by Ashley Pullo
“Whole Foods decaf Sumatra with soy milk.”
“Oh, fuck no. I agreed to a conversation about having kids in the distant future – not the elimination of my two favorite food groups.”
Sitting next to Meredith at their butcher block kitchen island, Bradley laughs. “What exactly are your two favorite food groups?”
Meredith scrunches her nose and holds up two fingers, listing her answers. “Caffeine and vodka.”
“If we’re opening the discussion about children, then we might as well get healthy.” Bradley scrolls through the news highlights on his iPad while sipping green tea. “When is your story on that roller skating designer posting?”
“By ten. Hey, Julia sent our announcement. Do you want to read it?” Meredith, unamused by the tainted coffee, hops from her stool and pours the contents of her mug in the sink. She gasps, suddenly aware of the healthy intentions of her fiancé. In a swift motion, she swings open the freezer door and shrieks, “Where’s the vodka?”
“Babe.” Bradley stands from the island and straightens his tie.
“And the little bagel pizzas! Oh, my God – you threw out the Ben & Jerry’s.” Slamming the freezer door, Meredith turns to Bradley and shudders in fear. “I need my stash of stressies.”
Approaching Meredith and embracing her, Bradley gently strokes her back. “What are stressies?”
“Snacks to handle the wedding stress, duh?”
“Then let’s elope,” he suggests.
Pouting, she says, “But I want a fantasy wedding, with penguins and a barber shop quartet.”
“You may have whatever you want, Mere.”
“As long as we keep a budget . . .” they recite in unison.
“Sushi and vodka martinis when I get back?” asks Bradley.
Laughing into his chest, she sputters, “As our last meal?”
Guiding Meredith’s chin upward, Bradley says, “Don’t be feisty. You know it makes my cock hard.” He leads her hand to his crotch and waggles his brows. “Touch it.”
“Oh, please. Get out of here!” She slaps his arm.
Laughing, Bradley adds, “Mmm, such a tease.”
“Hey, it keeps you wanting more,” she replies coyly. “What’s your schedule again?”
“I’m giving a lecture around four, and then hopping on the train to D.C.” Bradley kisses her forehead and hugs her tightly. “You better get going so you can stop by Starbucks and score some caffeine.”
“At least the barista won’t greet me with a nasty decaf soy and a growing boner – unless it’s Jay, he’s a perverted health fiend.”
“I love you,” Bradley whispers, pushing Meredith toward the door.
“I love you more. And in seven months, I’ll be yours forever.”
“And we can finally move out of this shoebox and start our family.”
“Yes, that too,” Meredith replies, her voice wavering.
“The high today is fifty-five – wear a jacket.”
Removing a cropped wool blazer from the hall closet, and a tartan plaid hat box from the top shelf, she asks, “Do I need a hat?”
“Uh, what is that?” Bradley narrows his eyes and snickers.
Meredith carefully slides out a black wool hat with grosgrain ribbon, and then places it on her head. Running her manicured fingers across the rounded brim, she replies, “A Makins wool Homburg hat from their new winter line.”
“You look like Michael Corleone.”
“You’re not helping, wise guy.” Meredith laughs as she puts on her jacket and checks her reflection in the mirror by the door. “I have a meeting with the owners of a new urban fashion house in Brooklyn. Is the hat too much?”
“Get rid of it. It’s not personal, it’s just business,” Bradley taunts.
“What? I don’t know what that means.”
“The Godfather? Protect the family, keep your enemies closer, the horse head in the bed?” Summoning his inner marble-mouth Brando, he adds, “I’m going to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”
Meredith shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. “I’ve never seen the movie.”
“Then why did you laugh at my Michael Corleone joke?” he scoffs.
“Because I thought you were trying to be cool by dropping the name of an Italian model.”
“A male model?”
“I don’t know what you’re into!” Meredith deadpans, her breasts bouncing as she finally explodes with laughter.
Distracted by the sheerness of her black sweater, Bradley pulls her into his arms. “Thank God you’re sexy,” he says, knocking the hat off her head. “I won’t see you for three days, and we’re wasting time arguing over movies and hamburger hats.”
