How to Look Happy (20 page)

“What are you thinking about so hard over there?” Brandon elbows me lightly in the side, causing me to jump. Beer sloshes a little in my glass but doesn’t spill.

“Eh, nothing,” I say. “Just work.” I smile at him. “How are things going with your ex-girlfriend mission?”

He smiles a lazy smile, clearly in his element now that I’ve asked him to talk about himself. “Stalled.” He picks up his drink—something in a highball glass that involves whiskey, judging by the color—and takes a slow sip. “I haven’t called anybody else since I talked to you.”

This piques my curiosity. “Why not?”

He looks me in the eyes for a couple seconds before he says, “Because if all my other exes are as direct as you and Missy were about what a jackass I am, I might get more depressed than I already am.” He leans toward me, and I can smell the bourbon on his breath. “And besides, I haven’t wanted to talk to other women when I can’t stop thinking about
you
.”

I think my heart stops beating for about five seconds. As much as Brandon is a douchebag, he’s a sexy douchebag who played a major role in my complicated history…and he makes me hungry in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

Brandon’s blonde friend saves me from having to answer, which is good, since the only thoughts in my head involve things I’m not drunk enough to say. Things like,
You know, I never got over you,
and
I haven’t had sex in a very long time.

It’s as if she smells blood in the water and is circling in for the kill.

“Oh, oops,” she says, falling out of her barstool and into Brandon’s side. “I’m such a klutz.” She flashes us a smile that shows more cleavage than teeth.

He barely looks at her, and she sulks off to the ladies’ room. I take a long pull from my pint glass, wishing now that I’d ordered something that’d get me buzzed much faster than beer. If I’m going to survive this night, I need to catch up with Brandon. Then again…I’m still sober enough to know that’s
not
a good idea.

He’s staring at me, but my brain’s repertoire of witty comebacks picks this moment to go on hiatus. “What have you been thinking?” I finally ask, feeling my cheeks go up in flames.

His voice grows husky. “I’ve been thinking that there’s unfinished business between us.” He pauses but doesn’t drop his gaze. “Do you agree?”

Ohgodohgodohgod.
I know all too well what our “unfinished business” entails.

“Some things from the past belong in the past,” I say, mentally congratulating my brain for making a comeback even as my body language betrays me. I’m leaning toward him, and he’s leaning toward me, and our cheeks are almost touching. When cleavage girl walks back into the room, I spot her in my peripheral vision motioning to the bartender for her tab.

Check. Mate.
I think. But what have I won?

“Ouch, Dawson,” Brandon says, moving his head away from mine. “Was it really as bad as all that?”

I lean away from him, too, placing my left elbow on the bar and resting my head on my hand. The question might have been rhetorical, but I feel like giving him a real answer. “You know, we were kids…” My voice trails off as I struggle to find words that won’t worsen his depression
or
let him off the hook. Looking down at the bar top, I say, “You were my first love.” I pause for a second and then look up at him, still not quite meeting his eyes. “But I don’t think I was yours. You can see where I might have a little trouble with this.” I gesture with my right hand between the two of us.

“Then why did you meet me here tonight?”

I smile. “Touché.”

Brandon finishes the last swig of his drink, sets it down, and pushes it forward to the inner edge of the bar. When he meets my eyes again, his are serious. “I was in love with you.”

I can’t help it. At this, I actually snort. “Funny way you had of showing it.” I pick up my own glass and toy with it. It’s getting warm, and my new love affair with craft brew isn’t strong enough to make me want warm beer. But I need liquid courage for this conversation, so I take a drink anyway.

I’m still not looking at him when he continues, “You were so serious all the time. I didn’t think we wanted the same things.”

At this my head pops up, and I give him a perplexed look. “We were sixteen. What kinds of
things
did we even want?”

He shrugs. “I wanted to have fun.”

I take another sip to keep from snorting again. He had a
lot
of fun with Missy, based on the abortion rumors that shot through our school senior year. And then I feel guilty, because I actually like Missy now.

I can feel the first stirrings of a buzz as I near the bottom of my glass, and when the bartender stops in front of us, I motion for another. Brandon waves him off, which surprises me. “So you dumped me because I wouldn’t put out,” I say in a flat voice. “That’s pretty much what I thought.”

He gives me that same guileless look he gave me on our previous date—his trademark look and probably the one that usually gets him laid. “We were sixteen, like you said.” He shrugs. “And I was stupid.”

I roll my eyes. “It wasn’t like we were headed for marriage or anything.” I shrug too. “I got over it. I’m still over it, in case you’re wondering.”

He’s quiet for too long, and then he says, “Well that’s a damn shame,” making me shiver in a way that causes me to wonder how much truth is in my statement.

