Reason #2: When you don’t want the answer, it’s probably bad.
“I am just glad that you’re here.” I smile.
He cocks his head at me.
“I figured you’d tell me when you wanted to. And maybe I didn’t want to know the answer.”
He leans back next to me and says flatly, “This is my honeymoon.”
I roll onto my stomach and run my fingertip in the sand, drawing a “K.”
“I met my fiancée at Stanford. She was from Boston. We dated for three years before I proposed. Two of which I lived in New York and she lived in California.”
I draw an “I” in the sand.
“Too much distance,” I murmur.
“Too much everything,” he murmurs back.
I draw an “S” in the sand. Silent and listening. Not sure what to say. Wondering where this is going and when exactly I am going to have to pry his foot out of his mouth. Just wishing he’d shut up and do what men are supposed to do. Where’s the pawing? Where’s the overt gesture? I am on vacation, for God’s sake. I make another “S” in the sand.
“She moved to Montana and hated it … hated me,” he says reluctantly
Huh? Wonder what he did to make her hate him?
“I don’t know you very well, but ‘hate’ seems like a pretty strong word.” My finger traces an “M” in the sand.
“I wanted her to be happy, not to worry about anything. I told her she didn’t have to work. She thought I was too old-fashioned.” He leans back.
“Nobody really wants to work,” I sigh, “except movie stars and professional athletes.”
“That’s what I thought. I figured that I would take care of her. And she’d love and take care of me, but she thought … hell, I don’t know what she thought. Then out of the blue she tells me she thinks my family is too involved in our lives. As if being close to your family is a bad thing.”
“I can’t really say too much on the whole parent thing, being that I am on a romantic vacation with my mom.”
“Yeah, but I like that. I think it’s great.”
“And, she called me cheap. I watch my spending, but I am not cheap.”
Cheap is unacceptable. There will be no cheap. There will be no penny-pinching while dating me. It ranks right up there with not opening the car door on the first date or making your wife take out the garbage. Men need to pay. Pay now, or pay later. But pay they must. It’s chivalry. It’s courting. It’s the fire hoops a man must jump through to prove that he thinks his date is worthwhile and valuable.
“You did buy dinner tonight, so there again, I think the ex is wrong,” I dispute.
“I don’t know, one minute she’s wearing my grandmother’s wedding dress down the aisle and the next she’s running out of the church. So I came on the trip alone. To try and sort it out. Maybe have some fun.”
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Having any fun,” I say, finishing my sentence with an “E.” He sits up, letting the moon light hit my little drawing in the sand …“KISS ME.” And at that point, he finally leans down, scoops my head into his hands, and …
He lays a wet, soft kiss on my thirsty lips.
We laid there kissing in the sand all night. We shared all of our war stories of relationships gone bad, of the crazy people out there.
The sun comes up, the light of day, and I can’t help feeling like I really, really like him. I have only known him twenty-four hours. What’s wrong with me?
Reason #3: He’s not who you think he is.
Need help. Need distance. Need sanity. Instead I got Mom. She is thrilled, overjoyed that I, her permanently single daughter, the ultimate shitty man-picker, has finally found somebody nice to date her.
My country-to-country call won’t go through to Grace and Reilly. I wonder how Sam is doing at Grace’s. I wonder how I am doing. I try to go over it myself. This guy is on the rebound. He’s given me warning signs that his ex thinks he’s controlling, old-fashioned, and has a buttinsky family. Plus, he lives in Montana. That is so far from L.A. that I am not even sure where it falls on the map. I certainly don’t know what twenty below zero feels like. Let alone how it feels day after day for at least 200 days out of 365. Not to mention my friends, who I am NOT willing to give up, or my job, or my life. ‘Cause that’s where my little “Oohhh, I can’t eat, can’t sleep … Craig this, Craig that,” is taking me. Wake up, Emily! I pinch myself. The guy is on his honeymoon … alone! Ooh, there’s that word again, ALONE. It sounded nice when he was alone on the bus a day ago.
