Cold Feet (3 page)

“Well, I'm rooting for them,” Sam said loyally.

I checked the clock and realized I had to leave in the next five
minutes if I wanted to beat traffic on the freeway and make it to work on time. I grabbed my bag and hustled Sam out the door. I watched him glide down the street on his road bike, his typical vehicle of choice, before climbing in my L.A.-mandated black Prius.

Driving through the quiet, cool streets of Venice on a perfect September morning, I pictured Sam and me at breakfast. Him, reading about movie deals; me, obsessing about not obsessing about our marriage; both of us gossiping about our best friends' sex lives. We were the classic tableau of a normal couple in love, but I couldn't help but feel like an imposter. Caro's call, and the reminder that my failure at a long-term relationship was highly foreseeable, was still lurking in the back of my head. What was I doing with this guy for whom good things always happened, if for no other reason than because he intrinsically knew they would? And why in the world did he want to marry someone like me?

CHAPTER 3

P
icking up Liv from LAX is one of my very favorite things to do. For one thing, I score major friend points by actually meeting her at the airport instead of making her take a cab, which is easy when you live in Venice, twenty minutes away. But mainly it's because it means my best friend is in town. I don't know how to explain it, but when Liv is around I feel like a more real version of myself. It's like everything I put on for other people is filtered out and I'm just me.

Liv and I met in high school in Arlington, Virginia, where we became instant best friends. We were both at peak stages in our awkward years and didn't even notice each other's braces and frizzy hair, probably because they matched. The popular crowd didn't know our names, the average kids were too busy trying to
be cool, and the dorks had their own problems to worry about, so Liv and I didn't join any group. The only problem was we weren't sure which lunch table was ours. Instead we sat in the auditorium lobby by the gym every day with our turkey sandwiches. This area was commonly known as the aud-lob, although after we started sitting there, some of the mean girls starting referring to it as the
odd
-lob. I had to give it to them: It was clever.

Honestly, I didn't really care, because, as I discovered then, and continue to believe to this day, as long as you have one real friend, you're okay. Liv and I were perfectly happy to sit in the odd-lob day after day in our mom jeans, drinking regular Cokes and laughing until our stomachs hurt. Even after Liv discovered her incredible singing voice, grew size-C boobs, and learned how to scrunch her strawberry-blond hair, shot with natural strands of gold, into soft curls, and I remained in my awkward years (which lasted roughly from age twelve to twenty-five), our dynamic never changed.

After high school, Liv attended Rice in Texas and I went to the University of Virginia, mostly due to the fact that I could get in-state tuition and also because I harbored a strange affinity for Thomas Jefferson. There I halfheartedly joined a sorority and floated around various clubs and activities. College was fun, of course, but it wasn't the same without Liv. I never again found a friend with whom I could be so completely myself.

Then magically, it happened. Liv and I both applied to law school the fall of senior year of college, got into Berkeley and spent the next three blissful years as roommates, happily living in the East Bay. After law school, Liv got a job as a corporate attorney in the
dreaded New York legal scene, and I headed to Los Angeles. I wasn't quite sure why, but I always felt like I belonged on the West Coast. After only three years at Berkeley, California already felt more like home than Virginia. When choosing where to live after law school, the Westside of Los Angeles seemed like the logical place to land. It felt to me like going somewhere new while also staying in the laid-back environment I'd come to know and love.

At the airport, I scanned the curb for Liv's gorgeous hair but saw only strangers, including a few cute guys milling around Arrivals. One guy had dark curly hair and the perfect amount of scruff. What if
he
was my destiny, I wondered, not Sam? What if he was the guy I was meant to be with, but I simply hadn't met him yet and in one week it would be too late?

This had been happening a lot lately, seeing interesting-looking guys or thinking about exes and wondering whether I was missing something by not being with them. I knew that I was being ridiculous. It wasn't so much about the idea of someone else, but more the concept of forever. Two people promising they would never leave each other. It made my stomach tighten up and my throat narrow. How in the world was that possible? I wondered. I'd certainly never witnessed it.

Of course, I felt extremely disloyal even considering any of this. If Sam was thinking this way, I would murder him. On the other hand, everyone is always talking about how scared guys are to get married and their inevitable last-minute doubts. Why shouldn't I be the same? More than anything, I wished I could
talk to Sam about my fears, but I was pretty sure that was verging on
too
honest.

I noticed a rent-a-cop behind me, flashing his lights to get me to keep going. Emotional turmoil notwithstanding, I was about to be forced to wind once more through Terminals 1 to 7. Luckily, as I glanced at the curb one last time, I saw my best friend, with a wide smile on her pretty face, waving wildly next to her scary black travel bag, usually reserved for traveling to depositions. To prove her suitcase wrong, she wore a floral maxi dress and a wide brim fedora. Whenever Liv came to L.A., she pulled out her funkiest garb and told me she was trying to fit in with the Venice fashionistas crawling all over my quirky beach town. I did the same chameleon act whenever I went to New York, emerging from the taxi in my most citylike ensemble, inevitably involving black booties.

“Straight hair!” I cried, as she tossed her bag in the back.

“I know! I wanted to look good for our trip.”

“But I love your hair curly,” I commented, pulling out into traffic. As usual, Liv and I jumped right back into conversation as if we had never been apart. Which we hadn't really, considering we were virtually in constant contact, whether it be by phone, text, or Instagram comment chain.

“I know, Em, but you aren't really my target audience.” Liv has a theory that there's a certain kind of guy who likes straight hair and a certain type who likes curly. Fans of straight hair are superficial, player types, who just want sex without breakfast, and curly-haired lovers are the sweeter, boyfriend types. Tonight, I supposed
by her straightened locks, she was preaching to the one-night-stand congregation.

