19

One Fateful Day

Although it’s only five o’clock when I lie down, I sleep the whole night through. I wake, gripping Teddy in a headlock. Out the window, the sun has barely had a chance to light the sky. It looks like “naps” are not something I’m capable of handling anymore. This was more of a vacation, only without actually going anywhere, no tan to speak of, but still, a wicked case of jet lag.

At the mirror, I let out the sort of yawn that only single women can partake in—a scream really, my mouth so wide I can see every filling. It’s not the polite covered mouth variety you’d attempt to stifle in front of a man. And as I’m staring at my mouth in amazement—how many fillings do I have anyway?—I begin to recall my dreams.

In one rapid, illogical sequence, I was Sleeping Beauty, my hair not a mass of human hair, made up of separate strands, but instead a lump of one-dimensional orange, colored in with a marker and contained by a heavy black border line. I'm lying in a bed, locked in that infamous dark tower, clasping a flower arrangement—three white lilies—when the plump, jocular fairy godmother of Cinderella fame taps my shoulder, interrupting my sleeping spell.

I turn to her and ask, "Are you Fate?"

She looks at me and smiles, waving a glowing Fourth of July sparkler in the air, tracing loops and spirals with each movement, ignoring me, even when I throw the flowers onto the stone floor and stomp on them.

Finally she says, "Aren't those sparklers so much fun? Here, give one a whirl."

She lights and hands another to me, which I inspect, thinking how fitting it is that when I finally get a fairy godmother it turns out she’s a wacko. She's trying to write something in the air with her sparklers, but the blaze fades away before I can make out the letters.

Finally, I rip them from her hands and say, "Listen. I haven't got all the time in the world here. Would you mind answering my question already? Jeez."

The fairy godmother looks like she's about to sock me one, which isn't very fair considering it's my dream. She composes herself, lights another sparkler, this time holding it still, and takes on a new demeanor.

"I indeed am Fate, my dearie. And I’m here to tell you that you have really been pissing me off. I mean, I’ve been with you your entire lifetime, and now you just up and desert me because of one stupid British guy! Whatever happened to devotion? Do you remember that rainy day on your family trip to Massachusetts, summer 1980, under the palace you'd constructed from sheets and two wing chairs? And don't forget your first kiss with Christopher Taminsky; if I hadn't brought you tumbling off of your bike and onto his driveway, would you have that memory now? It is true that sometimes you do go off the deep end. Believe me, we fairy godmothers have had many a laugh over you, but that doesn't mean you should shut me out for good. Stay true to yourself, okay? Oh, and here's another sparkler for the road. Aren't they just a hoot?"

She floats up and starts to fade.

"But—" I try to grab her but it’s too late. She disappears.

“Thanks for the help,” I say, and toss the sparkler on the ground. “And this stupid sparkler is not so much of a hoot actually.”

If that truly was my fate I’d dreamed up, I may be in some serious trouble. You may not take much stock in dreams, but I do. I dreamed I would be a writer all the time when I was a little girl, and here I am. I even dreamed which college I would attend, and that's where I wound up. Dreams for me are very, very important—just as important as my horoscope. Or maybe more. No less. Okay, equal then. So it would have been nice if the one that contained the answer to my question seemed a little bit, what's the word? Sane.

I remember another dream scene. Those little mice and birds from Cinderella scurrying about a human form—pinning a shoulder here, an inseam there. This form is not me. It is male. It is Tom. He’s wearing that Calvin Klein suit and flashing the half-smile.

When the diminutive tailors are through with their alterations, he is guiding them along a tour of his office building. Nobody bats an eye at a gaggle of animated characters walking the halls of the Traveler's Building.

At the elevator, he points to the red and white buttons and saying, “Yes, red is up."

In the cafeteria, he scoops vegetables from silver bins and explains, "This is the lettuce, and this is the carrot, and here are the tomatoes."

The mice and birds elbow each other and belly-laugh. One bluebird attempts to flirt by singing a sweet song and nestling into Tom's neck. Next Tom is holding a copy of the telephone presentation in one hand and hammering a hook into my wall, where I’d always meant for my Vogue column to be hung. When he's fixed the silver piece onto the wall he stands back and says, "Well done, Ab Fab, well done."

