Diary of a Single Wedding Planner (Tales Behind the Veils Book 1) (12 page)

Sunday, November 3rd

My head is killing me. The throbbing and aching have not gotten better, but my vision is no longer blurry, so I guess that’s a good sign.

After this morning’s ceremony, the wedding party boarded a pontoon boat for a brief cruise before joining the rest of the guests at the cocktail brunch.

The boat driver wasn’t too keen on pouring champagne and navigating a boat, so Laura suggested I stay with them. Floating around the lake with a light breeze in my hair and the sun shining on my shoulders? Sign me up! I mean, what could be so hard about serving champagne and strawberries to a group of happy, fun people?

For one, it would have helped if I knew how to open a champagne bottle. As the boat sailed away with the wedding party posing and waving for the photographer on the dock, I realized that even though I’ve attended plenty of New Year’s Eves, weddings, parties, etc., I’ve never needed to open a bottle. Someone else always did it. I’ve been in the back hallway of hundreds of receptions as champagne popped and poured, but always in the capable hands of servers and banquet captains.

I knew, of course, that I had to place my thumb beneath the cork and push it off, but the wire contraption underneath the foil wrapper threw me. I twisted it, lifted it, pulled it, tugged it. Nothing worked.

It didn’t take long for the wedding party to tire of making faces at the photographer and turn to watch me struggle with the bottle. Panic set in at the thought of looking like a complete idiot when my whole purpose on the boat was to open the champagne, and I couldn’t do it. What kind of wedding planner doesn’t know how to open champagne? Why didn’t I pay attention to this as an important skill to learn for my career?

I peered closely at the bottle, as if it were the problem instead of me.

“Wow, this is a tough one,” I said as I tilted it. I’m not sure why it never occurred to me that pointing the cork directly at my face could be a bad idea. I think maybe embarrassment at my lack of prowess had dulled my thinking, but I was also sure my thumb needed to push the cork for it pop.

Turns out I knew even less about champagne than I thought. The cork actually can come flying out without your thumb pushing it. Forcefully, in fact. If you’re twisting the wire while turning the bottle in all different directions, the pressure build-up inside can pop a cork with a velocity that is quite impressive.

One minute I was twisting the wire in puzzlement. The next minute I was coming to as I lay flat on my back on the bottom of the boat with the entire wedding party and the boat driver bent over me in a circle looking concerned. I vaguely remember hearing the pop, and I sort of remember feeling the cork slamming into my face. They said I went right over backward like I’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Thank God I didn’t fall off the boat. Or lose an eye.

It definitely cut the cruise short and killed the festivities. I went to first aid while Laura finished the wedding on her own. Luckily, it was a small event with virtually no set-up.

Deep black and blue circles formed pretty much immediately under my eyes, and now my forehead appears to be sprouting a small unicorn horn. All week, I’ve been so excited to have a Saturday night off so Cabe and I could go dancing. But with my head throbbing and my mythical creature appendage looking like it will break through my skin at any moment, we ended up sitting this one out on the couch with a big bowl of ice cream and a bunch of leftover strawberries. Cabe, of course, had a marvelous time with the whole situation. His jokes and comments were never-ending. I probably would have throttled him if my head hadn’t hurt so badly.

Thursday, November 7th

Mr. Hotel Man called today to confirm for this weekend’s Festival. I considered telling him something came up and I needed to cancel. I’m not sure I want to spend an evening with this guy. I don’t know much about him at all. I wish we’d talked on the phone a little more. What if we don’t even remotely have anything in common besides knowing each other from work?

What if he’s boring? Or rude? What if he’s a sex fiend? Or a serial killer? I should have asked if anyone in the office knows him. Outside of work, I mean.

Why did I agree to go? More importantly, why am I now freaking out?

I sort of hoped he was calling today to back out. Then I’d be off the hook. But no. He jumped right in with “Hey beautiful! Just calling to make sure we’re on for Saturday. I can’t wait to see you again.”

