How to Look Happy (30 page)

I shake my head. “It isn’t him. There’s…someone else. I’ve met someone else.”

As I say it, I realize it’s true—and I consider for the first time how very, very stupid I’ve been. The most stupid thing I’ve done yet was accept this date with Brandon. I thought I was being kind, but in the end, it was just cruel. Unintentionally cruel but cruel nonetheless. And self-destructive.

I wonder where he is, whether he’s out with somebody else—
Annalise
—while I’m in this car with Brandon, very likely screwing up any and every chance I could have had to be with him.

Brandon is shaking his head with disgust. “You’re all alike. Every damn one of you.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, in a whisper.

“Missy wanted me, you know.”

This throws me. “What?”

He leans back against his own passenger-side door. “When I went out with her, before I texted you. We were at the restaurant in the Westin, and she wanted to get a room.”

I’m still thinking about Todd, and I can’t quite process what he’s saying. “You and Missy?” I shake my head. “Wait, what?” I stare at him across the darkened car. “Isn’t she…? But…but she’s married.”

He nods. “She’s fucking miserable.” He pauses. “She hates
me
, don’t get me wrong. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to go upstairs and give me a charity fuck, for old times’ sake.” He shakes his head in a way that’s almost indulgent. “She hasn’t changed. Her looks have though. She’s starting to let things go.” His eyes travel down my body, making me cringe.

“Unlike you.” He laughs, and the sound is bitter. “You haven’t changed in other ways though. Still as uptight as always.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” I make a move for the door handle, no longer feeling sorry for him. I can see that, instead of making himself vulnerable, he’s playing on other people’s vulnerability—first Missy’s and now mine.

He reaches over and grabs my right wrist. “Wait.”

I look down at his hand on me and then up at him in disbelief. “You’re the one who hasn’t changed. Except maybe for the worse.”

His face is wearing a hangdog look that reminds me of my nephew Oliver when he’s trying to wheedle something he wants out of his overwrought parents. “I don’t want to leave like this,” he says, loosening his grip on me and lightly running his thumb over the inside of my wrist, as if that’s the way he intended the gesture all along. “Why don’t I come in, and we can talk this out over a drink.”

“There’s nothing to talk out, Brandon.” I pull the door handle, and the car door inches open, not enough to turn on the interior lights but enough to make the dashboard sensor start to ding. “It’s been nice hanging out with you again”—Ugh, what the hell is that? A lie to spare his feelings? I wish I could bite the words back in—“but I know when something isn’t good for me. This isn’t good for either one of us.”

“Whatever.” He opens his door and gets out of the car, and he’s around to my side before I can gather my bag and climb out.

I maintain careful non-contact, stepping around him when I exit the car. But he reaches out and grasps me by the wrist again, then bends his head to mine and attempts to kiss me on the lips. I turn my face so his lips graze my cheek, trying but unable to keep the pity out of my eyes.

“Drive safe,” I say, and then I turn and walk toward my front steps, not looking back. His car is still at the curb with the engine not yet running when I open my front door, slip inside, and close and lock it behind me.

*  *  *

An hour and a half later I’m in my pj’s with a towel wrapped turban-style around my head, unable to sit still. After coming inside and calling Carrie to tell her about my night, I decided to give the ancient claw-foot tub in my master bathroom some rare exercise—as crappy as this night was, I felt a deep need to scrub it off my skin.

But it didn’t help me relax.

Oddly, I’m not too worked up about what happened with Brandon. Our argument in the car feels less than real, like a flicker of a bad dream, or an insipid TV show droning in the background. Instead, what I’m thinking about as I pace my house like a restless feline is where in this city Todd might be tonight and who he might be with. I have no way to see him again without stalking him. I know his number, of course, but I don’t have any jobs for him and therefore no reason to call. I could go to the restaurant where he works, but now he knows that I know he works there—in other words, stalking.

Wait…the fund-raiser.
I stop pacing for a few seconds as the realization hits. Chick’s opening night event for the bakery is happening next week. She’s included me on the invitation list, but I doubt she thought to invite Todd. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I forwarded the invite to him.
Or brought a date.
The thought of Todd as my date warms the tips of my ears and tingles in my fingers.

I resume pacing my bedroom. Simon is sprawled on the woven rug in front of the window, his head alert and cocked to one side, one ear folded down and the other folded back in that adorable little schnauzer stance that alternately says, “What’s going on?” and “You humans sure are weird.” His eyes follow my every movement.

I turn toward my dresser, where I last laid my phone, but then I stop mid-step. Should I invite him? What if he says no? It’s as much as I deserve.

This is crazy. I should just invite him.
I stride across the room and pause with my hand on my phone, which is upside down on the dresser’s matte gray surface. I take a deep breath, pick it up, and flip it over.

When I do, the screen is lit with a new text. I see that it’s from Carrie, but it flashes off before I can read it. I click and swipe, and then I feel as if I’m flashing back in time, as if the past four months haven’t happened at all.

Girl, I hate to tell you this, but you’d better get on Facebook. Now.

“What the hell?” I say it out loud, and my voice is so abrupt in the stillness of my bedroom that it surprises even me. Simon, who’d settled back into a cozy furball on the rug, lifts his head again, his ear newly cocked.

The energy expunges itself from my body in a single gush, as if my body were inflatable and someone just uncapped the plug. I sink to the floor and land in a cross-legged heap with my back against my dresser. Sensing an invitation, Simon jumps up from his perch and trots over to me, his collar tags clanging a cheerful song. He sniffs around for a few seconds and then settles in beside me with a huff, resting his chin on my left thigh. Absently, I reach down with my left hand and stroke the soft hair behind his ears. And then, cringing inside, I swipe over to my Facebook app with my thumb and click it, squeezing my eyes shut as my profile pulls up.

