Me Vs. Me

Me Vs. Me

Sarah Mlynowski

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Sylvia Harris and Dora Stein,

grandmas extraordinaire

Many, many thanks to:

My fab new editor, Selina McLemore, my fab former editor, Farrin Jacobs, Tara Kelly, Margaret Marbury, Sarah Rundle and the rest of the RDI team, my awesome agent Laura Dail and superb publicist Gail Brussel.

For their brilliant insights and edits: Elissa Ambrose (thanks again, Mom; you’re the best), Robert Ambrose, Lynda Curnyn, Alison Pace, Lisa Callamaro, Jessica Braun, Melissa Senate, Kristin Harmel, Dari Alexander and Chad Ruble.

For their never-ending love and support:

Larry Mlynowski, Louisa Weiss, Aviva Mlynowski, Jen Dalven, Gary Swidler, Darren Swidler, John Swidler, Bonnie Altro, Robin Afrasiabi, Jess Davidman, Ronit Avni. Special thanks to Vicki Swidler for being a dream mother-in-law, and luckily for me, nothing like Alice. And of course, Todd Swidler, the one for me no matter which road I would have taken.

Contents

BEFORE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

AFTER

BEFORE

“Close your eyes, Gabby,” Cam said.

“Now? I’m watching.” Closing your eyes during a meteor shower was like wearing a bikini when taking a bath. You were definitely going to miss the important parts.

We were lying in the back of his Ford pickup, admiring the desert sky exploding above, drunk on merlot sipped straight from the bottle (with cork remnants to spice it up—I could never open a bottle properly), while the light rained down on us from every direction.

“Come on, just close them,” he said.

As usual, I did as I was told. “Happy?”

I heard the metal creak. He squeezed my left hand and then slipped something cold and hard around my fourth finger.

Was that…did he…My eyes shot open. Holy shit.

Cam was no longer lying next to me, but crouched in an awkward wannabe-knight kneel. “Will you marry me?” he asked. A massive Cheshire-cat smile stretched across his normally serious face, making him look off-kilter.

Sparkle, twinkle, glitter. Ohhh. I had my very own meteor shower on my finger. At closer glance I could see it was a pear-shaped diamond (one carat or two?) set on a thin platinum band.

The man I loved had just proposed marriage.

The blood rushed to my head and my face felt hot. I wanted to say yes. Yes. Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees! This was the moment I’d been waiting for my entire life. The moment I’d been romanticizing about since I first saw Cinderella when I was six and imagined my own glass carriage ready to roll me toward my happily-ever-after castle. A castle I later decided would be filled with thousand-thread-count bed linen and Italian-marble Jacuzzis. All I had to do was respond. To give some sort of affirmative response. Like yes. Or okay, let’s. And I was going to say yes. The word was at my lips, begging to be released. Yes! An orgasmic, hallelujah, couldn’t-be-happier yes. Yes!

All I had to do was open my mouth. Unfortunately, my lips were swollen and sticky, like I’d spent the day licking envelopes. They wouldn’t let me say yes. They knew I couldn’t say yes, because I was moving to New York on Sunday. In thirty-six hours. At least, that had been the plan until the will-you-marry-me curveball. Two weeks ago, when I had told Cam of the offer and my decision to take the job at TRSN in New York (the twenty-four-hour news network owned by the TRS network), he had agreed to try long distance. I had to take the job—it was the chance of a lifetime. It was national. It was cable. It paid a six-figure salary. I’d be producing legendary Ron Grighton’s show, which in any lifetime could not compare to my small-fry executive producer’s job in Phoenix. I’d invited Cam to come, to make the move with me across the country, but I knew he wouldn’t. I loved him, but this was my career. I had to go for it. And it wasn’t like the move was a surprise; I’d always told him what my dream was—apartment in Manhattan, jogging in the park (not that I jog, but I’ve always wanted to), snowflakes on my nose. Hadn’t I?

“Perfect, huh? This way you don’t have to go to New York,” he said, nodding. “We both know long-distance relationships never work out.”

We did? I wanted to ask since when, but my mouth was still annoyingly uncooperative. I smiled, no easy feat with frozen lips.

“And I don’t want to lose you,” he continued, oblivious to my condition. “I want to marry you.”