I hope he’s not a creeper or stalker. I hope he’s a nice guy. An interesting guy. I hope I’m overreacting. He didn’t say anything out of the ordinary. He just showed polite interest. I’m sure it’ll be okay. He can’t possibly be as bad as Mr. Bubble and his non-waterproof Porsche, right?

I guess I should try to be at least a little excited about this. I mean, I did start out interested in him. He looked pretty good in a suit, and he’s been nothing but nice to me. But I feel like every time I get excited about a guy and look forward to going out with him, he ends up being a royal jerk or totally weird or something. Call me gun-shy. I’m wary, especially of the ones who seem too good to be true.

How sad it must be for the nice guys to put their best out there, trying to be polite and courteous as they navigate treacherous dating waters. Meanwhile, girls like me who have been burned by the jerks rarely give the nice guys a chance. We’re looking for how they’re going to disappoint us. How they’re not what they seem. Our vision becomes blurry and the good traits aren’t clear. I do want to find a good guy amidst all the bad apples, but I guiltily admit I’m not very open-minded in giving people the benefit of the doubt. I need to work on that. I’m going to be receptive to Mr. Hotel Man. I’m going to focus on his positives!

Saturday, November 9th

I don’t even know where to start. What to say. What to write.

Tonight was quite possibly the worst date I ever had.

Quite possibly the worst date
anyone
ever had. In the entire history of dating.

Oh. My. God.

Did this really happen?

It started with an issue with Mr. Hotel Man’s car. He needed to get dropped off at the reception hall and ride with me. It was an omen for the evening to come. I should have canceled right then.

He came screeching up as the passenger in a dirty Honda Accord driven by a pretty blond woman in a pink suit. As he opened the door to get out, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I won’t be home late. I’ll try not to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” she replied. “I’m going in late tomorrow, but you’ll need to drive me so you have the car.”

I probably should have said hello or acknowledged her in some way, but I was a little confused as to what was going on. I’m sure my face showed it.

Who the hell was she? A sister? Roommate? Friend? Who was this random, beautiful person he kisses on the cheek and tries not wake up late at night? I waved a hesitant goodbye in the general direction of the car, which had already pulled away.

“Hello, Beautiful!” he said, completely oblivious to my confusion. “You’re even prettier than I remembered. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.”

“Was that your sister?” I asked.

“Debbie? Um, no. She’s my wife.”

It is highly possible a weird noise somewhere between a gasp and a snort escaped me.

“Your wife?” I tried to ask, but although I mouthed the right words, all that came out was this weird gurgle.

“My ex-wife. Well, soon-to-be ex-wife. We’re going to file the paperwork soon. Just a formality, really.”

“Your wife.” This time I found my voice and made the right noise. I even got my mouth to close after I said it. I think it had been open since he first spoke. “Your wife.” I repeated it one more time, more of a statement to myself to confirm what was sinking in.

“Yeah. Oh man, you’re weirded out, aren’t you? I guess I should have said something, but I didn’t want you to be, well, weirded out like you are now. It’s all good. I mean, you saw her. You met her. She knows where I am, that we’re going out tonight.”

“Your . . . wife . . . knows we are going out tonight. Is this a date?”

“Yes. I mean, I hope so. I thought it was. Don’t freak out. Really. She’s been dating someone for the past couple of months. We’re both moving on, I promise.”

“So why
didn’t
you tell me? And why did you kiss her goodbye and tell her you won’t wake her up tonight?”

He shook his head and laughed, reaching for my hand, which I quickly pulled away.

“Come on. Seriously, it’s not a big deal. I kissed her on the cheek because it’s a habit. We’ve been married for ten years. She’s my best friend. I’ll always care about her, but we fell out of love a long time ago. We’re okay with it. It’s not like I kissed her on the mouth or anything.”

He crossed his arms, like
he
was aggravated with
me
for this. He wasn’t nearly as handsome as I remembered from the lobby. He’d been wearing a suit then. He looked different now. Less suave. More pig. A pig wearing a plaid shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Why are you still living together?” I asked.

“Money. It costs a lot to get a divorce, even when we both agree to it. We figured there’s no reason for us to pay for separate places. Our lease isn’t up until the end of the year. We’re fine with living together. I mean, we’re not sleeping together or anything!”