I look at that still empty space on the wall now, awake, thinking how stupid I have been all of these years to keep pursuing these dreams of being a journalist, of meeting my M&M. Is it really worth it if every little success is so hard won? The article, I think, is something to be proud of, but at what price? And why the hell did I decide to heap both of those challenges into the same boat? If I hadn't, perhaps I'd still be in possession of at least one triumph.

But I’m distracted. Why, in my dream, was Tom hanging that presentation in my spot of honor? Is it possible Tom may have found his way into my heart? Is it possible that he is (dare I use the word) my M&M?

From habit, I consult the old checklist. I know, I know. I'm like a sugar addict—just one more time, I swear!

I just spent an entire weekend growing up and realizing I’m irrational and that love is nothing I thought it was and now I’m right back where I started. But old habits are hard to break. Besides, I was probably overreacting. I was upset. Hurt. Angry. But that was with Liam. Surely Tom is nothing like Liam.

This is new territory here. An entirely different scenario. Of course I need the list. Where else can I turn? I need guidance, and I just told you about my fairy godmother— obviously I'm not getting any help there.

I open to a clean checklist with a flush of warmth, like coming home. Why did I ever think I needed to grow up? Obviously I know about love—look I'm getting $7,500 just to write about it! They wouldn't pay that to just anybody.

"Ha!" I laugh out loud as I begin reading over the criteria at speed-reader pace to find one—just one!—that Tom might, possibly, at a certain angle, fall under. I feel one would do. Only I don’t have to read, really. I know every item by heart. And in seconds I know there are none to be checked off for. None. Tom is none of those things I wrote.

Checklist #129 Tom Reiner

1. Reads NYTimes:

Notes: Wall Street Journal devotee

2. Has job that will allow for romantic trips to exotic locales; always insists we fly first class, feeding each other sorbet with a tiny silver spoon:

Notes: Has recently been changed to the MD in charge of New York-based negotiations only, so this is out of the question (but wonderful for assistants who will no longer have to convert currencies).

3. Puts passion above common sense/practicality:

Notes: Dressing—less salad?

4. Is British (depending on nature of remainder of checklist, this can, on occasion be fulfilled with valid British heritage documented on family tree, but British accent is most desirable):

Notes: This item is, from this moment on, officially struck from checklist!!!!!!!!!!!!!

5. Makes me get That Feeling:

Notes: Shopping, dining, post-meeting did experience momentary twinges of strangeness in his presence. But cannot one hundred percent testify to the meaning...well, err...definitely premature.

6. Knows how to be direct, e.g. Richard Gere, Pretty Woman:

Notes: Actually, have no idea how he feels about me. Shit! Wouldn’t be pulling strands from my scalp in frustration if I did. Ouch!

7. He has roses waiting for me when I get home (even when I am working at home he always finds a way):

Notes: Gave me flowers on first day. Also, there was the framing of the article and the dinner we were supposed to have, but which was ruined for obvious reasons (See checklist #128!!!!!!!!!). Still, none were technically delivered to my residence.

8. I am unable to pass a Victoria’s Secret without dashing inside to find some new lacy sexy thing with all sorts of straps that go God-knows-where to surprise him with, and when I do, he never says something as ridiculous as, “You must get dressed now, we are meeting my parents in ten minutes:”

Notes: I could definitely see myself showing up at his office to test this item. On his part, this is barely applicable, although he did compliment the color of my underwear on my first day.

9. He is so beautiful, maybe not to everyone, but to me, that I wake up in the middle of the night and spend hours just staring at the angle of his jaw line, the arch of his brow:

Notes: Haven’t yet but have also been obsessed with #128.

10. If we ever do argue, it is always with bitter rage, arms flailing, and tears burning in front of a fountain in Central Park or by the tree in Rockefeller Center, or somewhere equally cinematic. But, then, without fail, we make amends—always meeting in the middle of the route between his home and mine (as we both have the urge for reconciliation at the same moment), and come together in the most passionate lovemaking we’ve ever experienced (once we’ve gotten inside, of course), and thank God that we have found each other. After, we spend the evening laughing uncontrollably at the littlest things, like the way he says parents with the same A sound as in apple and coming to unique realizations about things—like how amazing it is that people now only drink bottled water, when before they’d never thought twice about drinking from a tap:

Notes: When Liam did this it was so much fun. I remember this ancient, shrunken woman wearing the largest red glasses I have ever seen stopped right in front of us at the fountain and so he screamed, “I would have died for you Lane Silverman! How could you have made love to my best friend while I was in a coma in a hospital in Paris?” But it was just acting, wasn’t it? Have no comment yet for Tom. Perhaps could count pretzel argument?