So he’d said. I smiled (sort of) again. I never would have pegged Cam as one of those lame-ass romantic-comedy run-to-the-airport-gate-with-flowers-to-catch-the-girl-before-she-flies-out-of-his-life guys, but what did I know? I yanked my eyes away from the sparkling diamond, up to Cam’s soft lips, to the slither of a space between his two front teeth that had made me realize way back when that he wasn’t perfect, made me realize he was a man—not just a guy with adorable curly blond hair, not just a guy who had the answer for everything, but someone with flaws (like me), someone I could fall in love with.

Except I had to tell him no. I was going to New York.

Nothing came out. Apparently, my lips were too swollen for that word, too.

Yes.

No.

Yes. No. Yes, no, yes, no. Yes no yes no. Yesnoyesno.

Cam was now blinking his eyes furiously. I was going to miss those swirling patches of greens and blues. They’d always reminded me of little globes.

Could I really say goodbye to his globe eyes? Should I? I hated making decisions.

The real problem was that Cam would never in a million years leave Arizona. Career-wise it would be a huge pain in the ass since he’s a lawyer, and he’d have to take the bar in a new state. Although the corporate bankruptcy firm he worked for, Banford and Kimmel, did have a branch in New York. Truthfully, the real issue was his close relationship with his parents (particularly his mother), his sister and her two and a half kids (she’s pregnant). California, maybe, but clear across the country? A different time zone? He didn’t see the point.

I wanted to tell him I was the point.

Now suddenly he’d decided that long distance wouldn’t work. Not that I blamed him. It was like after that breakup when you said you’d be friends, but of course you wouldn’t be. When you ran into him a year later at a shabby bar downtown, all you talked about was the weather. Which was always the same here. Hot.

So that was my choice: marry Cam or move to New York. I wanted to take a deep breath, but I was afraid to move, since I still had no idea what to say. Time felt stuck, frozen in a frame, paused by TiVo.

If I left, I’d miss the way he always bought me two cards every Valentine’s Day, one sexy and one mushy, in each envelope a chocolate heart. The way he’d throw me over his shoulder and spin me around. The way he’d wrap me in a towel when I got out of the shower and then kiss me on the forehead. The way he reminded me to use the bathroom before long car drives.

If I stayed, I’d miss out on a major job opportunity.

If I went, I’d have to sleep alone. I hated sleeping alone.

If I stayed, the Arizona heat, like a vacuum cleaner pressed to my head, would slowly suck the dreams out of my brain. I’d never go on another date. I’d be engaged. I’d never have another first kiss. I’d never get to wear cute pink earmuffs.

I needed to breathe. I inhaled sharply, but felt as if my air was turned off. What was wrong with me?

I’d never get to date an Aries, my true love match (I am a Gemini, and Cam is a Libra, which is nowhere near an Aries). Not that I followed such things, but that tidbit had stuck in my mind ever since I’d read it in Seventeen when I was twelve. If we got married, I’d never know for sure if I could have found eternal bliss with an Aries.

If I said no, would I ever again meet anyone as patient as Cam? Someone who had spent hours of his free time editing my final college papers, then later my résumés and cover letters, and more recently my story scripts? Someone who would calm me when a virus attacked my hard drive and ate my important files, and then reinstall all my software? Someone who would take off work to be with me when I got my wisdom teeth pulled, and then tell me he loved me even though I looked like a deformed chipmunk? Someone who would build me a bookshelf, not from IKEA, but from planks of wood he bought at the hardware store because he liked making furniture (hence the need for a pickup truck)?

If I said yes, I’d get to marry this wonderful man. Plus, I’d get to wear a diamond ring. A big, pear-shaped diamond ring. If I said no, I’d have years of girls’ nights out. Apple martinis till dawn. Sexy first-date outfits. If I said no, I’d break Cam’s heart. If I said no, Cam would marry someone else.

If I said yes, I’d be part of a real family. An annoying family, yes, but still. If I said yes, I’d spend the rest of my life with a man I loved. But was he the man?

His globe eyes were looking at me with expectancy, and I wanted—oh, I so wanted!—to say yes, and I tried, honestly I did. But my mouth still felt gummy and anesthetized, and nothing came out.

