How to Look Happy (10 page)

Just talking to Allison makes me feel like I’m in high school again. I stare at the phone and wait for her response, giggling like a seventeen-year-old hyped up on Starbucks Frappuccinos.

Um… You got me, chica. Who is it??

Brandon.
No last name is required—Brandon Royer was my first high school boyfriend and, if I choose to think of him this way, my “one who got away.” I had a crush on him from middle school on, so when he asked me out at the start of tenth grade, I was in heaven. And then he dumped me for no apparent reason in the middle of our junior year. He showed up to prom that year with Missy Tompkins, head cheerleader, class president—basically everything I was not—and they dated through the rest of high school. It still pisses me off to think about it because I was head over heels in love with him, or at least I thought I was.

I haven’t seen Brandon since graduation, in part because I skipped my ten-year class reunion. I haven’t thought about him much since then either. College was an effective anesthetic for high school heartbreak.
Why is Brandon friending me?
I’m not friends with any exes on Facebook, not counting Jeremy. Jeremy and I haven’t unfriended each other yet, though my finger has hovered over the button on multiple occasions. I wish he’d be the one to pull the plug. Otherwise, I’m not sure what we’re waiting for.

My phone chirps with an incoming text, jolting me out of these thoughts.

No shit?
is Allison’s reply.

For real. I wonder what’s up with that?
Oddly enough, Missy Tompkins and I
are
friends on Facebook, so I know she and Brandon didn’t last into adulthood. Missy’s married to a man who’s as beautiful as she is, based on the pictures, and has three daughters who all look exactly like her.

Accept and find out.

Well, that’s logical. I laugh out loud again.
Planning to. I’ll keep u posted.
I take a deep breath and move the cursor to the
Accept
icon on Brandon’s friend request. And then I hesitate, deciding to make a quick scan of my wall first to make sure nothing embarrassing shows up in the first few posts, knowing he’ll be ogling my life as soon as he has access to it.

Fifteen minutes later, I’ve scanned my wall as far back as nine months, taking particular care to make sure all evidence of my recent humiliation is deleted from my history and untagging myself from a couple of less-than-flattering photos. Then, feeling exceedingly neurotic, I click
Accept
.

For the next thirty or forty-five minutes, I check my Facebook notifications compulsively, but nothing changes. I don’t know what I expect—a personal greeting? A private message? Some explanation of why Brandon has chosen to reconnect with me, someone he dicked over and never even apologized to, at this particular moment in time?

I get up after a while to take a shower, shutting down my laptop and turning off the TV. After I’m showered and ready for bed, I check Facebook on my phone, but still nothing. Chances are, I just popped up in Brandon’s “People You Might Know” list since we probably have a bunch of mutual friends. Maybe he’s one of those “friend collector” types—he always was exceedingly social, the life of every party. I click back to his profile and check—and sure enough, he has eight hundred and thirty-three Facebook friends, more than twice my number. I also notice that the years have treated him well. Brandon was cute in high school, but now he’s a bona fide hottie.

“Eh. Whatever,” I say out loud, closing the app and switching over to set my alarm clock. I suddenly remember that I’ll be seeing Todd again tomorrow morning. Who needs cute guys from the past when there are cute guys in the present?

*  *  *

“This is breathtaking,” says my client, whose name is Sandra Preston-Jonas. I’ve just finished adjusting accessories, removing packing materials, and making sure all the details are just right, and now I’m (finally) doing the big reveal of the finished office suite. “It’s, like, two hundred times more than I expected,” she says, while I stand there with a small, embarrassed smile on my face. “Although I knew you’d make it awesome.”