11. Witty statements are always on the tip of his tongue.

Notes: Now this is definitely true.

12. He teaches me things I never even know I had to learn:

Notes: Firewalls? Did not really have to learn, though. I mean, when will this ever be of use to me?

13. I love the way he looks in his gray boxer briefs:

Notes: Although am now kicking myself for not having done so, could have snuck a peak at Calvin Kleins, as flimsy dressing room curtain was not exactly the height of security. Unfortunately, missed the opportunity, and therefore unsure if he even wears boxer briefs (?). Hopefully, does not wear those ugly red bikinis with mesh....On brighter side, he has a much talked about nice butt.

So he is actually the one item I hadn't memorized—witty. But no matter which way you look at it, one out of thirteen is not a fantastic score. It wouldn't get you a passing grade in algebra, it wouldn't get you a driver's license, or a thumbs-up on a psychological exam.

I scan the older checklists. You know what? Every guy I’ve ever dated, liked, pined over, appeared to be all of those things I held so important.

You know what though? After the initial disappointment of realizing that Tom fits into only one category, I realize that he actually fits into tons of penciled in ones—“excellent diet;” “nice boss;" "generates wonderful nicknames;" "is great candidate for a makeover story," and dialing my grandmother to discuss this (she is the only one up at this hour and tends to agree with everything I say), I hang up as I remember something awful.

Tom has a girlfriend. A girlfriend who takes Glamour Shots, a girlfriend who doesn't like to eat in pubs. A girlfriend with nails longer than the Nile. Still, a girlfriend all the same.

I'm tearing through my closet for my most woe-is-me attire something befitting an unrequited lover (purple, maybe?) when it hits me. She's the sort of girlfriend who takes Glamour Shots. A girlfriend who doesn't like to eat in pubs. What I'm saying is, I am so much better suited to Tom than she is! Anyone can see that.

I'll win him over. She isn’t right for him. He doesn’t even seem happy with her! And that will fulfill a whole new check box-that will make him "a challenge!" I can do it. I scan my closet for challenge-ready garments (red, definitely) with which to begin my venture. And just when I yank out a sort of ugly skirt that I don’t remember owning, but apparently the only red garment I have, it dawns on me—I don't have any idea if Tom likes me.

How will I get to the bottom of this? I toss the skirt onto the floor over the purple dress, ready to search for something Sherlock Holmes-y like a wool blazer (it’s spring, but you know what they say about fashion and function) when my eye catches the printout of Diary of a Working Girl on my floor.

And I realize with a jolt of excitement that I have recorded every single thing Tom has ever said or done for me at Smith Barney in Diary of a Working Girl! I dress in the wool blazer and matching pants, a great tweed hat with front and back bills, and a string that ties at the top (why do I own this?), and even an elegant pipe I'd gotten in the gift bag at a Dunhill event, which I’ve just been dying to find a use for—and most importantly, all of my clues are ready. I'll have to read between the lines, but that just happens to be my specialty, something I’ve been doing my entire lifetime. Maybe after all this clue-spotting, I’ll be inspired to follow in the footsteps of Nancy Drew.

I take my printout, three colored highlighters (you have to color code for organization), and a portable Post-it flag pop-up gadget, and I go where any girl would when she needs a trusted friend to take her through a challenging journey: to the cafe, for one jumbo latte and one warm, always loyal friend—a chocolate croissant.

As I take a seat outside at one of the wrought iron tables, I’m delighted at the sensation of home, of belonging, that I feel in my tiny corner of the universe. This is, indeed, another thing I had taken for granted all those years working at home. I mean, where else in the world could I sit in glaring sunlight on a very warm May morning in head-to-toe wool without anyone batting an eye?

I roll up my sleeves for a bit of air. Across the street I spot a group walking, loaded up with shopping bags, and I remember how much I loved the lunch hours I would take right here, playing Guess What They Bought. I see the young and would-be fit drinking their fat-free coffees in designer workout gear and running shoes, on the way to overpriced gyms known for helping models drop ten pounds before photo shoots.

I recall the days I promised myself I would run upstairs to go to the gym, but ordered another cafe mocha instead, rationalizing I can't go to the gym in the middle of a writing streak. You just don't have the benefit of those excuses doing the nine-to-five thing. I’m thinking how peaceful this whole scene is when a deliveryman from my corner deli walks by.