“Homburg,” she corrects, taking Bradley’s hand and sliding it inside the waist of her dark denim jeans. “Remember when we fought over real-world problems.”
“Ah, yes. Our foreplay debates,” he recalls, inching his fingers closer to her panties.
“Followed by intellectually-stimulated wild sex on your desk.”
“And that one time in the bathroom of the library after a very heated argument over international factory facilitation.” Sighing, he adds, “I like you in this sweater.” He grabs her shoulders and spins her to face the door, cupping her breasts and breathing heavily into her ear. “Get out of here before I fuck you against this door while delivering my lecture on civil economics.”
“Sadist,” she mutters, opening the door. “I’ll see you in a few days, my love.”
Racing to the street and hailing a cab near their Greenwich Village apartment building, Meredith scrolls through her emails for the address of the Brooklyn fashion house. Several yellow taxis slow to a stop, but she motions for them to leave, waiting for an avocado-green chariot that will deliver her safely to a surrounding borough.
Entering the cab, she instructs, “Williamsburg, Brooklyn, please.”
Staring out the backseat window, Meredith slumps her shoulders and sighs. Loving Bradley is the easy part, it’s the wedding that gives her hives. Scratching her neck and tugging at the itchy fabric of her sweater, she devises a plan – one that could ruin her fantasy marriage, but save her relationship with the man she loves.
Glancing at her gorgeous diamond engagement ring, she quickly dials the number to her first wedding adversary.
“SoHo Bridal,” a cheerful voice answers.
“Hello, I’d like to speak to someone about the return policy of a wedding dress.”
“Who is your consultant?”
“Um, Ann Marie.”
“And your name?”
“Meredith Rice.”
“One moment and I’ll transfer you.”
On hold, she bobs her head to the calming sound of Kenny G while pulling a thread from her sweater.
“Ann Marie speaking,” a raspy voice announces.
“Hi, hello, Ann Marie. Um, this is Meredith Rice, I bought the Pnina Tornai dress a few weeks ago.”
“Ah, yes, the fit and flare with the Chantilly lace. Love that dress on you! Are you ready to schedule a fitting?”
“Right, no. Actually, I was wondering what the return policy is for the gown?”
“Oh, did you put down a deposit?”
“No, I actually paid in full with an Amex.”
“Let me check your account. Hold please.”
This time on hold, the frightening chorus of Verdi’s Requiem blasts through her phone speaker, as if preparing her for bad news.
Crackling back into the conversation, Ann Marie says, “Meredith, the dress is currently in the alterations department, so unfortunately, it can’t be returned.”
“How is that possible? I haven’t even scheduled a fitting.”
“The account states the dress is with Darla in alterations – I don’t have access to a dress once it leaves the showroom floor.”
“But Ann Marie, I can’t take the dress.”
“Meredith, it’s a gorgeous gown, and if there’s some part of it you don’t love
, our team of seamstresses can do almost anything you can dream up.”
“But I can’t get married in that dress,” she shrieks.
“Why don’t you come in and have your first fitting. The sooner the better, because I know you’ll fall even more in love with the dress you chose when you see it again.”
“Okay, I’ll try to come in next week. Bye.”
“See you then,” Ann Marie says, ending the call.
Her fingers shaking, Meredith opens a text thread with her wedding planner extraordinaire. She may be a sweet southern belle with impeccable taste, but Molly is also a shrewd business woman in the world of event planning. Biting her lip and scrunching her nose, Meredith makes another desperate attempt to resolve the impending catastrophe.
Meredith: Hi, Molly. Bradley and I discussed the invitations last night, and honestly, I couldn’t sleep. May I please review them before payment?
Molly: Oh honey, I know you’re a perfectionist, but the invitations are marvelous. We need to place the order by this weekend to ensure enough production time.
Meredith: Yes, they’re gorgeous, but I would feel more comfortable holding off until Bradley returns from his business trip and we can decide together.
