Cold Feet (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

I
n the kitchen the air smelled of coffee and eggs sizzled on the burner. I was momentarily cheered. Sam is an excellent cook of breakfast meals, but once it gets to be about noon, he's out. Presumably this has something to do with the first love of his life, bacon.

“Sugar?” Sam asked, stirring my embarrassing choice of two sugar cubes, along with a drop of milk, into a steaming mug. With his springy blond hair and startlingly blue eyes he constantly looks like he's auditioning for the role of a cherub. As always, when I looked directly into his eyes I was surprised at how cute he was. It was like unwrapping a present each time I saw him. I smoothed down my dark blond hair (I prefer this description to “dirty”), and tried to look like a sexy librarian rather than the nerd I felt like in my suit, or as I called it, my lawyer costume.

“Thanks, buddy.” I went over to the stove where he was pushing the eggs around with a spatula and meticulously adding shakes of salt and pepper. I hugged him from behind, resting my head on his back. I didn't know what I was so worried about in the shower. I definitely wanted to be with Sam. Maybe the problem was that we didn't live together yet, so I wasn't used to the idea of joining our lives, and subsequently, I was still a little scared of the concept of marriage. Maybe once he moved himself and all of his stuff in, it would feel more real. I looked around my little house, imagining it getting even smaller.

After Venice Beach went from gang-ridden and grimy to artsy and hip—the most complete of coincidences to my residential status—it became incredibly difficult to find an affordable place to live in my neighborhood. I was lucky to find a tiny studio bungalow that I could afford, five blocks from the beach, on a tiny tree-lined street. Contrary to popular belief, just because I was a corporate lawyer didn't mean I had a whole lot of spare cash. Nope, that bitch Sallie Mae took care of that.

My little house was extremely compact, but beautifully made. It had built-in shelves, large French windows, and a gorgeous ceramic kitchen sink. But the outside was the real selling point. The gate to the house led you into a secret garden–esque front yard, stuffed with thick palm trees, thick succulents, and lush flowers. All of this vegetation provided a filter for the constant Los Angeles sunlight, which shone through the palm fronds and created a lovely pattern throughout my house every afternoon. It's a fact of life that all girls have been longing for a secret garden ever since they read the book. Finally, at the age of twenty-nine, I had
one. Although in reality I had nothing to do with the sprawling vines or the delicately blooming flowers (my neighbors, landscape architects who loved to experiment on my yard, took care of that), I tried to keep the myth alive by smiling humbly when someone complimented my garden, and changing the subject when they asked me what kind of flowers I grew. Um, pink?

I loved it, but the place was pretty small. Because of this, when we got engaged, it seemed like a good idea to push back the move-in date. Frankly, I had no idea where to put Sam's stuff, and as an extremely tidy person—I can't concentrate all day if I don't make my bed in the morning—I wasn't about to throw it all in the corner willy-nilly. Besides, we spent almost every night together anyway. What was the difference?

Sam lived about a mile away, in a creaky dark-wooded beach house in Santa Monica, with an unmistakable shiplike vibe. At times, the sound of not-so-distant crashing waves could make you positively seasick. Or maybe that was just his cleaning habits. Sam was about as messy as I was clean. I'd actually seen him finish a bag of chips, drop it on the counter, and
walk away
. I was shocked, but at the same time, intrigued. When Sam has trash (at home at least, it's not like he littered or anything evil like that) he doesn't throw it away, he drops it and . . . leaves it. What must it be like to have such fascinatingly disgusting impulses? In order to avoid a full-blown panic attack, I tried not to think about what this inherent difference in personality meant for our future. It'll work itself out, I told myself. He'll get cleaner, or I'll loosen up. I can be chill, I assured myself, with the certain knowledge that this was a lie.

The big move was loosely scheduled for “right after” we returned from our honeymoon. The wedding was being held at a gorgeous, rambling Spanish hacienda I'd found in Santa Barbara, in what should be perfect Southern California September weather. The house was on a high bluff, one hundred years old, and steps from the beach, with a huge backyard framed by the ocean and the mountains. We would be married right at sunset, at what they called the “pink moment” when the fading sunlight creates a shade of pink in the air, which bounces off the mountains in the Ojai Valley to the east. I even drove up to Santa Barbara on a Saturday once, all by myself—since I was surprising Sam with that particular detail—to test it out. I found that standing with the ocean at your back, facing the pink hues in the distance, was truly magical.

The ceremony and the reception would both be held there, first, high on the bluff overlooking the mountain range in the distance, and then down to a party on the beach. The day after, we planned to leave for what Sam called the mystery honeymoon, which sounded like a prize on a game show but was really just because he was, supposedly, planning it alone.

That was the deal we'd made when we got engaged ten months earlier: I would plan the wedding, for the most part—I'd cleared the location and cocktail options with Sam—if he would organize the honeymoon. As I've mentioned, my mother isn't exactly a
Say Yes to the Dress
fan, so I was left to plan freely on my own, without going back and forth ten thousand times about the seating chart. It was kind of like when you're over at people's houses and they
insist on loading the dishwasher alone. “It's easier that way,” they claim. And of course it isn't, really, but it makes sense.