"Where have you been, chica? We've missed you!" he says.

"Oh, you know, I'm so busy these days," I say affecting fabulousness.

"The big writer girl! We miss our celebrity. You haven't gotten so big you've forgotten about us, have you?"

In my little world, I am a big fish. I am "the writer." I'm the one who runs into the deli to share my newest article about how to lose five pounds in five days with the sandwich makers, who are truly excited to see my name in print, and never once say they haven’t seen that magazine before. If I take a seat at a table at my deli, with a draft printout and a red pen, they lower the music so I can concentrate. But in the big world, I’m barely a baby minnow. I’m whatever the baby minnow eats. Seeing Wayne, I realize there's definitely something to be said for the former.

"Of course I could never forget you. I've been gone for a while, but, you know what? I'm back now. I’m back," I say, realizing it’s true in more ways than one. Also because I’m warming to my Sherlock Holmes persona, taking care to read between the lines.

He winks and waves me off, and I watch as Wayne’s familiar figure—clad in white, blue apron strings tied about his neck and back—gets smaller and smaller. And with that comforting image fading in the distance, I get to reading. My highlighter awaits, uncapped and ready to pop out clues.

I am so enraptured by my reading that when my phone rings, I jump roughly ten thousand feet, and when I return to earth, I’m amazed I haven’t bumped my head on a stray bird or a small helicopter. It's Joanne. Strangely, I feel confident about her opinion.

"What's up?" I ask when I feel the confidence wane.

"Well, I've read your piece and Diary of a Working Girl and I have some feedback for you."

"Okay," I drag the syllables out, wondering why she’s acting so un-Joanne and hasn’t yet blurted out the negative review. After all, hadn't I just shoved all my revelations aside the very morning after I'd written them? I didn't even have people yet and already I let them down. People like me should never have their own people.

I should rip up my article and throw in the towel and maybe get a job at the deli. I could still be creative with sandwich making. Look at Martha Stewart. I can sculpt delicate cucumber flowers, maybe work with some unusual veggies, like Jerusalem artichoke. People can start writing articles about me. "Lane Silverman—Queen of Bread."

"Where are you?" she asks.

"I'm at the cafe on University Place. Why? Do you want to join me?" I would love the chance to talk face-to-face. And if it's bad news she's going to give me, then at least I won't be crying into my cell phone sitting here by myself. If you're going to be melancholy, it's much better to have someone there to sympathize with you. Who knows, maybe she'll even want to go into the sandwich business with me.

“Er, yeah, I'll be there. Wait for me."

She doesn't say good-bye, just hangs up, and I take comfort in this Joanne trademark. I go back to my reading. I'm going so fast, because I’m finding it really is an interesting story, and before I know it, I'm coming the day of the shopping expedition—Tom’s and mine. I recall that day. His discreet appreciation of the attention, the adorable way he'd slipped into the limelight, so innocent and childlike. Aha! A clue. Hadn't he done that whole speaking without words thing? Hadn't he—errr—noticed me looking at his ass and . . . liked it? Hadn't he offered to take me to dinner? It had been so easy talking with him over cocktails, effortless even. Didn't he look defeated when I'd gushed about Liam? Like I'd crushed the very life from him by confessing my love of another? Like he was ready to declare he'd never love anyone ever again if he couldn't have me? Perhaps I’m romanticizing a bit. I tag that bit with a yellow Post-it flag, like I have for all the “maybe” bits—to remind myself to come back to it later.

But as I read over the encounter at the Pen-Top I begin to feel ashamed—it looks as if I talked about myself the entire time. I was a completely selfish cow whom he could never like. Oh, no! I really am like those Ab Fab women. He hadn't told me anything about himself that night. I didn’t give him the chance.

But maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe he was so engrossed that he wanted to know every detail about my life. How different from conversations with Liam the fraud! He never asked me about myself. And while at the time I'd been enthralled, wanting to know each and every detail about him—now I think back, I can see he was selfish, and worse, he hadn't been interested in me at all. I'm torn between tagging this a good sign (red) or a bad sign (green) and, once again, decide on yellow, when I realize I’m out of yellows. I look at the pages I've already gone through. On the side of each page there are yellow flags, like a monochromatic modern art piece. I am getting nowhere. Frustrated, I bury my head in my hands.

