Not Quite A mom

by Kirsten Sawyer

  “Of course. Is there some sort of a problem with Elizabeth’s department?” she asks.

  Inside I seethe that she would assume such a thing, but secretly I rejoice at the train they are about to run her over with.

  “Not at all,” Kevin reassures her. “Why don’t we step into your office,” he suggests.

  Renee looks confused but leads the executives out my door and down the hall to her posh corner office that is decorated more like a living room than a place of business.

  As soon as they are out of earshot, I let out a squeal of joy. This is a sign…it’s a sign that all my hard work is finally paying off. I’m finally on the road to having the life I’ve dreamed of. I think it’s a sign that Plan D is going to work and things will once and for all be perfect.

  I pick up the phone to spread my news, and once again the first person I think of to dial is Buck. I hang up the phone…I can’t call him. I need to get him out of my head—permanently. Instead, I call out my door, “Hope! It’s promotion time!” and as I wait for her to come in, the fantasy of being in Us Weekly fills my head again.

  40

  A few nights later, I am sitting in my apartment with Tiffany and Courtney finalizing the brilliant (horrific) plan that is Plan D.

  “Okay.” Courtney leads the group. “So we know that every morning Dan leaves his apartment at eight thirty-five,” she says, pointing to a large white page on which she has drawn a clock with the small hand on the eight and the big hand on the seven. She’s being extremely dramatic, but it’s pretty entertaining so Tiffany and I are going along with it. “Now,” she continues, “it is my recommendation that you be parked down the street from his apartment no later than eight twenty-five on the designated morning (which happens to be tomorrow) to ensure that you are ready to go.”

  I nod my head in agreement. This isn’t the first time that she has laid this all out for me. The first time, she admitted that while she has never actually performed the reverse rear-end bump, she has followed people many times and has a lot of light to shed on that topic. The plan isn’t complicated, and this repeat run-through isn’t necessary except to make me laugh at Courtney acting like she’s preparing troops to go into battle.

  She’s getting to my least favorite part—the part where there is metal-to-metal contact between my adorable BMW and Dan’s perfect Audi—when the doorbell rings. I jump up to answer, confused, since I’m not expecting anyone (my only two friends are already inside). On the other side of the door stands a man, his entire face and most of his torso covered by an arrangement of yellow roses with red tips, and hot-pink roses. They are just starting to bloom, and the swirls of pink, yellow, and red makes the bouquet look like a perfect California sunset.

  “Elizabeth Castle?” he asks, his voice muffled through the sea of blooms.

  “Yes,” I say, astounded and excited that the roses are for me and he didn’t say something like, ‘Your neighbor’s not home, can I leave these here?’ “Sign here,” he says, shifting the entire arrangement to one side and holding out a small clipboard.

  I quickly sign and take the flowers, which turn out to be in a basket filled with moss and ivy. It’s a signature arrangement from Mark’s Garden, one of the best florists in Los Angeles. If there are flowers from a celebrity wedding in a magazine, chances are that Mark’s Garden was responsible, and Renee insists that a fresh bouquet from the florist fill her dressing room every three days. As I struggle to close the door and balance the heavy arrangement, my mind races trying to figure out the sender’s identity.

  Could it be Renee? Seems unlikely, since at this point in time her sending me dead flowers feels more realistic. Besides Courtney though, she’s the only one I can think of who could afford them.

  “I wonder who they’re from!” Tiffany asks in awe. I am quite certain that she’s never seen anything like this in Victory, since the town’s little florist shop is mostly filled with carnations wrapped in cellophane.

  “Maybe we won’t need Plan D after all,” Courtney suggests, and my heart soars at the thought…on all fronts it would be a dream come true.

  I struggle over to the small bistro table, which is completely covered by the arrangement, and search around the mass of roses for the small card I know must be tucked somewhere. At last I find it, tied subtly to an especially large pink rose. Excitedly, I rip the miniature envelope open and read the note.

  Elizabeth—

  You’ve already mastered breaking hearts and burning feet…now break a leg.

