Meg Cabot - Every Boy’s Got One

I think that’s a good sign, don’t you?

Anyway, I hope you’re still having a nice time. Daddy and I are fine. He did get a few acid burns while changing the battery in the Volvo, but Neosporin seems to be working just fine on them.

And just in case you got any ideas from Holly and Mark’s wedding, I hope you know your father and I don’t care WHO you marry, as long as you invite us.

Although I do think that Cal Langdon would probably look very nice in a tuxedo.

Love,

Mom

___________________________________________

To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Malcolm Weatherly <malcolmw@snowstyle.com>

Re: Ciao!

Hey, babe. Haven’t heard from you in days. Hope things are okay.

Listen, I was just wondering—we’re not exclusive or anything anymore, are we? I mean, it’s okay to hook up with other people, right? Since I moved out? Because I sort of met someone. Just drop me a line and let me know, will ya? I don’t want to do anything to piss you off. But a guy’s got needs, you know?

Peace out,

Malcolm

___________________________________________

To: Jane Harris <jane@wondercat.com>

Fr: Julio Chasez <julio@streetsmart.com>

Re: The Dude

Hi, Ms. Harris. Listen, I was wondering—when are you getting back, exactly? Because The Dude, he’s— well, he seems like he misses you, or something. I mean, this morning when I went in to feed him, I caught him gnawing on the screen over the window, trying to get out onto the fire escape, on account of there being a pigeon there. He made a pretty big hole in it, actually. The screen I mean. My dad replaced it, though, don’t worry, and I shut the window all the way so he can’t do it again.

And just now he kind of bit me again when all I was trying to do was pet him.

So I was just wondering… when are you coming home, again?

I hope it’s soon.

Julio

PDA of Cal Langdon

It seems fairly obvious to me that I could have handled that better.

Really, Grazi’s timing could not have been more unfortunate. I think I had almost gotten her to forgive me for my earlier, unfortunate gaffes.

Although I still insist my opinions, especially on marriage, were perfectly valid. You can’t tell me there isn’t an educated person alive who might, looking at the world as it is today, wonder if bringing a new life into it might not be the wisest course of action. Given the state of the global-economic—not to mention environmental—situation as it exists at this moment, what kind of person could possibly consider having children, when all that child stands to inherit is a planet devoid of adequate energy sources and (as a consequence of this rape of our fossil fuels) an ozone layer; bankrupt Social Security and Medicaid; and a community terrorized by fundamentalists who believe it is their inherent right to exert their values and beliefs on others, through physical force, if necessary?

Only a fool.

And yet, for the first time in my life, I can see how being a fool can have its advantages. Especially if what you’re being a fool for is love.

God. I can’t believe I just wrote that.

But, incredibly, it’s true. I can see now why Mark and Holly felt they had to marry, in spite of their parents’ opposition, in spite of what they know about this world and the dangers it holds. I can see now why it was so important to them to legalize their union—why having an easily accessible escape route from a romantic relationship isn’t always necessarily the best thing, if you want the relationship to last.

I see all these things now.

Too bad I can’t convince her of that.

Not that I thought it would be easy. But I honestly never anticipated that I might be doing it from the bottom of a pool.

Here is where the Old Cal might start bleating about how She’s got some nerve, expecting me to have acted like a damned eunuch in the past, when I didn’t even know her. This is when the Old Cal might think to himself, Why am I even bothering to put myself through this? I’ve got a perfectly beautiful, elegant, sophisticated Italian woman right here who’d be more than happy to make love with me all night long. Why am I worrying about what some American cartoonist is thinking?

Ah, there’s the rub. Because I don’t want the beautiful, elegant, sophisticated Italian woman. I want the cartoonist with the cat tattoo who can’t seem to stop tripping over her own shoes.

God help me.

She, however, has made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want me. At least, not anymore. I suppose Grazi strolling in like that, looking as if she owned the place in that hat and those stilettos, was just one strike too many against me.

Grazi was perfectly understanding about it. She apologized for not having checked her email, and said by the time she got my phone messages, she was already on her way. I believe I made quite an ass of myself, trying to explain what was going on, as I drove her back to the train station (after I’d changed into dry clothes, of course).

“I see,” was what Grazi had to say about it. “You are in love. With a woman who draws a cartoon. About a cat.”

Hearing her put it that way, so baldly—You are in love—I actually felt physically ill for a moment.

And yet—here’s the strangest thing of all—I felt ill in a good way.

“That’s not all,” I felt compelled to confess. “She thinks I’m a pompous ass, incapable of feeling anything except my own sense of superiority.”

Grazi seemed to find this amusing.

“You can be pompous,” she said. Which I can’t say I found particularly reassuring. “You seem to think you know everything there is to know.”

“She’s categorically uninterested in geopolitical dynamics,” I went on, “or world affairs of any kind.”

“Yes,” Grazi said. “But these things are not important to most people.”

“This morning,” I added, feeling desperate for someone, anyone to try to talk me out of what I knew perfectly well was already a foregone conclusion, “I saw her put ketchup on her eggs. And she likes Nutella. And that television show, ER.”

To which Grazi replied, with a calmness I’m sure she was far from feeling, “Yes, but this is a very popular show.”

“It’s not something I planned on happening,” I explained to her.