*  *  *

Four hours later, I’m wishing I hadn’t changed shoes. I mean, I’m glad I did, because the other shoes were beyond frumpy, but I’ve had enough to drink that my precarious balance has rendered the heels impractical.

“I’ve gotta call a cab,” I mumble as Brandon holds the door for me. We’re leaving our second bar of the night, which is across the street from the first bar. I’ve had more fun with him than I expected and am feeling glad I came, which I definitely didn’t expect.

“I’m fine to drive,” he says, and I shoot him a dubious look.

“No, really. I’ve had, like, four drinks over the course of six hours.” He must see from my wrinkled forehead that I’m trying to do drunk math in my head because he adds, “I got to Sweetgrass at 5:15.”

I gaze up at him, just sober enough to wonder if he’s telling the truth or trying to get me in his car. Finally I decide I’d rather trust him than spend fifteen minutes standing here waiting for a cab when I could probably walk home just as fast—if I weren’t wearing these shoes.

“I’m just around the corner,” I tell him.

As we walk to his car, which is parked about a block north of the restaurant, he slings an arm over my shoulders, reminding me of letter jackets and Friday-night basement parties. It feels nice.

We’re quiet on the way to my house. His car smells new and probably is. It’s immaculate inside, too, like he vacuums it every other day. I don’t think the inside of my car has looked this clean since I drove it off the lot.

The only talking we do is related to directions—“Turn left at the stop sign.” “Go right on Cox.” “It’s just up this street.”

He pulls up to the curb in front of my house and cuts the engine, kicking off that awkward moment I’ve been hoping all night to avoid. Having to accept a ride puts me at a major competitive disadvantage in our little flirtation. “I’ll walk you up,” he says, and since he’s already opening his car door, I don’t protest.

On my front porch, he takes the keys from my hands, unlocks the door, and opens it a crack. There’s a light on in the living room that casts a warm, homey glow, beckoning us inside. My mind is racing, and my body is pulsing with ill-advised anticipation as I try to come up with an excuse not to invite him in.

And then he surprises me by taking my chin and bending down to give me a soft, chaste kiss on the mouth. He backs up a couple of steps so there’s space between us.

“This was a good night,” he says. “Want to do it again?”

I nod silently, surprised he tastes familiar after all this time. I enter my front door and close it behind me without saying another word, feeling blissed out, overwhelmed, flattered, and frustrated. This particular combination of emotions is so tied up in Brandon that it, too, reminds me of high school.

Who was it that said you can’t go home again?
Whoever it was, she was smart. I feel like I’m driving the wrong direction on a one-way street, but I’ve gone too far down to turn around.

Seven Stages of Grief

Saturday morning, I take a break from hunching over the desk in my spare bedroom to jump in the shower. Jeremy texted around nine asking if he could come by for his stuff today, and much as I wish I didn’t care, I don’t want him to get here and find me in my current state—frizzy bedhead, glasses on, and wearing the faded-out, pink-and-green plaid pajama pants that have been my favorites since college. Plus, I’m wearing one of Jerm’s old T-shirts, heather gray with “OLE MISS” stamped across the chest in block print—his alma mater. It seems to send the wrong message.

I’d planned on not being here when he came by, but when he texted I asked him about Simon, and he said he’d bring him along. I definitely don’t want to miss a visit from Simon. I also don’t want to mess up this truce we have going on. I should take advantage of this new geniality and ask if I can have permanent doggie visitation rights.

Not a good idea
, my brain shouts at me. I don’t need reasons to keep Jeremy in my life. I’m already getting too mired in my past for my own good.

That thought brings me up short, and I remember “Jen’s Amazing Comeback Plan.” I haven’t looked at it in a while—which is a good thing, really. It means I haven’t needed to. But I take a side trip on the way to my bathroom, perching at my breakfast room table with my laptop.

I pull up the file and scan my list of seven goals. Right off the bat, I can strike through numbers one and two—I’ve met or spoken with all my current clients, and I’ve updated my online portfolio with photos of my recent projects. I’m kind of “eh” on numbers three and four—I haven’t cleaned house in my social media accounts, though I have been careful with my posts and status updates. I’ve been making an effort to carefully curate my online profiles, only posting things that portray me as a competent, stable professional—to hopefully erase people’s memories to the contrary. However, I’ve skipped meetings for both of my interior design associations for the past two months, so I’m not doing too well on the networking front.
I’ll get on that.

I leave those two items unchecked.

Number five—“Take lead back on Brewster job.” It feels especially satisfying to strike through that item, even though I have a mountain of work ahead of me and a mystery to solve about Aubrey and her concern over Candace’s relationship with Brewster.

