How to Look Happy (22 page)

I turn up the radio loud on the way to Annalise’s studio, which is one room in an artists’ co-op off Monroe Avenue in Midtown. The building is gray and industrial on the outside and not much different on the inside, but the individual studios are bursting with color. After checking in with a receptionist who’s seated at a vintage metal office desk with two huge, bold Marimekko-style canvases towering behind it, I follow her across the bare concrete floors and walk in the direction she instructs to find Annalise’s studio.

Todd isn’t here yet, but I tell her he’s coming, and she promises to send him our way.

On the way through the building, I pause to peer inside several other studios with open doors. In a couple of them, artists are at work, and I take in their fluid brushstrokes and their casual, pierced and dyed styles with a pang of jealousy. Sometimes I wish I’d taken this path instead of going into the business side of art.

When I get to Annalise’s studio, she’s not working but instead rifling through stacked canvases that line two walls. As I watch, she pulls two pieces from the stacks and carries them across the compact, square room and lines them up alongside others that are propped against the wall. Our meeting earlier this week took place at the bakery, so she already has an idea of our aesthetic. I look over the pieces she’s selected with approval—they’re colorful and eclectic in theme and size, pretty much exactly what I have in mind.

By the time Todd arrives, twenty minutes late with that tousled, rumpled look that makes it seem like he rolled out of bed and walked out the door, I’ve already approved all of Annalise’s choices and selected a few more canvases.

“I’m sorry,” Todd says as he walks in. “My dog got off his leash this morning, and I had to spend thirty minutes chasing him through the neighborhood.”

“Oh, that is no problem,” Annalise says in her slightly accented English, smiling up at him. I notice that the smile she gives him is a little wider than the smile she gave me upon my arrival. “You are Todd, I think?”

My head has been moving back and forth between the two of them, and finally I snap out of it and make the formal introduction. Annalise puts a tiny hand forward—she’s petite, maybe five-one or five-two, and adorable, with blonde hair that’s arranged into two cute ponytails and freckles across the bridge of her nose. A much more age-appropriate choice for Todd. I feel ancient and more than a little jealous as I watch him fold her hand into his.

Todd spends a few minutes sorting through our collection, pulling a small notepad out of his back pocket and making notes, then snapping pictures with his phone. We set the installation for the following Thursday, and after we’ve said our thank-yous and good-byes, I’m the first to exit the studio. I hang back anxiously and wait as Todd spends another couple of minutes talking to Annalise—from where I’m standing I can’t tell if they’re making small talk or flirting, and I strain to overhear.

Finally, he emerges around the corner of her office door and walks beside me down the concrete hallway toward the entrance.

“Thanks again for this opportunity,” he says, and I give him a chagrined smile, feeling like the ancient patron to his youthful exuberance.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. There’s a pause. “This will be a fun project, I think.”

“Yeah,” he repeats, his eyes bright. “I’m excited to be involved in the bakery opening. Chick’s my neighbor. I’ve known her for years.”

“Oh, really?” I ask. “Did you grow up near her?”

He wrinkles his brow, seeming confused. “Nah, she’s my neighbor now. She lives two doors down from me on Evergreen.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you had a house.”
Of course you didn’t, lame-o.
What a dumb thing to say. I seem to be full of those when Todd’s around.

“Yeah, I bought it a couple years after I finished grad school,” he says, and now it’s my turn to be confused. He has a graduate degree? And yet he’s working an array of odd jobs with no seeming direction or common thread. This boy confounds the hell out of me. I don’t think I’d be surprised by anything he told me.

By now we’ve left the co-op and are walking up the sidewalk, and Todd stops by the door of his truck, which is parked against the curb. My car is in the lot behind the building, so I pause and then wave. “See you next Thursday.”

“Wait.” He reaches a hand toward me and places it on the back of my right arm. I swear a jolt runs through me at his touch, and I shiver involuntarily.

