How to Look Happy (17 page)

New Forms of Self-Destruction

I don’t have time to freak out over the Facebook parody site this afternoon because, once again, I’m at work until well past the end of the business day. But it’s there, nagging at the back of my mind, for hours.

Mostly I’m obsessing about who’s going to see it. My name is blacked out, but if Rachael saw it, clearly it’s making the rounds. And who the hell took the screen shot in the first place? The status was only live for maybe seven hours. As far as I know, I don’t have any enemies. Whoever captured the image has to be a
friend
of mine on Facebook. Some friend.

Second, I’m obsessing about how to get it taken down. I have a feeling I won’t be able to do it—I’m betting the website operator knows the loopholes to keep from getting sued for libel, and since my name doesn’t appear anywhere on the site I doubt I have a claim. A couple times today I almost looked up the site to figure out who to email, but I was too busy to stop working. Besides, just thinking about fighting with some unnamed purveyor of cyberspace makes me disheartened and exhausted.

Finding out a friend is two-faced in real life sucks, sure. But finding out a friend is two-faced via social media is potentially much more destructive.
My generation sure has managed to invent a whole new array of problems.
With eons of human history behind us, you’d think humankind would have seen and done it all by now. But the internet age demonstrates in a brand new way how we small, powerless creatures have an endless ability to inflict new forms of self-destruction.

I glance up at the clock on the brick wall of the studio—a George Nelson clock straight out of the ’50s, with Sputnik spikes that spoke out from the clock face and end in colored balls—and see that it’s almost 7:30. I’m meeting Eleanor for drinks tonight, something that almost never happens these days with the twins and with Brian’s frequent work travel, so I can’t cancel on her despite the fact that I’ve barely made a tunnel through my mountain of new work.

It’s Brewster’s project that’s engulfing me right now. I’ve never started a project, handed it off to someone else in the middle, and then taken it back again. The choices Candace and, apparently, Rachael made don’t jive with the notes I took in my initial meeting at Brewster’s house, but it’s up to me to create a cohesive space out of what I’ve been given. Part of me loves the challenge, but the bigger part of me is annoyed to death, still, that Candace effed up my project in the first place.

And now I have to sit in the middle of some weird romance between Candace and Brewster that, frankly, doesn’t jive. She’s eight years his senior, I think, and still married. He’s a perpetual bachelor who, as far as I know, hasn’t been linked with anybody in the years since his career took off. He was on the same list of the city’s most eligible bachelors that Jeremy was on, only considerably higher up.

I’m poring over the furniture file, trying to figure out what’s being shipped when. There’s a sofa coming from Henredon that’s scheduled to arrive next week, the same day I’m charged with sitting at Brewster’s house to oversee the bookshelf construction project. There are case goods from a North Carolina-based manufacturer that still actually builds and finishes its pieces in the United States—a real rarity these days. Most every stick of furniture we order from our trade sources now is produced in China, even the high-end pieces.

These items might already be in our warehouse. Honestly, I have little left to do other than directing the installation, buying the art and accessories, and making sure all the details come together in the end. That’s a good thing, considering—and it still gives me the opportunity to put my stamp on the space. But I have no idea how the commissions will work on this job. Split three ways?

At least I’m earning a commission.
I just made another mortgage payment with no hope of Jeremy’s joint ownership lightening my financial burden. As I’m thinking this, my phone chimes with a new text, and I almost jump when I see Jeremy’s name on the screen.

Which vet do we take Simon to?
he asks.

Immediately my hackles rise and my heart jumps into my throat. First,
he doesn’t even know where his
own
dog goes to the damn vet
? And then,
What’s wrong with Simon
?

And finally the afterthought,
What’s with this “we” business? Which vet do “
we
” take Simon to?
Jeremy needs me, and suddenly we’re a team again?

There’s something wrong with this picture—me taking on other people’s responsibilities and then letting them lift them from me and dump them back on me at their whim. I’m starting to feel really sick of being a wimp.

But my worry for Simon wins out over my irritation with Jeremy.
Cuddle Clinic on Summer,
I text back.
Why? What’s wrong with him?

A long while goes by before I get a new text, to the point that I’m torn between my need to know and my need to get things wrapped up so I can run out the door to meet Eleanor. I’m going to be late—that’s the one thing that’s clear.

Finally, the phone dings.

He’s listless.

I wait, but that’s all I get. I start to type back and tell Jeremy that I’ll meet him at the vet, but then I stop myself, torn by my unwillingness to disappoint Eleanor. Instead I type,
Pls LMK when u find out what’s wrong.

Another five minutes goes by, and then I get a brisk,
K.

Well, that’s something at least.

*  *  *

An hour later I’ve finally made it to the restaurant, a trendy Mexican place in Overton Square where I’m met with not just Eleanor but also Christine. It’s a sister-in-law trifecta, something that hasn’t happened in years—since before Christine’s kids entered the picture. I’m glad Eleanor wasn’t sitting here alone waiting for me at least. Though I can tell she’s in bliss simply to be
out
. Resting in front of her is a gigantic frozen margarita in a heavy blue-rimmed glass. She’s systematically turning the glass and licking off the thick crust of sugar-salt mixture that’s coating the rim. It gives me a sugar high just watching her.

I order the exact same thing right after I slide into the booth next to Christine.

“What’s up, chicas?” I ask as the server walks away from our table.

“We should ask you the same thing,” Eleanor says. “We haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

I frown slightly. “That’s not true…is it?” I think back, and apart from texting with Eleanor about tonight, the last time I saw or spoke to a single member of my family, other than my mom, was Jake’s birthday party, which was weeks ago. That must be some kind of record for me.

