We see each other for dinner at least once a week and both enjoy indulging in a shared love of clothes shopping, so we do that often as well. His fiancée, Aubrey, is completely jealous of our relationship and constantly tries to derail it by coming up with all sorts of functions he has to attend with her to strip away my time with him. These are all high-society functions that she knows I’d rather be dead than attend, and thus her nefarious plan works too. I suppose this is the reason I don’t like her all that much.
The only reason I’m going to their wedding and suffering the presence of my family and their wealthy brethren is because I love Jeremy and I wouldn’t miss out on his happy day for anything. And even if Aubrey isn’t my cup of tea, she makes him happy, so I will have to grin and bear it.
I drain my champagne glass, pull the bottle from the ice bucket, and refill it as dribbles of water dot the marble table in front of me. Jeremy cocks at eyebrow. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What do you mean?” I set the bottle back into the bucket and take a healthy sip from my brimming glass of bubbly.
“You never drink more than one glass when we go shopping,” he points out as he picks up his own glass and sits on the opposite side of the couch, kicking his feet up on the table. “You think it impairs your fashion sense.”
“Well it does,” I grumble before taking another sip. I wave my glass at him. “But we’re shopping for you today.”
“You’re totally going to buy that purse you were eyeballing a little bit ago when we walked in,” he says with a laugh.
And he’s right about that. The Proenza Schouler shoulder bag would go perfect with the Carolina Herrera dress I was going to wear to the wedding, which is white by the way, and chosen just so I could annoy Aubrey and my family.
“But seriously, what’s up your butt?” he asks with a grin as he flops an arm over the back of the couch. He’s very handsome, and the way his bangs flop over his forehead makes him look young and carefree. I suppose he’s just happy he’s marrying Aubrey, but for the life of me I cannot fathom why. Marriage is just so…so…confining, I guess.
With a sigh, I set down my champagne glass, because I’m actually getting a small headache and that’s really why I don’t drink more than one. I look longingly at the petit fours and then turn to Jeremy. “I’m bored.”
“Bored,” he repeats with confusion in his voice. “Of shopping?”
I lean over and punch him on the shoulder. “Bite your tongue. I’ll never get tired of shopping. But I’m tired of my life lately.”
“What in particular?” he asks as he scoots a little closer to me. This is why we are the best of friends…because he listens to me.
“Men,” I say, voicing the one word that has been plaguing me lately.
“Want to try a woman?” he asks seriously, and then adds almost dreamily, “because we’ve got this new broker in the office and she’s gay and smoking hot. And has these lips that I know would just—”
“No, I don’t want a woman,” I snap at him so he’ll focus.
“But you don’t want a man?” he asks hesitantly.
“Not the men here,” I say as I wave my hand in a circle above my head.
“In Bergdorf Goodman’s?” he asks.
“Stop being purposely obtuse,” I say with an affectionate grin. “I’m tired of the men I’ve been dating. Here. In New York City.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
I huff out a breath of frustration. “They’re all the same. Predicable, even.”
“Let me guess,” he says as he points a finger briefly at me. “They’re focused on the rat race, trying to rise to the top. Career is more important than love and you’re feeling slighted. In fact, you begin to ever wonder if you’ll find true love. You long for a husband and babies and—”
“Honest to God, Jeremy,” I say with irritation as I cut him off. “Don’t you read my blog anymore?”
He snickers. “You know I do and that I’m just getting your panties in a twist.”
“Then you know it’s not that,” I say pointedly. “You know I’m not about love and settling down.”
“Then spell it out for me,” he says.
My gaze roams up to the chandelier hanging above us and I think for a moment as I study the sparkling crystals. I want to compose my thoughts, which have been running rampant lately.
I look back to Jeremy, who is patiently waiting for me to enlighten him. I’m pretty sure he’ll get me. I know damn well he won’t judge me, because he hasn’t yet, and my behavior has been pretty dicey over the years. He’s the only one who has supported me and has encouraged the family to let me shine rather than berate me for not falling into line. It goes without saying that the French family is as embarrassed and astounded today that Valentine French writes a sex column as they were the day they read my first post.
“Did you read my last piece?” I ask him.
“?‘Will the Metrosexual Kill the Orgasm?’?” he says with a nod, repeating the title. “It was good. Very witty and tongue in cheek.”