Apron Anxiety (18 page)

Over silver-glittered banners and cases of Bud Light, I was wildly happy watching Chef bond with my cousin “Little
Lori,” as she’s the oldest and has always been the leader of us “kids,” and I couldn’t wait for him to connect with the rest. But as the restaurant gods would have it, after two hours of fun and relaxation, Chef was summoned back to Washington for a work “emergency.” It wasn’t an easy decision, and he couldn’t have been more gracious with my relatives in his good-byes, but he booked a trip home at the closest airport before even meeting my grandmother.

“It’s usually not like this.… Don’t worry.… I smell Dunkin’ Donuts French Vanilla coffee!” I said, deflecting the reality of my relationship to Little Lori and the cousins as my dad sped off, helping Chef make his flight. I’ve become accustomed to such cover-ups. The only thing worse than feeling mistreated by your fiancé is feeling pitied by everyone else.

“You make too many excuses for him,” said my sister, feeding me a piece of my engagement cake at the end of the night.

“Rach, don’t go there, okay?”

I’m protective of us in public, but back home it’s another story. We fight, we kick, we scream, we spiral into severe warfare. And then he does something wonderful and delicious to exonerate himself, like honking the horn outside the house, in a rented red Vespa, and driving us to the Washington Monument for a midnight picnic of pink lemonade and homemade pie. Then we both feel better, the air is lighter, and we can, at the very least, breathe. He always admits he was sorely wrong, that he’s struggling with his own issues. And when all is confessed and forgiven, we curl up with our TV shows, sleep in our favorite position, and he swears he’ll never be so vile again.

“I’m a good person,” he repeats, in my arms. “I know you are,” I whisper, praying we’ll be okay. “But show me, don’t tell me.”

Jennifer is throwing the year’s most exclusive and imaginative New York City event, a celebration of both food and art, and she’s gone out of her way to give us two free tickets. She’s also sitting us next to Mario Batali and his wife, Susi—which no doubt, is for our benefit, not theirs. I go to the city a few days before Chef to scout restaurants and rooftop gardens for our wedding, which we’ve barely talked about, but I think could be something positive to look forward to, in lieu of all the fighting. I’m considering our big day to be more like a lovely cocktail party, with no more than thirty people, where I’ll wear yellow and he’ll wear scruff, and at some point we’ll say, “Let’s do it.”

I find a breathtaking landmark town house downtown, drenched in famously outrageous works of photography and whimsical decor, and known for its excellent food, no less, so I think it’s meant to be. I e-mail Chef several pictures and concepts, and he writes back several hours later, “Awesome, boo. See you tonight!” The only opening for a wedding in the next year is four months away, in October, which is just over a year since our engagement. I take joy in the immediacy of this, knowing that too much wedding planning can kill a couple, and I write a personal check for the down payment. “I booked it!” I text Chef, with a follow-up note to absolutely, positively keep that weekend open.

Later that night, I’m on my way to Jennifer’s event, immaculately stuffed into my first Herve Leger “bandage” dress, which I bought on a whim at Bergdorf while in the best mood after booking the town house. I call Chef to make sure he knows how to find the party from Penn Station. I’m so ready for a fun night out with him. But he doesn’t pick up my call. I dial again and again, and go straight to voice mail each time. “WHERE ARE YOU?” I text him, in front of the venue, pacing in circles,
buckled into my strappy metallic shoes, with perspiration rings under my million-dollar pits.

He calls and predicates the conversation by saying, “Don’t yell at me, okay?”

“Just tell me you’re close, sweetie, please?” I say, begging.

“Things got crazy here.… I lost track of time … and missed my train.”

I am disgusted by his behavior. Jennifer went out of her way for us, and could have asked
anyone
to come as her guests. She’s been so good me, taught me about the kitchen, and helped me break into food writing. Walking in alone, I’m blistering with anger, and I’m also getting nervous about mingling with such fancy-minded people by myself. Fortunately, I suppose, I missed most of the free-roaming cocktail hour by waiting for him, pathetically, outside, and by the time I check my coat, it’s dinnertime with arranged seating. In a room filled with five hundred people, the chair to my right is the only one empty.

“He bailed?” asks Jennifer, looking a little hurt, perhaps on my behalf, while warmly making the rounds, hugging her guests.

“I’m so sorry we didn’t give you more notice,” I say, ashamed.

Everyone sitting at my table, including Mario Batali and his wife, tries to gloss over it. They’re all successful people, primarily in the restaurant business, who know more than anyone what I’ve signed up for. But nothing can console me. Instead of enjoying the masterful creation—one ton of ribs with honey dripping from the ceiling above, playful watercoolers filled with fine red wine, and sparse and cynical table settings of huge steel pots and loose utensils—I excuse myself to call him and lose my shit in the stairwell.

“All you do is disappoint me, my family, and my friends,” I wail into the phone. “I can’t take this anymore!” He cries back
that he’s exhausted, overextended, and dealing with his own inner demons. “No, you’re just a selfish asshole!” I scream. I cannot control my thick tears, so I hang up and leave the most eye-opening party I’ve ever been to, just as Jennifer is handing out hammers for her guests to demolish an edible installation of enormous, chocolate bunnies, an homage to the artist Jeff Koons.