“Jackie is getting concerned about you,” Catherine says. “She asked us to stage an intervention.”

Eleanor looks up from her licking for a few seconds. “Uh-huh. She’s even keeping the kids.”

“
All
of them,” Christine adds.

“Where are your husbands?” I grumble. Can’t my brothers handle their own children alone for one night?

Now that I think about it, I haven’t been talking to my mom as much as usual lately. She’s left a couple of messages on my voicemail, but I’ve been so busy trying to get my career back on track that I haven’t had time to call in a few days. With Candace running interference on my ability to succeed, I’ve been working twice as hard to make up for it. But I didn’t realize I’d been neglecting my own mother.

Eleanor and Christine watch as understanding dawns on my face.

“So what’s been going on?” Christine asks, as Eleanor says, “You’re not back with Jeremy, are you?”

My eyes are moving rapidly between the two of them. “What? Jeremy?
Nooo
,” I say, but then a cloud flickers across my face as I remember Simon.

“She’s lying,” Eleanor says after taking a long pull on her straw.

“I am not!” My voice is too shrill, though, and if I didn’t know better,
I’d
think I was covering something up. I stare Eleanor down as the waitress drops off my drink. And then I reach for the basket of chips—as busy as I’ve been today, I’ve barely eaten, and without food, this margarita is going to knock me on my ass in no time. I don’t have a good recent track record with being drunk.

“Well, you’re sleeping with
someone
,” Christine adds. “Dish.”

I give her the dirtiest look I’m capable of, which, with my earnest blue eyes and round, open face, isn’t very dirty. My dad always said, growing up, that I’d be successful at anything I tried because I have such an honest face.

“I wish,” I say, meeting both of their eyes in turn. I might be getting things together at work, but it’s come at the expense of a social life, let alone a sex life. At this my thoughts turn to Brandon… I still haven’t heard from him since our “date.”

I catch them up on my work situation, all the way up to the things that haven’t even happened yet, like my impending meeting about the Rasmutin condo project. I don’t mention my potential new job for Amelia and her husband Noah though—I still haven’t heard from her about the status of the house, and I don’t want to jinx it.

I also show them the Facebook Epic Fails website, and we’ve just ordered our entrées and have our heads bowed over my phone, scrolling through the entries with me laughing in spite of myself, when I hear, “Jen?”

My head snaps up. Paused beside our table is my new, cute art installer…and I can’t believe it, but I’ve forgotten his name.

“Oh,” I say. “Hi!” My face is already red—whether it’s a product of my forgetfulness, my half-drained margarita, or my quasi-crush on him is anybody’s call. For one dreadful second, he’s just standing there, staring at me, and so are Eleanor and Christine. “Oh,” I say again, feeling every bit the moron. I gesture to the two of them, my hands flailing awkwardly, and say, “These are my sisters-in-law, Eleanor and Christine.” And then…nothing.

“Hi, Eleanor and Christine,” he says in his easygoing drawl. “I’m Todd.” He gives me a pointed look. “Forgot about me already, huh? Were you just pulling my leg when you said you’d use me again?”

“Me?” I shake my head. “No! I mean, yes. I mean, sure, I’ll call you again.” Could I
be
any more lame?
Oh. My. Gawd.

He grins at all three of us and then walks off, and that’s when I notice for the first time that he’s carrying a small stack of black leather folders that hold people’s dinner receipts. A small white towel is sticking out of his back pocket. “Oh my God,” I say out loud. “He
works
here?”

Eleanor and Christine are gaping at me, and I’m gaping at his retreating back, and all three of us are having a moment, though theirs is occurring for a different reason than mine.

“
Use
me again?” Christine repeats, incredulous. “What exactly are you
using
him for?”

“I’d use him,” Eleanor says in a suggestive voice, and even though my mouth is hanging open, unsure what to explain first, I can’t help myself. I burst out laughing, and within seconds I’m giggling so hard that my eyes are watering, and both Eleanor and Christine have joined in.

Panting, I take a huge gulp of my fruity drink, freezing my throat in the process. I shudder as the margarita slides down my throat and then look around to make sure Todd isn’t within earshot. I spot him waiting on a table halfway across the restaurant.

“He installed the artwork on one of my projects a couple weeks ago,” I finally manage to get out. “I knew that he was new to the business, but I didn’t know it was a side job. Quinn recommended him to me.”

“He’s yummy,” Eleanor says, and I can see from her glazed expression that she’s already feeling the effects of her tequila, even though the drink is so watered down and fruity I can barely taste the alcohol.

Christine nods in agreement, and I glance across the room again, but Todd is no longer within view.

“He’s probably no older than twenty-five,” I say. “And clearly he’s not career focused.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Christine give Eleanor a look, and I wonder vaguely what it means. “Not that it matters. I don’t have time to chase after a guy right now. I’m too busy trying to remake my reputation and rescue my career from my spectacular anti-marketing efforts.”

“It doesn’t sound like your ‘anti-marketing efforts’ have affected your work that much,” Christine says, making air quotes with her fingers.

“Yeah, you’re so busy you don’t even have time to call us,” Eleanor says, poking out her lower lip the tiniest bit. She’s definitely on her way to a buzz, judging by that expression. When Eleanor drinks she gets moody—not in a bad way but in a comical way.

I’m still chewing over Christine’s statement when the server arrives with our entrees.
She’s right.
Even though my Facebook status damaged my relationship with Candace, apart from the blip in my project with Brewster—which had already happened before I posted the status update—my clients haven’t deserted me, as I’d feared.