“Yes?” I say in a shaky voice that I try to cover up. I pull away from his hand and turn, feeling tongue-tied and nervous and fully aware that I shouldn’t feel this way. I glance down at his shoes, a pair of worn-in Tom’s loafers. Against my will, my eyes travel up his body to take in his gray, straight-leg jeans and the fitted, button-down shirt that hugs his muscular chest. His skin is tanned to a deep gold that was clearly achieved from working outside, not lounging by a pool.

By the time my eyes reach his own bright blue ones, his have a twinkle in them that makes me immediately embarrassed. Was I really just caught ogling my subcontractor?

“I took detailed notes in there and feel comfortable with what I need to bring Thursday, but is there anything special I should know? Any structural stuff I should be aware of?”

I chew my lip for a couple of seconds, contemplating the question. “Let me think on that, and I’ll email you this weekend,” I say.

He smiles easily at me, sending another tingle of electricity down my spine. “You don’t have to work
all
the time, you know. It can wait till Monday.” He pauses. “You doing anything fun this weekend?”

My brain flies to Brandon and my date tomorrow night, and my cheeks redden. Todd seems to enjoy watching me squirm, which makes me even more flustered. “Not…really. I mean, yes. I mean, I’m going to the Orpheum tomorrow night.”

“Jersey Boys?” His eyes light up. “I’ve been wanting to see that. Dude, that’s cool.” He pauses again. “Well, have fun tomorrow night.”

I stare at him for a beat too long.
Who is this guy?
The image he puts off doesn’t seem to match the puzzle pieces I’m slowly putting together in my head. There’s only one thing I’m sure of when it comes to Todd Birnham: he is everything I’m not.

“Thanks.” And then before I can make an even bigger fool of myself, I turn and walk toward my car, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.

Sure enough, when I reach my car and glance back at him, Todd is leaning against the door of his truck, holding his phone in his right hand but not looking down at it—he’s watching me. He raises his hand in a half-wave, and I wave back, glad he’s too far away to see that I’m still blushing.

*  *  *

The next day I’m at work again until 9:30. Some Friday night. But with my current workload, it’s pretty much what I can expect for the next several months at least. Instead of annoyance, a rush of adrenaline charges through me at the thought.

Earlier this afternoon Amanda emailed me back and said she’d run into Marc Rasmutin on another project and told him about our ideas, and he was enthused. Her message put me on a high that lasted at least an hour—until Candace marched through the office with a sour look on her face and shut the door without talking to anybody. I have no idea what that was about, and I’m not sure I want to know.

Tomorrow morning I’m going by Ellie Kate’s house to meet Gracie Klein, and I’m super pumped about that, though I haven’t had time yet to buy a baby gift and wish I’d ordered something online. That makes me realize I haven’t seen my nieces and nephews in far too long, and that’s one part of my recent workaholism that
isn’t
acceptable. While I’m thinking about it I jot a group text to Eleanor and Catherine to see if they’re up for hanging out Sunday afternoon. I immediately get a text back from Catherine that they’re heading up to Kentucky to visit her parents this weekend, but Eleanor is game for hanging out as long as she can bring the twins, because Brian is golfing on Sunday.

I text her back to say that’s exactly what I have in mind and smile to myself. And then I remember my date with Brandon, and my smile tightens and turns into a nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach.

“Third date” is kind of a secret code, at least according to what I’ve heard from Quinn. And even though so far Brandon and I haven’t exchanged more than a few hugs and a good-night peck, I have a feeling he might have more in mind for Saturday night. I mean, I do, so maybe he does too…

My cheeks get all hot at this thought because it’s totally unlike me to be thinking it. But here’s the thing: After seven years of fruitless monogamy, I think I deserve to have a little fun. I’ve never slept with any guy I wasn’t in a relationship with, and I don’t
want
a relationship with Brandon. I’m no longer down for being a martyr or a masochist or whatever you want to call the way I set myself aside to meet Jeremy’s every need—and even though Brandon might as well be Jeremy’s slightly better-looking clone, the thought of being with him tonight sends a thrill down my spine.