  Yours,

  Buck

  I’m speechless. Simultaneously, I am devastated and thrilled. I knew before I opened it that the flowers weren’t from Dan. Never in his life has he ordered from Mark’s Garden, but it would have been so easy if they had been. Receiving these flowers (and this note) from Buck is a bad thing—it only feeds the feelings I am desperately trying to quell…but it feels so good. I silently stare at the little white card and read his message over and over. “Breaking hearts…” What does he mean by that?

  “Well?!?” Tiffany almost screams, bursting with anticipation.

  I look down at Tiff and Courtney, their faces portraying their eagerness to know the sender’s identity. How will Courtney take this? I subtly palm the tiny note. “They are a congratulations bouquet from Buck,” I say trying to sound nonchalant. “I don’t even know how he knew I got promoted,” I add.

  “I told him,” Tiffany booms proudly, and gives me a look that clearly goes along with the talk she gave me regarding Buck’s great worth.

  I glance at Courtney, who looks a little confused. “That’s weird,” she says, “he never sends me flowers. I wonder what’s going on?”

  Even though it’s against my better judgment and I hate doing it in front of Tiffany for fear that I will add fuel to her fire to get me together with Buck, I can’t pass up the opportunity.

  “What is going on with you guys?” I probe, careful to avoid eye contact with either of them.

  “Uh, I dunno,” she groans. I’m nervous she’s going to stop there, but it’s not Courtney’s style. “To be honest, it’s not really going anywhere. I mean, he’s totally hot…but he’s kind of a prude…and he’s sort of boring,” she explains, twisting a blonde ringlet around her finger as she talks.

  I try to be reserved, but I can’t hide my smile. I am completely relieved that she considers him a prude. I still can’t stand the thought of anything happening between them.

  “Buck’s not boring!” Tiffany defends him.

  I’m glad to hear he’s boring—just another reason why he isn’t right for me. If he bores Courtney, it means that despite the sexy tuxedo and the beautiful flowers, he is the small-town meathead I thought he was.

  “All he ever wants to talk about is Elizabeth,” Courtney complains to Tiffany, and my cheeks flush. She doesn’t dwell on it though. “Anyway,” she continues, “we should probably finish going over this stuff so you’re ready for tomorrow.” She flips to another page of diagrams. On this page, she has drawn two cars colliding and hearts floating up from the wreckage.

  Tiffany gives me another look, her eyebrows raised. I know that if she could speak freely she would repeat, “All he ever wants to talk about is Elizabeth.” She wouldn’t need to repeat it because it’s playing nonstop in my head.

  I glance back at the flowers. They are more than just a friendly “Congratulations” bouquet…aren’t they? Red roses mean love, but what does yellow with red rims mean and what does hot pink signify? And the note…the note is extremely suggestive, isn’t it? Or is it just meant to be funny? The only thing I know for sure is that it’s the time of year that roses smell the best, and this many in my apartment is creating an overwhelming scent that I find completely intoxicating.

  41

  Buck knows that Lizzie thinks of the auction as a complete disaster, but he actually considers it to have been a pretty successful weekend—at least the first half. He was finally able to get time alone with Lizzie and was pos
itive that he felt the connection between them that he had sensed lingering all this time—she was the one who had kissed him after all, and the kiss was amazing. It was everything Buck had hoped it would be—and it definitely wasn’t a surprise to him that their lips ended up locked. He had pulled out all the stops.

  The only unfortunate thing was that Dan the Asshole picked that moment to expose Courtney and Elizabeth as imposters and party crashers. Buck could only imagine where the night might have gone if he’d had just a few more seconds. In his mind, their kiss would have happened in time to leave the event before the bidding on Daniel McCafferty even began. The upside was that Buck felt certain that after seeing how nasty Dan was, Lizzie would once and for all be over the jerk. Unfortunately, the next morning, her behavior toward Buck had returned to being mysteriously vague and she was talking about other ideas to get back together with Dan.

  Sunday morning as their group left Du-Pars, Elizabeth and Courtney were deep in conversation about the particulars of yet another moronic plan, this one dubbed “Plan D.” Tiffany fell behind and walked alongside Buck.

  “I don’t know what her deal is,” the teenager explained, a hint of sorrow in her voice.

  “Me neither,” Buck agreed.