Molly: Honey, men don’t care about the little things. But I’ll call the print shop and see what I can do.
Meredith: Thank you.
Molly: While I have you, the second deposit for the caterer is due. And I’m meeting with a travel agent tomorrow, so I need the exact number of guests needing airline arrangements. I suggest you and Bradley cover the bridal party and immediate family.
“Fuck!” she shouts, as the cab slows to a stop.
“Okay?” the cab driver asks, pressing a few buttons on the meter.
Meredith: We’ll discuss everything and meet with you next week. I promise.
Molly: Honey, we can’t wait until next week.
Meredith: I’ll call tomorrow.
Arriving at an industrial warehouse in the heart of hipster-town Williamsburg, Meredith pays the driver and apologizes for her outburst. She exits the cab and catches her breath, studying the neighborhood and surrounding businesses. “Fucking gentrification,” she mutters, eyeing a Bare Burger.
This meeting is a simple feature assignment, but the owners of the fashion house have never given an interview, so if she can squeeze out a great story, then she’s one step closer to advancing in her career. And God knows she could use the extra income.
Searching for a buzzer, Meredith hisses, “Motherfucking hipsters and their motherfucking need to be difficult.” She knocks on a large sliding door as a few people pass her on the street. So with the built-up frustration of a raging gorilla, she kicks the steel door with her boot. After several minutes of thrashing and grunting, a man in his late-twenties opens the door and scowls.
“Stop,” he orders, flicking a cigarette onto the sidewalk. “All models upstairs.” He crosses his arms, covering the graphics of a Ramone’s T-shirt.
Amused, Meredith snorts. “I’m not a model.”
Propping the door open with his bare foot, he runs his eyes over Meredith’s petite frame, stretching his neck to catch a glimpse of her tiny ass. “Yeah, you’re kinda short.”
Dismissing his rude comment, Meredith states, “I’m from the New York Herald, and I’m writing a piece on the . . .” she pauses, glancing at the text from her editor, “Oh shit, the Berg Boys! That name is hilarious – like some sort of pseudo-urban hip hop brand from the nineties.” She cackles.
Smugly, he replies, “By all means, insult the sentimental name of my company.” Waving her inside the warehouse, he adds, “I’m Eli Rosenberg.”
Meredith blushes as she walks past him, taken by Eli’s good looks and affable sarcasm. “My humor is often inappropriate.”
“Meh, it’s just not funny,” he teases, leading her to a living room. “Drew,” Eli shouts through cupped hands.
Sitting on a ripped velvet sofa reading a skateboard magazine is an even sexier Berg – early thirties, shaggy brown hair, and dark eyes that could melt the hearts of college girls and little old ladies alike. He stands to greet Meredith, taking in her outfit and staring brazenly at her chest.
Feeling suddenly exposed and off her game, she crosses her arms and chews on the inside of her cheek. “Hi,” she says.
“Reporter, meet the other Berg, Drew Sandberg.” Eli shoves his hands in the pockets of his ripped board shorts and snickers. “She loves our name by the way.”
Bothered, Drew asks, “Meredith Rice?”
Extending her hand, she replies, “Yes. I’m writing an October feature on your setup here in Brooklyn. My editor should’ve cleared this with you . . .”
“Yep, I know about the feature article,” Drew interrupts with a smirk. “I guess I expected someone different.”
Perplexed, Meredith then replies, “Oh. Then maybe we should reschedule?”
“Reschedule?” Drew chuckles.
“Nah, this is going to be fun.” Eli points to a nearby stool. “Take off your boots and follow me.”
“Give me a minute!” she protests, balancing against a tall acrylic stool while staring into Drew’s navy eyes.
With his bare feet pattering against the concrete floor, Eli walks toward an industrial, spiral staircase. She watches as he climbs the stairs two at a time. Irritated yet slightly amused, Meredith glances back at Drew and arches her eyebrow.
“He’s an acquired taste,” Drew explains, helping her onto the stool. After lowering to one knee, he slowly unzips Meredith’s motorcycle boot, first the left one, watching as her jaw drops in bewilderment, and then continues to the right. “Great boots,” he says.