Although it must be hard for him. I can’t imagine how I’d feel being alone on my honeymoon. My heart goes out to him and the pain he must be feeling. I could relate to the being-dumped factor. Fucking David the king of Prickville. Hmmm, maybe I am judging too quickly. Maybe I could help, maybe I could fix his pain and …
Have fun, have sex … use a condom, I think to myself, but don’t try to turn Craig into my future husband. This is a fling, a tryst, a booty call. That’s all.
“Why didn’t you listen to yourself?” Dr. D. probes. “Why couldn’t you just leave it in St. Croix?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” I say. “I guess the ‘happily-ever-after’ dream was just too strong.” I continue my story.
The phone rings. “Hello.”
“Wanna go snorkeling?”
A warm glow just washed through my body, making every doubt-filled thought about him disappear like a nightmare in the daylight. “Yes, I wanna go snorkeling.”
“Meet me on the beach in a half hour. Oh, and bring Bitsy.” He hangs up.
Bring Bitsy? Bring my mom? Ok, a nice gesture, but how about some underwater love? How can I do that if I bring Bitsy?
I realize that Bitsy is standing in the doorway of our bedroom.
“I see your night went well,” she says with a smirk and a hint of slur from her triple Bloody Mary brunch.
“Get your bathing suit, we’re going snorkeling,” I say, jumping up and down on the bed. I launch off and land directly in front of her, doing a little touchdown-end-zone dance. “We’re goin’ snorkeling.” I thrust my hips. “We’re goin’ snorkeling … with my new boyfriend.”
Snorkeling with Mom and Craig near the shore, we point at blue-and-yellow-striped fish swimming past us. An eel dangles out from beneath a couple of rocks on the ocean floor. Conch shells grow among the blowing sea grass. It is silent and perfect underwater. Craig grabs my leg and pulls me toward him. Taking our snorkels out of our mouths, we put our heads above the surface and before I can say anything, he kisses me. I wrap my legs around him and we float, just kissing and more kissing …
“Do I have those really horrible lines around my eyes and face from my mask?” I squint painfully, waiting for the answer.
“Yeah … but it’s hard to make them out from the traces of mascara all over you cheeks and under your eyes,” he laughes. “But it just makes you cuter.” He kisses me. “Sexier.” I look up and Mom is back on the beach, packing her stuff. She motions a big thumbs-up at me with both hands. I wave back at her and she heads to the bungalow. “Come on, let’s go in.” He starts to swim to the shore.
“I’m going to swim just a couple more minutes.” I paddle away from him. He looks almost hurt as I stare back at him and mouth through the snorkel, “I … have … to … pee.”
“You gotta pee?” I shake my head yes and he swims toward the shore.
The reef is covered in incredible turquoise coral. I want to touch it but am a little afraid it might reach up and grab me. Silly. I float at the top of the water looking down through my mask, studying the pools of bright purple fish next to me. The only sound is the slow, easy rhythm of my breath through the snorkel.
Finally I poke my head above the surface and see Craig standing on the beach in his trunks, and a tingle rushes through my body. I tug down my mask and snorkel and start to swim toward shore. After a few minutes I realize that I am further out than I was when I started back.
I s
tart to kick a little harder. My fins seem heavy. The sound of my breath is a little faster. The current is stronger, and for the first time I realize I am being pulled out.
My breath races faster. I am caught in a riptide. Try to relax, I think to myself.
I look back at Craig and can barely make out the concern on his face. His hands rest on his hips. His head is cocked. He turns and races to put on his fins.
I am further out and my breath is sprinting. So this is panic. My God. Now I know how it happens, how people drown. My obituary is going to read: Drowned in St. Croix, 27, SINGLE, with a few close friends, a renter, and a dog named Sam.
I am losing the fight to live when Craig’s arm reaches out and cradles my lower back, lifting me above the surface. “Relax! Relax! It’s not going any further out. It’s heading south, to the side. Go with it,” he yells sternly.
“I can’t.”
“You can. You’re all right. Trust me!” He holds onto my arm more tightly.
Trust? Trust a man? Now, in the middle of a life crisis? It’s trust him or die? Fuck it. I’ll trust him. But if I do drown, I want it written that I died because I trusted a hot guy in St. Croix.
