Me vs. Me (18 page)

Alice lets out a big sigh. “All right, if you insist. ‘Mr. and Mrs. David Wolf and Mr. and Mrs. Richard Winston request the honor.'”

Tricia nods. “That sounds fine.”

“No, it doesn't!” I shriek, the bubble bursting. “My mother will go berserk. She hasn't gone by Wolf in years. She tried to get
me
to drop Wolf. It needs to say ‘Ms.Sherri Dorowitz—'” Alice visibly grimaces. Not sure if it's the
Ms
. or the
Dorowitz—
“‘and Mr.David Wolf and Mr.and Mrs. Richard Winston request the honor.'”

“It doesn't sound right,” Alice protests.

“That's the way it has to be,” I insist.

“Fine,” Alice huffs and turns to Eva. “The thank-you notes should have ‘Gabrielle and Cameron,' printed on the front flap, but the envelopes should show ‘Gabrielle and Cameron Winston' just above their new address.”

Apparently I'm changing my name. “Can you hold off on printing those? I haven't decided if I'm taking Cam's name.”

Alice starts fanning herself with her hands. “What?”

“I might want to keep my name.”

“You want to have a different name from my grandchildren?”

The truth is, I haven't thought it through yet. All I know is that I don't want to make the decision this second. “Let's just wait on them.”

Alice juts out her chin. “We need to print the thank-you notes.”

“Why don't we just have the address on the back? We don't need to decide on my last name just yet.”

I don't know what I want. Hmm, I'd better be careful or I might split again over this decision. Though it would suck either way. Ms. Gabby Wolf or Mrs. Cameron Winston, I get the same mother-in-law.

 

When I get home, there's a message on my machine from my former boss, Bernie. “Are you up for a freelance gig today? There's a chain of robberies in Phoenix. I'll give you twenty minutes to call me back, otherwise I'll have to call someone else. I tried your cell, but there was no answer.”

Shit, shit, shit. I turned off my cell at Eva's and forgot to turn it back on. It's now two. I dial him back immediately. “I'm on it.”

“Too late, Gabs, I gave it to Miranda.”

“Oh, no. But I'm here!”

“I know, but you just missed it. Next time.”

Damn. I flop onto the couch and bang my head repeatedly against the cushion. After a bit of moping and a bit of TV, I realize that's it's already five and that I have to start thinking about dinner. I take out a chicken from the freezer and pop it into the microwave to defrost. Look at me, I'm such a housewife.

Oh God, I'm Cam's house-fiancée. True, relationships involve give and take, but my relationship seems based on give up and get. I give up a career (and maybe my name) and he gets a cook.

 

A few weeks later in New York, I'm waiting for the afternoon meeting to start when Ron sits beside me and gives me a big smile. “Hey, Arizona.”

“Hi, Ron.” I say, sharing his smile.

And that's when I feel something under the conference table. Is that his knee? (God, I hope it's his knee.) Why is his knee touching mine under the table? There is no reason for his knee to be touching mine. It presses harder. Maybe he thinks my leg is part of the table. Yes, that's it. He thinks my leg is a pole. It's an accident. He wouldn't be purposefully touching my knee under the table. I'm his producer. He wouldn't hit on his producer. And anyway, he respects me.

Curtis storms into the room. “Guess what? The Cookie Cutter was found in some border town in Mexico.”

“No way,” I say and reach for my BlackBerry. The knee, thankfully, is gone. “What town?”

“Nogales.”

“That's just a few hours from where I used to live!” I say.

“Apparently one of his victims hired a bounty hunter, who busted the Cutter in a diner called Rico.”

“Did anyone get a visual?” I ask, in the midst of another knee assault. I look over at Ron, but he's staring straight ahead. I assume he must be knocking into me by accident. He must be.

Curtis shakes her head. “No visual, but he'll be back in the U.S. tonight. We'll do something for tomorrow's show. Any ideas?”

No visual…Nogales…a short drive from Phoenix…

Oh, I have plenty of ideas. But first I have to fall asleep.

 

“Why are you up so early?” Cam asks, poking his head into the shower. As soon as the alarm went off for the first time (Cam generally hits the snooze button at least twice), I bolted for the shower. “You're never up this early.”

