Romance Is My Day Job (23 page)

Who knew that so many years later we'd be meeting again, living together, and perhaps even contemplating a future?

I will follow
Sex and the City
wherever it goes, even if it shoots out lackluster sequels, even if there are a million copycats. I love stories where women hang out together and wear great clothes and hash out their relationships. Now that it's out in theaters, I have to see
Sex and the City 2
. Given that my office is focused on the business of romance, we have a group field trip to see this latest movie.

I have to admit, there is a certain plushness to working in the romance field. We're committed to trend-chasing, like seeing which shows and movies and books rise to the top. How can this help our business?

Once a month, as a group, we'll watch a movie at work and discuss the story, how it relates to our field—sort of like a mini English class. We do the same with books that we read, either from the company or outside. With such a rare event as a
Sex and the City
movie, it's to be expected that we'll all see it. We trek en masse over to the Regal theater near the West Side Highway and settle into our seats.

Many of us were at Harlequin during the height of
Sex and the City
's fame, and we cackle the loudest. My heart stops over Liza Minnelli singing “Single Ladies,” though I never thought that Stanford and Anthony would ever work as a couple. After this, Big and Carrie have some marital woes in that she likes to go out and Big wants to stay in and lie on the couch (as if that's a bad thing). When the boredom hits an all-time high, the girls go to Abu Dhabi. They just pick up and go because they can. Out in the desert, they wear flowing dresses and artfully arranged scarves, and they ride camels. They get to stay in this palatial hotel and each is served by a personal butler. The eternal question for me remains: Which one of the girls am I?

It's with great eagerness that I watch the film and reidentify with the central female characters. There are some of the usual fashion shows of earlier episodes, women squealing, and somewhat lame problems: If you're married to Mr. Big (alpha, but turns into beta with an edge), do you really want to screw up your life with Aidan? I mean, really? I don't buy it, but I watch anyway, liking that at least Aidan comes back since I thought he was the great guy Carrie should have married. And at least Samantha gets to bang that hot businessman on the jeep on the Fourth of July.

The only misgiving I leave with is the mundane life Carrie has after marrying Mr. Right. Why wouldn't she be happy with that? I am so ready to lead a boring life since I've had enough excitement—moving to Ohio, New Mexico, New York, not to mention all the relationships. Sam and I definitely have our mundane moments, but it's more common that he makes me laugh hysterically every day. I wonder if we're just weird. Maybe marriage does get mundane and I would go looking elsewhere. I shudder to think of it.

I leave the movie theater with my colleagues. My friends Gail and Ann Leslie ask me how everything is going with Sam. Both women are wearing beautiful sundresses in this hot weather. I'm in a khaki skirt that I keep meaning to throw out but haven't because it's convenient. They seem interested in how my love life is progressing. Because I'm living with Sam and we're happy, I feel as if I've joined a special club.

Do I love cohabitation? Do I think it'll get more serious? Wouldn't it be nice if I got married? They could help me plan the wedding. J.Crew has some nice dresses. And then they tell me about how they got married, how long ago it was, and wouldn't it be spectacular to have another wedding in the office? A baby, perhaps? At Harlequin, there is at least one marriage, one engagement, and/or one baby per year.

This is one of the many benefits of working with women, because you talk about these fun things all the time. You have an instant support network, especially during periods of your life when you need all the encouragement that you can get.

“Sam and I are just having fun,” I say to Ann Leslie and Gail. And it's true. I feel no pressure to do anything except enjoy Sam.

The stories I read don't quite cover this part of a relationship. The romance should turn to a marriage proposal fairly soon. In a novel, there's not a whole lot devoted to making dinner or doing laundry together. In earlier relationships, I felt that sense of urgency—
I have to know what the future holds now. Does the guy feel the same way I do?

I have none of those questions about my relationship with Sam, no need to know. We are a dream come true. I love folding the laundry after he brings it upstairs. I love going into the kitchen while he's cooking and having him tell me to leave his territory. I love how obsessed he is with getting silk long johns to wear in winter. I love when he laughs really hard. Going to a restaurant is a pleasure with him because we talk as if we're strangers again, getting to know each other. I love how when I'm mad at him, he finds a way to make me smile and defuse my anger. There is so much that I love about Sam that anything else—like marriage—would be a bonus I don't exactly need.

 • • • 

When I get home from the movie, I see Sam put a little box in his pocket.

He does it semi-covertly, without emotion, until I notice his fingers twitch. When nervous, he tends to fidget and avoid eye contact. Sweat beads on his shirt. I don't want to admit that I suspect what's in the box or that I've picked up on hints. I'm just going to enjoy this fully.

“It's happy hour at Mary Ann's. Wanna get some margaritas?” he asks.

Even though the early June weather is already warm, he slips on a sports jacket over his white shirt and dark pants. Formal wear for a casual night out to a Mexican restaurant? His hair is combed back, interesting considering he didn't have to work today. His class at Barnard is done for the summer, and he's scheduled to teach three classes in the fall.

“Sure. Let's get margaritas.”

I can't stop smiling. My life has changed so much in the past nine months. The Universe is laughing its ass off at my determination to stay single after Superman's sudden disappearance, my many starts and stops in love. How did this joy happen? Was love supposed to feel this good? For six months now, we've had our ups and downs, but now I can't imagine not having him in my space.

For the long walk of three blocks, I watch him and memorize every second. People will be asking for our story. The hazy sun, my too-big khaki skirt and black shirt. Neighbors walk by, recognize us. We usually hold hands since we're a new couple, but this time we don't. Something is different. He keeps his hands close to his sides, as if guarding his pants.