I take a deep breath and then open one eye, squinting at the screen.
But I didn’t put anything on Facebook.
Wait…did I? I assess my level of buzz and decide it’s nonexistent. I definitely did not update my Facebook status this evening.
So how bad can this be?
Certainly not as bad as last time, whatever it is.

I see that I have four new notifications. Clicking the icon feels like pulling the pin from a grenade, and my finger hovers above it for an extra couple of seconds. And then I hold my breath and click.

Brandon Royer has tagged you in a photo.

That’s what I see first. My stomach gives a warning jolt, bracing itself. I move on to the next notification, which reads,
Brandon Royer has updated his relationship status.
And then,
Quinn Cunningham and 26 others have commented on your photo
.

“Oh no, he did not.”

Now I’m clicking with fury—my fingers can’t move fast enough, and I fumble over them as I struggle to navigate the app. I pull up the wall on my profile and see that Brandon has posted both of the photos he took tonight, first the cheesy shot of us smiling in the front seat of his car and then the shot of us kissing in the movie theater. That shot is a little fuzzy and cuts off the back half of my head, but it’s effective enough as a tool for revenge. When I click on it, the caption reads,
Just like old times.

“I am going to
kill
you,” I say aloud, now grasping my phone with both hands and glaring at the screen. Simon raises his head, and I glance down at him, returning my fingers to his fur.

“Not you, buddy,” I murmur. “Sorry.”

I read through the comments to view the extent of the damage. Brandon has changed his relationship status to “In a Relationship.” And the status update that tops the images reads,
There’s nothing like reconnecting with your first love.

“You are so full of shit,” I yell, uncrossing my legs and struggling to stand. Simon jumps backward and shoots me another humans-are-so-crazy look before wandering back to his spot in front of the window, circling once before settling down and eyeing me warily.

My fingers are flying over the screen now, first scrolling to read the comments and view the “likes” on each element of the status update. The image of us kissing has the most comments, including the one from Quinn, which just reads,
Well, well.

Other comments are from Brandon’s and my mutual Facebook friends—high school acquaintances mostly—but there are a couple from real-life, current friends either congratulating me or weighing in on the “cuteness” of the photo. The likes are rampant.

Blood rushes hot through my veins, and my head fills with a startling pressure, giving me a new take on the expression “steam coming out of your ears.” I feel like a teakettle that’s reached the boiling point, my need to scream the whistle.

And then, as I fumble off of the images and return to the status to figure out how to delete it, or untag myself, or…something, I inadvertently click the notification to “see who likes this image.” And what I see makes my body go cold. First on the list of likes is Todd Birnham.

*  *  *

“So let me get this straight. You are
not
dating Brandon Royer again.” My mother has asked this question multiple times now, as if she doesn’t believe my answer. And, I have to admit, the situation
is
rather unbelievable.

“That is correct,” I say, rolling my eyes in a reprise of my teenage self, who has appeared too many times this week already. I straighten my back in my chair, a grown-up stance, and gird my patience. “I went out with him a few times, but we are absolutely not dating.”

“Wait, a few times?” breaks in Catherine, and I remember that I only filled them in on two dates—the show at the Orpheum and last night’s disaster. I couldn’t get around it, since Brandon so helpfully documented both dates on Facebook. “How many dates is ‘a few times?’”

Eleanor is watching me with sympathy, as she knows the whole story. She’s the only family member—or person in general besides Carrie—that I’ve confided in about my run-ins with Brandon and Jeremy. Oh, geez.
Jeremy.
If my mom knew about Brianna’s pregnancy I’d be getting the third degree about that too. I have half a mind to announce it, just to turn the conversation away from Brandon.

If I’d had any inkling that tonight’s family festivities would revolve around my messed-up, and yet still somehow nonexistent, love life I’d have faked a stomach flu to get out of it.

“Three times, I think,” I mutter.

“Three times!” This is from my dad, which is mortifying.

“I can’t believe you’re going out with him again,” adds my mother, forcing another involuntary eye roll. “He was so awful to you back in school.” The look in her eyes shames me to my very core. It conveys things like,
I’m very worried about you
, and
Didn’t our talk about Jeremy mean anything?
, and
Where is my capable, adult daughter?

I get it. If I were my own mother, I’d be thinking the same things. I don’t exactly have a track record for sound decision-making of late.

“I promise you guys, Brandon and I aren’t dating. That Facebook status was totally bogus.”

“But why would he put that out there, if it isn’t true?” That’s my dad, for whom the world is black and white. Honest in word, deed,
and
facial expression. Right now he looks perplexed.

Thankfully a swarm of servers arrives beside the long array of pushed-together tables with our entrees—dinner for twelve, which means that by the time everybody has their food and settles back down, I’ll be off the hook. The conversation devolves to things like, “The blackened salmon pasta? That’s me.” And, “No, I have the one with steamed vegetables instead of fries.” That’s Eleanor, still fighting back against the baby weight. The table is alive with passed dishes and condiment requests and toddlers who won’t be settled down. My niece Charlotte is seated beside me, and I spend a couple of minutes helping her pound the side of a ketchup bottle without splotching any on her outfit—a pair of hot-pink-and-white striped leggings with a purple skirt and a sparkly off-the-shoulder top with a tank beneath. On her feet are silver ballet flats, and she’s topped off the ensemble with a glittery purple bag that she carefully hung from the back of her chair, emulating me. I’m not sure when she morphed into this budding fashionista, but it makes me wish I’d been spending more time with my family. I’m missing too much.