Wedding Fever. Kim Gruenenfelder
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true,” Jason agrees. “It’s a good start, though.”
I’m starting to get uncomfortable. I know Jason would like another kid. We’ve talked about it: buying a cute crib, getting the baby a little basketball, loving each other so much that we want to make a new life. But . . . I’m just not there yet.
“Can we talk about something else?” I ask.
“Sure,” Jason says. And I love him for that. “So what charms did everyone get? Did Seema get her red hot chili pepper?”
“No, Mel pulled that.”
“What’s Mel going to do with a chili pepper?”
Chapter Ten
Melissa
It’s Tuesday night, and I’m finally starting to feel like maybe I did the right thing.
I think.
I’ve just read an article about surviving breakups that instructs you to “journal” how you’re feeling about the breakup. You start by writing down three pages of what ever gibberish goes through your brain. It can be anything from, “I’m hungry,” to “Fred’s a jerk,” to “Why do men cheat?” to “Man, now I really want a cookie.”
After completing the three pages of non sequiturs racing through your brain, you should begin writing specifically about your relationship, your man, and any questions and fears you have about the breakup.
The process is supposed to help you see clearly what scares you about being alone, then help you find ways to deal with your fears and move on with your life.
I’m sitting in my room by myself, listening to deafening silence. Seema and Scott are out getting us filets. They’ve been great, and when I’m with them I can get through the hours, the minutes, the seconds of this hideous week. But when there’s no one else around, I immediately sink back into feeling desperate, sick, and rudderless.
I grab a blank yellow legal pad from my home desk and fiercely scribble down:
What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t he want me? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that really was just a client. Maybe I’m an idiot for even entertaining that notion. Maybe if I had just
My cell phone rings. I pick it up from my nightstand and stare at the caller ID. It’s Fred again. He’s been calling nonstop for days.
Now I know how addicts feel. I’m sick to my stomach and miserable. I know it’s better for me not to have him around, but I’m not sure how much longer I can stand feeling this way. Fred is my drug. I know he’s bad for me, but I just want to be out of pain at this exact moment. I pick up the phone, succumbing to my fix. I’ll deal with the consequences of my actions later. I’ll have will-power later. Right now, I just desperately need to be out of pain.
“Hello,” I answer.
There’s silence for a few seconds on his end. “You picked up . . .” Fred finally says, a little startled. “I was going to leave you another message. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “What were you going to say on the message?”
“That I happened to be in the neighborhood, and I wanted to know if you’ll have dinner with me. Any place— you choose.”
Fred lives and works in Brentwood. We’re all the way out in Hollywood. “What are you doing so far from home?” I ask him.
“Driving around your block over and over again, hoping you’d pick up the phone,” Fred tells me.
Inwardly, that rock that’s been in my stomach for days slowly begins to dissolve.
Fred continues, “I have a bouquet of roses resting on the passenger seat for you too. Can we go somewhere and talk?”
The tension in my body slowly, but continually, begins melting away. “Are they silver?” I ask him.
“Of course they’re silver. But you can’t have them unless you have dinner with me.”
I glance over to look at the mirror on my wall. I don’t want him to see me like this. My eyes are puffy, my skin is blotchy and red. “I can’t really go tonight. Scott and Seema are out getting us steaks.”
“And you want to be the third wheel watching Seema not make her move again?” Fred jokes. Then he boy-whines, “Come on. Go out with me!”
They are going to be so mad if I go out to see Fred. Still— I do need to get the rest of my stuff out of his condo, and it would be easier if I had a bit of closure. “Actually I wasn’t hungry for steak— I was just being polite to Seema. I could go for some seafood, though.”
“What about the Water Grill in downtown?” Fred suggests.
It didn’t take long for me to brush my hair, throw on a nice dress (the place is rather formal by L.A. standards), and leave a note for Seema and Scott.
Within the hour, Fred and I are sitting at a beautiful table against the wall in the dark, clubby, Art Deco dining room at Water Grill. We start with some drinks: Fred gets his usual dirty martini made with Grey Goose. I opt for a glass of Ariadne, a wonderful mix of sémillon and sauvignon blanc that Nic introduced me to.
Water Grill is known for its oysters, so Fred starts with half a dozen Beau Soleil oysters, then orders the Wild Skeena River king salmon. I start with the Long Cove oysters, then have the spiny lobster tail.
On the drive over, conversation was stilted, but safe: he told me how nice I looked and asked about my preparations for the coming school year. I asked him about his work. We talked about the Dodgers’s chances of clinching a spot in the playoffs and the latest U2 album.
But once we had ordered, and each of us had a drink in front of us, the real conversation began.
“I didn’t sleep with her,” Fred tells me softly but firmly as he stares into his martini glass. “I know what I did was really wrong, and I know that you’ll probably never be able to forgive me. But I just wanted you to know the truth. I would never do that to you. I would never hurt you like that.”
I look down at my glass of wine. “I know,” I say, and I think I mean it. “But you have to understand how humiliating that was for me.”
Fred nods his head almost sheepishly. His eyes flit around the room. I continue staring at my wine. Finally, he asks, “So . . . where are we?”
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