with me?”

  “Um . . . because you’re telling me you’re marrying a man you’ve known for less than twenty-four hours?” I say in the form of a rhetorical question.

  “I’ve known him for fifteen years,” Kate reminds me, with a level, even voice. “That’s half my life.”

  “Okay, well then, you’ve been dating him for less than twenty-four hours.”

  “I dated him for three years,” Kate says, using that same don’t fuck with me voice. “What’s the longest you’ve ever dated someone?”

  Ouch. I’m stunned. Not to mention speechless.

  Kate uses my silence as an invitation to continue. “We’ve decided on a June wedding—”

  “Wait,” I stop her. “June when?”

  “June of next year,” Kate answers, her tone of voice making it obvious she thinks that’s a stupid question. “Oh, it’s going to be gorgeous! Will has a ton of money, so I can do whatever I want. And, I can’t wait to show you my ring! We went to Tiffany’s this morning. It’s a two-carat baguette cut with smaller baguettes on both sides, set in platinum . . . . Oh, and what do you think of Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are” for a first dance?”

  I’m too stunned to speak. Finally, I come up with, “I think you should avoid any song sung by a man married four times.”

  “Damn,” Kate says, sounding disappointed. “That throws out Sinatra, too, then.” Her voice perks up. “On the plus side, Harry Connick Jr. is still in contention.”

  My phone beeps. “Can you hold on a second?” I say. “It’s Dawn.”

  “Okay,” Kate answers cheerfully, not the least bit upset I’ve cut her off.

  “Hello.”

  “Did you hear?” Dawn asks me without preamble.

  “Just now,” I say, popping a piece of gum in my mouth. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I say we throw a sack over her head and lock her up in a hotel room until she comes to her senses.”

  I hear Kate’s line click off.

  Then I hear a click on Dawn’s phone. “Hold on,” Dawn says.

  She clicks off. As I hold, I start thinking about this odd turn of events. Kate’s getting married? To the guy who dumped her for years on end? Why? What emotional hold could he possibly have over her after all these years?

  Or am I being cynical? Maybe you only get one true love. She found hers early, but for some reason, she blew it. Now she has a second chance at happiness.

  Dawn clicks back. “What the fuck are ranunculus, and why do we want to avoid the orange ones like the plague?”

  Oh God. I’m back in Wedding Hell.

  Eight

  Don’t watch more than an hour of television per night.

  Around ten o’clock that evening, as I’m watching my fourth hour of TiVoed television (and trying not to think about the fact that Jordan never e-mailed or called me), Kate calls me, frantic.

  “Promise me you’re still coming to the wedding salon Thursday no matter what!” Kate demands, sounding beside herself with anxiety.

  “Please tell me you’re not stressing out about the wedding already,” I beg.

  “Oh, there’s so much to do,” Kate begins. “We’ve set the date for the third Saturday in June, and I’ve already booked the reception site, which is this lovely estate in Malibu. Thursday, we do the dress thing, the following week we’ll do cakes . . . .”

  “Honey, if you’re not stressing out, then why do you sound like you’re about to burst into tears?”

  “Well . . . um . . . ,” Kate continues, “it’s just that . . .” She struggles to find the right words. “I’m thinking of asking Dawn to be my maid of honor!” Kate blurts out, clearly wracked with guilt.

  “Oh?” I ask hopefully.

  “I’m sorry!” she says, speaking a mile a minute, “I love you both so much, and of course I really want you to be a maid of honor, too. It’s just, well, Dawn has never been a maid of honor, and you just got to be one a few weeks ago. And it just seems more fair if I ask her to do the honors. But I haven’t decided for sure yet. Are you mad?”

  I take a moment to collect my thoughts.

  Am I mad?

  Is she kidding?

  “So,” I begin, “would that mean that Dawn would get to throw the bridal shower, and the bachelorette party?”

  I say ‘get to,’ when what I really mean is ‘has to.’ As in, has to hold your hand every step of the way, even when you fight with your family, even when you use words like hyacinth and hydrangea, even when you put her in a prom dress that costs her four hundred dollars. As in, has to be at your beck and call the entire day of your wedding, guaranteeing she can’t enjoy herself at all.

  “Well . . . ,” Kate begins, stalling. “Maybe. I don’t know for sure.”

  “Huh,” I say, almost to myself.

  Apparently, some days life is unfair in my favor.

  “You know what Kate, it’s your day,” I say diplomatically. “Do whatever makes you happiest. As your friend, I just want you to be happy.”