My smile widens, and I glance around the room, which really does look great, if I say so myself. Sandra’s style is sleek and modern but not minimal, and the custom desk and hutch I ordered have crisp lines and a bright white finish. Along with Sandra’s collection of books and her necessary desktop items, I accessorized her shelves with fun things I found at local antiques stores and a couple of catalog items. A desk chair upholstered in a custom light blue leather pops against the neutral background, and so do the guest chairs, which are covered in a subtle pattern in the same shade, with pale lemon yellow accents. A large, framed abstract painting hung by Todd and a tall plant in one corner provide other patches of color. In the other corner is a game-size table and two chairs, designed for the one-on-one testing Sandra conducts with children. She specializes in emotional and learning disabilities and tests for conditions like ADHD, dyslexia, and autism.

The large room is serene and pretty and pleasant but also functional and customized to her needs. As my eyes roam the room, they finally land on Todd, who’s still here, hanging around in the background and leaning against the door jamb as Sandra completes her walk-through. She tests out her new chair and marvels over the office accessories I’ve arranged on her new desk.

“I didn’t even know an office could look like this. It’s so much nicer and more suitable to my practice than my old office,” Sandra says, her voice expressing wonder and gratitude. I tear my eyes reluctantly from Todd, my heart beating faster at the look on his face—impressed, maybe a little proud.

“I’m happy you’re happy,” I say. It’s my standard line when a client has this reaction. I’ve done my job. I feel an almost fierce sense of pride myself, considering how marginalized I’ve felt at work in recent weeks.
Take that, Candace
, I can’t help but think.

“I’m recommending you to all my friends,” Sandra continues. “I mean, I already do but seriously. I’m telling everybody I know to call you. You’re amazing.”

I feel my cheeks growing warm as she walks over and pulls me into a hug. Todd has a small smile on his face, and he backs out of the doorway and slips into the waiting area. I’m hoping he hasn’t left as Sandra and I continue discussing the space, and I show her a few features of the desk and filing cabinets.

When I slip out the side doorway onto a small terrace—Sandra has a separate entrance to her home office—and round the corner to the driveway, I’m filled with relief that Todd’s truck is still parked in the drive and confused that I feel so strongly about it. I walk up the brick path, noting that he’s sitting in the truck with the engine not running. When he spots me, he opens his door and gets out.

“Great work in there,” he calls to me in a genial tone.

“Same to you,” I say, shifting my heavy bag from my left shoulder down to my hand.

“Here, let me take that for you.” He speeds up his step and makes a motion toward the bag. I hesitate, then let him have it. It’s heavy, yes, but I lug around heavy items all the time. It’s an occupational hazard.

“Thanks,” I say as we both start walking toward my car, which is parked on the street.

He clears his throat as I reach the rear driver’s side door, and I don’t look up at him, busying myself with opening the door, taking the bag from his outstretched hands, and dropping it onto the back floorboard—keeping myself busy because the moment is growing uncomfortable. Can Todd sense that I’m attracted to him? Is he about to ask me out? Because it sure feels that way—this scenario we’re in has that awkward, boy-meets-girl feeling imprinted all over it.

I want it, and I’m not ready for it. Jeremy and I
just
broke up. I feel like I need some time to breathe.

“Um,” he starts, and I’m so tense I’m practically taut. I shut the back door of my car and stand beside the driver’s side door. Finally, I glance up at him, wary.

“I just want to say thanks for this opportunity,” he says. “I’m not sure if Quinn mentioned this, but I’m new to this game.” Quinn did
not
mention this, and I’ve been wondering about the other things Quinn didn’t mention when she referred me to Todd. She knows I’m newly single, of course. Is she trying to set me up? And if so, why isn’t she interested in him herself?

I unclench at his statement, feeling relieved and yet strangely disappointed that he didn’t hit on me. And then I snap out of it. What am I thinking? We’ve just met, and this is a professional situation, not a bar. Clearly the sexual tension I’m feeling is entirely one-sided.

“No problem,” I say, trying to sound breezy, which has the effect of making the words seem stilted. I need to get a grip. “I never would have guessed you aren’t experienced. You did a great job.” This, at least, is the truth.

He hesitates, and I’m hit with another surge of nerves. “It was my first time, actually.” The double meaning of these last few phrases are starting to get to me. I feel a blush rise to my cheeks, and I laugh nervously to cover it up.

