be my type? He’s cute. I know people who have worked for him, and he’s really nice. . . .”
“It’s not that. It’s that he has dark hair. You normally go for blonds.”
“No I don’t. Why would you say that?”
Scott shrugs. “Your last two boyfriends are blondish. Both had blue eyes. I figured that was your type. Who was your hell date?”
“Antonin Scalia,” I respond, still reeling from Scott’s obvious misinterpretation of me and my “type.”
“The Supreme Court justice?” Scott asks, as he finishes looking through the cards. “Not really a celebrity. Who picked Stephen Colbert?”
“I don’t have a type,” I continue. “There’s no type.”
“Please,” Scott says, flashing me a patronizing look. “No offense sweetheart, but you like the westside type: blond hair, or had blond hair as a kid at least, a little bland, has some sort of nonartistic job that he’s a bit bored with, but which is stable. You know, like an actuary or a strategic planner. Lives in a condo west of La Cienega . . .”
Now I’m fuming. “That is so not true. I dated an actuary once, and I have dated a lot of artists.”
“Not for more than a date or two. Then you find something wrong with them, and move on.”
I have nothing to say back, but my feelings are hurt. He doesn’t see it: he genuinely has no idea how much I like him. And the only way for me to ever let him know how much would be to go so far out on a limb that my weight could easily shatter the branch.
Scott smiles. Tickles me under my chin. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I don’t like dating artists either. I’ll admit I’d rather have a downtown lawyer than a westside computer geek, but we’re pretty much the same.”
I still look sad. Scott knows this, but he has no idea why.
My phone rings. Saved by the bell. I walk over to my landline and answer. “Hello?”
“Is Scott there?” Nic whispers into her end of the phone. “Am I disturbing anything?”
“Never,” I say, maybe a little too brightly. “We’re just drinking champagne, going through your gifts, and figuring out which ones you won’t miss.”
“Ginger just called me,” Nic tells me in full panic mode. “She got engaged tonight.”
The guest who pulled the ring charm.
Shit.
“And it’s all my fault!” Nic continues. “If I hadn’t tried to get Mel hitched, none of this would have ever happened. I wouldn’t be checking my birth control pills to make sure the pharmacy didn’t accidentally switch them with mini SweeTarts, you wouldn’t be doomed to a life of hard work, and Karen wouldn’t be avoiding going to Oklahoma City next week.”
“Oklahoma City?” I ask.
“She got the tornado charm,” Nic tells me, her voice getting more anxious and high pitched. “Which was supposed to go to Samantha to guarantee a whirlwind life. I fucked everything up.”
“Okay, take it down a notch,” I advise. “Don’t go off all half cocked, it’s just a coincidence.”
“It’s not a coincidence, and I am completely cocked,” Nic insists, sounding more frightened than the babysitter in a slasher movie. “It’s happening.”
“You say that with a tone of voice like we’re in the middle of Armageddon.”
“I can’t have a baby right now,” Nic says. “I have no job.”
I resist the urge to point out that she’s thirty-two, has found the love of her life— the holy grail for all of us singles out there still searching— and that he has money and wants to fill their house with their laughing babies. Right now is the perfect fucking time to have a baby. I have a job— they’re not all they’re cracked up to be.
Instead, I cover the phone’s mouthpiece and whisper to Scott, “I need cake.”
“I’m on it,” he says, standing up. “Fridge?”
“Cake stand on the counter,” I tell him.
He makes a show of closing his eyes, shaking his head, and opening his eyes again. “Cake stand? Another thing women don’t really need.”
I playfully push him. “Just get me cake.” Then I turn my attention back to Nic. “No, I’m still here. Just talking to Scott for a second.”
“I would not be a good mother,” Nic insists. “Even the idea of changing a diaper disgusts me. The Teletubbies bore me. I’ll admit, I like Sesame Street, but a Snuffleupagus fan does not a mommy make.”
I sigh. “Are you still taking your pills?” I ask her.
“Religiously. I’m starting to wonder if they come in extra-strength.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” I assure her. “I’m not saying that I believe in the magic of the charms. But even if I did, maybe the carriage just symbolizes that you’re about to have children in your house part-time. Maybe it’s just about the girls.”
Nic takes a moment to consider that possibility. “Yeah, it could be that, I guess . . .”
As Nic continues talking, I watch Scott in the doorway of my kitchen. Man, he is so cute. And he’s here with me on a Saturday night. To watch wedding movies. Why won’t I make a move?
“Malika’s calling for me to read to her,” Nic says, “I gotta go. Any chili pepper hotness going on?”
“Not yet,” I admit. “But the night is young, and he’s still sober. Give me time.”
Nic laughs. “Remember, it’s that or you have to revert to your original shovel.”
“Thanks for the incentive.”
“I love you,” Nic tells me.
“Love you too. Bye.” I hang up the phone just as Scott appears with two slices of chocolate cake. “I cut big slices, as there really is no such thing as too much cake,” he says, as he hands a massive slice to me.
“A man after my own heart,” I (half) joke as I take the cake and settle in on the couch to take a huge bite.
Scott sits down next to me. “Who was that?”
“Nic. She’s a little stressed.”
“Cold feet?” Scott asks, as he takes a bite of cake.
“No. It’s silly, really. We just played this game where—”
“Ow!” Scott yelps, grabbing his mouth. He sticks out his tongue and pulls something silver out of his mouth. “What the . . .”
The charm is not attached to a ribbon, and I can’t see which one it is. Scott opens his hand to examine it. “There’s a heart in my cake.”
The heart charm: the next one to find true love.
Chapter Four
Melissa
I hate to be a bad friend, but really, is there any woman over the age of sixteen who actually likes going to bridal showers? I mean, besides happily married pregnant women who can gloat, and tell us in excruciating detail how their husbands proposed.
I’m sitting with my boyfriend, Fred, in a ridiculously romantic restaurant, with an incredible view of the city lights. He looks positively dapper tonight: his swimmer’s body looks fantastic in his new navy-blue suit; his brown eyes sparkle as he tells me a story about his day, and he seems to be in a really good mood. We’re having lovely wine and fantastic sushi. But instead of focusing on what I do have (a boyfriend who showers me with romantic dinners), I am paying