Kim Gruenenfelder - Wedding Fever

Scott, on the other hand, is wearing a wrinkled “Stone Brewing Co.” T-shirt with blue jeans: one of his many “pick out of the clean laundry basket because God forbid I should ever fold anything and put it in a drawer” ensembles. It took him all of two minutes to get ready. Five, if you include a shower. The “just laid” look is one that no woman could ever pull off but one that guys like Johnny Depp and Scott will probably get away with until well after they hit the nursing home.

I hate men. More pay for equal work, no labor pains, and they can be ready to go out in two minutes flat. So unfair.

Anyway, despite the frat boy look, I still want to pounce on him, right here and right now, and take advantage of his virtue. But God knows it’s not because he’s trying. He’s never trying. He just is .

Scott smirks. “I could rent an aquamarine tuxedo to match your dress.”

“You do and no one will give you a blow job that night,” I warn him.

“Like I would have a shot at meeting anyone anyway. I’m already going to be with the prettiest girl in the room. The others will be too intimidated to talk to me.”

“Aw . . .” I say. Then I reiterate firmly, “You still need a tux.”

“Now, are you sure you really want me to rent one? What about that guy you’re seeing? Conrad. Don’t you think it would be better to take him?”

My shoulders tense up. I’ve been avoiding this subject all week. “Um . . . actually, we broke up.”

Scott furrows his brows. “What? When?”

“Last week,” I say, trying to use a light and breezy tone. “It’s good, really. It just wasn’t quite right. And, you know, it was getting to that point where we were either going to sleep together or not, and I just . . .”

I pause. I just kept thinking of you. And comparing him to you. And even though he was way more appropriate for me, all I could think about was you.

Scott is staring deep into my eyes, and I worry he can see right through me.

So I make a joke of it. “Quit looking at me like that. I’m fine. Besides, I really did not want to take a date who I knew was temporary just so that I could have well-meaning people embarrass me all night with questions like, ‘So, have you two talked about marriage yet?’ ”

Scott laughs. Tension diffused. “Why do people do that at weddings?” Scott asks, shaking his head appreciatively. “It’s right up there with asking a single person if they’re seeing ‘anyone special’. I always want to answer, ‘No. Is your prostate still giving you trouble?’ ” He glances at a pile of pastel-pink index cards on my coffee table. He looks at the top card. “Brad Pitt. What’s this?”

“Oh, that’s this game we played called fantasy Date/Date from Hell. Everyone had to write down who their ideal celebrity date would be, and then their celebrity date from Hell. Then we all had to guess which girl picked which dates.”

Scott shoots me a mischievous look as he picks up the pile. “Oooo . . . I’ll bet I can guess who you picked.”

I grab the cards away from him. “No, you can’t. Besides, I don’t want you making fun of me.”

Scott playfully tries to grab the cards back. “I’m not going to make fun of you.”

“You can’t help it. It’s in your DNA.”

“No. Seriously— I’ll be good.”

Off my dubious look, he continues. “Come on, it’ll be fun. I’ll show you how well I know you.”

He puts out his hand for the cards. I eye his open hand wearily.

“Fine,” I say, about to hand him the cards. “But first you need to tell me your ideal celebrity date.”

Scott looks up at my ceiling, seemingly giving my question serious thought. “Um . . . I guess my ideal would be Drew Brees,” Scott answers. “And that stupid blond chick with the reality show— she’d be the worst.”

“The quarterback?!” I exclaim. “But you’re not gay! Wait, you’re not , are you?”

“No,” Scott assures me. “And neither is he. But if I get to go out to dinner with any celebrity in the world, why waste that on a first date that will inevitably lead nowhere?” He rubs his fingers together. “Cards please.”

I reluctantly hand him the pink cards. Shit— when he sees the name on my card, he will so obviously associate it with himself. Fuck! That name is about to give away my crush, and then he’ll never see me the same way again.

Scott leafs through the cards. “Ben Affleck,” he guesses.

I am tempted to lie, say yes and get it over with. But I know the other side of the card is Hugh Hefner and, while the old man is gross, he can’t be the worst guy in the world to be on a date with. So I am forced to admit, “Not a bad choice, but no.”

He continues to fan through the cards. “Jason Washing-ton is obviously who Nic chose . . .” Then he guesses, “Bradley Cooper?”

“What? Him? No.”

“John Krasinski.”

“No.”

“It’s not the actor on Heroes, is it?”

“Dr. Suresh? No. Why do you assume just because I’m Indian, I’m going to go for an Indian?”

“I don’t,” Scott says triumphantly, proving how well he knows me as he turns around the card to show me Zachary Quinto’s name (Sylar on Heroes ).

I shrug, and concede, “Actually, Zachary Quinto’s kind of hot in a ‘take your damn Spock ears off’ kind of way.”

“ ‘Take your damn Spock ears off.’ Sexy,” Scott deadpans, as he leafs through the cards. “Fabio?”

“He’s from the dates from Hell side of the card, you moron.”

Scott stops at one card. He cocks his head to one side. “Orlando Bloom?” he guesses.

“Yeah,” I admit quietly.

Scott looks up at me, looking a bit perplexed. “Seriously? He doesn’t seem like your type.”

Considering Scott is a dead ringer for Bloom, you’d think he’d pick up on the hint. Oh yeah, right— he’s a guy. They pick up on hints about as well as magnets pick up seashells.

Now I’m defensive. “Why wouldn’t he be my type? He’s cute. I know people who have worked for him, and he’s really nice. . . .”

“It’s not that. It’s that he has dark hair. You normally go for blonds.”

“No I don’t. Why would you say that?”

Scott shrugs. “Your last two boyfriends are blondish. Both had blue eyes. I figured that was your type. Who was your hell date?”

“Antonin Scalia,” I respond, still reeling from Scott’s obvious misinterpretation of me and my “type.”

“The Supreme Court justice?” Scott asks, as he finishes looking through the cards. “Not really a celebrity. Who picked Stephen Colbert?”

“I don’t have a type,” I continue. “There’s no type.”

“Please,” Scott says, flashing me a patronizing look. “No offense sweetheart, but you like the westside type: blond hair, or had blond hair as a kid at least, a little bland, has some sort of nonartistic job that he’s a bit bored with, but which is stable. You know, like an actuary or a strategic planner. Lives in a condo west of La Cienega . . .”

Now I’m fuming. “That is so not true. I dated an actuary once , and I have dated a lot of artists.”

“Not for more than a date or two. Then you find something wrong with them, and move on.”

I have nothing to say back, but my feelings are hurt. He doesn’t see it: he genuinely has no idea how much I like him. And the only way for me to ever let him know how much would be to go so far out on a limb that my weight could easily shatter the branch.

Scott smiles. Tickles me under my chin. “There’s nothing wrong with it. I don’t like dating artists either. I’ll admit I’d rather have a downtown lawyer than a westside computer geek, but we’re pretty much the same.”