“I, uh, bought them in Berlin.”
Taking Meredith’s left hand and pulling her up from the stool, Drew clenches his jaw when his thumb scrapes against her two-carat engagement ring. “Not a fan of the ring, though.”
With the inflection of a question, Meredith blurts, “I’m engaged?”
“Are you?” he counters.
Am I? It’s not like Meredith would ever consider cheating on Bradley, but running away from her problems is currently the most appealing solution. Several seconds of awkward silence pass before she quietly replies, “Yes, I’m getting married in April.”
Drew nods arrogantly as he rocks back on his heels. “Let’s go upstairs – there are some designers I want you to meet.”
Meredith obediently follows behind Drew, catching her breath as she frantically spins the platinum noose around her finger.
“I despise people that use baseball references to describe their sex life. I had a buddy, a designated hitter nonetheless, that was stuck on second base with the same chick our entire first year of college. So while he was striking out, I fucked her.”
Chapter Three
Alex Martinelli’s first Yankees game was with his father on his sixth birthday. It was an unbearably hot July afternoon, and he choked on a dry kernel of popcorn, but that game introduced him to his only true love – baseball.
“I’ll take a Peroni.” He orders his favorite beer from the pretty bartender inside the Field MVP Club while glancing at his phone. Julia’s late, and in the world of baseball references, that’s considered strike one.
He pays for the imported beer and heads to the press suite located above home plate. Luckily for Alex, the former owner of the New York Herald made sure the defining piece of his legacy would be the suite he negotiated during the construction of the new stadium. It’s large and grandiose, modern yet nostalgic, and the perfect place to impress a girl on a first date. Julia is not the first woman to sit at Alex’s side to cheer on the pinstripes, and because of his rugged European features, fit physique, impressive job, and his ability to recite poetry, Alex gets laid – a lot. The Yankees are just foreplay.
He passes through the suite, acknowledging several beat reporters that hopped on the playoff bandwagon in the past few weeks, and then settles into his designated seat in the press b
ox. Rolling up the sleeves to his dress shirt, Alex nods to a group of women vying for his attention from the adjacent suite. Most likely the wifely trophies of Midtown CEOs, but attractive nonetheless.
Second inning. Astros get a run. Alex orders another beer.
By the third inning, Julia arrives with Howard, the managing editor of the New York Herald. She surveys the suite while cordially chatting with a few of her male colleagues.
“Yep, still single. Still writing the wedding column. Uh, huh, still living Downtown. Nope, haven’t tried a cronut. Hey, have you seen Alex Martinelli?” asks Julia, breaking the monotony of annoying conversations.
“Oh, that schmuck. He watches the game, Julia. Try the seats.” Football-lover Larry, middle-aged and divorced, points to the box seats with his hairy, fat fingers.
“Oh, great. Thanks, Larry. See you guys later.”
Julia makes her way to the box seats, pausing at the top of the steps to watch as Alex flirts with a group of women. He’s standing and pointing to the field, causing them to swoon and giggle as they lean over the railing separating the boxes. Julia’s not the jealous type, and with her horrible luck in the romance department, she rarely expects much on a first date. And occasionally, she’s more than okay with a non-romantic run around the bases.
“Hi,” she says, taking the empty seat next to him.
Alex shifts his attention toward her seat as the tipsy neighbors scatter back to their suite. “Hey, Julia!” he exclaims. “When did you get here?” He plops down in his cushioned chair, his long legs bumping into the drink holder and spilling his beer. “Dammit,” he mutters.
“I came with Howard straight from work. Did you know he has his own driver?”
Casually placing his arm around her shoulders, Alex replies, “Well, you’re here now. And you look as beautiful as ever.”
Julia smiles, allowing herself to just sit back and have some fun. “Confession?”
“Sure,” Alex replies, watching the crowd-favorite player up to bat. “Wait.” He whips out his phone and quickly adds text to a spreadsheet, and then looks back at Julia. “Sorry ’bout that. Now you have my complete attention.”