He said that last part with an eye roll and a laugh that gave me serious doubts about the truth and validity of the statement.

“I don’t know if I feel comfortable with this.” The little voice inside my head was screaming at me to walk away. To simply say no and walk away. Unfortunately, I’ve been raised to always be nice. Polite. It makes it hard to be honest when it may hurt or bother the other person.

“Oh, Tyler. Don’t be that way. It’s not a big deal,” he cocked his head to the side and made a silly-looking pouty face. I bet Debbie has seen that look often in the last ten years.

“You keep saying that, but it’s a big deal to me. You. Are. Married.”

“Technically, yes, but . . . you know what? Why don’t you talk to Debbie? Here, I’ll call her and you can . . .” He took his phone out of his pocket.

“No!” I stepped back again. “I’m not going to ask your wife’s permission to go out with you.”

“Oh, good Lord. I was supposed to have the car. But then she got called into work and she needed it. If she hadn’t needed the car, we’d already be at the festival having a good time.” He shrugged and rolled his eyes as though the car was the problem.

“So if she hadn’t needed the car—wait, you share a car? This keeps getting better and better—would you have even told me you were married?” I crossed my arms in irritation. I don’t know if I would have gone out with him had I known he was still married and in the process of getting a divorce. That’s some messy stuff I probably wouldn’t have stepped in. But either way, it would have been nice to have the information from the get-go. I was pissed.

“I would’ve told you. It wouldn’t have been the first thing I mentioned, though. Not because I’m trying to be dishonest or hide anything. If I wanted to hide it, I wouldn’t have had Deb bring me and introduce the two of you. Look, I met you. I liked you. I haven’t been out with anyone since we decided to divorce. Haven’t even asked anyone out. It took me how many phone calls to get around to actually asking you? I didn’t want to start the first date I’ve had in over a decade by announcing I’m technically still married. So I’m sorry. It’s definitely not how I meant for this evening to go. To upset you or piss you off or whatever you’re feeling. I just wanted to spend time with you. Talk to you and get to know you better.”

His voice got softer as he talked, and almost against my will I started to feel sorry for him. He was in a rough spot. The voice in my head was loudly screaming, “AARGH! He wasn’t upfront with you. He’s married and going through a divorce. Go home. Don’t waste your time. This is not your Prince Charming!”

He smiled what might have been a charming, handsome smile under other circumstances. “Look, if you want, I can call a cab and head back home. Or, and I would ask that you hear me out before you answer,” he said, lifting his hand in protest when I started to speak, “hold on—we could go to the festival. Not as a date. Just two people going to a festival, enjoying good food and good art. Getting to know each other. No expectations. I’m an open book. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Nothing to hide.”

I know I shouldn’t have. I know I’m crazy for even considering it much less doing it. But I have that stupid-ass issue with not being able to tell people no. To tell them how I feel. Especially when he was being so nice and trying so hard. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I agreed to go to the festival. The voice inside my head threw her hands in the air and walked away.

Mr. Hotel Man, who had become Mr. Technically Married, tried to be all friendly as we walked to the car. At first, I tried to stay pissed off, but it made no sense to go with him and be mad the whole night, so I chose to have a good time. Well, I tried.

“By the way,” Mr. Technically Married said as we pulled into the festival lot. “I have bad knees. I’m not able to walk far. Could you drop me off at the front gate and then park the car?”

The night took another step down the path of terrible dates, even though it was technically no longer a date. I looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and contempt.

“We’re at a food and art festival. You have to walk the whole thing. It’s, like, two miles all the way around. Did you realize this?” I asked.

“Oh, I know that!” He spoke with an easy smile. “I took some painkillers before I left the house, so I should be good to walk for a while. I didn’t want to waste them on the parking lot.”

Normally, I would never hold an injury or medical condition against someone. But when adding up this dude’s points on the score card of possible second dates, everything counted. Against him. On top of not being upfront with me, not having his own car, obviously not having much in his bank account, still being
married
and still living with his
wife
, he had bad knees and couldn’t walk. This guy was falling into the negative point range. Stellar. Oh lucky me.

