Meg Cabot - Queen of Babble Gets Hitched

It’s the weirdest thing, but my heart seems to do a flip-flop in my chest, and for a second, I can’t breathe, nor can I drop my gaze from his.

Then I realize he’s joking.

And I feel my cheeks begin to burn.

He’s joking. Of course he’s joking. God, I’m such a fool.

“What does it matter to you?” I demand, ignoring his sarcasm. I’m furious at myself—for thinking he meant it when he said he loved me, but even more, for having felt bad that I’d hurt him. He can’t be hurt. I mean, obviously he can. But not by me. Never by me. “You should be relieved you escaped my sights. You don’t even believe in marriage. It’s just a slip of paper, right? That’s what you said, anyway.”

“You got that right.” Chaz has leaned back to watch the game. “You want a happy romantic relationship? Don’t ruin it by getting married.”

I blink at him. I can’t believe he’s serious.

“Since when did you start feeling this way?” I ask. “You never felt like this about marriage when you were with Shari. You two were the picture of connubial bliss. Without the connubial part. But you were always making pies and doing her laundry and stuff… ”

“Yeah,” Chaz says, still not taking his gaze off the television screen… although I notice he’s set his jaw. “Well, she left me, remember? For a woman. Believe me, I won’t be making that mistake again. Marriage is for suckers.”

“You don’t mean that,” I say, a little shocked at his bitter tone.

“Don’t I?” He smirks at the screen. “I think I know what I’m talking about. My dad’s a divorce lawyer, remember?”

“And yet he’s been married to your mom,” I say, “for like, what, thirty years?”

I can’t believe I’m still upset about the I’ve always been in love with you remark, which, considering all the making out we were doing in the back of that cab on New Year’s, wasn’t really in the best of taste. I’m even more upset about the way my heart had reacted to the information. What had that been about?

And how, even for one second, could I ever actually have believed him?

I know I’m a naïve Midwestern girl. But I really try not to act like one. Most of the time.

“I try to keep that on the down low,” Chaz says. “The happily married parents thing doesn’t really go with my whole persona. You know, newly single philosophy Ph.D. candidate, living alone in an East Village walk-up, hard drinking, hard living, kind of dangerous—”

Now it’s my turn to smirk.

“What?” Chaz drags his gaze from the television screen and eyes me. “You don’t think I’m dangerous?”

“Not in that hat,” I say.

“Oh, I’m dangerous,” Chaz assures me. “More dangerous than Luke.”

“I don’t like Luke because he’s dangerous,” I point out.

“Oh, right,” Chaz says. “You like him… why? Because he’s rich? Handsome? Suave? Debonair? Thoughtful? Kind? Going to save the children someday?”

“All of the above,” I say, “except rich. I intend to make my own money, thank you, so I have no need of his. In fact, I just took on Ava Geck as a client today.”

“The skanky crack whore?” Chaz looks horrified.

“Why does everyone call her that?” I ask in annoyance. “No one has ever actually seen her do crack or have sex in exchange for money, and yet everyone calls her a skanky crack whore.”

“I don’t have to see her do it,” Chaz says. “Have you ever checked out Celebrity Pit Fight?”

It’s my turn to look horrified. “What is a hard-drinking, hard-living, philosophy Ph.D. candidate doing watching Celebrity Pit Fight?”

Chaz grins. “It’s a really good show,” he says. “I mean, if you’re ever in the mood to examine one of the bleaker examples of the depraved depths to which we as a society have sunk. Or at least the depraved depths to which the entertainment industry is determined to make us think we’ve sunk.”

“Hey.” Luke slides back into the booth and hands me my glass of wine. “Sorry that took so long. This place is a madhouse. There are five different games on.”

I notice with a slight feeling of disappointment that he’s forgotten to get a side of ice. Oh well. We’ve been going out for only six months, after all. He can’t remember everything.

“You forgot the ice,” Chaz says. “Luke, tell your girlfriend she isn’t going to get ahead in the wedding gown biz if she takes on skanky crack whores as clients.”

I blink, not quite able to believe Chaz remembered.

“What ice?” Luke looks confused. “Wait. Who’s a skanky crack whore?”

“No one,” I say at the same time that Chaz says, “Ava Geck.”

“Who’s Ava Geck?” Luke wants to know.

Chaz guffaws. I take a hasty sip of my wine, knowing what’s coming.

“Do you even watch television?” Chaz asks Luke. “Do you ever even read a periodical besides The Wall Street Journal? Tell me, because I really want to know. When you’re in the dentist’s office, do you ever, even by accident, pick up a copy of Us Weekly?”

“Stop it,” I say to Chaz. I’m getting annoyed with him now. More annoyed, maybe, than the situation warrants. “Just because Luke doesn’t know who Ava Geck is—”

“Everyone knows who Ava Geck is,” Chaz bursts out.

“Who’s Ava Geck?” Luke asks again.

“She’s—” But suddenly I’m so tired I can’t even go on. I can’t take it, the voices of the announcers from the televisions and the screams of the fans and the clapping whenever someone’s team scores a basket—not to mention the drunk homeless guy I can see bobbing around outside the plate-glass window a few feet away, begging for change from anyone who passes by the place.

But what I really can’t take is the voice inside my head that’s returned. It’s a familiar voice. It ought to be. Because it’s the voice of the guy sitting directly across from me… the big, rumpled one in the University of Michigan baseball cap.

“Why, yes, Lizzie. I’m manically depressed because the girl I’ve finally realized I’ve always been in love with, and who I was beginning to think just might love me back, turned around and got herself engaged to my best friend, who, frankly, doesn’t deserve her.”

But simultaneously I hear that same voice saying, “You want a happy romantic relationship? Don’t ruin it by getting married. I know what I’m talking about.”

“You know what?” I say suddenly, my own voice tight with unshed emotion. “This has been fun. But I’m really tired. Do you guys mind if I call it a night? I have a big day tomorrow, and I think I’m gonna turn in early.”

“Oh, come on,” Luke says. “You just got here. Don’t go yet. The game just started.”

I look at Chaz. His face is impassive beneath the brim of his hat. But he’s looking right back at me.

“Yeah, Lizzie,” he says. “Don’t go yet. The game just started.”

It’s weird. But something in the way his gaze holds mine—not to mention his tone—tells me he isn’t talking about the game on TV.

Not at all.

“Okay, I’ll be seeing you guys later,” I say, my own voice pitched way too high, as I all but shove Luke out of the way in my haste to leave the booth.

“I’ll walk you home,” a confused Luke says, but I brush this offer aside with a quick kiss on his cheek and a whispered No, thanks, I’ll be fine, stay and have fun, then bolt for the door, where I stand gasping in the bitterly cold January air.

“Spare a quarter, miss?” the homeless drunk asks me, holding out a filthy, chipped coffee cup.

I don’t even answer him. That’s what a jaded New Yorker I’ve become. I never have a quarter to spare anymore. I need my quarters. I need all the quarters I can get. Do you have any idea how much it costs to do laundry around here?