But I Love Him (15 page)

“That wasn’t supposed to be funny,” he says, even though he’s chuckling now, too.

“I know, it’s just, the look on your face … ”

I manage to stop laughing long enough to kiss him.

“And I really … that was perfect. I promise.”

“It wasn’t. But I’ll get better. I promise.”

“If you’re lucky I might just let you prove it.”

November 7

Two Months, eight days

Abby’s birthday is today. I’ve spent half the day getting ready, throwing a dozen outfits all over the floor of my room and wriggling in and out of every skirt, pair of jeans, and slacks I own. We have a table for six at the Seattle Space Needle; we are going into the city and we will be dining in style, and I can’t decide what’s appropriate to wear. For some reason it seems inordinately important.

It feels weird to plan something without Connor. We’ve only been together for two months, but I spend every single day at his house, watching as the clock counts down toward my curfew.

And even though I wish I was with him right now, I’m also excited to see Abby. We haven’t hung out in, like, two weeks, and it’s mostly my fault. I don’t want to totally abandon her.

Abby is the kind of friend everyone wants. The kind who remembers your birthday and helps you study for a test and loans you her car if yours breaks down even though she had a date, so you can go on one of your own.

Abby is just … Abby. There’s no one like her. She moved here from Texas so it might be some Southern hospitality thing or something, I don’t know. But thanks to her, I picture all Texans like this, with a Southern drawl and a charming selflessness. I’m sure if I ever actually went to Texas I’d be disappointed, because there’s no way the rest of them could live up to her.

She’s never missed a birthday of mine since she moved here freshman year, so I can’t miss hers.

I slip a cute flowery blouse over my head and survey the results in the mirror. The jeans are too casual, so I slide on a pair of khakis and give it one more perusal. Not bad. I dig a sweater out of my closet in case it gets cold later.

I hear a horn, so I glance out the window to see Abby stepping out of a limo. It’s her eighteenth, so her parents are going all out. I take the stairs two by two and I’m at the door before she can ring the bell.

“Happy birthday!” I hug her and hand her my gift. “You have to wait ’til dinner, though.”

“You look cute!” Abby leads me to the limo and a man in the typical driver’s uniform opens the door. She motions toward the car as if she’s Vanna White. “Your limo awaits, darling!”

I laugh as I slide across the polished leather seats. I can’t help but sigh as everything melts away. This night is exactly what I need.

“So we have to pick up Jessica, Rachel, and Janelle and then we’re headed out. Want a drink?”

It’s sparkling cider, and even though it feels childish to pretend it’s champagne, we do anyway, clinking our glasses and toasting Abby’s eighteenth. And so it goes, as we chat and catch up and pick up the rest of the guests along the way, and it’s like nothing has ever come between us. It’s like I haven’t ignored her for the past few weeks. I want to apologize for it, I want to explain, but doing so makes it seem like I’m pushing it in her face on her birthday. So I don’t.

The city lights sparkle as we approach downtown, the towers jutting into the darkening skyline. I feel the tiniest twinge of regret as I see the glimmer of the lights, wishing Connor was here with me to see it. It’s incredibly romantic.

Once we’ve driven for what seems like eternity, the limo pulls into a big circular turn-around and we all get out and walk to the foot of the Needle, our heels clicking on the walk. I feel sophisticated, like we all belong here. Like we do this every day or something.

The elevator access is inside a gift shop filled with a zillion different replications of the Space Needle. I resist the urge to shop for a souvenir of this night, and our group fills the lift and the door slides shut.

There’s an actual elevator operator, which is a first for me. He’s wearing this jaunty cap and silly tux and talking about the origin of the place—something about the World’s Fair—but I’m not listening, because I can’t stop looking out the glass walls. The elevator carries us upward, into the night, and I watch as the lights of the city sparkle below us. Our view gets bigger and bigger, until I can see Puget Sound and downtown and everything in between.

Once inside the restaurant, they usher us to a table near the window. Abby and I get the best seats, near the glass.

A waitress with fiery red hair walks up and hands us leather-bound menus. Everything looks so good. Stuffed chicken breast and rack of lamb and even elk. Who wants elk? That sounds gross. I decide to stick with chicken. If it’s good, I’ll tell Connor about it and we’ll look up recipes and try to make it at home. Maybe I’ll even buy some of that sparkling cider and we can make our own romantic meal.

The waitress comes back with strawberry lemonade for all of us, real strawberries bobbing amongst the ice.

Janelle reaches for hers and knocks it right over, and the ice cubes slide across the table and land in Rachel’s lap.

My body tenses as I watch it pool over the white linens, and I wait for someone to freak out, to yell or jump back from the table. But nothing happens.

And I don’t know why I thought it would. No one cares. Abby just laughs and says something about how she can’t believe Janelle is coordinated enough to make the cheer squad.

And then we order, and we watch the night sky as it continually rolls by, the whole dining room revolving so that our view changes. It takes an hour for us to see everything, but it’s not enough.

I want to see more. I want to stay up here all night and count every twinkling light downtown, and I want it to never end.

October 29

One month, twenty-nine days

I don’t have a good feeling about this. Even though I love him, I don’t think my mom will see it. I don’t think she will see past his rough exterior to understand what I love about him.

Connor isn’t good with strangers. He gets anxiety, and instead of blabbing like an idiot—like I do when I get nervous—he keeps his mouth shut. And then people think he’s rude, but he’s just misunderstood. He really is a nice guy, they just misjudge him, is all.

I know my mom thought I was going to run off to some Ivy League school and marry a guy who rows boats and wears sweaters. I’ve always had decent grades, and I do want to go to college. But Ivy League? Yeah, right. I’m not exactly an overachiever. Just an achiever. Good grades, track, the usual.

