Wedding Fever. Kim Gruenenfelder
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says, feigning enthusiasm. “You start what Monday?”
Jacquie pulls away from him. “Didn’t Nic tell you?”
Shit.
“I didn’t think anything was definite,” I say weakly.
“Tell me what?” Jason asks. “What job did you get?”
Jacquie proudly tells him, “I am the new junior speechwriter for the governor.” Then for added emphasis she happily screams, “Ah!”
Jason’s face falls. “Of California?”
“No. Of Rhode Island,” Jacquie jokes. “Of course, of California. He announces his candidacy for the U.S. Senate in the next week or two, so he’s expanding his staff. The mayor put in a good word for me. I didn’t think I had a shot in Hell, but I flew up there yesterday, and I guess I made an okay impression, because I got it!”
Jason looks shell-shocked but like he’s trying to cover. “You flew up to Sacramento?”
“I did!” Jacquie says, looking so happy she might burst out of her own skin. “I didn’t bother telling you because I didn’t think it was going to happen. But senator. Can you believe I have a shot at working in Washington, D.C., next year?”
“But what about the girls?” Jason blurts out. “We have a custody agreement.”
“Yeah, what about the girls?” I hear from the staircase. The three of us look up to see Megan standing at the top of the stairs. “I’m not moving to Sacramento,” she states firmly as she walks downstairs.
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to,” Jacquie says, walking halfway up the stairs and hugging her daughter. “I’ve got it all worked out. Sacramento is only an hour’s flight away. You girls will live with your father during the week, I’ll fly home every Friday night, pick you up, then drop you off on Sunday night, and fly back up. It’ll be exactly the same schedule you had before, just with your dad and me having you on opposite days than we did last year.”
“But what about our family cruise?” Megan asks. “It’s next week.”
From the look on her face, I can tell Jacquie hadn’t thought that one through. “Well . . .” she stalls. “We can still go. Just not next week.”
Megan gets a look of disgust on her face that should be reserved for teenaged girls and Simon Cowell. “Malika has been looking forward to that trip for six months!” she nearly screams at her mother. “You already postponed it once. How can you do it again?”
“Honey, I have to work,” Jacquie tells her apologetically. “We’ll find a different time.” Jacquie looks over at us. Her face lights up as she says, “And you’ll love Italy.”
Say what now?
Jason and I have the conversation that only couples can, which consists of no words and fleeting looks.
First look, a pleading expression from Jason: I’m sorry.
Second look, a shrug from me: It’s okay. It’ll be fine. They can come.
Third look, relief from Jason: I love you so much.
“Who goes with their dad on his honeymoon?” Megan asks in disgust.
“Lots of kids go on honeymoons with their parents,” Jacquie assures her. “I’ve read about the trips. They’re called familymoons. Why, I’m sure your dad and Nic could find you guys amazing things to do in Venice. They have gondolas, and pizza, which you love. Plus there’s . . .”
As Jacquie continues to sell her firstborn on the idea of Italy, I look up to see Malika, standing at the top of the stairs, silent and devastated. “But why can’t they just come on the cruise with us?” she begs her mother.
The girl looks heartbroken. Utterly heartbroken. As her mother walks up to her, she bursts into tears.
How can I enjoy the romance of Italy, knowing it came at the expense of a five-year-old’s happiness?
I immediately walk up the stairs and kneel down to be at eye level with Jason’s little girl. Then I muster up all the enthusiasm and excitement I have in me and tell her, “You know what would be really cool after the cruise is if the four of us went to Epcot. I hear they have a pretend St. Mark’s Square that’s even better than the real thing.”
Chapter Eight
Melissa
By 3:00 A.M., Scott has gone home, Seema is in her room, and I’m in my old bedroom at her place, the one I lived in before Fred and I moved in together.
My old room.
God damn it. I loved living here— don’t get me wrong. I love my friends, I loved feeling like part of a family that I picked out, and being surrounded by people who loved me and accepted me for who I really am.
But, at the same time, when I moved out, I felt a little smug. Not smug— that might be the wrong word. But I was the first one of us to move in with the love of her life. And, at the time, I thought I was just months away from being the first of us to get engaged.
Back then, I was absolutely giddy that my life was moving forward. I had been sure that I was the smartest and the luckiest of the three of us. In my mind, I was the chosen one, because someone had literally chosen me! I wasn’t quite thirty yet, but I had managed to figure out the secret to having it all: a job I loved and a boyfriend who wanted me to move in. (Fine, allowed me to move in. But I’m not the first woman in the world who ever gave an ultimatum. I’m not even the first one today.)
And now, at thirty-two, my life has just taken a giant fucking U-turn, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
I feel completely powerless, helpless, and useless.
And as much as I know I have to leave, my mind is racing for something he can do to win me back.
The rest of the evening wasn’t too bad. Fred called a bunch of times but, with the help of my friends, I had the strength not to answer the phone. Scott went to Fred’s house and packed a whole suitcase for me. I have no idea what he said to Fred, but somehow he managed to convince him to give me a night or two to cool off.
Then Scott came back to Seema’s and tried to cheer me up as I continued writing my list of things I hate about Fred.
I had written sixty-two things down and left room at the bottom of the last page for more. The list zigzagged from petty to huge: his blaring U2 I guess is minor— his lying and cheating is gigantic.
And now, sitting in bed alone, I look through my list and add number sixty-three.
63. Knew if I ever found out that he had an affair, it would break my heart. Did it anyway.
I begin to cry again. Soon, my crying turns into loud sobbing, and my stomach hurts again from my violent hyperventilating.
Seema is through my bedroom door in no time flat and pulls me into a hug. “I know . . .” she says gently. She hands me a box of Kleenex, and I quickly pull out a fistful of tissues.
After a few more minutes, I stop crying enough to blow my nose and dry my eyes. “I think I might be running out of tears,” I tell her through my stuffed-up nose.
“Do you want me to get you some water?” Seema asks me. “Or a cocoa or something?”
“Water,” I say weakly. She stands up. “You want to try and get some food into you too?” Seema asks. “I have tons of leftover cheese and crackers.”
I shake my head. “If I eat, I’ll throw up.”
“Booze?” she asks.
“If I drink, I’ll throw up.”
“Cigar?” Seema asks.
I raise one eyebrow. She found my weakness. I might be pathetically clutching at straws for