A Previous Engagement (3 page)

“I’ll go with you,” Kendra said, lacing her fingers through mine. “But you’re doing the talking.”

Inside, people were laughing. I paused, stunned, until my dad’s voice drifted over the laughter on the loudspeaker system. My father was telling jokes atop a plastic milk crate, trying to relax the crowd. I could always count on him to make the daring rescue, or at least attempt it. My mother sneered from behind the bar, trapped there by my sister. Mom was probably more upset about missing the drama than listening to my dad’s jokes, which she should be used to after thirty-five years of marriage. Despite the shattered ambiance, the crowd seemed more at ease than I expected.

“And then the bartender says ‘Aren’t you a string?’ And the string answers, ‘No! I’m a frayed knot!” I groaned at the all-too-familiar punch line, sharing a look with Kendra.

“Where’d you get a microphone, Dad?”

He shrugged, grinning ear to ear, and switched it off. “Hope you don’t mind, Kendra. I got it from one of your servers.”

“May I?” He handed it over and took a bow. I cleared my throat. Show time.

“Thanks, Dad,” my voice rung from every speaker. “And thank you to everyone for being here tonight. Christian is delighted you could all join us—even you, Hank.” A few chuckles from the crowd broke the remaining tension in the room. I winked at the bartender all the way in the back, a long-time fixture at Birch’s, hired by Kendra’s dad back when we still ate crayons. “Unfortunately, some personal reasons have prevented our guests of honor from joining us. I’m sorry to say tonight’s party is cancelled.” I cleared my throat over the low roll of whispers. “We’re deeply sorry for any inconvenience this has caused, but we hope the food and the company made up for it.” I pinched my mouth into a plastic smile. “Please have a safe drive home and again, our sincerest apologies.”

Within twenty minutes everyone was gone. Most of the hangers-on were family members of the couple, demanding answers. It wasn’t my place to share the news—especially since I still didn’t know what had even happened between them—so I waved them off politely. When that didn’t work, a few sharp words from Kendra did the trick. Of course, my mother needed a good tug from my father to finally get out the door, muttering under her breath all the way. We’d have a lot of explaining to do in the morning, but for now the empty restaurant and the gorgeous cake were all ours. I split it into quadrants and handed out four forks. After all, a good cake should never go to waste, especially when soothing a broken heart. We ate in silence for several minutes before Christian lifted his head and smiled.

“This is amazing,” he said, happier notes playing in his voice. Ah, the healing powers of chocolate—I knew them well.

I gave Christian some time to absorb it all, let him settle into his seat and crack a few jokes. Once I could be sure his smile was steady, it was time to ask the tough questions. “So what happened, anyway?” I tried to keep it casual, twirling one prong of my fork through the chocolaty glaze on my plate. “I thought everything was going great after you proposed last month.”

Kendra stiffened across the table, but couldn’t quite fake indifference. Together, we watched the left corner of Christian’s mouth dip a fraction of an inch, just barely noticeable to the untrained eye.

He recovered the smile, although it never reached his eyes. “Creative differences?” he said with a shrug. Grant snorted, understanding some kind of guy code foreign to those of us with lady parts.

I rolled my eyes. “And what does that mean?”

“Okay,” Christian answered slowly. He drummed his fingers on the table, his favorite stall tactic. “Let’s say we had a disagreement about something totally ridiculous.”

“Oh God!” Kendra’s fork clanged loudly onto her plate. “Don’t tell me she wanted to wear that ugly metallic belt with her wedding dress.”

I kicked her. Hard. Christian wasn’t supposed to know we’d sat around poking fun at Marcy, even if she was an ex now. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Ow!” Kendra glared at me across the table.

To my surprise, Christian actually chuckled. “It’s fine, Tess. I hated that thing too.”

“Oh, thank God,” I relaxed, eager to hear more of that laughter. “We used to dream up reasons she would wear something so hideous all the time. One night, we took a vote and decided she was a futuristic traveler who needed the belt to communicate with the government in the year 2510.”