“Did you get your hair cut or a blow-out?”

This kind of pointless question was how we ended up sharing every inane detail of our lives with each other. For instance, I knew for a fact that Liv had gotten a mani-pedi the previous day and chosen Friar, Friar, Pants on Fire red for both her fingers and her toes. Meaningless to anyone else, but terribly important to me.

“A blow-out,” Liv said, pulling on her seat belt and motioning for me to watch the road. I'm a terrible driver. Partly because of my “problem” with depth perception (I don't have any) and partly because I'd never really grasped the talent, inherent to most females, of multitasking. You know, having an orgasm while you mentally redecorate your bedroom and draft a work e-mail. I wasn't born with it, and as a result had to pay real attention to signaling before I merged.

“Okay, on to more important things. I want to hear the itinerary for the week.”

Excitedly, I reminded her that we had dinner with Sam and Dante that night, our flight the next morning, a rental car reserved at SFO, and an on-call masseuse waiting for us to pull into Calistoga.

The Calistoga Ranch, the ridiculously amazing resort in Napa where we were staying, recommended by the coolest female partner at my law firm, promised to be the most relaxing five days of our lives. I didn't care much about mud wraps or massages, but Liv loves that kind of thing and the champagne brunches sounded
right up my alley. I was determined to force myself to relax. I considered
forcing myself
to force myself to relax but got even more confused so I decided to leave it.

Talking the entire way home about everything and nothing, Liv and I pulled into my beach bungalow a half hour later. We dragged in her bags, overflowing with cute sundresses and soft tanks, and the bags of food I'd grabbed from my bodega. Without a word, we plopped onto my cozy couch and tore open my poor excuse for groceries: a box of rainforest crackers and a hunk of Jarlsberg. Liv took on the job of official cheese cutter and passed me thick wedges for the mini-sandwiches I was constructing as she filled me in on her boy drama.

With her tiny five-foot-four frame, bright blue eyes, thick strawberry-blond hair, and incredible ability to quote dialogue from Will Ferrell movies, Olivia Lucci is one of those beautiful, funny girls who make everything more fun. Not to mention that she's smart and nice to boot. There have been points in our friendship when I felt like her
pimp
, so many guys cornered me in bars to ask me to put in a good word. Despite this, Liv didn't have the best track record with dating suitable men. I'd only seen Liv in love once, with someone I considered the worst person possible. He would probably come up at some point in this trip, but probably not until we were firmly entrenched in Napa Valley, over a glass of Malbec (or four).

Since that hot mess, Liv had rarely had a steady boyfriend. She would get crushes and go on dates, but she hadn't fallen for anyone in years, much to the dismay of the collective male population.
When I asked her the current status and if there was anything I wasn't fully updated on, she paused thoughtfully.

“There's this one guy I haven't told you much about, the guy I met a couple weeks ago who works at Citi. Did I tell you he's really tall? Like, notably tall. Everywhere we go people ask him if he plays basketball, which is actually the most unoriginal thing ever to say to a tall person, even though I'm sure I've done it myself. Then when he says no, they suggest he should! As if a thirty-six-year-old banker really needs to start hitting the courts on Saturday mornings. But I don't know, I can't see myself with a finance guy long term.”

“What about the public defender you met at the Berkeley reunion? He's probably more up your alley on social stratification issues.”

“He turned out to be bipolar. Which I'm totally okay with, but he also hated brunch. Who hates brunch?” She had a point. “Okay, can we please talk about the wedding now?” Liv said, turning to me with an expectant smile.

“I have a piece of news on that front. Guess who canceled on the rehearsal dinner?” I was eager to get this piece of news out of the way.

“I really hope you're going to say Sam's brother, who their family thinks has been teaching English in Costa Rica, but has really been surfing for the past two years.”

“Nope.”

“Oh no.” She paused. “Caroline?”

“You got it.”

“I'm sorry, Em,” Liv said, looking concerned.

“It's really okay. It's more annoying than anything else because I have to redo some stuff and explain it to Sam's parents. I honestly can't think of why I would really care that much, considering we haven't had a twenty-line conversation in about a decade.”

“Because you want your mom to be at your rehearsal dinner.”

“Not if she doesn't want to be there. She said it was a work thing. It's a good excuse. Probably even true.”

“How did she sound? She was probably really upset that she has to miss it.”

Liv has a much softer spot for my mom than I do, probably because my mother is funny in a dry, clinical way, she has what is considered a cool job, especially in D.C. where liberal political involvement is revered, and in high school she let Liv tell her parents she was at our house when she was really going to third base in Sean Garrett's basement. Caro, in turn, likes Liv because she finds her interesting and confident. She likes her as an equal, whereas it is my secret belief that my mother and I don't get along for the simple reason that she doesn't like my grown-up self very much.

Sure, when I was little I adored her and thought she was the prettiest woman in the world and all that. But things change. Of course, she's still beautiful, but everything else is different. Things first started to change when she finished grad school and started full time at the anti-tobacco lobby, right before I entered high school. It's such a cliché, but that was when she started to care more about her career than about being a mother. A lot more. The cynical side of me says she likes working for the lobby so much because it gives her enough credentials to feel smarter than the
average do-gooder and enough integrity to feel superior to the Capitol Hill suits. She claims it's because her beloved father died of lung cancer, inspiring her to work her way through Georgetown, eventually obtaining her master's degree in political science. I've heard the story more times than I can count, and I do mean story. The truth is, she hated her dad, Mickey Rigazi, a lifetime member of the lesser-known AA, Alcoholic Assholes.