Me vs. Me (17 page)

“Thank you,” I say, my heart swooning.

I take another bite of my foie gras as the waitress refills my glass with, oh, I'd say seventy-dollars worth of Château Lafite Rothschild Pauillac.

 

Since we are in the midst of a snowstorm, Ron gives the hostess the TRSN account number and asks her to call for two private cars.

My own car. My very own car. I've taken subways in this city. I've taken cabs. But a black, tinted-windowed car? “You don't have to,” I say. “I'm fine grabbing a cab.”

The coat guy helps Ron into his black cashmere coat. “It's my responsibility to make sure you get home safely and comfortably. We'll need one car to SoHo, and one to Murray Hill.”

“I thought you lived in Connecticut,” I say, as the coat guy now helps me with my very-not-cashmere coat.

“I do, but on nights like these I stay at the Soho Grand. Easier that way.”

“Got it. Well, thank you so much, Ron. For the car, for dinner, for the job.” I feel myself getting teary with emotion, because really, I am overwhelmed with admiration and happiness. This was indeed the best day ever.

“You deserve it.” A car pulls up in front of the restaurant. “Go ahead, Arizona. You first.”

A burst of winter air blows in as I push open the door. “Thanks again. You were great today,” Ron calls behind me.

What would normally be a ten-minute drive ends up taking thirty because of the slippery roads. But I enjoy every second of it. In the back seat of the limo, I feel toasty and happy and brimming with pride.

I've made it.

 

Back at the apartment, I'm about to drift off into a blissful well-deserved sleep when the phone rings. Perhaps it's Ron calling to tell me what a valued employee I am. “Hello?”

“Hi, Gabby.”

I sit up in bed, surprised. “Cam. Hey. How are you?”

“Fine. Good, actually. How are you?”

“You know. The usual. Working hard. How's work with you?”

“Good.”

Fortunately, I already know about the insurance-bankruptcy case he's working on. “How's your family?” Still annoying? Of course, I don't say this.

“They're fine. So how was your date?”

Was tonight a date? Wait a minute. Cam wouldn't know about tonight. And then I remember. Brad. Wow, I haven't spoken to Cam in a while. “Shitty,” I say, and then laugh to myself. I feel ew-y all over again.

“Tell me about it.”

“You don't want to know.”

“Come on,” he says. “Tell me. It will make my day.”

“It's too awful.”

“Please?”

“I'd really rather not. No more dates for me. You were right. Maybe I'm not ready. It's too soon, you know?” Silence on the other end. “Cam?” Continued silence. “Hello? Anyone there?”

“There's something I have to tell you, Gabs.”

No one ever likes a statement that starts with
there's something I have to tell you.
“Yes?” I ask with trepidation.

“After you told me about your date—”

“Yes?”

“I was upset.”

“Yes?”

And more silence.

Oh God, he slept with someone. I feel the steam flowing from my ears and I reel it back in. I can't get mad. I just can't. I'm the one who broke the engagement. I went out on a date. If he hooked up with someone, I have to deal. I have to handle it. I have to—

“And I called Lila,” he says.

Huh?

“To pick up my bookshelf.”

Stop. Just stop.

“And we started to hang out. As friends.”

No, no, no.

“And then a few weeks ago, she told me she was starting to think of me as more than her ex-roommate's ex-boy-friend and we…hooked up.”

My heart stops. Literally stops. “You did not!”

“I'm sorry, Gabby. I know you're not going to like this. But Lila and I are dating.”

The room swirls. He's dating my maid of honor. My fiancé is dating my maid of honor. I try to stay calm, and say simply, “No.”

“Excuse me?” he says.

“No. You can't. It's against the rules.”

“There are no rules, Gabby. You broke our engagement. I can do whatever I want. You can't tell me who to date.”

“But she's so…organized.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

“You know what I mean. She's like the opposite of me.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.” He laughs.

“Go to hell.”

“Come on,” he says softly. “That's not fair.”

I sigh. Damn, damn, damn. Why is he ruining my best day ever? “I know. But she's supposed to be my friend. How could she do this to me?”

“She wanted to call you to tell you, but I thought it should come from me.”

“Still, a best friend shouldn't do it.”

“Come on. Have you even spoken to her since you've moved to New York? You've moved on, Gabby. And so have we.”

A large pit has begun to sprout in my stomach. We've e-mailed a few times in this life. I guess this proves she isn't much of a sister. Best friend by routine maybe.

God, I can't believe I asked her to be my maid of honor. Alice was right. You can't trust friends. Sure, they help you pick out a dress, but they're secretly plotting ways to steal your fiancé. “I'm tired. I'm going to sleep.”