“The second place contender was Miss Teen Heavyweight Champion of the World, 1986.” Kendra nodded toward her husband, who waved a quick acknowledgement. “That was Grant’s.”

So, none of us liked the girl he was going to marry. That explained why no one at the engagement party was terribly broken up. Except for Marcy’s parents, who seemed to understand what they’d be missing without Christian as a son-in-law. We might not have loved having Marcy around all the time, but we couldn’t just stage an intervention. There was nothing wrong with her really. We just didn’t get along. You know what they say: “Love is blind; friendship tries not to notice.” We’d been trying not to notice for almost a year.

When Christian first introduced us to Marcy, we welcomed her to the group right away. Adding Grant to our trio had been such a breeze, Kendra and I expected it would be the same with the woman Christian chose to be his wife. Try as I might, I just couldn’t warm up to her—not that I ever really liked
any
of his girlfriends—but he was so serious about Marcy, I really wanted to make an effort.

At first, Kendra thought it was Marcy’s perfect eyebrows that freaked me out. While admittedly possible, since unnaturally perfect eyebrows
did
freak me out, I hadn’t even noticed them until Kendra brought it up. No, there was more to it than superficial nonsense. Marcy just wasn’t good enough to marry my best friend. Beyond that, I couldn’t articulate anything substantial.

Yes, my best guy friend decided to get married and I had problems with the girl. Was it because female friends lacked placement in the “bros before hos” pecking order? Because I was losing my best friend? Or was I just jealous?

All fair questions, all answered with an emphatic no. Even though Kendra and I each briefly dated Christian back in fifth grade—she dated him from Tuesday to Thursday, I dated him for the weekend—we tried to keep it simple, focused on the friendship. Dating prospects always came from outside the group, with limited success. Now that Kendra was married with one kid, trying for another, the pressure was on for Christian and me to catch up. Except that I wasn’t playing. Let Kendra and Christian race to have all the kids they wanted; I’d happily become the overly generous, very cool “aunt” that spoils then leaves the kids with their parents. People like me had no business raising kids.

Christian cleared his throat and I snapped back from my thoughts. “So she just broke it off, then? Because of one fight?” I blurted it out, not my usual tactful approach.

“Not exactly.” Christian set his glasses onto the table and rubbed his temples. “I said something harmless—I don’t even remember what it was—and she freaked out, started saying things like ‘how do I know you’re really working late.’ Stuff like that. She actually thought I was sneaking around on her with…” he took a deep breath. Our eyes caught across the table and I nodded for him to go on. “Anyway. I found out she’d been collecting my receipts in this shoebox and then hacked into my bank account. Trying to catch me in the act, she said. So bizarre.”

Kendra’s eyebrows were raised so high they disappeared. Grant, on the other hand, shook his head slowly. “Jealous bitches.” Unfazed, Christian bumped Grant’s fist over the table in a display of manly solidarity.

“Well,” I said loudly. “I’ve had enough of this for one night. So, Petersons, what time does the babysitter expect you home?”

Kendra’s face lit up. “We’ve got a couple hours. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Only if it starts with cosmic,” I began.

“And ends with bowling!” she finished.

“Nerds,” Grant stood up. “But I get shotgun.”

****

Like any other Monday, Prime Investing’s halls buzzed with the usual morning activities when I got in. Higher-ups made their daily rounds, dropping in on unsuspecting employees still yawning in their cubicles. The elevator dinged with a constant stream of late arrivals, the sounds of brewing coffee and whispered gossip floated out from the kitchenette, and the receptionists answered phone calls in rapid, high-pitched speech. Corporate America in action.

Prime is a top investment firm and most of its employees acted the part. Shamefully, I’d succumbed to the culture, always smiling and sprinkling chit-chat up and down the hallway like petals in a flower girl’s basket. My clothes were impeccable and always business-appropriate, even on casual Fridays. Assimilating corporate culture was the key step many young workers missed on that climb up the corporate ladder, but not Tessa Monroe.