“Really? I never would have guessed. I’ll definitely call you again.” I’m already reeling through a mental list of projects I might be able to hire him for.

Work projects, mind you.

Todd smiles and runs a hand through his hair, which is just as haphazard and fresh-from-bed sexy today as it was yesterday and isn’t helping me keep my mind out of the gutter. He’s dressed a little more professionally today, wearing snug khaki-colored jeans and a jersey-knit, button-down shirt. I feel a little tingle shoot up my spine as he says, “Awesome. Thanks. Any time.”

I smile back at him, and his eyes linger on mine for a beat longer than they should before he steps back and gives me room to open my car door. I get into my car and watch as he walks back up Sandra’s drive to his truck.

I have trouble wiping that smile off my face on the drive back to my downtown office.

*  *  *

Later that afternoon, I’m not smiling. I stomped out of the office around 3:00 p.m. in a tantrum that’d give any of my nieces or nephews a run for their money. Now I’m at South of Beale, where I’m drowning my sorrows in a glass of Irony pinot noir and a bowl of maple bacon brussels sprouts, my all-time favorite menu item anywhere, ever.

Quinn, Ellie Kate, and Brice all witnessed my hissy fit, but I can’t bring myself to feel the requisite level of shame for my childish behavior, not yet. I’m too pissed.

Right now I’m sitting at the bar alone, but Carr is on her way over as soon as she gets off a conference call. In the meantime, I’m texting furiously with both Ellie Kate and my mom, who are taking turns talking me off the ledge.

“Another glass?” asks Nathaniel, a bartender I’m on a first-name basis with. I eye my second pinot, which is two-thirds empty, and decide I’d better cool it. This could be a long night.

“No thanks, not yet,” I say. “Carrie’ll be here in a few. I’ll wait for her.”

Nathaniel nods and swipes a towel over a section of the bar a couple seats down from me, where a fortyish man in a navy suit just vacated his stool. He left about ten minutes after his female companion, whose most striking feature was her fingernails—magenta-and-purple striped and so long they were starting to curl at the ends. They were on an internet date. Since I’m sitting here alone, well before happy hour and with the bar close to empty, I couldn’t help but eavesdrop on their conversation, though after several minutes it was so engaging I found myself shifting closer so I didn’t miss anything. She was a nurse with two kids, her ex-husband was a lying piece of trash, and the cost of day care was killing her, since the lying piece of trash couldn’t ever seem to pay his child support on time.

Her date did something in finance—I didn’t catch his specific title—and he liked Gulf oysters. He didn’t get many words in edgewise, since Fingernail Woman talked so much about herself. I know I’m no expert on dating, but I’m pretty sure I could give her tips on improving her game. (Tip No. 1: wait until at least date three before saddling your prospective partner with your childcare bills. Tip No. 2: cut your damn fingernails.)

He’d looked miserable after she left, which had the incongruous effect of making me want to pat his hand and tell him I understood. I might not be swimming in the dating pool yet, but I had the unsettling feeling, watching him, that I could be watching my future self.

Just then my phone buzzes with a new text, which turns my mind back to my own problems. Honestly, I think I’d
rather
have relationship troubles than the crap I’m dealing with—which I’d be tempted to blame on myself if not for the fact that the landslide of my career started with Candace’s actions, not my own idiotic response. Ellie Kate keeps reminding me of that, since I’ve spent the afternoon teetering on the edge of a shame spiral and fixating on that damn Facebook status that, in my mind, started it all.

Just do the best you can,
Ellie Kate types.
Your best is better than hers. She knows that, and she needs you.

At this I snort-laugh and then glance around self-consciously, glad I’m still surrounded by a mostly empty restaurant. Nathaniel raises his head at the other end of the bar, where he’s stocking cocktail garnishments in clear plastic bins, readying for rush hour. His gesture is questioning, and I wave him off. Nope, I don’t need anything. Except maybe a do-over of the last two months of my life, and not even the city’s best bartender can put that in a glass.