And the beat goes on. He waits a few days for me to forgive him, working my heartstrings hard. And of course, I do. It’s our year of erratic behavior, our constant benders of love and hate. I push and he pulls, and then we wait for it to pass.

Chef knows I’ve reserved the town house for our wedding, but we still have all the rest of the planning left. “It’s your thing, Lys!” is the longest conversation we’ve had about it. I suspect that I’m rushing things and that getting married when we aren’t in the best place is probably exacerbating whatever defects we might have. But he put the ring on my finger—isn’t this what happens next? We obviously have our issues, but I’m trying to soldier on.

I send out an informal save-the-date and hire a duo of amazing folk singers that I once heard on the subway. I start to look for dresses—nothing from stuffy bridal departments, but exquisite gowns because … why not? My relationchef is stressing me out so much that even the smallest sizes are falling off my 5′6″, suddenly 104-pound frame. It’s like my body is waging war on something, but I don’t know exactly what. Bella asks if I’ve ever been this skinny before, and I tell her once, in college.

We find a private little dress boutique in a carriage house in Georgetown. The owner has peacock feathers in her hair and Chanel lipstick on her teeth and she’s determined to get me undressed and into some seriously stunning couture. Bella and I have such a wild afternoon modeling boustiers and dancing in
boas. We clamp and pin me into many magnificent dresses … vintage Prada, elegant YSL, and gorgeous Gucci. Everything is secondhand, with sensational stories to go along with them. We strike all sorts of poses and text glamour-puss shots to our respective fiancés. Bella’s guy writes back, “Oh la la!” I get radio silence. “Must be the lunch rush,” I lie affirmatively. (Several hours later, he writes back, “No offense, Lys, but you look scary.”)

It’s hard to keep my spirits up when Chef is being so coldhearted, but I keep telling myself that it’s just an ugly phase and it will end soon. I try to talk to him about what’s going on beneath the surface. He says he’s under an exorbitant amount of pressure with work, and how sometimes he feels like he might actually crack, but that it has nothing to do with us.

“Are you sure?” I ask cautiously.

“Yeah, I mean, if we moved the wedding back, I’d definitely have more time to enjoy the planning with you,” he says, testing the waters.

“But October was the only day they had free. I told you this,” I retort, instantly annoyed.

“No, I know. Just saying.”

“If we waited until your life calmed down, we’d be dead before married,” I bark, ending the conversation.

He is obviously in a low place, but I turn a blind eye. I’m drained and just want the chef who made me reginatta by the sea to come back. But then again, he is waiting for the old me to resurface, too. The girl who walked into a glass wall in her willowy silhouette and spent her nights waiting up for him in next to nothing with rice pudding and the remote control. Now, here I am, impulsively planning a wedding that we don’t necessarily want, nagging him about red velvet cupcakes and handwritten vows, instead of nurturing our nearly broken love.

Careful not to pick at each other’s wounds, we have a few good early-summer days grilling chicken skewers and working on the garden. But there are still some important wedding decisions that I simply cannot make without him, and we’re running out of time. So I schedule a “nonnegotiable” twenty-minute meeting with him at the restaurant. As a preemptive strike, I come bearing gifts: strawberry shortcake for the Boys, rhubarb pie for the partners, and a random tie-dyed clipboard, which I found in a freebie box on someone’s stoop, for Chef to store his wedding notes on. I rehearse the conversation all morning long, while baking nonstop, and dealing with the nervous stomach that’s turned me into a sickly looking twig.
This shouldn’t be so difficult
.

I find Chef at the restaurant, dripping in sweat, laboriously unloading boxes in the attic. He doesn’t look too well himself today. It’s July and hot, and I think he slept for three hours at most last night. When I show him everything I baked and brought over, his eyes brighten, but only ephemerally.

“Shall we get down to business?” I smile, praying he’s going to play nice.

“Fine,” he says, fast and sharp.

We go downstairs to a private corner table. Chef is looking sicker and sicker. He is trying to say something but he’s shaking. I take both his hands in mine. “Hey, you can say
anything
to me, okay?”

And then the worst happens.

Chef says he’s agreed to host a cook-off, somewhere in Pennsylvania, on the weekend of our wedding. And that it’s probably better if we postpone our big day.

“Postpone it?” I say, crushed.

“Yeah, till spring or something?” he says, afraid to look in my eyes.

“Fuck you!”
I scream, throwing the clipboard across the room.

I storm away from the table, falling down half the flight of stairs. My knees are bloody and Chef is chasing me, but I get away as fast as I can. How dare he.

In the days that follow, Chef frantically takes back his words, a hundred times over, says that he’s canceled his event and that he’s back to being his old self,
a good person
. He says he wants babies, and to be a good son-in-law, and will even move us back to Manhattan. But quite frankly, I’m done with our drama. I call the landmarked town house, the subway musicians, the crazy couture lady, all my girlfriends, and everyone in my family, and tell them that Chef chose a barbecue instead of his bride, and that there will be no wedding.

With childlike desperation, he begs me not to go, but one week later, I flee C Street for a six-week escape to Los Angeles.

I can’t marry him and I can’t leave him. So I pronounce we’re on a long, hard break.