Numbers six and seven are a little trickier. Both are sure to take some time…especially seven. I’ve already added two clients toward my “Add five clients within the next quarter” goal, but I don’t think I’m any closer to “finding someone to be happy with.”

After thinking about it for a couple minutes, I decide to delete the last item from the list. It’s so arbitrary—it’s not like I can do an Amazon search for the perfect man, and I certainly can’t multitask my way to achieving relationship success. God, I wish I could. Right about now, what I really want is a Stepford boyfriend to complete my picture. I don’t want to navigate the mess of “too young,” “too fickle,” “too ambitious,” “not ambitious enough.” I just want to custom build a sweet, caring, unselfish, hard-working, and preferably not-bad-looking guy who wants to make beautiful babies with me and who cares what I have to say. Is that too much to ask?

Yes.
I nod my head vigorously, laughing, as I place my cursor at the end of item seven and backspace until it’s gone.

Screw dating
. In fact, if Brandon calls I think I might renege on my drunken promise of another date. I click
save
and glance at the clock in the corner of the screen.
Crap.
Jeremy’s going to be here any minute, and I’m still a hot mess.

The fact that I care is even more reason to avoid all members of the opposite sex. At least until I come to my senses and actually live up to the image of the competent, stable, strong woman that I’m trying so very hard to convey.

*  *  *

“Can I come in for a few minutes?”

I’m kneeling on my front porch, getting licked within an inch of my life and almost being toppled over by one jubilant miniature schnauzer. “Ooh, I’ve missed you too, Buddy,” I say. I keep scratching Simon behind his ears and cooing to him, pretending I don’t hear Jeremy talking.

He says it again, louder. “Can I come in?”

I laugh as Simon manages to plant a wet doggie kiss across my right cheek. And then my expression changes as I look up to meet Jeremy’s eyes.

“Why?” My voice is suspicious.

He’s immediately defensive. “Geez. You don’t have to get confrontational about it.” He glances around to check who might be watching. No one is, of course. Not even the woman walking her dog on the sidewalk directly in front of my house glances over at us.

I roll my eyes.
So much for a truce.

His voice is softer, and his eyes are pleading when he continues, “I just want to talk to you about some things. I don’t want to argue.”

I stare at him for another second and then turn my attention back to Simon, who has his front paws on my bent knees and is still craning his furry little neck to lick my face. I gather him into my arms and stand, then motion with my head for Jeremy to follow me inside. Meanwhile, my thoughts are twisting in a messy jumble.
What could he want to talk to me about? Are things over with Brianna? Does he want me back? Could he still want to get married?

That last thought comes with a wistful twinge that pierces through my stomach and makes me weak in the knees. And I’m utterly disgusted with myself for feeling this way. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I want Jeremy back—or at least, how much I want Jeremy to want
me
. What is wrong with me that I’m always the dump
ee
, never the dump
er
?

At this I think of Brandon, and for a moment I’m even more torn up inside. But then in the next moment Jeremy and I are sitting close to each other on my sofa with Simon settled contentedly between us, and I can’t think of anything except Jeremy’s presence and how it fills the room and makes me feel whole again.

These past few weeks, what I’ve really been working to do is fill this
emptiness
I feel…that I’ve felt since the day everything in my life went wrong all at once. To my horror, I start crying, fat tears leaking down both cheeks against my will.

I’m not a pretty crier. In fact, if I don’t rein this in it’s going to get ugly very fast—and if there’s one thing Jeremy hates, it’s irrational bursts of emotion. I wipe both wrists against my cheeks and sniffle and then swallow hard. I don’t dare look at Jeremy’s face, but it doesn’t matter, because he says:

“Oh, God. Not you too?”

My head snaps up, and I meet his eyes. “Too?” I manage to utter, my voice shaky. I feel like shaking
myself
at this ridiculous display of weakness—not the image I want to present to my ex-fiancé who might be on the verge of telling me he wants me back. What I really want is for him to close the ten-inch distance between us, wrap his arms around my shoulders, and give me the comfort I’m longing for, but that’s not Jeremy’s style. And I’m sick of being weak.

He hasn’t said anything, and I sniff harder and then rub the rest of the wetness from my cheeks with the backs of my hands. “What do you mean, ‘too?’” I repeat, my mind spinning with this confirmation that things can’t be perfect with him and Brianna if she’s been acting like I’m acting right now.

He has his nose pinched between his thumb and index finger, his head down, and I wait, my nerves tangled into taut, brittle bunches like steel wool. Finally, he looks up at me.

“Brie is kind of…emotional right now,” he says, and his voice sounds tired, weary even. He looks down again at his hands, which are now wrung together. He’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he mumbles. “But I’m…well, I’m having a baby. I mean, she is. I mean, we are.”

