Kat Fight (23 page)
Two Years and Two Futures
No one in his or her right mind would plan a wedding outside in Chicago, which is precisely why I did it. Julie jokes that it’s one last nail in her coffin. Today is a gorgeous Saturday in September and it’s my wedding day.
As it turned out, Skankipedia.com did pay more than advertising, because once the company went public it paid Ryan’s friend, Pete, more than he’d ever imagined. So it was on behalf of his generosity that we chose his amazing lakefront mansion as the setting for our nuptials today.
Megan has helped me plan the entire wedding; in fact, she’s done so much of the planning that I’m actually somewhat surprised as I walk around admiring her choices in flowers and linens. Even though she complains about her husband at times, she has a wonderful little family and is beyond thrilled at the thought of me tying the knot and producing cousins for Miles one day.
For the most part, preparing for the wedding has been relatively painless. We easily picked our date, our wedding party, and our location. And once my parents were assured they’d be seated far away from each other, peace was restored. There is really only one thing in particular that I care most about. One detail that’s an absolute in order for this to truly be my day, and I had only needed my father’s blessing to make it happen. Since my family is not one to stand on ceremony, my dad agreed to let Adam walk me down the aisle. This is an important day for both of us, and because Adam has been right beside me at so many critical moments in my relationship with Ryan, it’s essential that he be at my side on this day as well.
There’s a flurry of activity in the bridal quarters that Pete has arranged for us in his master bedroom. He and his wife, Michelle, have dozens of pink roses and peonies in crystal vases all over the house. It’s truly spectacular. Megan, Julie, Beth, and Brooke are all with me as I wait to put my dress on, and there’s a really wonderful, relaxed energy in the room. Julie has been dating the same guy for over a year and has surprised us all with her monogamy. Beth is newly engaged to a guy she’s known since she was five years old and happened to reconnect with once she got a Facebook page. As for Brooke, after countless inquiries from the various online profiles I set up for her, she finally found a nice half-Jewish guy of her own on JDate. His best quality is the fact that he compliments her almost to the point of repulsion.
About ten minutes before the wedding ceremony Adam joins us for a champagne toast. “Ladies and me,” he begins. “I would like to propose a toast to my little kitty Kat on her wedding day,” he says as we all raise our glasses. “We’ve come a long way since I was chasing her ass through airports, shipping thongs to Las Vegas, and spreading rumors about her around the office.” He smiles proudly. “But in all seriousness, there is no one I would rather do it for, and absolutely nowhere I would rather be than right here, right now. Thank you for sharing your day with me and making me the second happiest man at this wedding,” Adam chokes out the last couple words and there isn’t a dry eye in the room.
I run over and embrace him without spilling a drop of his bubbly. Megan pats her eyes with a tissue and instructs us to line up. Brooke gives us a thumbs-up when all of the guests are seated. Most surprising to me is how tranquil my nerves are as I grab my bouquet of dark red roses with a steady hand, eager to see my future husband.
As we make our way downstairs, I can see the French doors of Pete’s foyer open onto the back patio as everyone begins to walk out. The guests are seated, the music has begun, and it’s show time. Miles is almost three years old now and has perfected his best drunken-sailor march. Henry is at the end of the aisle with an enormous lollipop to bribe and guide little Miles toward his destination.
As Adam and I approach the edge of the doorway I crane my neck to get a glimpse of Ryan. And just as I hoped, his eyes are locked on me. He is standing tall with his arms straight, hands clasped in front of him, and looking as stunning as I’ve ever seen him. His face leaves me breathless and I notice his jaw clench as I float through the French doors, feeling blissful and resplendent. I’m completely unaware of the other people around me, just simply committed to keeping my eyes on Ryan and honoring his passionate focus with my own. As Adam and I reach the end of the aisle, Ryan grabs my left arm and pulls me toward him for a kiss. I am still arm-in-arm with Adam on my other side and I can hear people gently laughing behind us. Ryan then stands straight and gives my elbow a squeeze before folding his hands in front of him again.
I look at Ryan and ask him to give me a moment. I then turn around to face Adam. His eyes are filled with tears desperate to take the plunge but holding on for dear life. I hope he can see clearly, because Ryan and I aren’t the only two people getting married today—it’s Adam and Dave’s wedding as well.
Adam and I turn together to our right sides and greet Dave, who has also been standing at the altar waiting for the love of his life. I lean up to give Dave a kiss and then give him Adam’s hand.
Ryan takes one step closer to me, reaches for my hand and squeezes. I close my eyes for a second and take one last breath. When I open them, Ryan smiles at me, and our future begins.
Ten Fun Facts about
Kat Fight
- The first time I met my future husband was on a blind double date. He was dating my friend Susie, and I was set up with a guy who reviewed nude film scenes for a living. My date from that night has turned his obsession with nude celebrities into a million dollar enterprise. He was a great first date, and remains a great friend to this day. Check him out at Mr.Skin.com.
- I fell in love with my husband the second time I saw him. He approached me at the health club and asked me for a ride home. After he exited my car I knew we would be married one day. I wish I could explain how I knew—but I can’t.
- Once I confessed my affection for my husband to my friend Susie—who had dated him—her reaction was nothing like Julie’s was in the book. She was extremely understanding when I told her… and she wants to make sure everyone knows that. She remains one of my closest friends to this day.