“Please don't be like this.”

“Just tell me this—when we were together, did you have a thing for her? Tell me the truth.”

“I swear, I never once thought of her as anything more than your roommate. If you were here, I wouldn't be going out with her. You know that. It wasn't like I meant for this to happen. I was just so miserable and she—”

“Bye.” I slam down the phone and kick my heels into my mattress. Now what am I supposed to do? I am exhausted, yes, but I don't want to go to sleep and return to Arizona. I don't want to see Cam. Traitor.

I cannot believe this. I'm not sure who to be more pissed at. Cam or Lila. They're both assholes. She probably wanted him the entire time that I was with him. Skank.

I need to talk to a friend. Someone who knows Cam. I turn on my light, find my old Arizona Palm and dial Melanie Diamond's number.

“Hello?” she answers in her breathy voice.

“It's Gabby. Did I wake you?” Then I remember it's only eleven o'clock out there.

“Hey, stranger! How are you?”

I realize that this is the first time I've spoken to her in this life, too. I take a moment to update her on the happenings of the last few months.

“I'm so coming to visit. When do you want me?”

“Come in the summer. You have no idea how cold it gets here.” I pull my covers tighter to my chest as if to prove my point.

“Maybe I'll move to New York. Guess what? I chopped off all my hair. I got a pixie cut!”

“Adorable. Please move here. You're not going to believe what I'm about to tell you. Lila is dating Cam.”

“Your Cam?”

“My Cam.”

“How can she do that?”

“I don't know.”

“You know, I didn't really like her,” she says.

“You didn't? Why?”

“She was too organized. When I came over, she aligned my shoes. Who does that?”

I laugh, and suddenly I feel lighter. Melanie and I trade stories until I'm feeling marginally better. If only I could be more like Melanie. More free spirited.

After we get off the phone, I'm too filled with weirdness to fall asleep. I had the highlight of my professional life tonight. It was perfect, and yet losing Cam to Lila has taken out some of the air.

I put on sweatpants and plan on getting myself a glass of water. As soon as I open my door, Heather pops out of her bedroom. “Good, you're up. I can't sleep.” Her face is still tanned from her vacation, and she looks out of place in the coldness of this city. I think she might be prolonging the look with self-tanner.

“Wanna watch TV?” I ask.

“As long as it's not the news.”

I pour us both glasses of water, and then we make ourselves comfy on the couch. I tell her all about Cam's treachery.

“Guys are such asses,” she says. “Well, not Mark, he's a sweetheart. But your guy—what a jerk.”

“How are things going with Mark?” Their first date was a success and they've gone out twice since. But I still haven't seen him.

“Terrific.” She smiles dreamily at the ceiling. “I met him for coffee earlier. What did you do tonight?”

I describe my great day, and my dinner with Ron. “Wasn't that sweet of him?”

“Don't be naive, missy. He's angling to get in your pants.”

I almost choke on my water. “Ron? No way.”

She wags her finger at me. “Way. I hope you made it clear that it wasn't going to happen. You know—set the right precedent. Otherwise you're heading straight for disaster.”

My head hurts enough from the Cam Disaster—I don't have it in me to worry about a Ron Disaster. Surely one disaster in this New York life is enough.

 

Green light. Headache. I roll over in bed and punch Cam in the arm.

“Ouch! Why'd you hit me?”

“Sorry,” I lie. “Bad dream.”

Jerk.

 

That night in Arizona, I'm sitting on the couch waiting for Cam, attempting to enjoy guacamole and chips and a bottle of wine.

But I can't enjoy anything because I'm too pissed off.

How could Cam and Lila do that to me? And what am I supposed to do about it in Arizona? I can't get mad at Cam over here for something he didn't do. Nor can I get mad at Lila for something
she
didn't do. Although, technically, Lila probably always harbored a secret crush on Cam. And I can get mad at her for that, can't I?

Although how would I know that? She never told me. And she never told Cam. Can I blame her for liking him in secret? It's not like she ever made a move on him when we were together. When we
are
together.

I have no idea what to say to them. How to act. How to feel.

To deal with the people in my lives, I'm going have to treat them as they act in that life only. I can be angry at Cam in New York, but not at him in Arizona. Ditto Lila. It's only fair.

Sighing, I flip through the channels hoping for distraction, and click onto
Ron's Report.
Which is featuring Ron's taped snowstorm instead of the best news hour he ever had. Ha!