  “I wish the two of you would end up together,” Tiffany admitted somewhat wistfully, and when she did, a light went on in Buck’s head. Tiffany could be his man on the inside. She knew every detail about Lizzie’s life because she lived right in the middle of it.

  “Me too,” Buck answered quietly, on high alert to gauge her response.

  “You do?!?” Tiffany gasped. “Maybe I could help you!” she offered, enthusiastically taking his bait.

  “Maybe you could,” Buck told her. Even in front of Tiffany he didn’t want to appear desperate.

  From that moment on, Buck had Tiffany in his corner and the playing field suddenly sloped drastically in his favor. That very night Tiffany asked Lizzie about Buck and reported back that there was a lot of blushing, and that concern over Courtney’s feelings was the only hang-up about getting together with Buck that she could verbalize. Every day Buck and Tiffany would talk and she would give him updates on the progress of Plan D and what was going on in Lizzie’s life, including the big promotion at work that propelled her to become the cohost of the show. As soon as Buck hung up with Tiffany, he called the florist in Los Angeles (actually Sherman Oaks) that he had heard Lizzie talk about at the date auction and spent a ridiculous amount on flowers.

  Buck knew what time the flowers would be delivered and waited patiently by the phone for Elizabeth’s thank-you call. He knew it would come, he just had to wait a couple of hours. A little after ten o’clock, his phone rang.

  “Buck, I don’t know what to say,” Lizzie said, truly sounding like her breath was taken away. “They are the most beautiful flowers ever.”

  “I’m glad you like them. Congratulations,” Buck replied.

  The call lasted over two hours. They talked about almost everything that had happened in their lives since the night of Buck’s senior prom. He told her about playing Wildcat football and attending law school, she told him about her days at UCLA and how she ended up in her current position at The Renee Foster Show!. By the end of the call, Buck could hardly keep his eyes open, but even after they said good night and hung up, he had trouble falling asleep. He was completely crazy about Lizzie and had a feeling she might be feeling the same way about him.

  42

  I think the reason I put off calling to thank Buck for the beautiful flowers until after ten o’clock is because I have a feeling I know how it will end. I wait until Courtney has gone home and Tiffany has gone to sleep before getting in my own bed and dialing Buck’s number on my cordless phone. The moment he says, “Hello??” little shivers begin to travel my spine. The conversation is so easy and natural—two hours and twenty minutes fly by, and even after that long I want to talk more. After exchanging sleepy “goodnights,” I click off my phone and hold it tightly to my chest. My mind can’t help but wander back to the night of the charity auction and my kiss with Buck. I wonder where it would have gone if Dan hadn’t snapped me back to reality? Ugh…Dan…I really don’t want to think about him tonight—tomorrow morning, in a few short hours, I’m supposed to attempt the reverse rear-end that will hopefully reunite me with Dan once and for all.

  I go back to thinking about Buck, and I picture him sitting in his comfortably messy (I have no idea how I have changed so much as to recognize that there could be comfort among mess) living room talking to me on the phone. In my version, he is wearing the long mesh gym shorts he often wears around his house, but his perfectly toned chest is bare. I let my imagination take me away and I find myself in the house with him, summoning him to his bedroom. I am wearing the lingerie purchased for the charity auction, and when he sees me, a noticeable bulge rises in his gym shorts and his blue eyes twinkle mischievously. He reaches out and pulls me into his body with one strong arm and kisses me the way he did at the auction. Quickly though, his kissing becomes more passionate and moves down my body. He gently removes the black lace bra and softly kisses my erect nipples. In my fantasy I groan quietly with pleasure, but I also let out a small moan in the silence of my bedroom, startling myself. I close my eyes again and allow Buck to lay me down on his bed and climb on top of me, his skin smooth and warm. I desperately want him inside me, but all I can do is reach into the small drawer of my nightstand and take out my pink plastic vibrator. As I insert it, another small groan of pleasure escapes me and I scold myself that this will be the last time I fantasize about Buck Platner.