I can sleep in any day. But not today. “Got a news tip,” I say. “I'm going back to work.”

“Can I come in with you?” he asks, pushing back our grungy gray shower curtain.

“Okay, sure. But I'm really in a rush. So no hanky—”

His hands are already on my breasts.

“Cam, I'm serious,” I say as he presses his body against mine. “I have to get to the station.”

“You can't tease me with the possibility of shower sex, and then not go through with it. You know I love shower sex.”

“I haven't even brushed my teeth yet!”

He kisses me and the hot water drips into my mouth. “I don't care,” he says. “Let me wash your hair.”

Sigh.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm finally on way.

 

“Bernie! I have a story for you.”

“Hi there, Gabs.” He pushes off his/my old chair and greets me at the door. “Nice to see you.”

“You, too, Bernie. But there's no time for catching up. I got a tip and I want to follow the story,” I say somewhat breathlessly.

“What story?”

“The Cookie Cutter story.”

He leans against his desk. “I haven't heard any breaking news about it.”

“I know. But my tip says that he's going to get busted today in Nogales.”

Bernie cracks his knuckles, something he always does whenever he hears something that could be interesting. “Who's your tip from?”

“I can't reveal my source. But I want to get the story. It'll be an exclusive, I promise. All I need is a cameraman. Maybe Jordan? Nogales is only a hundred and seventy miles south of Phoenix. We can drive down in my car. The bust is supposed to take place at two forty-five. Wait. That's New York time. I mean twelve forty-five.”

He looks at me warily. “Your source is in New York?”

“Just listen, Bernie. It'll take us three hours to get down there, which means we need to leave now.”

Bernie laughs. “Gabby, how do I know this is real?”

“You know me. It's real.” And now for my bluff. I say
bluff
because I really, really need a good cameraman. My Kodak throwaways just won't do the job. “If you don't agree, I'm going on my own and selling it to someone else.”

“You got the dry mouth?” After working with me for so long, he knows the crazy way my instincts work.

“Drier than the Sonora,” I lie. Truth is, I'm not all that thirsty. But who needs dry mouth when you have instant replay?

He considers, then says, “You've been out of it for a while. Maybe I should send someone else.”

“Except I'm the only one who knows where in Nogales he's going to get busted.”

He grins. “Same old Gabs. All righty, you got it. Take Jordan and good luck. Bring me back something good. And for Chrissake, don't turn off your phone.”

 

When we pass through Nogales, Arizona, Jordan recommends we park the car in a lot and then cross the border on foot to get to the sister town in Mexico. This way we'll avoid having to get Mexican car insurance.

“How do you know that?” I ask him, grateful that he was at work today. Jordan was always my favorite cameraman. He's been at the job for over twenty years, so he knows exactly what he's doing. He's only about five foot six, but he's built like an elephant, so he can practically pick up all of the equipment with one hand.

“My wife and I come down here to get our prescription drugs. Cheaper.”

Ah.

We walk through the border checkpoint, cross the train tracks and look for a spot for lunch on Calle Elias. Somewhere other than Rico, obviously. I don't want the Cookie Cutter to see us. That would tip him off. I can't be responsible for him running off again.

At twelve-thirty, I tell Jordan it's time to get ready. Except I don't see anyone who looks like a bounty hunter. (What does a bounty hunter look like? I envision seven feet of muscle and tattoos, black leather everything and a hoop in the nose.) We head over to the convenience store across the street from Rico and wait for it to go down.

And wait.

I try on a sombrero.

“Not a good look for you,” Jordan tells me.

At twelve forty-three, I am peeking out the window.

At twelve forty-five, I'm ready to jump.

At one o'clock, I still don't see any movement.

The woman behind the counter keeps asking us if she can help us (“You want to buy tequila? I have cheap,”) but I keep waving her away.

“Maybe I got the time wrong,” I say to Jordan. “Wait. Is Nogales in the same time zone as Phoenix? Arizona never changes the clock. You know spring forward, fall behind? Would that make a difference this time of year?”

“What are you talking about? Gabby, do you feel all right? Did you drink the water?”

“Just a bit longer, okay?”

A little bit longer becomes two o'clock. Then three.