“Okay.” My voice was completely devoid of sympathy. “I’ll drop you off and park the car.”

My resolve to enjoy the festival was waning as I walked across the parking lot toward Mr. Technically-Married-with-Bad-Knees. I tried to self-encourage, but unfortunately, I asked the question you should never, ever, ever ask. What else could go wrong? Because there
was
more.

He stopped walking right before the entrance. “Um, it’s a little tight this week. A few extra expenses this month. If you’d be willing to pay tonight, I can make it up to you with dinner after the first!” He said it unbelievably cheerful, like I had won the grand prize.

“Are you kidding me?” came flying out of my mouth before I could censor it. Although, I might have said it even if my censor kicked in.

He laughed and did the head cocked to the side, pouty face thing again.

“Maybe this is not a good idea,” I said.

“Oh, come on! We’re already here! It’s a beautiful night. Not a cloud in the sky. We’re at the winter festival. Food, art, music. I’ll pay you back. I can even send you a check if you don’t want to go to dinner.”

Like I would take a check from Mr. Technically-Married-with-Bad-Knees-and-Bad-Finances.

“Please, Tyler? I really want to have a nice night out. I’ll pay you back. Please?”

I swear he fluttered his eyelashes. What’s so stupid is, had this guy been upfront with me, told me he’s going through a divorce and wanted to get out of the house for a fun night, I might have been okay with going—as friends. But I felt like the whole thing was a bamboozle. Like I got set up. Hook, line, and sinker. But we were already at the festival, and I felt like an ass for just turning around and going home. So I paid for his frickin’ ticket and in we went.

“Why don’t we get one dish at each booth?” he asked. “Then it won’t cost you so much, and we can try more things. We’ll just split it,” he said.

I didn’t want to share anything with him at that point, but since I was paying for everything we ate, it did make sense to share. The first booth was a sausage pepper stew. It smelled delicious, and I stepped into line without even asking him.

“Oooh, sausage and peppers. Good thing I took my antacids!” He rubbed his hands together and took a big whiff of the aroma.

I turned to him, trying to decide whether or not I should even ask. I was sure I didn’t want to know.

“Your antacids?” I was a glutton for punishment.

“Yeah, I have irritable bowel syndrome and a few other gastrointestinal issues. I’m not supposed to eat any spicy foods,” he said.

“You have irritable bowel syndrome, and we came to an international food festival?” I thought surely I must be on Candid Camera or Punk’d. Someone was going to jump out at any moment and let me know this whole “date” had been a joke. Then we’d laugh, and Mr. Used-to-be-Hottie-Hotel-Man would say something like, “I can’t believe you fell for all that.”

But no cameras appeared, and the only thing he said was disgusting.

“It’s fine! I love spicy food. I just take a lot of antacids and guzzle some Mylanta beforehand. Keeps the gas at bay. I’ll probably be up all night with diarrhea.” He cracked up laughing. “I might still have gas depending on what we eat and how long we walk, but we’re outside and it’s a pretty open space.”

Few times in my life have I ever been rendered completely speechless, but my brain was not capable of generating a response to my married first date with no money and bad knees having noxious gas throughout the date and then going home to crap out everything we just ate. Maybe married people discuss that sort of thing, but I’m not the type to talk about pooping on a first date. Even when it’s technically not a date. I don’t want a mental image of a man camping out on the toilet with diarrhea, no matter how hot he is.

My appetite for sausage and peppers was gone. He scarfed it up, filling the tank for the unpleasant night to come. Unpleasant is actually an understatement. I’m getting nauseous just recalling it. The whole thing quickly went downhill like a mudslide. A noxious mudslide. With explosions and fumes and aromas not meant for the written word. From both ends, I might add, since the breath is not immune to gastrointestinal distress.

Part of me truly felt sorry for the guy. What a hot mess. His marriage ending, finances screwed up, no car of his own, knees blown, constant diarrhea, flatulence, and breath that smells like ass. This poor dude has to re-enter the dating world with all those attributes after a decade on the bench.