  “Oh, thank you!”
Kate gushes. “I love you. I knew you’d understand. I’m going to call Dawn right now. And of course I want you to be a bridesmaid.”

  “Thank you. I’d be honored.”

  “We’re putting you in red and pink taffeta. Oh, it’s gonna be beautiful. Long ballroom-type dresses. Very quinceanera, very debutante ball . . .”

  Oh, dear. She’s making that sound like a good thing . . . .

  Kate continues excitedly. “Don’t worry, it won’t be polyester, but I think you should indulge me by allowing something with two layers of tulle. I figure we’ll put flowers in your hair to match the gowns . . .”

  I think I need a cookie. . . .

  “. . . and I’m learning all about dyed-to-match shoes!”

  A very big cookie.

  I listen to Kate talk about caterers, and invitations, and seating charts for another few minutes, then I let her get off the phone so she can call Dawn to gleefully announce the horror . . . wait, no, I meant the honor . . . that is about to be bestowed upon her.

  Then I hit PLAY on my TiVo, and prepare for Dawn’s wrath.

  Nine

  It’s only good to be up at four in the morning if you are still up from the night before, you are not alone, and you have nowhere to go in the morning but brunch.

  My phone rings at four o’clock in the fucking morning. Actually, 3:58 in the fucking morning. I pick up groggily.

  “Hello,” I mumble.

  “Wakey, wakey,” I hear Drew say to me, sounding as ecstatic as a nerd at a high-school science fair.

  I sit up, confused. “What on earth are you doing up?”

  “I’m doing a low-budget movie!” Drew says excitedly. “Actors who do low-budget movies get up early, go running, eat a healthy breakfast, then drive themselves to work!”

  It’s just too early . . .

  I take ten seconds for a nice long yawn. “Drew, your call time isn’t until seven A.M.”

  “That’s high budget, wasteful thinking,” Drew says, trying to sound like a drill sergeant (and failing miserably). “Now get over here. I need a jogging partner.”

  That wakes me up. “What? Why?”

  “I can’t go out running alone at this time of the morning. I could get killed. Haven’t you ever seen Law & Order?”

  “I don’t think the jogger ever gets killed in Law & Order. I think the jogger’s the one who finds the body,” I say, not bothering to suppress another yawn.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun,” Drew assures me.

  “No,” I say definitively. “Fun is going to the Neiman Marcus half-off sale. Let me call a personal trainer, and get someone out there for you.”

  “I can’t afford a personal trainer,” Drew insists. “Remember? I’m on a budget. But you’re already on the take . . .”

  It’s too early to tell him if I were on the take, I would tell him to go to—

  “. . . and frankly, it’s time to take off the tonnage you’ve gained since you quit smoking,” Drew finishes.

  Always be respectful of your boss.

  I press the red button on my phone and hang up on him.

  I close my eyes, and try to go back to sleep. My phone rings again.

  I pick up. “What?”

  “Too much?” Drew asks sweetly. “Because all I meant to say was that you’re not getting any younger, your clock is ticking, and you can’t be a size ten in the world we inhabit, which is what you’re getting dangerously close to . . .”

  I press the red button again.

  Take two: Close eyes, phone rings . . .

  “What?!” I hiss.

  “When we get to Paris, do you really want Jordan to see you looking like you do right now?”

  Two minutes later, I throw on some battleship gray sweatpants with holes in the knees, match them up with a raggedy T-shirt that I’ve had since high school, pull my unbrushed hair into a ponytail, and head to Drew’s.

  Never wear clothes with holes in them.

  When I pull up to Drew’s black metal gate about half an hour later, I realize there are a few photographers lurking nearby.

  Swell. They’re going to snap a bunch of pictures of him and me, and soon I’ll be on page three of the National Enquirer listed as the “unidentified blob with no sense of style or hygiene.”

  I buzz Drew’s intercom. All I hear is “mmm-brbrm-STATIC-mmph, mph.”

  “Uh . . . it’s Charlie!” I scream into the intercom.

  I hear more static and mumbling, but the gate slowly swings open, and I drive in.

  When I see Drew and another man standing in the driveway, I am tempted to run Drew over with my Prius.

  Liam waves to me as I pull up to Drew’s garage, and park behind his soon-to-be disposed-of Koenigsegg.

  “Charlie!” Liam says brightly, walking over to open my door after I park. He looks amazing. His hair isn’t brushed, but that makes him look pleasantly rumpled. And he’s wearing a black tracksuit with red stripes that look very utilitarian, but also very hot.