It suddenly occurs to me how dumb I am for not calling Bernie, my old boss, to pitch him the refinery fire story. Dumb, dumb, dumb. I knew the fire was going to happen because, well, it happened. I could have gotten myself a camera! I could have flown over to Houston this morning! I could have done some pre-fire interviews that would have been worth a fortune!

Or, I could have stopped the fire.

I am an awful human being. I watch all these news reports about murders, fires and kidnappings, and not once do I think to stop them from happening the next/same day.

Think of the lives I can save.

I have to keep my eyes open for ways to help people. Yes. I have been to the dark side. Now I must use my powers for good.

Although I would only be saving people in one of my alternative universes. One of how many? The number of possibilities is infinite. What difference does just one make?

Who knows—maybe there's another world out there where Cam and I never even met. Maybe there's a world where I told Cam I couldn't go for a drink with him, I had movie plans with Lila, and he called someone else and fell in love.

If everything is possible, does nothing mean anything?

 

In New York the next morning, I'm still feeling depressed on the subway to work. There are no seats left so I'm clinging to the pole, trying not to step in the puddles of slush.

The faces of my fellow passengers are all blank and bored. I can't help but wonder if one of these strangers is my soul mate in another life. I can't help but wonder if our paths have crossed somewhere else. If I'm missing out now. If there's a life I'm living where I get everything right.

When I get to my cubicle, there's a memo on my computer. “Come see me. Curtis.”

I leave my coat on my chair and head over to her cube.

She finishes typing her sentence and then looks up. “Good call last night.”

Right. Last night. I'd almost forgotten. “Thanks.”

She takes out her ponytail and then ties it back up. “Number-one show.”

I smile. “No!”

“Yes. Best ratings we've had in years. My phone has been ringing off the hook. It took a lot of guts to go against what I wanted. I wasn't sure you had it in you, but I have to tell you, I'm impressed.”

I wasn't sure I had it in me, either. And I can't help wondering if this could be it…the world where I'm doing everything right.

That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles

“I
'm coming! Have you seen my purse?” I ask. Bet Lila never loses her purse. No, I said I'd keep New York Lila in New York, and I meant it. Right now I must stay focused on my Arizona life. And my purse. Where is my purse? Am I forgetting something else? I feel as if I'm forgetting something else.

“You don't need your purse,” Cam says. “I'm driving your car and I already took the keys. And I have money. Come on, we're going to be late.”

I cannot believe how excited he is to hear this band. I'm pretty excited to spend the night dancing. I even got dressed up. Not ball-gown dressed up, but my pale blue strapless dress is elegant enough that I'll blend in with the guests. I dab on a bit of lip gloss and grab a shawl (it is still the end of January) and run out the door. He locks it behind me.

The clock in my car says 7:08. “Why were you rushing me? We're so early.”

He turns on the ignition. “We're picking up my mom on the way.”

“What? Why?”

“Because she wants to hear the band.”

That conniving little wench. “But I told her we could do it on our own.”

He looks at me sideways in surprise. “That's weird. She called me today to tell me to pick her up.”

That woman is insufferable. I tried to subtly not invite her, and she invites herself anyway. “Whatever.” I should have realized something was up when Cam said he was taking my car instead of his two-seater truck.

“I can tell her not to come if you really don't want her there. Better yet, you call her.”

I'm about to pull out my cell, but then I stop. Maybe Alice is a better judge of people than I am, I rationalize. Maybe she should come with us. I am obviously the worst judge of character of all time. I think someone's my best friend, but as soon as I move across the country, she swoops in and steals my fiancé. (Okay, my vow to put it out of my mind is easier said than done.) I cannot be trusted to pick a best friend, never mind a band.

I hope my theory doesn't extend to husbands.

“I don't want to insult her,” I say. “I just thought this could be a fun thing we could do together. Just the two of us.”

“I know, but she wants to come. We'll see the next one alone. Just the two of us.”

“Fine.”

When we pull up in front of the house, Alice is dressed in her Sunday best, and staring at her watch.

“Should I move to the back?” I ask.

“No, of course not,” Cam says.

Right! I'm Cam's future wife. A wife sits with her husband. Unfortunately, Alice is going to hate sitting in the back. Whenever she comes along with Tricia and me, she always sits in the front. This is the first time she's driving with me and Cam, and I have to set a precedent.

Alice, who has been waiting outside for us, hurries over to the car. She knocks on my window and I roll it down. “The door's not locked,” I say. Am I supposed to get out of the car and open the door for her?

“My back is killing me. I don't think I can climb into the backseat.”

“This isn't a two-door sedan, Alice,” I say. “You don't have to do any climbing.” Not exactly assertive, but I think she'll take the hint. I hope.