  43

  The next morning, when my alarm goes off early, it takes me a minute to remember why I am waking up at such an ungodly hour. When it dawns on me that the day of the reverse rear-end has arrived, I contemplate turning off the alarm and going back to sleep. I remind myself that I can’t—getting back together with Dan is the best thing for me, and if Plan D can make it happen, then it’s worth a shot.

  I carefully apply my makeup so that it looks like I’m not wearing any—the way Dan likes it—and get dressed. I’m a ball of nerves both about hurting my precious car and facing Dan again. Let’s be honest: all the previous encounters have gone quite poorly and I’m anxious that this one will be the same. I step out of my room, ready to go, in hopes that Tiffany will be waiting to wish me good luck. She’s not, the door to her room is shut and she must still be asleep. I bypass the kitchen, too nervous to eat, and leave the apartment. When I arrive at my car, I am overcome with guilt…there it sits, innocently waiting for me to come and drive to work. “I’m sorry,” I tell it as I get inside and put my workbag on the passenger seat.

  There is only a small amount of traffic and I’m parked down the street from Dan’s apartment at twenty minutes after eight. Now I just have to sit and wait for Dan to leave. I feel completely self-conscious, as if all the neighbors are looking out their windows and talking about how incredibly pathetic I have become. I feel completely ashamed—I have become pathetic. As I sit there, I try to look as if I have a purpose and I’m not just waiting to stalk my ex-boyfriend. I pull out some paperwork regarding next week’s show. I look like someone who’s waiting to pick up a coworker, I decide, and hope that the people who have walked by either with their dogs or to their own cars think that’s my purpose as well. I hold the stack of papers in front of my face, high enough so that I have some coverage, but low enough so that I can see the driveway of Dan’s apartment. His building has underground parking and I keep my eye on the gate for signs of movement. As I sit there, I can’t help thinking about Buck and our conversation. We talked about everything going on in our lives—except Plan D (or A, B and C)—and the feeling that I kept it from him adds to my growing shame.

  At 8:36, I see the wrought iron gate in front of Dan’s driveway start to move and his blue Audi emerges. The butterflies in my stomach begin to swarm and I start the engine and pull away from the curb. I follow Dan for a few blocks
, staying a couple of cars behind him to avoid being seen. About a mile into it, my confidence emerges and I know it’s time to go past him. It’s important not to look at Dan while I’m doing this. Just in case he notices me, it’s best to look like I don’t notice him—like it’s just a coincidence that we’re on the same road at the same time. I move into the left lane, which is moving slightly faster than the right, and I apply pressure to the gas. The car obediently charges forward and a few seconds later, I am past Dan. I realize once I am ahead of him that I had been holding my breath, and I let out a huge rush of air…it’s time to get into position for the reverse rear-end. I watch in my rearview mirror for the moment to pull in front of Dan. This is the moment when getting caught is the greatest risk, but about a million people in L.A. have white BMW convertibles, so I just have to hope that the car doesn’t attract Dan’s attention too much.

  Suddenly, there it is…the opening in the traffic and the spot that I need to pull into. I quickly turn on my signal and start to move over. Before my car is safely in the right lane, I hear a huge crashing sound and feel a bang from behind and to the right. I’ve been hit! I don’t know what to do—I am absolutely paralyzed by shock. I stop the car and take inventory of my body…I’m in one piece and nothing seems injured. I can’t believe this is happening to me. Not only is my precious car damaged, but I didn’t even get to do the reverse rear-end that was going to reunite me with Dan. I slump over the steering wheel and break into tears.

  The sound of someone tapping on my window gets my attention, and through tear-filled eyes I look to my left.

  “Are you okay?” the person is yelling through the glass. “Can you move to the side?”

  Suddenly I remember that in an accident you’re not supposed to completely block Wilshire Boulevard while you bawl your eyes out. I nod and collect myself enough to maneuver the car two lanes over and into a vacant parking spot. I am so upset by the accident that my body is actually shaking and my head is spinning. Trying hard to remember the protocol, I reach into the glove compartment for my registration and insurance information. I finally find it and open the door to find the other person involved—I’m really not even sure if I am at fault or not. I stand up and my legs feel as wobbly as noodles. I look around me, but everything is a blur behind the watery tears that still fill my eyes. In an instant, someone—a man—rushes up and grabs me.