I can tell he's getting restless. “I think it was a dead lead,” he says.

My cell phone rings at four. From the call display I can see that it's Bernie. “We're still waiting,” I tell him. “It's gonna happen, I promise.”

“Sorry, kiddo. It already did. You were right about the Cookie Cutter being nabbed today. But he was nabbed in Boston.”

Suddenly I'm thirsty. But it has nothing to do with inspiration. That tequila is looking mighty good.

Hello, Elevator Boy

I
hate March weather in New York. I especially hate freezing rain. Naturally, today, when said freezing rain is hailing on me, I don't have an umbrella. Should I sprint to the subway or flag a cab? I'll try the cab route. Unfortunately, there are none.

“Haven't gotten the hang of it yet?” booms a voice behind me.

I turn around to see Nate, aka Elevator Boy. Funny how I've been hoping to see him for months, and I when I finally run into him, I'm soaking wet.

“Not yet,” I answer. Maybe he won't notice my mascara issues and ask me out anyway.

He steps into the middle of the street and tries to wave down a cab. “Sales exec to the rescue.” Within one minute, success. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” I'm reluctant to get inside because I might not see him again for another few months. Or at least until the next rainfall. I should just go for it. Ask him out. There's no reason not to. If he says no, what have I lost? I'm strong. I can do it. I can ask out a man! “Hey, you want to get a drink?” There, I said it. Way to go, me!

He hesitates. His glasses have fogged up, just as they did the first time we had a taxi encounter. But then he says, “Sure. That would be cool.”

I climb into the cab and face the street, not wanting him to see the huge smile on my face.

Fifteen minutes later, we're in a tiny bar only a few blocks from my apartment, sitting in a booth at the back. The place is dark, the music jazzy. The bar is crowded but quiet, couples talking softly, enjoying their drinks, listening to the music. A candle on the table is flickering between us, making his skin glow. I'm hoping it's doing the same to mine.

At first the conversation is awkward, stilted—“Where are you from?” “What about you?”—and I'm worried that this was a mistake, that I should have just gotten into the cab and gone straight home, but by the middle of my first Cosmo and his first Scotch, we start to loosen up.

“I called you the Mystery Rain Girl to my friends,” he says, and takes a slow, sexy sip of his drink.

“You're the Elevator Boy,” I admit.

He takes off his glasses, folds them and leaves them on the side of the table. “I don't remember meeting you in an elevator.”

I feel my cheeks redden. “It was my first day of work. It was just for a second. Now I feel stupid.”

He puts his hand on mine. “Don't. I think it's sweet.”

By the time we get through our second round of drinks, we've talked about our jobs, our bosses, our apartments, my recent move. He's from Philly, but he's been living in Manhattan for five years. He has a journalism degree from Penn.

“Then why did you go into advertising?” I ask.

“I shouldn't have. But that's where the jobs were. I should have stuck with it like you. You picked up and moved across the country to do what you wanted to do. Very commendable.”

“Thanks. But it wasn't easy.”

“Did you have to leave somebody back home?” His eyes are now looking right into mine. They're a deep beautiful brown, surrounded by thick lashes. I like his face. I like this guy.

“I did,” I say slowly. “Isn't it against the rules to talk about exes on a first date?”

He grins and gives my hand a squeeze. “I won't tell if you won't tell.”

“He wouldn't leave Arizona.”

“Stupid,” Nate says. “Funny. My last girlfriend and I broke up for the exact opposite reason. She didn't have a life of her own, and it drove me nuts. I'm a busy guy, and she hated that I couldn't entertain her twenty-four seven. It was tough.”

I didn't think it was possible. But I think Nate gets it. Gets me.

When the rain finally stops, Nate walks me home. Part of me wants to ask him up, but something stops me.

“Can we do something again this weekend?” he asks.

“Definitely.”

“How's Saturday night?”

“Perfect.”

He kisses me lightly on the cheek and I watch him leave in a cab. While I'm looking forward to the second date, excited about the second date, I can't help but wonder if it's considered cheating when you live in two different universes simultaneously. This isn't something I can ask Dr. Phil.

Ever since the Cookie Cutter discovery, I've been weirded-out by my two existences.

