Romance Is My Day Job (27 page)

 • • • 

Everyone expects me to have a nervous breakdown, but I'm doing
great
right before the wedding. My mother is the one who loses her marbles about a week before. Every few minutes, a new phone call.

“What about the guest list?” she asks, practically screaming.

“Taken care of.”

“Does Bill Bloom have a place to stay? Oh my God, what are we going to do for them?”

I'm not sure what she means. What
can
we do for them? Breast-feed? “He's staying at the Lotos Club.”

“Did you get Lou a cab from the airport?”

“Done, Mom.”

“What about the dress, oh God, there are so many things to remember!”

“There's nothing to do.”

Hahaha! Is it bad I'm giggling over her nerves? She has to buy a new jacket, a new suit for Don, and how will her siblings get to the Yale Club, and is there a reservation for whozeewhatsit at the hotel? And maybe we should organize another big brunch!

All taken care of, because I love organization. Someone should hire me to organize them. This bridal planning is a snap. Now we just have to sit back and enjoy.

Except . . .

The week of the wedding, we get word that we're going to be in the
New York Times
, and they would like to do a feature video on us. Okay, sure, no problem. Sam and I glitz ourselves up and walk around Chelsea with an impressive camerawoman, answering her questions and praying we don't seem like idiots. I already know my Marge Simpson voice is out there for everyone to hear. Despite this, the excitement of this celebration builds and builds. I cannot wait for it all to start.

And then Wedding Eve arrives.

I am packed with all of my to-do's crossed off. I'm going to be spending my last single night at the Yale Club, while Sam stays home. We do follow tradition by not being together the night before the wedding.

My matron of honor, Nici, arrives, bubbling with enthusiasm, telling me about her dress, and have I got everything packed? Nici and my actor/comic/nurse friend Langdon from California bond like macaroni and cheese in my studio apartment. It's fun to see them together because they are so similar. Nici I've known since high school. I met Langdon after seeing him in a terrible play in New York. He was terrific and I've stalked him ever since. Now these two dynamic people are in the same room.

On the other side of the apartment, on the couch, Sam is wearing his baseball cap that says “Groom.” We're all laughing, talking, and having a good time. The rehearsal dinner starts in a few hours. I've attended so many weddings in real life and in romance novels. Now it's my turn. I'm feeling that bliss from the books that I read—and it's real.

Finally, I got my wish. My groom is here.

I stand in the foyer of my studio apartment, watching the mayhem of my friends interacting, wildly gesturing over something awesome. As the voices fade away, I suddenly feel
it
. That wave of fear, that the world is spinning too fast, that my head might split in half.

Sam looks over at me, his eyes register my panic, and he smiles.

“What's up, Red?” he asks playfully, rising from the couch and coming over to me. I step into his embrace, knowing that he will always make things better. Marriage might be an adjustment, but I still want him in my life every day.

“Maybe you should get out of here,” Sam whispers in my ear.

I nod and bury my head in his neck. “I'll go to the hotel.” As I stand in his arms, I remember the first time I saw him (again), that striped sweater, that dazed look coming down the walkway at JFK. That now-familiar glance. He is my one “true” husband.

I felt that need to be closer to him in every way. I still feel that. He walks into a room and I go to him. When he's in the kitchen, I go to the kitchen, too. (Not the bathroom, at least not every time.) We work in the same space, too. And he's the perfect date for a party. Everyone wants to talk to him, and I like to watch. This is the biggest gamble of my life, though I gambled several times with some good outcomes—the moves to New Mexico and New York City being the two biggest. This time, I am letting a strange man change the course of my life.

I can't believe he's finally here.

Sam is not Devlin or Jake Hunter or a British duke with a sprawling estate he'll inherit if he marries the plain commoner from the next county over. Even with all the romances I've read, with the loveable heroes who captured my imagination, Sam is even better than all of them. It's hard to believe that he could be, but he is. I had a picture of my perfect romantic hero—a little James Bond, a little Darcy, and a little Shane MacKade. But Sam surpasses them, too.

My friends continue to talk madly about every single wedding detail, how fabulous the dresses will be and then flowers and what a cool mom I have and oh God Patrick is so awesome, wait till you meet his hot boyfriend.

What in the hell would I be doing if I wasn't getting married tomorrow?

Lying on the couch and watching movies I've seen before. Contemplating my exes. Again. Knitting endless baby blankets for pregnant friends. Playing computer solitaire and crying. Maybe happy to some extent, but not this kind of happiness.

“Aw, you guys are so cute!” Nici cries, and Langdon joins her in cooing over us.

The two of them watch us hugging, the soon-to-be-married couple, their beaming smiles almost convincing me that this whole wedding will be a piece of cake. My next move will be getting from here to the club without losing my mind once again.

This happy abundance bubbles in my chest. I love Sam and want to make a life with him. Gone is single life. No problem saying good-bye to the past. But right there, in the studio apartment, bags packed for my last night as a single woman, Ambien and Ativan stowed, makeup, pins, shoes, lingerie, thank-you gifts, lists, license, candles, jewelry, cameras, and all the somethings (old, new, borrowed, blue), I think I might have the nervous breakdown to end all nervous breakdowns, just the panic attack I was due to have.

My legs shake, my hair trembles, and I need to get to the hotel to be by myself. Before anyone knows that something might be terribly wrong with me.

 • • • 

I'm going to do things differently,
I think over and over again. I won't have a panic attack, won't shy away from the spotlight, won't avoid the big moment or give in to the fear. I'm going to love this—all the rituals involved with marrying Sam. This propels me through my long walk to the Yale Club, with my two suitcases near to bulging with wedding regalia. I am strong as an ox—though mentally fragile.