I am not sure how long we were in the water. Maybe a half-hour, maybe longer, but it seemed like days. When we finally get to shore, we’re a mile and a half down the beach. The muscles in my legs and arms feel like they’re full of hot coals.
I sit on the sand motionless, silent, watching the sun go down, unable to think. Then I’m crying, crying with my head between my knees. All the while Craig strokes my back.
“I thought I was going to die,” I finally choke out. “I really thought it was over. I mean, all those things people say about your life passing before your eyes.” Shaking my head …“I didn’t have that. There was nothing. Just that, that, I was going to die on a romantic vacation with my mother.”
“I wasn’t going to let you drown.” Craig pushes my hair off my forehead and tucks it behind my ears.
“You saved my life. Oh my God, you saved my life.” The realization hits me. A real hero.
We walked down the beach toward the resort, Craig wrapped his arm around me, and I melted into his body. I felt safer than I ever had in my entire life.
“Women often fall in love with policemen, firemen, even doctors who save them due to posttraumatic stress disorder or a superman complex,” Dr. D. interjects.
I shoot back, “That was not a superman complex.”
“It was.”
“I could have died and never told him that I thought I was falling in love with him. Then I thanked him for saving my life and we had sex.”
“Of course you did,” Dr. D. slowly utters.
“I was in shock, for God’s sake!”
“What did he do?” Dr. D. ponders aloud.
“What do you mean, what did he do? Like, did we have foreplay and all of that? Or did we just go right for it?”
“No, after you said you loved him, what did he do?” he pushes.
“Why?”
“Let’s pause for a recap, shall we? You can tuck it in your mental files for next time. You had all the information you needed to leave this guy already. Think of these as your dating Cliff’s Notes. He’s on the rebound, hard. Plus, remember what his ex had to say about him? These are clues, as she obviously knows him. Then he has sex with you at your most vulnerable and weakest emotional point. Afraid of death is about as vulnerable as you can feel. Yet instead of holding you, finding your mom, or better yet, talking you through this, your new boyfriend decides it is time for you to consummate your vacation relationship.”
I look at him like … what’s your stinkin’ point?
“Emily, let me ask you a simple question. If you’re at home in L.A. and a guy you’ve had one, count with me, one date with says he’s falling in love with you, what do you do?”
It dawns on me. “I’d run.”
I’d run scared and fast from the emotional cripple who could fall in love after twenty-four hours. “Oh shit, I’m that girl. Aren’t I?”
“The question is, if Craig didn’t run, what type of man did that make him?”
Reason #4: Beware of the love bug on vacation.
“Got it,” I say before diving back into therapy.
Holding hands with my new boyfriend-to-be at the airport, I can barely say good-bye. Kiss, hug, kiss, kiss …
His tan forearms, white teeth, and perfect hair. He saved me. My Prince Charming saved me.
“I’ll see you in exactly one month,” he says, lifting my chin.
“I’ll call you tonight. Okay?” I say, sadness choking my throat shut.
Here is the guy I have finally waited to find. Strong, handsome, funny, single, successful, and I am leaving to go back to L.A. Why? Every night in L.A. is a damn costume party
Day one without Craig: Sad, lonely. Two hours this morning spent talking long distance to Craig, still in St. Croix. One hour before bed. Then, fifteen minutes more, I had to call back.
Day two: Sad, lonely. Not going out with Grace and Reilly as I am waiting for Craig to get home to Montana so I can call him. Talked to him for thirty-five minutes on his cell phone on his way home from the airport. Later, two hours and fifteen minutes are spent on a call to Montana while he unpacked.
Day three: Sad, lonely. Not going to the movies with Josh. Instead I am waiting for Craig to get home so we can talk. Hurray! He called early. I can take Sam for a pre-mugging-hour walk.
Days four, five, six and seven … Sadder. More lonely. I have missed one fabulous dinner party, one press screening with Josh for MGM’s new thriller starring George Clooney, and one board game night at Reilly’s.
End of week one. Three more to go.