She sits behind me. “It's a bit tight back here.”

I should offer. She should say no, but I should offer. It's the polite thing to do. “Alice, do you want to sit in the front?”

“No, I'm fine. But I'd appreciate if you could lower the music. It's ridiculously loud. I can barely hear myself think back here.”

Every word she says grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. No, like teeth on a chalkboard. I turn off the music. Next time I'm around her, I should consider bringing along earplugs. Or better yet, my iPod. That way I can listen to music
and
drown her out.

“Gabrielle, I don't see your binder.”

Damn. I knew I was forgetting something. I start picking at my nails again. “I'll remember and write everything down later.”

“It's all right, dear. I have mine. I don't mind sitting in the back here, but can you lower the air? It's blowing in my face. Can you hear me up there? I feel so far away.”

I want to ignore her. I want to tell her to suck it up. New York Me would have less of a problem saying it. The words are burning my lips, begging to get out.

But Arizona Me can't say them. Won't say them.

“Stop the car,” I say to Cam. I unsnap my seat belt, open my door and walk around to hers. “Alice, why don't you get in the front.”

“Gabrielle, I'm fine here.”

“Please. Really. It'll be more comfortable for you in the front.”

“Well, if you insist. That's very sweet of you.” She scurries out of the back, hijacking my good mood along with my seat.

 

Life is happier in New York. I've finally proven myself with the oil-fire story, and now Curtis listens to all of my story suggestions. I'm given a lot more control over segments. I've been keeping my eyes and ears open for ways to help the Arizona world, but so far nothing doable has presented itself.

These days Ron seems to be paying me a lot more attention. Not that he ever ignored me, but since the oil fire he's been stopping by my cube more often for my opinions. It's mind-boggling that this icon, this charismatic mix of brawn and brains, one of the nation's most trusted, considers me, little Gabby Wolf from Arizona, a valued member of his team.

I'm beginning to wonder if maybe Heather was right. Not that he wants to get into my pants, but that he might have developed a small crush on me.

I come out of the ladies' room, there he is.

I'm at the watercooler, so is he.

I run to the elevator, he's one step behind.

It's kind of flattering, actually.

“I still think he's hitting on you,” Heather tells me over brunch at Penelope's, pigtails bobbing happily. She's wearing them to match with her navy tunic, leg warmers and Mary Janes, which only she could pull off.

“I don't.”

“I do. This week it's ‘hello, special friend,' next week it's ‘say
hello
to my
special friend
.'”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I say and stuff another forkful of scrambled egg into my mouth. “Speaking of special friends, I still haven't met Mark. How do I know that he's not an—” I insert air quotes “—imaginary boyfriend?”

Heather claims she has gone out with Mark a few times since Christmas, but I have yet to see him in the flesh.

“He's real, I promise.” She motions to the waiter. “Can we get more coffee please?”

“Then why have I never met him?”

“Because I've never invited him over to the apartment.”

“But why? You've been dating for a while now.”

“Because—” She pauses as the waiter returns and refills our mugs. “Because, I can't sleep with him for another fourteen dates.”

“What?”

“I'm training him,” she explains, wrapping one of her long pigtails around her thumb. “To put me on a pedestal.”

I stare at her blankly. “I don't get it.”

“I am a prize. A prize is worth working for. See? If I give in now, he'll never take me seriously. If I make him pay his dues, he'll spend the rest of our lives treating me like a queen.”

I think about it for a second and then say, “You're crazy.”

“Trust me, it's going to work. All the books say so.”

I reach over to her plate and steal a strip of her bacon. “Maybe. But aren't you dying to end your sex drought?”

She shrugs. “Good things come to those who wait. They better. I need to set the pattern now. Otherwise it'll be too late. People don't change.”

After we've paid the check, we wrap on our scarves, button up our coats, and head to midtown for some shopping.

“I think I want a new pair of boots,” I say stopping to peer at the Saks window display. As I'm checking out the black leather KORS boots on the model's feet, someone ploughs right into me and then keeps walking. What nerve.

“Hey,” I shout after him. “Watch where you're going!”

Heather laughs in surprise. “Maybe people can change,” she says.