But I want her to like him, even if he doesn’t fit what she’s imagined. I want her to see in him what I see, and I want her to give her approval. I want her to know I’m going to be okay. Maybe that will help her. Maybe she can see that there’s still life and love out there for us.

For her.

We don’t talk about my dad. Ever. After he died she took down the pictures, and that was that.

He was erased. I don’t want it to be like that anymore. I want her to acknowledge that he existed. And maybe if she sees that it’s okay for me to move on, she will too, and that will help her.

I just wish we didn’t have to do this today. I wish we could have put it off a little longer. I’m going crazy climbing the walls of this place, waiting for him to get here, waiting for the judgment to begin.

My mom doesn’t cook, so I’ve taken to throwing together a big pot of spaghetti, and I keep checking the noodles and tapping my fingers on the counter. I’m not even hungry and I’ve cooked the whole box.

This is a disaster in the making. I just know it. No matter how many ways I picture it going, it’s never perfect.

I’m draining the noodles when I hear the rumble of his broken exhaust. It seems like he’s punching the gas or something. It’s roaring. I know my mom can see it from her bedroom window. I cringe. I wonder what she’s doing, if she’s looking down at that dilapidated truck as it pulls up to my cute little Mazda. I hope she doesn’t judge him for that.

He rings the doorbell and I dump half the noodles in the sink, trying to get this done and get to the door before she does, but I don’t make it in time.

The door is swinging open and she’s at it.

“Mom, I got it,” I say.

“Don’t be silly. I want to meet him.” She’s really done up today, in a flowered sundress and big pearl earrings with a matching pearl necklace. She has bright lipstick and heels on.

Geez, she looks like she belongs at the Kentucky Derby.

“Hello! I’m Miranda,” she says, holding out her hand, her fingers turned downwards. What does she expect? Is he supposed to kiss it or something?

“Connor. Nice to meet you.” He shakes her hand but it’s kind of turned down still, so it looks awkward, and I know he’s noticed.

He’s wearing a nice button-up today, with a clean pair of jeans. The shirt is a little wrinkled and his shoes are scuffed, but he looks good, and when he turns to smile at me, I see he’s nervous. He’s trying so hard. And he’s so out of his element in this fancy foyer with the marble floors.

“Come on, I’ll show you my room,” I say, desperate to extract him from the situation. “And yes, I know, we’ll leave the door open and all that.”

I grab his hand and drag him past my mom. I’m sure she has a barrage of questions for him, but I’ll let him see my room and I’ll hug him and reassure him first, and then he’ll be ready.

We take the stairs two by two, and in moments we’re in my room, with its gauzy canopy bed and big bay window and perfectly matched white furniture. The carpet is thick and plush and clean and my clothes are hanging neatly in the closet, where I put them just an hour ago after picking them up off the floor.

I have a collection of pictures in a mishmash of different frames spread across my dresser, and a few scarves hanging on the edge of my four-poster bed, but otherwise everything is clean and clutter-free.

“Wow. This is nice,” he says. “Totally you.”

I sit on the edge of my bed and grin. “You like?”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s great.”

He walks over and sits next to me. “I knew your house was big and all, but it’s even nicer than I realized. Your room makes mine look …” His voice trails off and he shrugs.

I laugh. “Oh, don’t even think like that. I love your room. It’s our home base. This is … this isn’t cozy and comfortable like yours.”

“You mean tiny and cramped.”

I laugh again. I love how I feel when he’s around. I love how untouchable I am, how I just can’t stop grinning and laughing with him. “No. I mean, I love your room.”

He leans over and kisses me, and it’s a long, lingering kiss that reminds me of our almost-hook-up the weekend before.

But before anything can happen, I hear my mom clear her throat. She’s standing in the doorway. “I’m ready for dinner when you are,” she says.

I try to ignore the way my face burns at being caught red-handed. It’s probably flaming red.

She leads the way down the hall and down the stairs, and then we gather around the big table in the formal dining room. We never eat in this room. It’s too stuffy, even for her.

I guess it’s kind of nice that she wanted this to be special, though. I guess it means she’s going to try really hard to like him and make him feel welcome.

“So, Connor, where did you go to school? Here in Westport?”

I shove a big forkful of spaghetti in my mouth and grind at it. She’s unknowingly stumbled upon the first of a barrage of topics that will make him uncomfortable.

“No. I have a GED.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I got it when I was sixteen,” he adds.

“That’s wonderful,” she says. I wonder if she really thinks that. For me, she wants straight A’s, honor society, Ivy League. Like what she had. Yet she’s been so out of it since Dad died, I wonder if she’s ever even noticed I’m not Ivy League material.

“And work? What do you do?”

Oh, God, she had to ask that.

“I’m, uh, I’m in between jobs right now.”

“Oh.” She turns a little pink. She knows she’s putting her foot in her mouth now.

I hate the look on his face. The realization that he’s unworthy in her eyes, even though she’s trying to hide it. It’s breaking my heart. He wants so much to be independent and good at things so he can prove his father was wrong about everything he ever said about him, and my mother is undoing it all without even trying.

“I got an A on my physics test,” I say. The subject change is so obvious it’s painful, but my mom looks grateful.

“That’s great, honey.”

“It’s only the first one, but a lot of people flunked. Only one person got better than me.”

Connor is looking at me differently right now. I hope he isn’t thinking I’m trying to show him up. I can’t interpret his stare.

“Wow. You’re really smart,” he says. “I mean, I knew you were, but that’s awesome.”

I smile and stare at my spaghetti. My mom has to see how supportive he is. This is good.

“Ann has always been brilliant,” she says to him. “I knew it from the moment she was born. She’s bound for greatness.”