“Who plans on falling in love?” Grazi asked, with a shrug. “It simply happens. We cannot stop it, however much we might try.”

Then, exhaling a plume of blue smoke from her cigarette, she added, “Though I imagine in your case, trying not to just made you fall harder. That is the way, with men like you. When it happens, nothing can stop it. Not even ketchup on the eggs.”

“She hates me,” I admitted miserably.

“No, she does not,” Grazi was kind enough to say. “If she hated you, she would not have pushed you in the water when she saw me.”

I hope—but do not actually believe—that Grazi is right.

But even if she is, what can I do about it? By the time I got back to the house after dropping Grazi off at the train station, so she could go back to Rome, the party was over, and the house was shut up tight. She was nowhere to be found. I knew she hadn’t left… her suitcase was still there. Thinking she’d gone into town with the others to terrorize the bridal couple at their hotel, I drove in, but saw only Peter and his little friends on the beach, ripping apart Holly’s garlic flower bouquet in some sort of strange pubescent Lord-of-the-Flies-like ceremony, and throwing the petals into the sea.

Now I’ve had too much coffee at the cafe, and read every English-language paper in town. The sun is starting to set, and I know I should go back to the villa to see if she’s there.

But part of me is afraid to leave this chair. Because what happens if I go back there, and she gives me the cold shoulder?

Grazi’s reply, when I asked her this very question as she was boarding her train, was hardly reassuring.

“She won’t,” she said, with a smile, “if you make the grand gesture.”

“What grand gesture?” I asked. “I already threw a party that put me five grand in the hole, and all that got me was a view of the bottom of the pool.”

“What does she want?” Grazi asked, pointedly. “Besides a wedding for her friend, which you already gave her? That is what you must do, you know. Give her what she wants—what she’s never had—and she’ll be yours.”

I had to think about that one. What Jane Harris wants. I thought about it for a long time after Grazi’s train pulled away from the station.

It turned out not to be that hard. I mean, it’s not like it wasn’t written on practically every page of her diary.

Still, how to show her I really meant it:. that was the hard part.

Of course, if it turns out I’m wrong…

Well, here goes nothing.

Travel Diary of Holly Caputo and Mark Levine

Jane Harris

I should have known, of course. That it was all too good to be true.

About him having changed, I mean.

He hasn’t changed. They never change.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, just because he got Holly and Mark married, then threw them a nice party, and made a sweet toast, the way any normal man SHOULD have, I thought he’d come around.

Ha. HA!

It’s so transparently obvious now that the whole thing was some kind of setup to get me into bed. 

I have to admit at first I was flattered. I mean, that he went to all that trouble, just to see me naked. No man’s ever gone to such elaborate lengths on my behalf. Well, Curt Shipley took me to the prom.

But knowing now that he didn’t really care WHO he screwed afterwards, me or Mike Morris, has somewhat spoiled my appreciation of the fact in retrospect.

Same with Cal Langdon. I mean, it was all just a big game to him. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on that art gallery woman. Just a kiss. Ha! Exactly as I suspected, it WASN’T just a kiss. He was just lonely, and wanted to get laid. He didn’t care by WHO. Or WHOM. Or whatever. Why else would he have invited her?

And I’ll admit, he did look kind of surprised to see her there. He must have forgotten he’d asked her to stop by.

Well, I’m sure that baptism I gave him reminded him plenty fast.

Whatever. It’s not like I even care. I mean, it’s not like I was FALLING FOR HIM, or anything. Please. Falling for WHAT? Believe me, I can do better than an egocentric jerk like him.

And okay, he DOES have those nice sinewy, tanned hands. And those blue eyes. And he likes cats. And he’s a great kisser. And he’s super smart, but can still be funny when he lets himself.

So what? He has a lot of faults, too. He thinks he knows everything, when, very clearly, he does not, particularly when it comes to human relations.

And he writes books I wouldn’t pick up to read if I even were dying of boredom.

And, though I can’t be sure of it, I think I caught him looked at me a little funny this morning when he saw me putting ketchup on my eggs.

Who needs that? Not me. No, sir. I’m sticking to nice guys. Like Malcolm. Well, not Malcolm, exactly, since he’s clearly moved on, which… good for him.

But I mean simple guys, like Malcolm. Guys who don’t play head games. Guys with a wry appreciation of life’s vagaries. Cal doesn’t appreciate anything wryly. Well, except for maybe my grammatical errors.

Oh. Wait. War.

Okay. Peter won.

Whatever.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.

The first thing I’m going to do when I get back home is register for some kind of class at the Learning Annex. I don’t know what. But some kind of class a simple guy would take. Like pottery, maybe. Or Italian! Yeah. How to speak Italian. I bet a lot of guys take that class. And then I can meet a nice, simple guy, and next time I come back to Italy, I’ll bring him along.

Because even though this country has its faults—the three-hour lunches, where everything, even SHOE stores, is closed… not to mention the lack of toilets, like at Amici Amore, or just the seats, like that restaurant in Porto Recanati—it can also be super nice. When I made Peter drop me off in town today after the party, when he and Annika and everyone else went to harass Holly and Mark at their hotel, I walked around a little, got myself a nice gelato, sat down in a little palazzo, and just relaxed.