My friend Langdon, with his spiky blond hair and brash personality, escorts me. The great thing about him is that he can talk endlessly or be quiet, as needed. All I want is someone to walk with me while I daintily lose my mind. His presence soothes me, the perfect wedding gift.

Once I get inside the bridal suite, I breathe a sigh of relief. No people. A few precious hours before the craziness truly begins. People assume I'm running around and leave me alone. My cell phone is silent. I have a big bed, many magazines, and a television.

Tonight, I have to pull myself together for the tradition entitled the rehearsal dinner. Automatic pilot, right? I eat a yogurt honey peanut Balance Bar for energy and just let myself stare at the walls.

 • • • 

Four hours later, having regaled and smiled and cried away my makeup—tears of joy—I settle into bed, this time for the night. I see the bottle of Ambien on my bedside table and know some ghosts will never leave me. The only advantage to nightmares is that they test your strength, put the little things into perspective.

I can't forget how I got here.

The truth about love is that the right spouse is obvious. I know for sure that Sam is my Prince Charming. He will come through for me. As a teenager, he took the time to charm the wallflower at the other end of the gym. I spend my last few hours sifting through memories of Sam, how we met, how he bewitched me even then.

I am soon thinking about all the good in my life; even some of the bad stuff was good. There is a long, rutted road from there to here and I count my blessings.

 • • • 

There is a knock on my door at nine
A.M
. My hair person. I'm already showered and ready to go. I open the door and prepare for the profanity.

John, a dashingly handsome, loudmouthed hairstylist, bounds into the room with his cases of curlers. “You are a cunt for having your wedding at noon. That means I have to wake up at the fucking crack of dawn.”

You know it's going to be a good day when someone calls you the C-word.

He sits me down and gets to work on my hair. It's an unruly mane and I know it'll take a couple of hours to tame it and make it into wedding hair. As he works, other people sift in: my lovely cousin Claire; my matron of honor, Nici; Patrick and Carlos; and my wedding photographers, Natasha from New Mexico and her boyfriend. How could I not stay in touch with such a vibrant person as Natasha? She stayed a close girlfriend, leaving me screeching, obscene messages over the years. Plus, I need her enthusiasm and mad photography skills.

I think of the other side of town, Sam waking up and getting ready, meeting my mother and Don, since they're going to come together in the same car.

Sam sends me his last text as a single man:
Mark Harmon is the comeback kid!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this will be my husband, who, it seems, just discovered
NCIS
the night before. This is just another part of this wave of celebration building up to the big moment.

Quietly, my brother does my makeup, just as he did growing up when we put on plays for the neighborhood. I can feel his joyful energy, the history between us, his taking care of me and now acting as the one who's passing me to my husband. He zips up my dress, arranges my bridal wrap, fastens it into place with an elephant pin (I collect elephant anything). Carlos is with him, critiquing, praising, and finally cheerleading.

Three hours later, I'm ready.

Dari enters the room. “It's time.”

The people in the room disperse and we take our places. As we walk through the halls of the Yale Club, I feel an intense quiet. Guests are in the library, waiting for me, the bride. This is it, that hush.

I walk down the hall, and we fall into place, with Nici in front of me, Patrick and I linking arms.

The music starts: Duran Duran, just as I wanted. With the first few strains of “Rio,” played on flute and guitar, I start cracking up. Not many people would know what song it is. My mother is mortified, no doubt. I am such a diva, walking down the aisle to my favorite band—brides can do this!

Patrick and I giggle and start our walk. The guests rise and watch. Here comes the bride, whose name is Rio and she dances between the stacks of books at the library in the Yale Club.

As Lou promised, the ceremony is very short. I remember very little about it, just how happy Sam looks, how steady I feel (no swimming floor or wavering walls), how pagan our ceremony winds up being, how I can feel my mother's gaze, how I screwed up who got which ring, the applause at the end, Sam and I walking down the aisle as husband and wife.

It is the happiest day of my life. I remember so many parts of the reception:

How great I feel the entire day.

The handkerchief that brides in my family have carried in their bouquets for almost a century.

The flowers and food, which are perfect.

Hearing the Taft table cheer as Sam and I dance for the first time to “My Eyes Adored You” by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons—a song Sam had randomly started singing to me one day, not knowing what a fan I am of this group.

Friends from work dominating the dance floor. Harlequin employees dancing till they drop.

Giving my bouquet to Melissa, my BFF from work.

My mom socializing like crazy, carrying children, hugging strangers, schmoozing like the dickens.

How I have a new name, and a new father in Bill Bloom.

My stepfather being his merry self but overdoing it (I won't say what happens).

How I keep holding food but never get the chance to eat until after everyone leaves.

The DJ playing a lot of Duran Duran.

How moving it is to see my father's family and how my mother weeps with joy to see them after thirty years. Even without my father's presence, this wedding reunited several families.

At the beginning of the planning, I wondered how I'd get through the six-hour event. And by the time six o'clock rolls around, I'm stunned that it's over. Sam and I say our good-byes and sneak up to our bridal suite . . . and watch the Golden Globes.

All through the night and on most occasions (except when he pisses me off), I look into Sam's eyes and remember how certain I was—and still am—that this is the one who's meant for me. I realize that as a bookish girl who narrowly escaped death in her early twenties, dated like crazy, and then chose to live quietly, this is truly my own romance novel come to life.

I have the amazing hero and that romantic pull toward him 95 percent of the time (5 percent of the time, he drives me insane), the juicy conflict (which makes life interesting and never gets totally resolved because we're human), the wedding experience, and someone who wants to share the ride with me. My happily-ever-after is more than I ever imagined for myself.

And you know, those books were right—about everything.