Specifically, how is it possible that Jon Adams, aka the Cookie Cutter, was discovered in Mexico in one world and in Boston in the other? The only difference in my two worlds is that I moved to New York in one and got engaged to Cam in the other. What possible effect can that have on Jon Adams?

I wave to the doorman and then press Up on the elevator. Here's the thing: If the multiple worlds theory is real, then something that I did in one of the worlds must have changed the chain of events. I've thought long and hard about it and have come up with a million possibilities. It could have been a result of the news coverage on the Cookie Cutter I worked on for TRSN way back in November. Maybe my interview or questions triggered something in his mind and made him decide to go to Mexico, even though he'd been planning to go to his brother in Boston. Or maybe he'd been planning to go to Mexico, but in my Arizona life I somehow did something to get in his way. Maybe I was too long at the taco drive-through, which made the guy in back of me angry, who in turn got a case of road rage and later plowed into the guy who was supposed to meet Jon Adams to give him his fake passport, which made our fugitive decide to go to Boston instead.

As the elevator opens onto my floor, I realize I'll never know. But I don't want to worry about it. I have a date with Nate. That should be enough to keep me happy. In this existence, that is.

“Hello,” I call into the apartment. No answer, but the light is on. “Heather?” I walk into my room to find her in my closet.

Her eyes are red, and her hair looks teased and tousled as if it hasn't been washed in weeks. “Where are my black capris?” she screams.

“Are you okay?”

“I'd be fine if I could find my fucking capris. Where are they?”

I back into the hallway. “I don't have your capris.”

“Then where are they?” she says, following me. “Huh? Did they walk out of the apartment on their own two legs?” She makes walking motions with her fingers.

“Heather, you have to calm down.”

“No, I don't! Go to hell!” she screams, then storms out of the apartment.

Time to hide the steak knives. The psycho roommate is back.

 

I don't find out until the next day (or two days later, whatever) that Mark, aka Library Lad, dumped Heather. Or, more accurately, she went to surprise him in the library and found him in the stacks, somewhere between F. Scott Fitzgerald and Stephen King, getting it on with another girl.

When I return from work, Heather is lying facedown on the couch, sobbing and kicking her feet. When I try to comfort her, she screams at me for the first ten minutes, then finally tells me what happened. “It was horrific,” she wails. “She didn't even have her shirt on. She was in her bra in the middle of the stacks. What a whore. Oh, and I saw a mouse run out of the kitchen and into your bedroom.”

“What? When?” Ew. That's so gross. We never had mice in Arizona. Snakes, yes, mice, no.

“That's not really important right now. What is important is that Mark was cheating on me. I'm so stupid. I should have slept with him.”

“If he couldn't wait for you, then he wasn't worth it. You'll meet someone else.”

“Oh, what do you know, you moron?” she yells, then storms out of the apartment again.

“Can you pick up some mousetraps while you're out?” I ask, but the door has already slammed shut.

You know, I like Heather a lot more when she has a boyfriend.

 

I'm almost out the door in Arizona, when the phone rings.

“Hey, it's Lila. Where have you been? I left you like a million messages.”

I have to physically stop myself from hanging up on her. “I've been busy,” I say flatly. I've managed to avoid talking to her the last few weeks. I don't know what I'm supposed to say to her. I wish I could tell her that I don't want her to be my maid of honor but then I would have to tell her why, that in another world she's sleeping with my fiancé, and she'd probably have me committed.

“Are we still on for next week?” she asks.

My second dress fitting is next week and Lila is supposed to come with me. My mom came with me to my first one—I had to change the appointment three times to work with her schedule, but I really wanted her to see the dress. She played the role right—she oohed and aahed, and yelled at the seamstress that she had to make sure to get all the creases out of the material. She also told me that under no circumstances was I to get a veil.

“Why?” I asked, which led to a lecture about how the veil originated as a symbol of a wife's submission to her husband.

“I thought it was something about making sure the man loves you for who you are on the inside, not on the outside.”

“You thought wrong. No veil.”