It hadn’t taken long for me to gather how important appearances were at Prime, and not just in regards to the staff. From the marble-tiled entranceway with the giant fountain to the art deco paper cups at every water cooler, each detail had been painstakingly planned by a group of overpaid “consultants.” The result was a cold, calculated building that crunched the majority of its employees into mind-numbing data, just future turnover waiting to happen.

Coming to work was, therefore, one of life’s great tragedies. From the doorway, the walls stretched on forever. To the left wound an endless maze of tiny six-by-six squares of work/life balance, like sectioned brownie slicers. That tangled mess swallowed up my twenties, but at least I’d secured one of the few cubicles touched by natural sunlight, all the way in the back. I often joked that my commute to work started at the front door and ended at my desk.

Last month, I finally wound my way out of the labyrinth forever. Eight long years of what Kendra deemed “indentured servitude” and I’d earned a top spot as Prime’s only female Assistant Vice President. Taking a right turn from that entranceway made my mornings a whole lot cheerier.

Oh, the right side hallway was paradise itself: plush carpets, warm mauve tones, large offices with windows, and a beautiful full-sized kitchen with a Keurig. My first day turning right felt like a free upgrade to first class on an overseas flight. Gone was the echoing sound of my heels clacking on marble. Gone was the dreary crowd of miserable data-crunchers and interns. Gone was that knot in the pit of my stomach. I turned right that first morning and I was never going back. My new desk chair, with its ergonomic curves and pillow-soft armrests, made all that work worthwhile.

Unlike any other Monday, that day my head buzzed with an internal monologue much different from the usual “Oh my God, I can’t believe this is my office! My window! My chair! My stapler!” Instead, I worried about Christian and his long list of bad-news phone calls. Kendra and I offered to step in—because who wants to call off their own wedding, really?—but he insisted, saying he wanted to explain things to his family himself. That’s when I started to notice how different Christian and Marcy’s breakup was from its predecessors. How many times had Christian’s broken heart been mended by weeks of one-on-one chats with yours truly, a few nights out drinking, and one of Kendra’s cheesecakes? This time, only two beers, a slice of chocolate cake, and a few hours of cosmic bowling had done the trick. Not even tears from his dear Grandma Douglas could shatter his spirit. Something was wrong.

Or maybe my paranoid brain wanted something to be wrong. All breakups are different, right? He wasn’t some moody teenager anymore; he was a grown man who could handle a girl dumping him, and that’s that. Bringing my thoughts back to reality, and my huge to-do list, I scrolled through my emails and checked voicemail. I dove into a towering stack of marketing copy, red pen at the ready. Marketing for investments was tough work, since there’s not much to actually market. There are only so many ways to say “give us some money and we’ll try to make it multiply.” How do you make that exciting, when you can’t embellish or make guarantees? It’s certainly harder than marketing for something awesome, like a white water rafting trip down the Amazon. Now that? I could market the hell out of that.

Fortunately, my recent promotion excused me from writing the copy. An entire team of highly underpaid interns now did it for me. I just had to review it all. Editing it wasn’t half as bad, as long as I never had to write it again…

Where did Marcy get the idea he was cheating on her anyway? Christian wasn’t the type. He wasn’t dubious about his morals nor was he skilled enough to juggle two women at once. Besides, he wanted to be married so badly he’d never jeopardize the relationship like that. Not, say, like the guys I might date.

As if my career left time for a boyfriend. My precious time was reserved for my friends. Hanging out with two couples, I couldn’t exactly go clubbing or speed dating. Even with Christian single, nothing would change. Before I could pencil in a night out on my calendar, he’d probably meet some beautiful girl ordering an Italian sub in a D’Angelo’s one day, sweep her off her feet by confessing a shared affinity for spicy deli meat, and get really serious within weeks. That was his way.

My way was to stay cooped up in this office—with a
killer
view of Boston—and then hurry home to my pajamas, my cooking shows
,
and my empty apartment. I found my life, and my new career in particular, very fulfilling. I leaned back in my swanky desk chair, peering out of my giant windows onto the passing traffic and the busy Boston streets. The view from up here was pretty sweet indeed.