Did I still have a mouth? I wasn’t sure. I tried to shake it into working. Which Cam must have mistaken for an implicit yes, because the next thing I knew he was kissing my neck, my chin, my lips.

Interesting. Apparently, I was getting married. Getting married? Getting married! It sounded so mature. Married. A married woman. But Monsieur, I’m a married woman!

I ogled the ring while embracing him. It fit perfectly. How did he know my ring size? I didn’t even know my ring size. Though, why would I? I’d never been one of those wife-wannabes who went to jewelry stores and tried on engagement rings just in case.

Cam’s soft hands began to roam under my sweatshirt. I gently pushed him off. “What are you doing?” I asked, relieved that my mouth was back in working order. Well, not totally, because I think I meant to say, “What am I doing?” As in, was I really going to give in? Get married? Give up the dream of New York? “We can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” because I wanted to move! “—someone might see.”

He tugged at the green wool blanket and held it to his shoulders like a cape. “We have a cover.” Cam the Man. Cam the Superman. Cam the Husband. Why didn’t men wear engagement rings? Maybe he should tattoo his finger to mark him as mine. Then I’d feel safe moving to New York.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “But still.” Actually, I didn’t know what to feel. My two longings were head butting against each other and I hadn’t yet decided whose side to cheer for.

“I want to celebrate. We’re engaged.” Engaged. To engage. To interlock or mesh. He started undoing my jeans, and I let him. “I want to make love to my fiancée,” he said, suddenly serious. The first time he’d used the expression make love, I’d thought he was kidding, until I’d seen the earnestness on his face, and realized he wasn’t.

He wrapped his long body onto mine, the blanket covering us both. My roommate Lila had once walked in on us when we were “making love” and claimed she couldn’t get the image of his naked, ashen butt out of her head for months. I gave the ass a squeeze. Cam took that as a sign.

Afterward, as Cam’s forehead nuzzled into my neck, and the stars above scribbled across the November sky like ink from a silver marker, I raised my suddenly sparkling hand into the air. Then I followed one of the stars, the brightest star, with my index finger as it shot diagonally across the blackness.

When I was a kid in California, I used to pretend that airplanes were falling stars, and I’d close my eyes and wish that I would marry a prince, that I would win the lottery, or that my mom and dad would stop screaming at each other.

With Cam still on top of me, I continued tracing the star’s path. And then I made a wish. I wished that I didn’t have to choose. That I could live both lives. Stay with Cam and move to New York. Have it all. The starlight burned out and I closed my eyes. And then I drifted off to sleep.

Blowing out the candles, pennies down a well. People made wishes all the time.

How was I to know that mine would come true?

1

The Hangover

I wake up disoriented, intense light spearing my eyes like hot pokers, pain stabbing my temples.

Ow. Where? Who? What the hell? Why is my pillow stuffed with metal?

Then I remember where I am and what I’ve done. Kind of done. Does it count as a yes if I didn’t verbally agree?

My stomach churns. Why did I lead Cam to believe I’d marry him, when tomorrow I’m moving to New York? I’m already packed! Lila has already (reluctantly) ordered office furniture for my room. An upstairs neighbor bought my double futon. True, she hasn’t taken it yet, but it’s scheduled to go on Monday evening. I’ve already ordered a mattress to be delivered to my new place in New York. I sold my car, too. On Wednesday. It was a two-door bright blue Jetta, which I loved dearly. Which is now gone.

I feel an uncomfortable pressure on my bladder and sit up, my elbows digging into the hard truck bed. Dumb wine from last night not only made me lose my mind, but it is also irritating my bladder. I can’t get married. I’m moving. Tomorrow.

I can’t deal with telling Cam no. Should I sneak away? Maybe just run the ten miles home? I don’t think I’ll get very far with an overstuffed bladder. I’ll have to sneak off somewhere and pee. With my luck I’ll end up squatting over a cactus. I hate those things. Another advantage of New York. No attack plants.

What did I do? What the hell did I do?

“Morning, beautiful,” he says now, his eyes still closed. He blindly reaches for me and drags me down and onto his chest. “Love you.”

I am borderline hyperventilating. As if I’m trying to breathe with my face pressed against a pillow. Can’t do this. “We have to talk,” I say in my quiet voice. Why, oh why, didn’t I say no last night? How did I get talked into staying?

