The Balance Thing (4 page)

I
t was a week later, and Vida and I had been drinking. About the time we ordered our third round of mojitos, I wondered aloud if perhaps we'd been drinking rather a lot lately.

“It's the damn wedding!” Vida wailed.

“The damn wedding!” I agreed.

We'd had our final fittings for the bridesmaid dresses that afternoon. The dresses themselves were supremely tasteful creations in a sort of café latte–colored silk. Almost Edwardian looking, they were strapless with a little drape across the breasts. The skirts were straight in front, with another little drape across the hips pulled back into something that I don't know if we're calling a bustle anymore. They were elegant. They were sumptuous. They were not comfortable.

Connie came to supervise the fitting, and she brought her hairdresser with her. She didn't trust anyone in England to do her hair, so she was flying Roger over to take care of her. It was his job to make Connie look fabulous for the onslaught of cocktail parties, afternoon tea parties, formal dinner parties, the “hen” party (which I'd found out was the
British equivalent of a bachelorette party) and, um, the wedding. His curling iron wouldn't have a chance to cool off for the entire two weeks.

In the dressing room, Roger cast his professional eye over Vida and me as we were tugged and tucked by a collection of women holding pins in their mouths.

“What do you think?” Connie looked at us as if she was afraid our friendship had blinded her to the reality of just how awful our hair was.

Roger moved closer to Vida's sun-bleached head and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “It's very straight, isn't it?”

Vida sent me a “help me” look in the mirror.

“But the color is exquisite,” Roger relented. “And the length gives us a lot of flexibility.”

Connie briefly looked relieved. Then she eyed me apprehensively. “What about…”

Roger approached with eyebrows raised. He blinked quickly a few times, then said one word: “Extensions.”

“Excuse me?”

His smile was an attempt to reassure me. “Nothing permanent, don't worry. I'll just bring some extra bits of hair in that…brown color…and we'll be able to make it look like…it will be fine.” He turned to Connie and gave her his professional word. “It will be fine.”

Connie beamed at us. We'd passed. We'd be able to advance to the next level in the tournament of bridesmaids. I studied my reflection and began to rethink my stand on highlights.

“Becks,” Vida whispered out of the side of her mouth, “we are so going for drinks the minute we're unpinned.”

I nodded my…brown…head. It seemed like the only sensible thing to do.

 

NOW, AT THE BAR,
Vida was swaying slightly. Or maybe it was me. “Do you know what's really not fair?” she demanded.

“What's not fair?”

She brought her palm down on the table. “Max!”

“Max!” I agreed. “What's not fair about Max?”

“Where the hell is he?”

I checked my watch. “It's nine on a Wednesday. He's probably watching a TiVo of
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
.”

“Exactly!” she trumpeted.

“Exactly what?” As far as I knew, it was still legal to watch excessively fabulous makeover shows.

“We're off getting criticized and jabbed with pins while he's snug on his couch in perfect comfort. And why? I ask you—why us and not him?”

“I'm just guessing here, but I think it may have something to do with the fact that he's a guy.”

“Exactly!” She hit the table again. “One damn Y chromosome and he gets out of being a bridesmaid for his entire life!”

I saw her point. “Let's get a cab.”

 

MAX WAS LESS THAN THRILLED
to see us on his doorstep. It was subtle, but I picked up on it when he said, “Good God, what are you two trollops doing in my respectable neighborhood at this hour of the night?”

“Seething with resentment,” I told him.

He stepped back so we could come in. “What have I done now?”

“You were born with a Y chromosome,” Vida said as she paused to rest on his shoulder.

Max looked at me over the top of her head. “I'm making coffee, aren't I?”

“You are.”

Max lived in a newish condo in Dolores Heights, with a view of the park as well as the old Mission Dolores that had given the neighborhood its name. The front door opened into a big living/dining room with an open kitchen, so it was no trouble to pull Vida away from our host and plunk her down on a couch. “I don't want coffee,” she said. “I want gender equality!”

Max gave me raised eyebrows.

“She wants you in a bridesmaid dress,” I explained.

“Sorry, sweetness. I haven't done drag since college,” he grinned. “Not that it wouldn't be fun to see the look on Ian's face as I came traipsing down the aisle in pink organdy.”

“Café au lait silk,” Vida corrected him.

“Is it café au lait?” I asked her. “I thought it was café latte.”

“This is a color?” Max asked.