Even in high school, Brandon was good at the make-out thing. My best memories from my sophomore and junior years mainly involve me and Brandon and his parents’ upstairs playroom. And now that we’re in our thirties, and with all those early years of build-up, I figure once things start between us, they’re going to move fast. And I think I want that…

*  *  *

I slip my new dress over my head again, toss it onto my bed, and stare into my closet. I bought it earlier today in a quick trip to Anthropologie after I left Ellie Kate’s house this afternoon, but I’m still undecided. It’s royal blue with an all-over floral pattern, a low sweetheart neckline, and spaghetti straps, and I picked it out so fast that now I’m second-guessing myself.

I’m not sure it sends the right message. As in, I’m not sure it’s sexy enough.

What do you think?
I text Carrie, snapping a picture of the Anthro dress and clicking send before pulling my standby LBD out of my closet and snapping a pic of it too. She’s seen it before. It’s stretchy and fitted with a black lace overlay and a V neckline that shows what little cleavage I have to its best advantage. Not trashy, exactly—it’s a classy dress, but it does paint a different picture.

Def the black one,
she texts back immediately.
With the hooker heels.

I giggle a little hysterically. She’s talking about this pair of black-and-silver ombré peep-toe shoes with a four-inch stiletto heel that I bought on impulse in SoHo during a work trip to New York a couple years ago. I’ve never worn them, and they’ve become a running joke among my friends.

For real???
I text back.
Should I also go commando and slip a condom in his pocket during the show? Ya know, just in case it’s not clear what I’m going for?

Ha-ha. I’m coming over. You need me.

Alarmed, I glance at the clock. It’s already 5:10, and Brandon’s picking me up at 6:00 to make our 6:30 dinner reservation. The show starts at eight.

Luckily, Carrie lives a few blocks away, and ten minutes later she’s ringing my doorbell.

When she gets here I’m wearing a third option—a short, navy baby-doll dress with a satin bodice, sheer sleeves, and flowy chiffon below the empire waist.

“Ooh, that one’s nice,” she says when I open the door. “I still say go for the black one though.”

“I don’t know…”

She walks past me and heads back toward my bedroom, dropping her purse on my coffee table on the way. I know she understands that my indecision is about more than which dress to wear tonight. She knows me so well.

I follow her into my room and watch as she picks up the black dress. “You deserve to have an awesome time tonight,” she says. “You’ve already said you don’t want anything serious with this guy, which I
totally
agree with.” She gives me a pointed look, almost a reprimand. Carrie is not one hundred percent on board with me going out with Brandon, since he was such a jerk to me when we were kids.

She thrusts the dress forward. “You should get to be reckless for once in your life.”

This says a lot, coming from Carrie—she’s the one woman I know who’s had sex with even fewer men than I have. I’ve been with three guys. She’s been with two, her college boyfriend and then no one else until David, whom she started dating about two years ago.

“I’ve been reckless before,” I grumble. “Remember what happened the last time I was reckless?”

She ignores me, still holding out the dress. I take it from her outstretched hands, unsure. Then I set it back on the bed and put on a quick fashion show, stepping into my sensible black patent pumps with the two sensible dresses. When I get to the black dress and—at Carrie’s insistence—the black and silver stilettos, she jumps up and down and claps. Against my better judgment, I leave on the ensemble and start putting waves into my hair with my spiral curling iron. Carrie perches on the end of my bed and talks to me about other things—probably to distract me and keep me from changing out of the shoes or the dress.

She doesn’t leave until 5:55, and even then I’m practically pushing her out the door. I’m in the midst of chickening out and am about to head toward my bedroom to put the blue dress back on when Brandon’s BMW pulls up at the curb in front of my house.