"Tom, I wish you could just tell me what you think!" I say out loud to my yellow-trimmed papers.

"About what?" a voice asks.

I lift my head, lift the pages in disbelief. This day only gets better; now I'm hallucinating, imagining my paper is answering questions.

"Well, can you answer this?" I ask the stack. "How does Tom feel? Huh?"

I let out a sigh, dropping my work back on the table, retrieve my highlighter, and shake the fleeting, embarrassingly insane notion that perhaps this stack of papers is a real-life fairy godmother.

"About what?" the voice says as I'm putting highlighter to paper.

I’m afraid to look up. "T-Tom?" I ask, my gaze frozen on the print.

"Yes?" It’s him.

I look ahead—nothing; to my right; left. I hear a lighthearted chuckle, Tom’s lighthearted chuckle—this time coming distinctly from behind.

I turn, and my eyes are drawn to the most elegant sight. A chocolate crocodile stiletto glowing in the sunlight atop the next table.

I'd know that shoe anywhere. God knows I struggled enough in maintaining ownership of the thing. It’s my shoe.

I hear the voice again. "Do you recognize that shoe?"

Again the voice is behind me, even though I’m facing the other way now. And when I turn once more, a sunflower is thrust at my face. And when I look up, the sunflower holder is none other than the man of the yellow Post-its—Tom.

"What? What are you—"

"I'm here on official business,” he says.

"I'm sorry, I, um, I meant to call in sick again." I scramble for an excuse, realizing Tom is still my boss, although he could be my love interest. And without the Beautiful job, and unsure about the future of my article, he could potentially be my boss for some time. In the midst of my investigation I'd forgotten to call in. God! Another lavishly selfish move. He'll probably be glad if I give up my job.

I cup my hand over my mouth, ready to produce an Oscar-worthy sick-person cough when he scoops my hand away and into his dry, rough palm.

"That's okay. I can see you are severely under the weather. I wouldn't dream of having you chained to a computer all day getting my whole team sick with spring-fever-itis. I hear it can be devastating."

Wait. That's a joke, right? (Did I not check off checklist #11 regarding wit?) He's playing with me. So maybe he's not angry. Come to think of it, I don't think it's standard procedure to make a personal appearance to reprimand a no-show employee. And he is holding my hand, and it's definitely not to check my pulse—that is, unless there is a new method of pulse-checking via rubbing one's palm in a slow, methodical, extremely pleasant manner.

I'm searching, trying to classify that look in his eye. It is absolutely not anger. But it’s not lust, either. And it’s not the standard-issue look that Hugh Grant gave Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, that seemed to say "I am a devastated human being without you." Yet, it is equally, no, far more wonderful. It’s a look that only someone who appreciates the Tao of Tom would understand. It’s a look just for, well, me—and it’s (clue!) the same look he gave me at Calvin Klein. I’m reaching for a red Post-it flag when he rises from the seat he'd just taken, drops my hand, and, looks to be leaving. I want to scream "No!"

But it turns out I don't have to. He fondles the bow atop my hat and says, "Another new look from Vogue, Sherlock?"

And before I have a chance to answer, he returns to the table where my slender, sexy shoe is scintillating in the early morning haze.

He scoops it up, muttering, "How the hell do you walk in these?"

I smile, because I actually love the fact that Tom doesn’t appreciate the beauty of a good heel. I'd just noted that a moment ago when I read over a time I'd tripped leaving his office and he’d said the same thing. It just wouldn't befit a man who prefers a sunflower to a rose to understand the dictums of fashion. And I'm so enamored of the allure of a sunflower-type now that I’ll have to add this to the checklist. Anyway, didn't I read somewhere that roses are out? Maybe we'll start a whole new botanical trend!

And then, (thank you, fairy godmother/fate/wacko from my dream!) he does the most adorable thing. He kneels down before me, and reaches under my pants hem to remove my shoe. Only, when he sees what I’m wearing over my feet he stops and looks up at me with his eyebrows bunched, shaking his head.

"Can I ask why on earth you’re wearing slippers?"

"Well, I didn't have any brown leather shoes other than the ones you just brought here, and so I thought these brown leather slippers would do just fine. Don't you think they look cute?"

"Ab Fab, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I almost understand your logic. And yes, they look absolutely adorable."