“You just make the coffee,” I told him.

“Café au—”

“Shut up!” we yelled.

 

AS IT TURNED OUT,
Max had little sympathy for our bridal complaints.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffed when we told him about the fitting. “Big deal. So you have to wear a dress and be fawned over by seamstresses and hairdressers.
Boo hoo.”

I turned to Vida. “Remind me again why we came here?”

“At least you get to be in the wedding,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He rolled his eyes. “Connie wanted Ian to ask me to be a groomsman.”

“You're kidding!” Vida said. “That's so cool! When”—then she saw the look on his face—“oh, I mean…um.”

“Right.” Max nodded. “It seems Ian isn't really a member of my core fan base.”

“Connie told you he said no?” I asked. I hadn't heard anything about this.

He shook his head. “Of course not. I wouldn't have known a thing if Ian hadn't gotten all British with me at the engagement party. He said he was sure I would understand that ‘it just wasn't on,' whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.”

“He's a jerk,” Vida said.

We stared at her.

“Oh, come on. Don't pretend you like him. I mean, it's one thing to support Connie, but we don't need to lie about the guy when it's just us here.”

Max cleared his throat. “Ian's not a jerk,” he said firmly. He paused. “Being a jerk requires having a personality.”

“I so don't get it,” Vida said. “She could do so much better than him.”

I was hugely relieved to find I wasn't the only one who harbored doubts about Ian, even if I couldn't quite put my finger on the source of the doubts. “I can't even say what it is about him…”

“I know,” Max agreed. “I mean he's perfectly pleasant on the surface.”

“There's just nothing much below the surface, as far as I can tell.” I sipped my coffee and thought about it. “I mean, has he ever expressed an opinion?”

“Only about me being in his wedding,” Max said.

Vida patted him on the arm. “You really wouldn't want to hang out with him anyway, Maxie. Think about what his friends must be like. I mean, the only reason to be a bridesmaid is because you can usually count on getting lucky with a groomsman. But in this case”—she made a face—“I'm not optimistic.”

“Maybe Connie likes bland,” I suggested. “Or maybe it was the English accent. I mean, she went after Ian, didn't she? It wasn't a case of her being date lazy.”

“Date what?” Max asked.

“Something I've recently been accused of.” I ignored his baffled look and went on. “She must have seen something in him to pursue him, right?”

“Maybe,” Max said delicately, “she saw a wedding.”

Vida groaned. “Not Connie. She's not just in it for the dress.”

“Maybe some women,” I protested, “but not Connie. I mean, how many weddings does she handle for her clients every year? She's more likely to be sick of them than to be lusting after her own.”

“And yet…” Max said.

“And yet.” Vida sounded as if she was considering it. “There is the whole Princess for a Day syndrome to consider…or, in this case, Princess for Two Weeks.”

“No,” I said firmly. “We're talking about Connie. She's a
princess every day. I don't think it's that.” I paused. “Maybe it's the dying alone thing.”

“That's not Connie's thing, Becks, that's my thing.” Vida looked a little embarrassed.

“That's everyone's thing,” Max said.

“Really?” Maybe I was a freak after all. “Not me. I'm much more afraid of spending my next thirty years with the wrong guy than I am of spending my last thirty days on my own.”

“That's because your fear of commitment thing is stronger than your dying alone thing,” Max told me. “Commitment, however, is clearly not a problem for Connie.”

“No,” Vida agreed.

“Trust me,” Max continued. “She just sees her ‘sell by' date getting closer, and Ian looks like he'll do.”

“Ugh,” I groaned. “I won't believe that of Connie.”

“Happens every day,” Max said breezily. “Usually ends in divorce.”

“Max!” Vida and I both protested.

“She isn't even married yet!” I said.

“What?” Max said innocently. “That doesn't mean we don't love the pants off the girl. And it doesn't mean we won't have a very good time at the wedding.”

After quite a bit more speculation we decided to call it a night, and Max gallantly offered to drive us both home. He dropped Vida off first, and when he pulled up outside my loft, he offered me a peck on the cheek and a promise.

“In our next session we'll deal with your fear of commitment.”

“Please,” I said. “I've had plenty of discussions about what's wrong with me lately. I don't need your sham analysis on top of it.”

And so what if I was afraid? As I unlocked my door, I remembered my grandmother's advice, offered when my eight-year-old heart had been broken by Dean Hitzelburger in an inexcusable display of playground infidelity.

