“Okay okay one step at a time. I can’t even get up the nerve to tell him how Ifeel.”
“Well. No rush. But if you could do it this weekend that would be perfect. Nopressure.”
I cover myface.
“Sorry. I’ll let you pull yourself together. Do you have Kleenex inhere?”
I nod. “I stopped to get some on the way up here.”When I bought pepperoni anddonuts.
She kisses me on the cheek and hugs me. “See ya outthere.”
The restof the evening is a bit of a blur—figuratively and literally, because I have tears in my eyes most of the time. I keep touching my open hearts pendant and envisioning me and Scott and Maya and Sam hanging out as we all grow old together. But it never seems to be the right time to talk to Scott in private—what with the eating of the delicious food that I helped to prepare, and the bear hugs from massive, beautiful Bermudian men, the sober Scotsmen who still act pretty drunk, dancing and singing traditional Scottish folk songs, the hipster singer-songwriter guy that Sam produces music for, who sings a song he wrote just for Sam and Maya, and Maya’s gorgeous sixty year-old half-Chinese mother going around with the wordcock ringon her back, asking people: “Am I a blowjob?” “Am I a cocksucker?” “Am I a DirtySanchez?”
Even when Scott helps me wash dishes at the end of the night, we are never alone. Heather and her team are around. We don’t even talk at that point, because it’s so entertaining to listen to Heather bark orders and curse like a marine. It’s comfortable, and probably the most domestic-type thing we’ve ever done together. I like it. And it makes my armpits damp because I want to tell him I love him. I try to let him know telepathically, at one point. He does look over at me, quizzically, and I wonder if itworked.
“Are you trying to hold in a fart?” he says,grinning.
“What? No! Shutup!”
“Youshutup.”
“Oh my God.” We’re done with the dishes. I wipe my hands on a towel. “I’m exhausted. I’m going tobed.”
“Me too. I’ll walk you to your room and then get back to thehouse.”
We tiptoe down the hall past Maya’s room. She went to bed at ten-thirty, which was pretty late for the little pregnant lady. He follows me. I open the door to my room. He stands a couple of feet away from me, his hands on hiships.
“You’re a good maid of honor,” he says, in a hushedvoice.
“Thanks. You’re a good bestman.”
“Thanks. See you in themorning.”
He hugs me. He is a good hugger. It’s a long, warm, friendly hug. “Not if I see you first,” I say, instead of “By the way, I loveyou.”
He pulls away from me and stares down at me, like he really wants to say something. I brace myself. Is he going to say itfirst?
He takes in a breath, then says: “Are you hiding pepperoni inthere?”
I punch him in the arm.Shit.“No! Shut up. Goodnight.”
“Youshutup.”
“You complete…ly annoyme.”
He smiles and pats me on the head. “Right back at ya, buddy.” He walks away. “You had me at ‘shutup.’”
I go inside my room and shut the door and cover my face with myhands.
“Buddy?!”
We’re buddies now? I stomp around the room. Have I misinterpreted everything about the way he’s been looking at me today? What is happening?! Why can’t I just tell him I love him and get this thing back on track? Or maybe we got off track when we were in New York? Or the first time we made out in thatbathroom?
Gah!
I collapse on my back on the bed, kick my feet into the air. Whichever track we’re supposed to be on, I just wish I could get us on it! Why is this so hard for me? How can it be so easy for other people to marry their co-workers or marry someone who’s the same sex as them or marry someone that they moved to England to meet or marry someone that they just met a few months ago and are having a babywith?
Maybe I’m only meant to be married to mywork.
