Wedding Fever. Kim Gruenenfelder
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at any given moment. Women like that don’t need to force the issue of marriage— it’s just part of the natural course of things for them. Like having exactly one boy and one girl, so you don’t miss out on the experience of parenting either one. And being supported by your husband if you choose to quit your job to go be a mom for ten years. And by that I mean supported both financially and emotionally— like having a guy around who loves you enough to want to have kids with you.
Fred doesn’t want kids. Or at least not with me. I’m a high school calculus and physics teacher, and any time I mention kids, he counters my hints by pointing out that boys with mothers who are freakishly good in math have a much higher incidence of autism and Asperger’s.
Which might be true. I wasn’t the easiest kid to raise, and maybe these days I’d be diagnosed with one of those disorders. I have to force myself to look people in the eye— I hate doing it. Always have. That’s a sign of both Asperger’s and autism. Plus I have a high IQ: 177. That’s frequently another sign.
Fred’s laughing as he finishes his story about someone at his law firm. (He’s a divorce lawyer. Which might be why he’s so anti-marriage.)
Instead of laughing with him, I’ll admit I’m kind of in my own world tonight. Fred takes my hand and asks me sweetly, “Are you okay? You seem . . . distant.”
“Sorry,” I say, sad but trying to cover.
Should I tell him about the ring charm? Ruin a perfectly good evening by bringing up marriage again? Maybe. I mean, honesty is supposed to be the cornerstone of a good relationship. Why shouldn’t I let him know how much his actions are hurting me?
I chicken out. “I was just thinking about how happy Nic and Jason looked earlier today. Like they’ve never not known each other. Pretty amazing after only one year together.”
Fred starts chuckling. He says playfully, “Here it comes.”
I know very fucking well what he means, but I still ask in irritation, “Here what comes?”
“Oh, isn’t marriage wonderful?” Fred says in a dreamy voice. “We should think about getting married. We’d have the cutest children.”
He playfully touches my nose and jokes, “Trying to give me ideas.”
God, I am so sick of this. I push his hand away from me. “I wasn’t doing anything except telling you how happy they looked.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. Now you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m tired,” I say. “It’s been six years. A girl gets tired after six years.”
Fred gets a pained expression on his face. “Mel, I’m just not there yet.”
“Six years,” I repeat, my voice rising. “When are you going to be there? Seven? Eight? Twenty? Just give me a number, so I know what my options are.”
Fred looks around the restaurant self-consciously, then leans in toward me and lowers his voice. “Honey, please don’t do this.”
I make a conscious effort to keep my voice low, but can still hear myself getting angrier. “Seriously, what is it going to take? What event has to happen that you suddenly realize that you love me, and that you want to spend the rest of your life with me?”
Fred looks down at the tablecloth, and away from me. “I don’t know,” he says sadly. “But can’t we just have a nice evening? Do we have to have this fight again tonight?”
I sigh, too. I hate not getting through to him. He either doesn’t know how important this is to me, or doesn’t care.
And I know exactly what’s going to happen tonight. First, I will have a fleeting thought in my head of how I will live without him. About how I’ll go home, right after dinner, pack my bags, move out of his house, and move back in with Seema. I’ll think about how I will finally have the courage to get on with my life. I’ll daydream that I’ll find a new guy who can make a commitment. Who loves me enough to make a commitment. I’ll imagine what it’ll be like and wonder whether or not I am strong enough to do this— to be by myself after six years. And by the time dessert comes, in my head we’ll be broken up. It will just be a matter of saying it aloud.
And then, over dinner Fred will become the sweetest, most attentive boyfriend ever. He’ll tell me how much he loves me, hug me, passionately kiss me, give me the best sex of my life, and then fall asleep, with me fitting perfectly in his arms.
The next morning he’ll do something incredibly romantic: breakfast in bed, complete with champagne. Or an impromptu trip to Santa Barbara for the day. And I’ll be happy again (for the most part) and feel loved and trea sured (mostly). And I won’t bring up marriage again.
Until the next event happens that breaks my heart.
Fred gently takes my hand. “I have an early birthday present for you,” he says.
Yes—I am an idiot. As he fishes in his pocket, I feel a rushing surge of hope that he will pull out a square-shaped, velvet box.
Instead, he pulls out a travel magazine. “Here. Go to the page with the Post-it on it.”
I flip through to page ninety-seven, where I see a yellow Post-it over an article about Bora Bora, and a picture of overwater bungalows looking out over a large mountain. “It’s beautiful,” I say, confused.
“We’re going,” Fred says, flashing me a wide grin. “For ten days. Tahiti, then Bora Bora. Starting the day after Nic’s wedding. Check out the next page— it shows what our room looks like.”
I go to the next page to see the inside of a bungalow built right over the turquoise-blue water. It is stunning: there’s a high ceiling with a thatched roof, teakwood furnishings, a king-size bed with a fluffy white comforter, and plenty of cushy pillows everywhere. In the step-down living room part of the suite is a glass coffee table that you can flip open to feed the tropical fish swimming beneath.
“You got off work?” I ask him incredulously. Fred works all the time. We haven’t had a vacation together in two years, and even then it was a four-day weekend to see his family in New York.
“I thought I needed to take some time for us to just be alone together and reconnect,” Fred tells me. “As much as I love you, it seems like we’ve been drifting apart lately.”
I smile as I read about ladders that take you from your room right into the warm turquoise waters of the Pacific. “You can swim with dolphins at this hotel?” I ask, happily surprised. I look up from the magazine. “I’ve always wanted to swim with dolphins.”
Fred is clearly excited to elaborate about his surprise. “I’ve signed us up for that. And we’re going to do this picnic on a private island that’s only accessible by boat. Plus there’s snorkeling and water sports. And this amazing gourmet restaurant . . .”
I smile, stand up, and give Fred a big hug. “I love it. Thank you.”
Fred hugs me back. “I love you so much,” he says softly, then kisses me.
I give him another kiss, then sit back down.
Life is pretty good. I look at the pictures dreamily again and sigh. “I’ll bet they have a spa there. Maybe the two of us could get a couple’s . . .”
And then the strangest thing happens. Fred looks over my shoulder, and all of the color drains from his face.
I turn around to see a strikingly beautiful woman staring at him from the maître d’s podium. She is stunning. Looks like Bar Refeali’s way cuter sister.
I turn back to Fred. “What?”
“Uh . . . nothing,” he barely manages to squeak out. “Just a client. I did her divorce a few months ago. I’ll be right back.”
Fred throws down his napkin and quickly rushes up to the woman. She looks beyond thrilled to run into him, quickly giving him a tight hug and