“Becks, there's something every girl should realize and realize early.” She'd lifted my chin so I could look straight into her bright violet eyes. “It's better to
be
single than to wish you were.”

Good for Grandma.

I
returned home to a blinking light on my answering machine, which I ignored until morning. It wasn't until the sun was fully up and the slice of cheesecake I'd hidden in my freezer started mentally announcing itself as a perfectly reasonable breakfast choice that I rolled over and hit the Play button.

“Becks? Hi! It's Chad Barlow. From PlanetCom.”

Yikes! Had Rita not torpedoed me after all? I sat up and paid attention.

“Look, I'm really sorry about what happened the other day.”

The other week. Closer to two weeks, in fact. But I forgave him.

“I couldn't believe it when I heard what Rita said. Um…anyway, I'd like the chance to make it up to you. Are you free for dinner sometime? Maybe Thursday? Let me know, okay? I'd hate for you to get the wrong impression about everyone at PlanetCom.”

A nervous laugh.
Beep
.

Yes! Hope was not lost! Maybe the powers that be had decided my obvious marketing brilliance outweighed Rita's
overt hostility. They were wooing me! I mean, it wasn't a request for a second round of interviews—it was a dinner meeting. Yes!

 

ZUNI CAFÉ, NO LESS.
When I'd called Chad back, he'd even offered to pick me up. Since I didn't want to make it too social, I told him I'd meet him there.

I loved Zuni. Aside from having amazing food, it was right down the street from one of my favorite bars in town, Martuni's. If it had been a night out with friends, a nightcap at the Martuni's back room piano bar would have been inevitable. But I didn't think I'd be making that suggestion to Chad. This was business, after all. Business and drunken renditions of show tunes rarely mix.

Chad was waiting at the bar when I came in, looking very sharp in a silky deep-blue striped shirt that he wore out, with the sleeves unbuttoned, over black leather jeans.

Leather jeans? I hadn't done the corporate dress thing either, opting for a lightweight cashmere sweater and simple A-line skirt, but I couldn't imagine wearing leather jeans to a business dinner.

“Becks!” His face lit up when he saw me, and as I got within range, he stood up and kissed me on the cheek.

Kissed me on the cheek? What the hell was that about? Then I tuned in to what he was saying: “…really happy you didn't let that stupid thing at work get in the way of going out with me.”

Holy shit. Vida was right. I do need to be conked over the head before I realize someone is interested in me. And Chad Barlow had just conked me.

I probably responded with something like “Um…hi” before the hostess saved my clueless ass by telling us our table was ready. As we walked around the open-fire oven toward the brick wall at the rear of the restaurant, I felt Chad's hand resting proprietarily on the small of my back.

Yep. This was a date.

 

IT WASN'T HORRIBLE.
Once I adjusted to the fact that this was a personal thing, I said a mental “Oh, what the hell” and ordered a martini.

I spent some time kicking myself for being such an idiot, but it turned out I could do that while paying enough attention to Chad's conversation to be polite. It was standard first date patter. How much he liked this place, had I been there before, what he liked to do,
blah, blah, blah
.

But the oysters—I had said “what the hell,” after all—were amazing, and the wine Chad ordered with our roast chicken was quite nice, and after a while I found myself nodding and smiling and answering and chatting without even having to tell myself to.

Okay, so it wasn't fireworks and symphonies, but he was, when all was said and done, a nice guy. Good-looking even, in a prep school sort of way. And he had interests in things like art and music and movies.

“But I have to admit,” he said over a shared slice of chocolate hazelnut cake, “I'm really a geek at heart.”

“Big surprise,” I told him. “Let me guess, computer games?”

He grinned. “Even worse. Comic books.”

I felt a faint stirring of apprehension. “Could be worse. You could have an Internet gambling problem.”

He laughed. “It's not that bad. But I do spend a lot of time online. A lot of the best comics are Web-based these days.”

Okay, definitely time to change the subject. “Gosh, this cake is good.”

Not my best effort, I know. And it didn't work. Chad blundered right out onto the minefield. “It's the weirdest thing, but when I first saw you I thought we'd met somewhere before.”

“Oh, that happens to me a lot,” I babbled. “I have one of those faces. People always think I used to be in a sitcom—”

“No,” he marched on, “it's not just your face—it's your voice. It took me a while, but I finally figured out who you remind me of. Have you ever heard of an online comic, well, more of an animation, I guess—anyway, a superhero vampire named Vladima Cross?”