- I went to a gay bar called the Manhole one Halloween night with three gay co-workers of mine. My experience was identical to Kat’s, and I have never had so much fun in my life.
- Brooke’s relationship with Drew is based on that of a very close friend of mine. She’s an accomplished, witty, energetic and truly amazing woman. I disliked her husband since their wedding day, and watched her spend 15 years with him and his indiscretions. Brooke’s car chase scene in the book was based on an actual event that my friend’s husband put her through as he drove circles around her with his mistress in the car. It gives me great pleasure to report that as of January 2010, she is finally divorced.
- I met my future mother-in-law under the same circumstances that Kat meets Ryan’s mom.
- I dated a guy named Rob when I lived in L.A. for a year. He was a lifeguard, and we met exactly the same way Kat meets Rob at the beach. I woke up with a man being arrested for pleasuring himself next to me—also thankfully unbeknownst to me—and the lifeguard on duty that day became my boyfriend.
- When my husband was six years old, my mother-in-law used to grill him about what he should say to his future wife if she didn’t want to go to her house for dinner.
- I don’t have a gay best friend, but I would really like one.
- I do have a gay babysitter, however, and his name is Adam. He has been sitting for my son since he was three years old. Adam hopes to have kids of his own one day and marry the man of his dreams. Nothing would make me happier.
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And now, enjoy an excerpt from Dina’s debut novel,
One Pink Line.
Sydney
Finals week hit me like a gust of wind, and before I knew it, I was cramming for my last round of college exams and trying to convince my mother to let me move back home after graduation. It was 1991, and she’d just started taking Prozac that year, so there was hope. A couple months earlier, after attending Purdue’s spring career day, I sent my resume to five hotels in the Chicago area and was offered an entry-level job at the InterContinental on Michigan Avenue. I was due to start August 1
st
of that year, but I had to get through finals, graduation, and potentially another summer living at home with that woman.
I knew my Spanish exam would be the hardest, because I barely paid any attention in that class, so I dedicated the most studying hours to that particular subject. Thursday night, as the intricacies of foreign grammar loomed heavily on
mi cerebro
, it occurred to me that I hadn’t had my period in a while. How that uncertainty popped into my head at that particular moment, I have no idea. My conscience had snuck up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and derailed my train of thought.
I remembered the last time I’d had it though, because I was trapped in an English Lit lecture hall with no panty liner, no tampon, and no break for an hour. As soon as the bell rang I sprinted to the bathroom, only to discover the tampon dispenser hadn’t been refilled since the turn of the century. It was a long, slow walk home with a wad of parchment-like toilet paper shifting around in my panties.
I grabbed my day planner and started flipping back through the pages to check the date of that lecture. The topic was “Wicked Women,” and it was exactly eight weeks before finals. A small cloud of wicked panic moved in overhead as I realized I might be pregnant.
I grabbed the phone book and dialed the number for Wal-Mart. The woman who answered told me they were open until ten o’clock every evening, which meant I had exactly twenty-five minutes to get there. Unlike my mother’s support, my menstrual cycle was always something I could count on, which is why I quickly abandoned my books that night and drove to the nearest, yet not-so-near-so-that-someone-might-see-me, super store. I convinced myself during the fifteen-minute ride that I was not pregnant. It had to be the stress of finals, the end-of-college anticipation, and starting my big girl job that was causing my ovaries to rebel. However, there was not a chance I would get through exam week without confirmation either way.
The Wal-Mart was just off State Road 52 and noticeably cleaner than the one back home. When I arrived ten minutes before closing, it was nearly empty, with the exception of a few weary people in the checkout lanes. I raced past them toward the sobering and well-lit pharmacy aisles, and managed to find the pregnancy tests ironically right next to the contraceptives. It took me all of four minutes to grab one, pay for it, and make my way out of there with nary a judgmental glance from the sales clerk. I tossed the bag in the front passenger seat next to me, and sped home. My phone was ringing as I put the key in the door, but I ignored it and let the answering machine pick up. My instinct was to grab it, because I hadn’t heard from Ethan in three days, but I needed to stay focused on clearing my mind and getting back to my studies. The caller did not leave a message.
Once the bag was in my hands, I seized the box, dropped the receipt on the floor and began to read the instructions. Since I hadn’t paid any attention to what brand I snatched off the shelf, I needed to know exactly what type of signal would inform me that I wasn’t pregnant. It was a First Response test, and after unfolding the origami-like instruction booklet, I learned that my ultimate goal was to see one pink line upon completion. One pink line, one pink line, one pink line…
First: Remove the stick from the foil wrapper and remove the Overcap.
Easy enough.
Second: Hold the test stick by the Thumb-Grip with the Result Window facing away from you.
Done.
Third: Place the Absorbent Tip in your urine stream for exactly 5 seconds.
Damn.
I sat the test stick down on the edge of my pedestal sink and went to grab a Diet Coke and a No Doz. I drank half the can as fast as I could without inflicting brain freeze and then waited. I wasn’t sure which waiting episode would be more stressful—waiting to pee or waiting for the results. My phone rang again, and again, but I continued to let the machine answer it. The third time it was Jenna, but I couldn’t take her call either. Instead, I threw a scrunchie in my hair, took the small white stick in my hand, and sat on the toilet with my sweat pants balled up around my ankles. The box said five seconds exactly, so I began to count as soon as I felt my bladder relax and release.