Talked? It wasn’t the talking that did it.

He smiles, eyes still closed. “I know. So much to plan. A date, a place…lots to do. I’m starving. Let’s discuss over food.”

“No. I mean talk.” My voice cracks on the last word. I wriggle out of his stronghold, scoot backward and lean safely against the rear windshield. I reach for my jeans and struggle back inside them.

His left eye opens, focuses on me, and then his right follows. “What’s wrong?”

I’m not sure how to start. This conversation is going to be awful. Plus, I think I might be sitting on the rear wiper. “I want the TRSN job.”

His shakes his head, full of supposed sympathy. “I know you do, babe. But you’ll find a new job here.”

He’s not getting it. “You don’t understand. I’m going to take it.”

He continues shaking his head, not understanding. “That’s not practical. How are you going to plan the wedding from New York? And what’s the point of starting a job somewhere else when we’re going to settle here?”

Was he always this dense? “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t want to settle here.” I look longingly at my sparkling finger. “Can’t you move with me?” I squeak.

He’s shaking his head faster now, jaw clenching tighter by the half second. “You know I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t,” I say.

“Gabby, family is important to me. I’m not moving across the country. Be fair. I’m sure you’ll find a good job in Arizona. I love you, Gabs, and I feel awful, but I can’t.”

“But I already made plans…. I quit my job. Yesterday was my last day. I start my new job on Monday! Why couldn’t you have proposed before I quit?”

“Gabby, I needed a minute to figure it all out. Last month life was good, and then suddenly everything was happening so fast, and you were moving and it wasn’t until after I realized that you were really going that I knew how much I need you here.”

“But I need to be there.” How to say it…? I decide one fast, full vomit is best. He’s tough. He’ll get over it, me, eventually. “Cam, I’m taking the job. I’m moving to New York. I’m sorry.”

He swallows. Hard. I watch his Adam’s apple sneak up his throat and then sliver back down. His eyes tear up and he closes them, and then opens them again. “But…what about us? The job is more important than me?”

Holy shit. Cam? Crying? We’ve been together for three years and I’ve never seen him shed a tear. I feel as if I’m hacking his arm off with a chain saw. I can’t believe that I am capable of causing him pain. “You know this has always been my dream,” I choke out. Which is true. It has! On our first dinner date, I’d told him I wanted to move to New York. That I wouldn’t stay in Arizona forever.

A fat tear rolls down his sweet cheek. “I thought you had a new dream.”

“I have to think about my career.” My voice cracks. “I could never have an opportunity like that here.”

“You have an amazing job here.”

“Had,” I remind him.

“Have, had. Whatever. You can get a new one.”

“It’s not the same. Here I’m a big fish in a small pond.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. You’d rather be a small fish?”

I shake my head. “You’re asking me to give up my dream.”

“Don’t make me out to be the bad guy.”

We’re both silent, attempting to regroup our thoughts, aka ammunition. Something I would be much better at with an empty bladder and a cup of coffee. I realize I’m too drained and hungover and tired for more talk. “I love you. But I’m moving to New York.”

“Then we’re not getting married.”

I slip off the ring and deposit it into his palm.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he says. “You’re so obsessed with that stupid Melanie Diamond scandal that you don’t even know what you’re doing.”

This isn’t about that, I want to say, but don’t. Because it kind of is. “Maybe,” I say. “But it’s my call.”

Instead of looking at me, he’s looking at my—now his—ring. And then he says, “I’ll take you home.” As his voice breaks, my heart breaks along with it.

“Endless Love” is playing on the radio when Cam pulls up in front of my apartment building. It’s so embarrassingly inappropriate for the moment that I almost laugh. He doesn’t put the car into park. Just steps on the brake.

“Well, goodbye,” he says.

I see that his tears are gone. See? He’s over me already. “I’ll call you when I get there,” I say. “I love you, Cam. But I have to do this. For me.” I open my purse and rifle through my junk for my keys. Shit. Where are they?

He shakes his head. “They’re in the pocket of your jean jacket.”

I feel inside my pocket. Oh. “Thanks.”