  And I look like a troll. Damn it! Why, oh why didn’t I wear the Juicy Couture velour sweats I bought a few years ago, even though they’re already out of style? Why didn’t I at least wear a pair of cute running shorts with no holes in them? Why didn’t I brush my hair? Put on some makeup? Not eat like an elephant with PMS for the past six weeks?

  “You look lovely,” Liam says, giving me a tap kiss on the lips after I get out of my car. “Did you get the flowers?”

  “Yes, I did. Thank you,” I say, my voice catching from nervousness.

  Why didn’t I brush my teeth?

  Twice?

  And, seriously, would some Listerine have killed me?

  I turn to Drew, and try to force a smile on my face. “Drew,” I begin stiffly, “if you already had a running partner, why did you call me?”

  “Because I didn’t remember Liam was a runner until after I called you,” he answers innocently. “Besides, I hate to bug you with details.”

  Sigh.

  The three of us stretch for about ten minutes, then Drew opens his gate with a remote, and we take off jogging.

  As we turn the corner and head slightly downhill, I can hear photographers snap-snap-snapping away.

  Perfect.

  For the first few minutes, I do okay. Liam has set the pace, and we seem to be going rather slowly. A nice slow pace, our knees barely rising. This isn’t so bad—I can do this. Good thing I quit smoking.

  I start to imagine my new life as a size four, and I am happy. I will shop for bikinis with Dawn, and not feel the least bit self-conscious in the dressing room. My legs will look sculpted, and will give Fergie’s legs a run for their money. I will eat healthier, get slimmer, and finally be able to try on lingerie at the mall without the image in the mirror depressing me so much, it sends me scurrying to the food court.

  Wait. I think my chest is tightening. And my knees are starting to hurt.

  That’s okay. No pain, no gain. If jogging were easy, everyone would do it. Think legs, think bikini . . .

  I think I’m going to have a heart attack. As Drew picks up the pace, and Liam effortlessly follows him, I lag behind a step or two, and try to figure out if I can make a quick right into the bushes and hide.

  No. I’m going to do this. I don’t want Liam thinking I’m so out of shape that I’m incapable of running down to the Village and back. I think to myself, “Fight or flight,” and get an adrenaline surge that allows me to run a little faster and catch up to the two of them.

  “So, how is Ian to work with as a director?” Drew asks, his breathing completely normal.

  “He’s a bit demanding,” Liam admits (also in a normal voice), “but the finished product is so gripping, it’s an emotional price most actors pay gladly.”

  I want to seem witty and droll and make a joke about the emotional prices women pay gladly every day, but I don’t. I can barely breathe. My throat is now burning, my calves are mooing, I feel like I’m about to be called to the light and—

  “Aaaa
hhh!” I scream as I trip on a big rock, twist my ankle, and fall sideways into the bushes.

  Drew keeps running. Nice.

  Liam, however, immediately runs to my side. “Good Lord, what happened?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention, and I didn’t see that . . . ,” I say, pointing to the big rock in the middle of the road. I grab my ankle as I wince, “Ow, ow, ow . . .”

  Truth be told, I was milking this a little. I had just accidentally run into an excuse to stop running, and I wasn’t giving up my injury without a fight.

  Liam puts his hand on my ankle, and although I have thought about the moment when he would caress me a million times . . .

  “Ow!” I scream. “Son of a—”

  Liam startles ever so slightly at my outburst, and I catch myself before I accidentally curse him out. He touches my ankle one more time. “I think all you need is ice. But, just to be safe, we should get you back to Drew’s, and elevate the ankle.”

  Drew turns around and runs back to us. “Did you get hurt?”

  I stare him down for his stupid question.

  “Hm,” Drew says. “Maybe I shouldn’t have had Liam come with us. I mean, he did win the silver medal in the Olympic marathon.”

  “Actually, it was only the five thousand meters,” Liam says sheepishly.

  Well, is that all?

  It’s then that I notice the subtle little logo on the left hip of his track pants: the five multicolored circles of the Olympic games.

  Liam puts my arm around his shoulder, and helps me stand up.

  As I begin limping back toward Drew’s house with Liam at my side, I think about an article I read years ago explaining that when a man sweats, he secretes pheromones, which makes a woman want to bed him. And it must be true. Liam smells amazing. Not men’s cologne yummy—rolling around in a bed with him yummy.

  I, on the other hand, just remembered I failed to put on deodorant before I left the house, and probably now smell like a skunk trapped in a diaper pail.

  Which reminds me to write later:

  Some days are a total waste of Wakeup.