 

February in Arizona is far less cold. By the middle of the month, I've received my usual two Valentine's Day cards from Cam (as well as a dozen red roses). Plus, we have our band. Alice came with us to hear all of them, and insisted on Champagne. I agreed, mostly because I no longer felt like arguing. And I no longer felt like sitting on the sidelines watching her dance with Cam. We've also chosen the florist (Alice's choice, naturally), and the bridesmaids dresses (also Alice's choice, since she'd already bought the material). “I couldn't resist—it was on sale!” she explained, showing me a nonreturnable, orange bolt of satin. At the moment, we are sitting in Eva's living room. Eva is an invitationer, if that's even a real word. All I know is that she has about a hundred books crammed with every type of invitation inside her house. According to Alice, Eva not only has impeccable taste, but her stuff is half the price of a retail store.

Possibly, but does a store smell like mothballs?

Alice is swooning over one of the samples. “This is just gorgeous. Really beautiful. Let's take it.”

After looking though seven books, all the invitations start to blend into one big cursive blur. A black cat is sitting on the nearby windowsill hissing at me. Bet stores don't have those, either.

Alice wants imprinted flowers. Cam told me to get whatever I want, just make sure the writing isn't too swirly. I just want to go home.

I take a look at the one that Alice claims is so gorgeous. It's white, flowered, old-fashioned and boring. It might be the same one my grandmother had for her wedding.

“Do you have anything a little…different?” I ask Eva.

Hiss.

“Well, we do have this one book from New York.”

I perk up instantly. “Can I see?”

She heaves a metallic silver tome from her bookshelf and drops it onto my lap.

I open up the book and see green! And blue! And red! I'm like Dorothy who just landed in Oz and my world is suddenly filled with color. “They're gorgeous,” I gush.

Alice peers over my shoulder and makes a face. “Too loud.”

And orange isn't? “Really? I think the colors are pretty. Really different.”

“Definitely different, but color isn't classy, Gabrielle. White is for weddings. This isn't a shower. Speaking of which, we're thinking of having your shower on April twenty-second. Does that work for you?”

“Actually Alice, I've been thinking about it, and I don't want a shower.” The last thing I want to do is ask Lila to do anything for me, and that's typically the maid of honor's job. My mother asked me about it just yesterday; I told her to forget about it.

She sighs. “It's really the best day.”

“Like I said, I don't want a shower,” I snap. My voice sounds a lot more bitchy than I intended, and I refuse to feel bad. “It's too much. I don't want everyone to have to spend more time and money.” They're so lame anyway. I don't want to get a bunch of kitchen stuff I don't need.

“You can't skip your shower! That's ridiculous.”

“I don't want to talk about it now,” I say. “Let's get back to the invitations.”

“So we're agreed. The white one from the Crane catalog.”

I want to shake her. The word
no
is expanding in my throat, bubbling over. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. What the hell? Why can I shout at people in New York but not here? What is wrong with me?

I take a deep breath. Maybe this isn't the right argument to fight. After all, most of the invitations will go to her friends and family. Of the two hundred people invited, a hundred are hers. Thirty are my mother's, thirty are my dad's, and forty are Cam and mine's. And anyway, the invitation isn't that bad. “What do you think, Tricia?”

Tricia is filing her nails. “Definitely. It's gorgeous. People are going to just gasp when they see it.”

There is nothing more pitiful than a beaten wedding planner.

“Fine, we'll take it,” I say. “But can we pick a different font? Cam doesn't want anything too swirly.”

“Of course,” Eva says. She shows us a list of fonts that all look a lot alike. “This one is modern-looking,” Eva says, pointing to the last one on the list.

Alice nods. “I'm sure Cam will love it.”

“Perfect,” Tricia says, still filing.

“We'll take a hundred and fifty,” Alice says.

“That's enough for three hundred people!” I say.

“I know dear, but the hotel holds three hundred, and I realized I have more people to invite than I originally planned. And of course, we need a few extra in case we make a mistake when addressing them. Eva, did you get that? We need a hundred and fifty, plus the matching thank-you notes. And matching smaller invitations for the rehearsal dinner, which my husband has graciously agreed to pay for.”

Ah. I forgot about the thank-you notes. What are the chances I'll be able to get Cam to write the ones for his side? Then again, he'll probably get his mother to do it.

Eva starts filling out forms. “Delivery will take about three weeks. But I need to know your text.”

Alice opens her binder, clears her throat and starts reading: “Mr.and Mrs.Richard Winston request the honor of your presence at the marriage of Miss Gabriel Wolf to their son Mr. Cameron Winston—”

“What are you doing? What about my mother and father?” Is she kidding me?

Alice shifts uncomfortably. “It's customary to put the host at the top.”

“Perhaps, but you're not the host. My parents are paying.”

Tricia finally perks up. “Sherri absolutely has to be on the invite. And she has to be listed before the groom's mother.” After all, my mother is the one paying her.