I swallowed and gave him a completely blank look. “Vladima?”

“It's funny.” He forked the last bite of frosting. “Because I'd swear the guy who draws her must know you.”

“Weird.” I wasn't going to give him a single inch more. The last thing I needed was the news getting back to PlanetCom, and by extension everywhere else in the business world, that I was a cartoon blood drinker. My chances for a professional comeback would get a serious stake through the heart.

Chad shot me a look from beneath his lashes. “I don't suppose I could talk you into giving me a little bite on the neck?”

I gulped the last of my wine. “Never on the first date.”

I think I managed a smile.

 

CHAD WALKED ME TO MY CAR.
I knew what was coming. I just didn't know how I should handle it. But as it turned out, Chad moved so fast I didn't have time to plan anything anyway. Before I could get out a breezy little “well, this was fun,” I was being kissed. And rather well.

He started with his hands lightly on my shoulders, then drew me closer when it was pretty clear I wasn't going to back away and slap him. Things progressed until I was leaning against my passenger door and felt the tip of my tongue reaching out for him.

Oops.

He pulled back just enough to look searchingly into my eyes, and I knew. I knew I wasn't interested. I knew he was a perfectly pleasant, good-on-paper sort of guy and that if I didn't do something about it I'd probably end up making out with him tonight, and going out with him again, and sleeping with him on the third date, and probably taking him to Connie's going-away party next week and introducing him to all my friends. And I knew I wouldn't miss him in London, and I'd start looking for his flaws the minute I got back.

If I didn't stop this right now, I'd be just as date lazy as I'd always been. I'd be seeing him because he was into me, not because I was into him. And he wasn't really into me anyway. He was into Vladima. And that would only get worse if he found out the truth. So I took a deep breath and did the decent thing.

“Chad, I had a really nice time tonight, and you seem like a really great guy, but I just don't think this is something I want to pursue.”

I gazed up at him confidently, sure I'd done the right thing.

He took a step back. He blinked and, I have to say, looked kind of stupid.

“What?”

Okay, I realized he'd lost some of the blood supply to his brain with that kiss, but really.

“I just don't think we're right for each other,” I explained.

“Are you serious? Did you really just say that?”

“Yes, well…don't get me wrong. I'm sure you're a great guy, but…” I waited. It seemed to be taking him an awfully long time to get it.

“Chad?”

“I don't believe you.” He seemed dazed. “I mean, Rita told me you were a bitch, but…”

“Hey—”

“She was right.” He shook his head, then looked at me again with narrowed eyes. “You're such a bitch.”

Surely the man had been rejected before? But something in his increasingly pissed-off expression convinced me that I might have been better off telling him something more tried and true. Something like “It's not you—it's me” or “I'm just getting over a really bad breakup.”

Someone who says those things probably never gets called a bitch.

 

“POOR BABY,”
Max sympathized over the phone. “You do seem to be getting the bad reviews these days.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And he couldn't come up with anything more descriptive than ‘such a bitch'?”

“You see why it would never have worked between us.”

“No conversational skills,” Max agreed. “Still…”

“I did the right thing!” I protested. “I was just shorthanding the whole affair. I saw the future, I didn't want to spend my time there, and I thought we should leave it at that!”

“Is that what you told him?”

“More or less.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him it wasn't something I wanted to pursue.”

“Hmmm.”

“You think that was the problem?”

“It might be a little harsh.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It wasn't harsh, it was just direct. Honest. Harsh would have been ‘I can tell we're doomed to a short-term mediocre relationship, and I'd rather cut my losses now than indulge in yet another pointless timewaster.'”

“Yes, well, that relies a bit too much on your faith that you can actually see the future.”

“Believe me, I could. It looked remarkably like the past.” I groaned with the hideous unfairness of it all. “I thought I'd get points for this! I broke the date-laziness cycle!”

“You get points from me, sweetie, and I'm sure you'll get points from Con and Vee.”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“But it's probably a bit much to expect points from the guy you've decided to break the cycle with. Especially when you do it so…directly.”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway,” he suggested, his tone brightening, “why don't we have lunch with the girls tomorrow? We'll shower you with points.”

“I can't,” I moaned.

“What? Have you got another date?”

“Sort of.” I looked over at my coffee table and the script Josh had sent by messenger. “With a vampire.”