I’m so shocked that I can’t move. As in, I’m not even sure my heart is beating, and I can’t draw a breath. And then I’m angry—so angry that my body is rigid and seems to be shutting down. I start to wonder if I’m going to pass out, and finally my breath comes in a quick, wheezing gasp.

“Are you okay?” he says, reaching out to lay his hand on my arm and then pulling it back again, as if he knows that touching me now might make my entire being crumble into dust. I try to catch my breath but can’t. I force myself to hold it together.
I will not hyperventilate. I will not cry.
I’ve never hyperventilated before, but there’s always a first time. And of course, the second thought’s no use—the tears are coming again, and it’s pointless for me to try to stop them.

I shake my head and then hold up one hand before jumping up from the couch and half-running out of the room. Simon, excited, jumps up and follows me, which only makes the tears come faster.
What the hell? Did he bring Simon so there’d be a witness if I try to kill him?
I let out a short, hysterical laugh in the midst of my tears. I go into the hallway bathroom and shut the door with Simon outside, standing with both hands braced against the sink and my head down.

Eventually, my breathing slows, but the tears are still sliding down my cheeks, spilling into the white pedestal sink. A few make it all the way to my chin before dripping onto the front of my white, sleeveless shirt. I’m not sure what emotion is driving the tears—heartache, loss, jealousy, shock. I consider that and decide that what I feel most right now is anger.

So that’s what it would have taken all along
, I think. For at least five of the seven years we dated, I waited in great anticipation for Jeremy to propose. Every time a holiday rolled around—Valentine’s Day, Christmas, New Year’s, my birthday—I’d hold my breath and hope it was the one. After all, if he didn’t want the same things I wanted, why would he stick around so long, I’d think?
And here all I really needed to do was get myself knocked up.

How ironic.
All this time, ever since I was oh, probably twenty-five, I’ve wanted a baby—wanted a baby so badly I could practically feel the shape of a child in my womb. But I knew Jeremy wasn’t ready, so I patiently took my stupid pink pills, day after stinking day, and waited for him to change his mind and become ready. I followed every fucking rule in the fucking rulebook—even told him the pill wasn’t effective when I took an antibiotic so he’d know he had to use a condom.

Is he going to marry her?
And then, half a second later,
Of course he is.
Of course. And he’s probably here first and foremost to ask for my ring. My well of tears dries up so suddenly it leaves me lightheaded, and I’m fuming. I run cold water into the sink and splash it onto my face, pulling the hand towel off its antique brass ring and patting my face dry to avoid making a bigger mess out of myself than I already am. I don’t waste a glance in the mirror, realizing how futile and pathetic it was of me to care what I looked like for him.

I open the bathroom door and find Simon sprawled out on the rug in front of the door. He jumps up and follows as I storm back to my room, opening the mirrored jewelry box on my dresser with a movement so violent, I’m surprised it doesn’t snap the hinge. And there it is, in the front left corner of the box, where I’d tossed it haphazardly after finally bothering to dig it out from behind my bookshelf, where it landed when I threw it That Night.

The night that Jeremy Fucking Morrison ruined my life.

I don’t waste time staring at it or even considering what I’m doing. I reach down and seize the ring from the box’s black velvet interior, picking it up with two fingertips and holding it out in front of me like a dead spider I’m carrying to flush down the toilet. And then I stomp back down the hallway toward the living room, Simon following.

When I get there, Jeremy has his head in his hands again, but he looks up, startled, when I enter the room. I fling the ring in his direction, and it actually hits him at the base of his throat and slides down the front of his shirt. His pink fucking polo shirt.

The expression on his face is so surprised, you’d almost think he swallowed it.

“What the—?” he’s asking, jumping up from the couch and patting all around on his flat stomach. I see his fingers connect with the ring near his right hip, and he carefully untucks his shirt—yes, he still wears tucked-in polo shirts, like the Ole Miss, golf-playing pretty boy he is.

I hate him right now. Really, truly hate him with a seething, hot, red fervor I’ve never felt in my life. I want him
out
. Out of my house, out of my life, right now, and I’m starting to walk toward the door to usher him there when his voice stops me.

“Wait, Jen,” he says, and I turn a defiant chin to him as I swivel mid-step. He’s staring down at the ring in his fingers, and then he looks up at me, his expression clouded with confusion, or sadness, or…something.

“What?” I spit at him. “Isn’t that what you came here for? I hope you and Brie and the little bundle of joy will be very happy together.” I pierce my own heart as I say this, because somewhere deep inside me is a rational person who knows his baby isn’t to blame for any part of this grown-up, twisted wreckage of a mess.