End of week two. I am running out of things to say to Craig on the phone and am slightly annoyed that I have spent the last two weeks a slave to the phone, waiting for it to ring.
Plus I missed sneaking into George Clooney’s birthday party this weekend with Reilly! Ugh! Will feel better after I get to see Craig. Must see Craig. Two weeks to go.
End of week three.
HOLY SHIT! I have just opened my AT&T phone bill. $642.18. Yes, 642 fucking dollars. How am I going to pay for this? I think what I could have bought with this. 642 stinking hard-earned PR dollars!
A small price to pay for love. Right?
Reason #5: Your phone bills could buy you a new pair of Gucci loafers every month.
Will call Craig and see if he offers to help. I mean, I did pay for my own ticket to go and see him in Montana. He should offer to help with this bill, right?
Just hung up with Craig. My conversation went something like this: “I need to switch my long-distance plan ‘cause my phone bill was six hundred forty-two dollars and eighteen cents.”
Passive, but what can you do?
“You need to cut down on the calls to your friends,” he lets me know in a gruffer tone than I’ve heard from him before.
“The only long-distance calls are to you.” Less passive, more to the point.
“Really, well, then … maybe we should cut back on the calls,” he says, not offering one red cent.
“Okay, that’s good, well, I guess, ‘cause I’ll be there in a couple days.” NO! That’s not good. I just caved.
I finish with a squeamish, “Miss you,” and he hangs up.
I am pissed that he turned that around on me. I am pissed that I am stuck paying this bill, that he didn’t even offer to help. I am pissed that I didn’t say I was pissed.
Sitting in Dr. D.’s office, I lay back on the sofa and stare out the window at a hummingbird trying to suck the sweet nectar out of a flower. “Do you think I should have overlooked the phone bill thing?”
“No, but more importantly I think we need to look at the reason you were afraid to tell him you were angry.”
Reason #6: He should have offered.
In my mind I know the kind of guy I want should have offered. The fact is, dating is a dance. A dance of cou
rting. Where men and women are supposed to behave and look their best. This may not be the way they act in everyday life, but for the first, let’s say, ninety-day period, men and women are on what I like to call a trial basis.
Driving in Craig’s Dodge Ram truck through Montana, I look from the open meadow to a winding river cutting through the green valley and I can’t help feeling like I have stepped into a Robert Redford movie.
“I really would love a shower,” I say as he carries my bags into his cozy ranch house.
“Great. I’ll show you the way and then start dinner. Would you like a glass of wine?” he says, cradling me into his arms and kissing me.
Finally, back in my hero’s arms, which are not cheap arms, but strong arms, loving arms, with lovely forearms. I find myself thinking that maybe the phone bill thing was my fault and at this moment all I want to do is strip off my clothes and lather him up in the shower.
“I am going to throw some steaks on the grill,” he says, pouring me some wine and leaving the bottle on the bathroom counter. “Have a bath.” He opens the window onto the meadow. “We can eat in an hour.” He kisses me one last time, leaving me hot and bothered.
Okay, razor, bath salts, vanilla shampoo, Nair … Yes, Nair. Russian waxing lady is out of town. Reilly suggested Nair for all bikini areas in lieu of my Playboy wax. I read the directions and apply to sides and top of the “flower” area.
Sitting perfectly still, I pour myself another glass of wine. Two glasses down the hatch and eleven minutes later I gently rinse the “flower” area and like a miracle, I am hairless.
This stuff rocks!
I ease into the bath, pour myself a third glass of wine and begin to lather my hair. As I lay back, I realize that the shampoo smells funny. Not like vanilla at all, more like, well, hummm, like …
FUCK! NAIR!
I put Nair in my hair.
Jumping out of the tub, I slip on the floor and bash my shin into the rustic toilet basin. OW! I turn on the shower and quickly begin to scrub my hair, slowly looking at my hands for what I am sure will be clumps of hair. I pour half the bottle of vanilla shampoo over my head, rinse, shampoo, rinse, shampoo.
Jesus, that was a lucky call. This, I know somewhere in my heart, is Reilly’s fault.
Emily's Reasons Why Not Page 7