I check myself for nervousness. None. How weird is that? Everything makes me a little nervous: the walk to the subway, going to the gym, running on the treadmill, being at work, leaving work, going to bed, meeting anyone for coffee. And here I am about to get engaged, and not a single eye-twitch. Instead, I feel like a mother helping a boy off to his first day of school. Sam is going to propose, and I want to make it as easy as possible.

“How was your day?” I ask, then look down at my sandals. My face feels hot. Sam is so handsome, I am struck when I take note of it. I look at him and think,
Wow
. He has those rugged good looks, along with that class-clown thing. He can go from
GQ
gorgeous to Jimmy Fallon in seconds.

I feel his gaze and glance up. His smile charms away my shyness. This is the grin that gets me through the day. His smile is a lethal weapon and will keep us safe. And then there are the eyes . . . For an instant I am lost again, wanting to stop him and kiss him on the sidewalk—we do that—but this time we just keep walking.

“I had a
great
day,” he says, imitating how my mother says “great.”

In a way, I feel like I was married to him the moment he came into my life, that first time we talked on the phone or when he said, even though it was a bit of a joke at the time, that he wanted to move in with me and father my children. I am so sure of how I feel that no nerves are needed.

We reach the red structure that is Mary Ann's, which serves Mexican food. It's part of a chain throughout Manhattan. It's always bustling; customers seem to return over and over again. The décor is fairly minimal but it has a “Mexican” feel. Sam and I often eat here. Plus, they serve large frozen margaritas that he can slurp down, easing the stress of a long day.

As we sit, I pretend not to know about the ring box. Once again, we say things like: How was your day? So glad it's almost summer. Love how festive everything gets with people on the streets. Should we go back to Miami? Your father is a sweetheart.

There, I do my best with chatting. The silence is inevitable after our smirking waiter brings drinks, as if he knows. I sip my drink and pretend to be absorbed in the table surface.

Plunk.
Sam sets the box in the middle of the table, stopping me midsip.

“I wonder what this is,” I say coyly. In fact, Sam is terrible at keeping secrets and I decoded several phone conversations Sam had with his brother. We live in a studio. There are no secrets.

Without hesitating, I pick up the box and open it, knowing I'll love whatever is inside. Forty-one years. My moment. My prince. Open sesame.

That's what one looks like. And it's mine.

The round diamond winks at me, beckoning me to pick it up. I've seen dozens of diamond rings, worn a few, all belonging to friends and relatives. This one is for me.

My first and only one.

I instantly fall in love with a gem, a gold setting, an achingly beautiful piece of jewelry. It is a ring of protection and love. Smiling, overjoyed, I slip it on my ring finger. Though I rarely search for it, I like tradition when it presents itself. This is my future. I didn't need a ring, but I'll take it.

“Wow!” I almost forget to look back at him; I am that transfixed.

“And I have a question . . . ,” he says softly, slurping his drink, his hands shaking. You'd think someone so handsome and smart would ease into this with flair and ceremony. Not
this
groom. He is about to soil himself.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, his eyes darting around the room.

The proposal is matter-of-fact, almost laughable—should we order Chinese or Thai? Sam displays more exuberance, but I know he must be nervous. As someone who easily slips into panic mode, I find this is the perfect way to propose to me—casually, without fanfare, with my having some knowledge ahead of time.

“Yes.” Two seconds later, I feel that rush of giddiness brides-to-be are supposed to experience. OhmyGodIhavetotelleverybody . . .
and change my Facebook status to “Engaged”
!

This isn't how I—or anyone—thought my life would turn out. My family expected me to be alone forever, and I wanted to be alone. Who else could stand a crazy girl who preferred to stay indoors?

Sam has changed this. He brings me out of my head. I forget to be scared and go with whatever love wave we happen to be riding.

Slurp slurp.

“How do you feel?” I ask.

“Good. No dread like the first time I did this, or the second,” Sam remarks, referring to his ex-wife and rebound fiancée.

I still can't stop smiling or staring at the ring on my finger. The food arrives—I don't remember what I ordered—and instead of eating, I stare at the ring, at Sam, then ponder the shock my family will exhibit upon hearing the news. I can't wait to tell everyone. Can we leave now? Oh, I'm going to be one of those women with a dress, walking down the aisle, with family maybe. Or we could elope to Vegas or city hall. We're not exactly rich enough to throw a big wedding.

This prompts a discussion of
when
.

“As soon as it's convenient,” the groom says. “Maybe in a year, like May.”

I'm thinking more like February, but whatever. A year seems too long to wait. Oh God, I thought I was one of those casual girls who doesn't care, who waits for everything. Now the diva bride thing is happening.

“Maybe we could get married even earlier, like over a long weekend. Presidents' weekend,” I suggest.

“Sure.”

We smile at each other, and a warm sensation creeps into my heart. He prepared for this moment, thought about it for a while. A friend said that an engagement isn't real unless there's a ring. I have a ring.

I'm not sure if I eat. Maybe I take a few bites of rice, then look at my ring. Again, where are the nerves? I love this calm and feel that the ring plays a big part. Sam enjoys his second margarita, and I'm about to bust out of my chair. Must. Call. Mom. She's going to have a cow. I cannot wait to shock everyone. This is engagement narcissism, and what fun it is.

The minute I arrive home, I call my mother and give her the news. This woman is used to calls of woe, me crying into the phone about all kinds of awful traumas. I want to tell her about this good fortune immediately. Usually, she is overflowing with things to say.