Anyway, my mom wasn't so interested in returning to Snow White's for a second round, so I had asked Lila, and I know I vowed not to hold New York Lila's actions against Arizona Lila but, unfortunately, I don't think I can be in the same room with her without throwing up. Throwing up on my dress would be a huge, expensive problem. “Actually, you're off the hook. My mom is in town and wants to come with me again,” I lie.

“All right. You're still coming with me for my fitting, aren't you?”

Alice gave the bolt of orange to a dressmaker she knows in Mesa. They're going to make the bridesmaids'dresses and the ushers' ties. I promised Lila I would accompany her this weekend. “I don't know if I can make it. I promised Alice I would, um, look at party favors. Sorry.”

“Oh, come on. I have to make sure it looks good. How else am I going to pick up all of Cam's—”

“All of Cam's what?” I almost scream.

“Friends,” she finishes. “Gabby, are you all right? You sound tense.”

I take a bite out of my thumbnail. “I'm fine. Gotta go.” I hang up without saying goodbye.

 

“You're not wearing that in public, are you?” Heather asks me as I'm about to leave the house. She's sitting cross-legged on the couch in the same flannel pajamas she's been wearing all week. Except for going to class, she hasn't left that spot. Her butt imprint is permanently indented in the couch. For some reason, she keeps watching the
Die Hard
DVD. Over and over. “It was our movie,” she said when pressed, which I didn't fully understand, and which scared me a little. I offered to Netflix her something more along the lines of
Pretty Woman
but, in response, she just threw the DVD case at my head.

I look down at my jeans and the off-the-shoulder sweater that I thought looked pretty good.

“You look like Cyndi Lauper on acid,” my oh-so-pleasant roommate tells me. “You'd better change.”

“Heather, I don't care what you think. I like what I'm wearing. Enjoy the movie. Again,” I add, and then lock the door behind me.

If she doesn't find a new guy soon, I might need to move. I might need to move anyway. I found a dead mouse in my closet this morning.

I meet Nate at Kittichai downtown. We sit in the corner and drink lychee martinis. “You look gorgeous,” he tells me over dumplings.

I beam. I found a winner. He is passionate. He is sensitive. Over pad thai, I discover that he's an Aries.

“We're a perfect match,” I tell him.

“That explains it then,” he says, eyes not leaving mine.

After dessert, we have a drink at the bar upstairs. We sit on a couch and talk, talk, talk, about our parents' divorces, about how it shaped our views on love and on life. “I would never get divorced,” I say. “I know how hard it is on the kids.”

“Me neither,” he says, and we talk some more until it's 2:00 a.m. and my head feels light, and the cushions feel soft, and his hand is on my knee, and the bar is flashing their lights and asking us, and then telling us, to leave.

We leave the bar, holding hands, and he's sweet and cute and I like him, and on the corner of the street, he pulls me into him.

His mouth is warm and salty. The kiss feels good. Different, but good. When I open my eyes, he's smiling. He hails a cab.

“One stop?” he asks, eyes hopeful.

“Two stops,” I say. “This time.”

 

It's 9:00 p.m. Monday and the office is practically empty, but Ron asked me to do some research on a story for tomorrow's show, insisting he needed it tonight. I turn off my computer, pick up my bag and stop by his massive office. He has a gorgeous oak desk, a buttery black leather couch and a view of the city.

“Arizona, come in.”

“Hi, Ron. Here you go.”

“Thanks, this is great. Close the door and have a seat.”

Warning bells are ringing loud and clear in my head, but he is the talent, so I give him the benefit of the doubt, close the door and sit.

He gets up from his desk, rolls up his sleeves and sits next to me so that our thighs are touching. “How are you?”

“Good, thank you.” I scoot over so there's some breathing room.

“I hardly get a chance to talk to you anymore.”

“I'm always around.” The truth is, I've been making myself scarce whenever I spot him in the distance. Trying to, anyway. The way he looks at me, as if I'm a seventy-dollar glass of wine that he'd like to take a sip of, has been making me queasy. “Busy, but around.”

“You're not in a hurry tonight, are you?”

“Actually, I am. I have a date.” I have a date with myself to wash my hair. Nate and I are not going out again until Saturday, but Ron doesn't have to know that.

He makes these horrendously unflattering puppy-dog eyes. “Cancel. I'll take you for a drink.”