The question of when Sam was going to move in his stuff, and where we were going to put it all, was coming up with increasing frequency, and every time it did, it stressed me out more. I vocalized these thoughts over breakfast, hoping he would have some sort of magical solution.

“Well, have you ever thought about adding on to this house?” Sam suggested. “We could fit everything in here a lot better if we added another bedroom.”

“Are you kidding? We can't even afford patio furniture. Do you have a secret pile of money I don't know about?” I tried to make a joke, despite the fact that Sam's suggestion gave me heart palpitations. He laughed lightly and went back to the paper.

Despite the fact that we'd experienced a recent major economic crisis and the movie industry was constantly in flux, which definitely hadn't helped Sam's career, or anyone in Hollywood's really, he didn't worry about money the same way I did. For me, money was a subject that was always, if not in the front of my mind, floating somewhere in the back. In the single-mother home I grew up in, we weren't exactly destitute, but—how should I put it?—cash challenged.

“Are you sure you don't want to talk about what happened with Caro?” Sam asked, noticing my anxiety or perhaps exercising some previously dormant psychic abilities. I made a mental note to cut down on dirty thoughts about Bradley Cooper. “You must be upset she isn't coming.”

“Honestly, it's fine. I'm okay with it.”

Sam reached out to cover my hand with his. I gave him my best imitation of a carefree smile, practically pulling a muscle in the attempt.

“Okay, so I care a little. But I'll have you, and your amazing family. Plus, Liv will be with me every step of the way.”

“What time is she coming in tonight?” Sam stood and reached for the coffeepot, pouring us both fresh cups.

“Around six,” I answered, feeling pure happiness for the first time all day.

That evening my best friend, Olivia, was flying into town from New York City to treat me to a toned-down version of a bachelorette party. A trip to a luxury spa in Napa Valley, from Saturday to Wednesday, when we would leisurely travel back from Northern California. Then on Thursday we would repack, double-check that I had my wedding dress, and get a good night's sleep before we all headed to Santa Barbara on Friday morning. Friday night was the (crazily scheduled, by Caro's standards) rehearsal dinner, and then, on Saturday, Sam and I would get married.

This was all part of the plan to keep the wedding simple, in the hope that it could be a drama-free affair. I dreaded turning into the kind of Bridezilla I'd seen my girlfriends become. Perfectly normal, well-adjusted women suddenly screaming about the length of their veil five minutes before walking down the aisle, or making you participate in a wedding talent show in place of a rehearsal dinner. Thanks to these women, I have learned both that there is a vast difference between shoulder- and chin-length and
that brides do not appreciate Beat poetry read aloud the night before their nuptials, based on your junior-year spring break trip to Cabo. (“Seven tequila shots did she scarf / causing Katie later to barf.” I thought it was pretty good myself.)

The obsession with weddings was a mystery to me. The first time I even pictured anything wedding-related was in college, when my roommate's sister got married and she left for the weekend to help her prepare. When she got back she described cake sampling over our standard Monday night dinner of curly fries at the dining hall.

“First, we tried red velvet,” she explained dreamily, “then mocha butter cream, and we rounded it off with chocolate devil's food cake.” I sighed in satisfaction and the idea of weddings took on a lovely buttery hue for about a year, until a friend from high school asked me to be her bridesmaid, and I had to drop a class in order to fit in all my assigned tasks.

The only person who really seemed to get it was Liv. Growing up, Liv was the only one of my friends who, when I questioned if I even
wanted
to get married someday, wouldn't look away in discomfort or murmur supportively that I would change my mind when I met the right guy. This, and the fact that it saved me from having to pick bridesmaids, was why I'd decided to make Liv my entire wedding party. She was my maid of honor, flower girl, and guest book officiate, all rolled into one.

“And what's the plan for tonight?” Sam asked, piling scrambled eggs on top of his bagel.

“Liv lands around six,” I repeated, mentally viewing the schedule. “I'm going to sneak out of work early to stock up on snacks,
then pick her up at LAX. Are you and Dante still meeting us for dinner?”

“Yep, can't wait. I'll remind him.” Dante is Sam's oldest friend and one of his current roommates in the dirty ship house. Sam and Dante met in high school in London when both of their fathers were transferred there, from New York and Rome, respectively. Sam's family eventually moved back to the States, but the years he and Dante spent drinking pints and watching footie were enough to make them best mates for life.

Dante must be the person for whom the term
Italian Stallion
was invented, or at least a direct descendant of same. He's quite proud of his heritage and embraces it fully, especially when he's trying to get ass. Then it's all,
My family's villa in Tuscany
this, and
I'll make you homemade penne arrabbiata
that. If for some crazy reason she hates villas or she's gluten-free, he throws out a British accent, picked up from his high school years, in a last-ditch effort to close the deal. As Dante always says, if one aspect of your foreign background isn't helping you get laid, try another.

“Think Liv and Dante will finally hook up at the wedding?” Sam asked, creepily following my train of thought yet again. Put some pants on, Mr. Cooper!

“I wouldn't get your hopes up. We've been waiting for years. Most likely Liv will be dating three guys in New York, Dante will bring an underage girl to the rehearsal dinner, and we'll get arrested for serving alcohol to a minor.”