As he slips the right one off, he takes my foot in his hand and kisses it! His lips are so tickly on my instep that my leg jerks and I kick him in the face.

"Okay, so I'd better remember you have ticklish feet," he says, rubbing at his jawline, "and one hell of a swift kick."

Maybe that wasn't a traditionally romantic moment, but in a weird way it was much better than anything normal. And there’s no arguing the romance of what he does next. He slides the shoe on my foot, slowly turns up to meet my eye with a heart-stopping gaze, and says, "Ahh, the perfect fit."

That look once again says something to me—it says it isn't the shoe he’s talking about—it's me! Case solved! I am the best detective in history!

Our first kiss, which one would imagine to be a passionate, beautiful display, ending with cafe patrons in a standing ovation, whistling and clapping, turns out to be absolutely nothing like that at all.

First of all, we both close our eyes before our faces are close enough, so we wind up doing one of those awful teeth-bangers, at which point Tom winces and says, "You know, Ab Fab, for a romantic, you’re a seriously crap kisser."

I smile—enjoying him so!—and say, "Well, you're a pretty crap kisser yourself." At that point, he says, "Maybe, just for this first time we should keep our eyes open, as a safety precaution."

And you know, keeping your eyes open is actually a wonderful way to kiss. As we move closer and look at each other, our lips taking each other's in, I can see the extraordinary way his eyes dance, turning up a bit at the corners, tiny lines forming. I can see his eyes so clearly that I notice they are actually made up of millions of tiny specks of green and brown and even gray that together make up the most spectacular hue. They’re breathtaking.

And his lips! They’re so soft and plump—such a wonderful change! I'll have to add this to the checklist! I mean, now I actually have my M&M, I don't really need the list, but old habits die hard.

With no teeth-banging this time, it’s just moment upon moment of soft touching, deep kissing, a bit of lip-tugging—overall a perfect mixture of movements.

Just before we part, someone screams from across the street, "Get a room!" Tom pulls away, not saying "to hell with PDA-naysayers! This is my Lane and I want all the world to see how much I love her!" Instead he says, "See that? I’m with you for nearly a minute and I'm already causing scenes. The Ab Fab lifestyle—I wonder if I can take it."

But already I know he can and wants to.

He goes on. "There's just one thing I have to clear up. You really think I have a great ass?"

And right here, I venture something very un-Tom-like—I grab it.

"Not bad," I tease.

"I'm glad you approve because I know what a high priority your checklist gives to looking good in boxer briefs," he says.

And I'm just about to correct that it's gray boxer briefs, when I think. What? How the hell does he know about the checklist, and for that matter, what the hell did I write for him on this item?

And then it hits me. I just read the very passage that praises his ass in my Diary of a Working Girl notes. I know he's seen it all.

"So you know?" I venture.

"Oh. I know."

"Whoops," I say

"Whoops is right. Looks like I'll have to find a new assistant. One who isn't in it to score with her boss."

"So you don't have any problems with all of this?" I ask, knowing the whole thing probably appears a bit complicated to an outside party.

"I do have one problem, Ab Fab. If you're going to continue to stand here with your hand on my ass, it's only proper that I be allowed to do the same."

And so we walk, hands on asses to grab a taxi to the Traveler's Building. In a dreamed-up version, Tom would probably forsake his responsibilities to be with me for the day. But in the real world, whose merits I’m becoming increasingly keen to, today is the day Tom seals the deal on the telecommunications merger. I'm the only assistant he has at the moment, and he needs my help.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're crouched on your couch or at a table in a deli eating an overpriced custom-built salad, or attempting to pick up sushi with chopsticks and read a book at the same time, without dripping soy sauce God knows where, and you're thinking—I knew it! Tom actually does say the perfect things and do the perfect things. Lane gets to go back to her old ways and they live happily ever after. You’re probably smiling enormously, because that’s the romantic pay-off, isn’t it?

Most of all, you're hungry for more. Don't I get to see them together in some montage of all that wonderful romantic stuff? Don't I get to see how Lane's romantic sensibilities play into the picture? Whether she can really hack it with her feet planted on terra firma? Or whether her fanciful ways will be her undoing? And does she get to see that ass without the confines of clothing? How the hell did Tom find out about her feelings on said ass anyhow? And what about that article?

Well, sister, set down those chopsticks and turn the page. After we've come so far, you don't think I'd leave you hanging like that, do you? You know how I am about happy endings.