A long sigh escapes Cam’s lips. And then he says, “I hope it’s worth it.”

I hope it is, too. I open the door, squeezing my keys between my fingers, and slither out before I start crying and change my mind.

Crap. The bookshelf in my bedroom. As soon as I step into my room, I realize he was supposed to take it back. I don’t want to take any furniture to New York, and I don’t want to just give it to Lila along with everything else. It’s not right. Cam gave it to me, he should get it back. Although maybe she’ll use it. She’s an accountant and is turning my room into her home office. Anyway, I should give Cam the choice.

Maybe I’ll leave him a message. I pick up the phone. I pause in mid-dial. I can’t call Cam. Calling him would be torturing him unnecessarily. It would be torturing myself, listening to his soft voice on the phone.

I finished most of my packing over the week so I would have every last second free to spend with Cam. Which leaves me with nothing to do for the day. My mom is in Florida and Lila is working. Lila is always working or reading romance novels in bed. Honestly, that girl has no social life. Even in college she was always studying or reading away. As long as I’ve known her, she’s never had a boyfriend. She’s had flings—at least four times I saw her bring home some random guy, but she always kicked him out before her day started. Musn’t mess with her daily schedule. Anyway, no Lila. I’d call Melanie but she decided to take a spur of the moment road trip to L.A. She’s impulsive that way.

I have officially nothing to do. Which makes me reflect on my pitiful absence of friends. What kind of a life did I even have here?

Maybe I’ll call Heather and check in. I scramble through my pack of papers for her number and dial. Heather will be my roommate in the “two-bedroom, postwar, good-size rooms, hardwood floors, very generous storage space” that I’m renting. I found it on craigslist.com and my fingers are tightly crossed that my temporary roommate, twenty-something nonsmoking Fashion Institute of Technology student, Heather Munro from Long Island, isn’t psycho.

After three rings, a voice yells, “I’m not hanging out with you and your little couple brigade, okay? Stop bothering me!” Heather?

Groan. Maybe I should have been crossing my toes, as well. “Um, hi, Heather, it’s Gabby. Gabby Wolf? Is this a bad time?”

Pause. “Oh God, I’m sorry. My friend Diane is driving me insane. She doesn’t understand why I don’t want to come over and watch her wedding video with her three other bridesmaids and their fiancés. I mean, come on! I’d rather slit my eyeball with a steak knife.”

“Listen, I’m just calling because—” I stop midsentence. Is moving in with Steak-Knife Heather really my best move? I will be earning a whopping $125,000. Maybe I should stay in a motel until I can find my own place. New York has motels, right?

“Because what? Don’t tell me you’re going to bail. I just turned down someone else because you said you’re coming. I’m not giving you your deposit back, so you can forget it,” she huffs.

Steak knives aside, she does have a point about the deposit. Besides, New Yorkers aren’t like the rest of us, right? They’re supposed to be eccentric. Interesting. “No, I’m not reneging. I just want to confirm with you that I’m arriving tomorrow at 3:30. Will you be home?”

Long pause. “That’s a relief. Although…tomorrow? I don’t know if I can be home.”

“Oh. Okay. Um, well, I have to get in.”

She sighs. Loudly. “I suppose I can leave the keys with the doorman.”

“All right. See you tomorrow. Oh, did my new bed come? It was supposed to arrive today.”

“No, not yet.” She hangs up. Apparently, my new roommate is not of an easygoing persuasion. I will have to remember not to borrow her butter without asking.

I spend the rest of the day on the couch, flipping through the news channels, slowly refolding my clothes and re-squeezing them into my suitcases, and letting the excitement build and boil inside me. I catch myself singing “New York, New York” and doing a YMCA-like dance around the apartment.

“Hi, guys,” Lila says from the door at around four.

“It’s just me,” I tell her, flipping the channel from CNN to TRSN.

I know I have at least ten minutes before she’ll join me on the couch. The first thing she does every day when she gets home is change out of her suit and into her bathrobe and slippers. Then she scrubs her hands, carefully takes off her makeup, washes her face, ties her shoulder-length blond hair into a ponytail on top of her head, takes her many skin vitamins, moisturizes, stops in the kitchen for a glass of water, and then comes into the living room. She works seven-day workweeks and is very into her routine.