Chapter 32 - Scott
“No,” I moan as my alarm chirps merrily.
I can’t do this. I can’t. I have to. I will.
I drag myself out of bed and into the bathroom. Turn on the shower. The shower I thought Chelsea and I would be spending a good chunk of yesterday in. I’m such a fool.
It’s not like I didn’t know that women could/would have sex just for fun. Fair’s fair, after all. And I’ve certainly used that fact to my advantage in the past. I just never expected it to hurt this bad.
And then, when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. First, I probably lost a good ten pounds in sweat walking back and forth from the garage. Then I earned what is now my least favorite nickname of my life. ‘Rottie Scottie’ of fourth grade is now a FOND memory. No, all of that wasn’t bad enough.
I dropped the soup off at her back door, planning on texting her when I was back upstairs. Then I heard it. She said, “I love you.”
Not the kind of ‘I love you’ you say to your mom or dad automatically when you hang up the phone. This was joyful. Emphatic. Enthusiastic.
I spent the evening drinking beer and watching, but not seeing, the baseball game. No, I was too busy trying to figure out what I overheard meant exactly. Making up plausible scenarios in my head didn’t leave me any energy to worry about balls and strikes. I don’t know the final score. I’m not even sure who won.
What I settled on, and perfected, as I lay awake for half the night, was someone I nicknamed Wisconsin Guy. He can’t complain, it’s better than ‘Soup Guy’ for sure. WG for short.
WG, maybe her high school sweetheart? I don’t know. They broke up when she left for New York. Loved each other but it just couldn’t work. Then she sleeps with me and realizes how big a mistake breaking up with him was. That’s my total contribution to Chelsea’s lifelong happiness. Sending her running back to another guy.
Before I look for clothes I grab my phone. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m ordering breakfast—our breakfast. I stop for a second, but then I submit the order. To vary from our platonic routine would be even weirder.
I do however, switch back to my usual. No woman is worth giving up onions and lox for. None.
She’s not outside, so after a far too stressful internal debate about what I should do, I go down to her door. I reach out to ring the bell when it swings open. She looks startled, then she forces a smile on her face.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” I grunt, and turn around. “I ordered breakfast.”
“Oh, thanks.”
I head down the street. I’m walking fast and she has to jog to keep up. I sigh silently and slow down. I can’t walk away from her, not yet. Not until the show is over. Might as well get used to it.
On the subway I hand her her bagel. She doesn’t open it.
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
Maybe WG wouldn’t like her eating a bagel I bought her.
“I’m just not hungry.”
Oh?
“I ate a lot last night.”
Oh.
We don’t talk the rest of the way. We’re sitting in makeup, still not talking, when Marie and Ken show up. I look at Chelsea automatically and she’s looking right at me. I know she is thinking ‘What now?’ I answer, ‘Probably nothing good,’ in my head.
It will be okay,I think at her. Then I remember it’s not my job to make things better anymore. Let her call WG and fret to him about it.
“Hi, what’s up?” I say to Ken, Marie, both, as happily as I can.
It’s convincing. I can act. Back to the original plan. If it works, maybe I’ll just leave New York and never come back.
“Great news,” Ken says. “The wedding is set.”
What?
“What?”
Chelsea says what I’m thinking out loud. But it’s not so much a word as an unintelligible squeak.
I’m ashamed at how much her dismay pleases me. Oh, I would love to be there when she tells WG.
“Why, whatever do you mean, Ken?” I say, for some reason with a British accent.
Boy, I really can’t ad lib to save my life.
He frowns and stares at me, confused.
Fortunately, Marie doesn’t care. She’s probably been counting the days until the show is over, like me.
“Marriott is piloting a new concept in weddings. The mini gala.”
Huh?
Ken recovers and picks up the thread.
“It’s kind of a Vegas wedding chapel, but they are going to have them everywhere. You see with Zoom, companies aren’t doing on-site meetings anymore. Conference rooms are sitting empty. So, they transform one into a mini wedding venue and couples that want to get married without all the fuss—”
“And don’t want to fly to Vegas,” Marie interjects.
“Yeah. They can have the wedding experience, for a lot less, at their nearest Marriott. With nice pictures. Not like at a courthouse.”
“This is a thing?” Chelsea asks.
She sounds and—I peek—looks like she’s struggling to breathe. I wonder how far in their plans she and WG got last night as they chowed down on the oversized dinner they shared on Zoom while they celebrated getting back together.
“It’s not a thing yet,” Marie says. “But Marriott wants to make it a thing. And they are a big sponsor on the network. So, you guys are up. Wedding’s Friday.”
“Friday?” Chelsea and I say together.
“Thank god she has the dress.”
“Tux is included.”
“What about my family?” Chelsea asks. “Scott’s parents can come but—”
“No family. You’re eloping.”
“So romantic,” Marie says in the least romantic voice anyone has ever used to say about anything ever. “Make it work, please.” The please is very clearly ‘You better.’
“I can’t write my own vows,” I blurt out. “I’m terrible without lines.”
That’s not quite true. I could write pages on how much I love Chelsea, on how happy I am to be spending the rest of my life with her. But I won’t. No fucking way.
“Got it,” Ken says.
“The rest of the details will follow.”
They leave. My makeup is done, so I get up and go find the crew without saying a word to Chelsea. I don’t even look at her.
But we, I, still have to get through the rest of the day. Marta’s buyers love the house, and do a good job faking that they are seeing it for the first time. The part where we reveal the pantry behind the fake cabinet door is particularly painful. I zone out, remembering the conversation Chelsea and I had when she showed me that idea. I come back to earth quickly when Vivien tears me a new one for wasting time.
Chelsea goes off to talk to the buyers about—fake—options. I converse with George and the supplier about a very real delay in the supply chain. How the fuck did the lead time on toilets get so long?
Chelsea and I ride home in silence. Finally, when we reach our block I feel like I have to say something.
“About the wedding…”
Why didn’t I spend the ride home figuring out what to say? Because I was too busy being miserable. I told Chelsea, as I typed furiously on my phone, that I was trying to find toilets. Not true. George asked the crew who wanted to make some overtime and found someone to drive up to get the toilets from a warehouse in Westchester tonight.
“What about it?” Chelsea says.
“I guess we have to do it.”
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I guess we do.”