Party Girl (31 page)

It’s such a depressing realization that I immediately head off in search of my friends so I don’t have to be alone with my thoughts any longer.

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT

A month later I’m in the midst of utter chaos.

We have more people trying to get in than space to put them. The cigar roller gets into a car accident and Miko has to go pick him up and they barely get set up before the doors opened. Two of the bartenders don’t show, and I make Max, who has promised to strangle me some night in my sleep, come work on her day off to fill in for them. It ends up being amazing, though, because Max is one of the best mixologists in town, and the Riverton team is thrilled with her creations.

The DJ is sort of a pain and uses the wrong mix for cocktail hour, and the light that is supposed to shine the gobo onto the brick wall of the loft burns out. It’s only through the help of really good deodorant and a constant stream of prayer that I’m not chewing through my wrist right now.

But in the end everything looks gorgeous, and I can’t wait to add the pictures to our growing portfolio. The party design isn’t subdued or modern or muted in tone. It’s vibrant and loud, the antithesis of a Selah Smith Event. The atmosphere is energetic, and admittedly a little wild, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun. It is the hardest thing I’ve ever pulled off in my life . . . It’s also a massive success. Diego and his team come over to us at the end of the night for kisses on both cheeks and words of praise and the promise to speak about their summer events. Miko and I make sure strike is taken care of and then hug the crap out of each other in the excitement of having survived. While Paige’s event was our first, it was small and intimate. This one is corporate, with a potentially huge client. By all accounts we are over our skis a bit, but we’ve done it!

My feet hurt, and I am starving and exhausted, but I fairly float to my car.

As I pull onto the road I dial my parents because they’d made me promise on a fictional stack of bibles that I would call them no matter what time I got finished.

Mama answers on the second ring, sounding a little tired but so excited.

“Hold on, Daddy’s goin’ into the kitchen to jump on the other phone—
Hurry up, Tom, she’s waitin’ on ya!
” She giggles at whatever his response is, and then I hear him pick up.

“Hey, kid, how’d it go?”

“It went great! They’re already talking about what we can work on for them next.”

“Baby, that’s wonderful! I can’t wait to see pictures!” Mama says.

“See now, I knew it. I told ya you’d do great,” Daddy agrees.

“You did.” I laugh into the phone. “I might not have believed you, but you were right.”

“Kid, what most people don’t know is that the hardest part is just having the courage to try. You never learn how to swim if you don’t jump into the water first. Mama and I are real proud of you.”

“Thanks, guys. Now go to bed. It’s so late. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you all about it, I promise.”

I wish them both a good night and hang up. As I drive home I get more and more excited.

I’d done it.

I’d produced a successful event for my very own client, at my very own company. Tonight we’d achieved something I’d dreamed about since I was a teenager, and I am filled with such intense emotion it takes me a minute to identify the feeling: pride.

I’d allowed someone to tell me I was worthless and inept for so long, I’d almost started to believe her. I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be proud of myself. The thought is sobering.

I keep running Daddy’s words around in my head. It had taken a heck of a lot of courage to get through the last couple of months, to start this company, to try and manage an event for a client of this caliber. There’s integrity in the work we’ve done; it’s something to be proud of.

I smile at my own inner monologue. I am proud of the woman I’m becoming, someone who’s strong and smart and courageous, just like the mantra I’ve whispered to myself continuously over the last year.

Only, I’m not really courageous, am I? If I’m being honest with myself, I know I keep avoiding the thing that scares me most. Brody stays on my mind whether I want him there or not. And whenever he’s on my mind, I think about his words: “Tomorrow, or next week, or the middle of the night a year from now . . . I hope you’ll call me when you figure out whatever it is you want to say.”

I chew on my lip nervously, running the thought over and over in my mind . . . Do I have the guts to do what he asked?

Maybe Daddy is right. Maybe the hardest part of life is just having the courage to try. At least then I can say that if it doesn’t work out, it’s not because I was just too afraid to admit that I’m scared.

An idea pops into my mind.

It’s stupid and reckless and thoroughly embarrassing, but I am so damn sick of being afraid to speak up. I’m gonna do it anyway.

I’m stopped at a red light and before I can stop myself or think better of it, I jump into the deep end. I pull out my phone and send Brody a text.

I figured out what I want to say.

I hold my breath while I wait. One second. Two. Three.

His response pops up on my phone before the light changes from red to green.

BRODY ASHTON:

1422 Mission St. off Sunset.

I refuse to be flustered by the fact I’m driving to his house at midnight, or that it probably sounds like a thinly veiled booty call . . . He’s made that mistake before. I refuse to think about anything at all except what I’ll do and say when I get there. I drive the whole way there rehearsing my speech over and over in my head, willing myself not to back out.

The gate in front is already open, so I pull my car in the driveway and jump out before I can think better of it. The only way I am getting through this is just to do it. I’m not going to be intimidated by the mini-mansion in front of me, or his brand-new Range Rover in the driveway. Or even the way he’s framed in his doorway, looking rumpled and sleepy but so very handsome.

I just keep walking towards him and try not to chew on my lip like a nervous moron.

“You wore pink.” He smiles at my dress, and for a moment I lose my train of thought.

“Oh yeah. It’s a requirement at Chic Events. Color is a must!” I smile stupidly.

“Would you like to come in?” He moves to the side so I can step by, but I don’t move from my spot on the porch.

“No, no, thank you.” I square my shoulders. “I’m making an overture.”

“An overture?”

“Yes, the big over-the-top gesture that happens at the end of the movie? It’s the overture, that’s what I’m doing . . . It’s all very John Hughes. Just bear with me.”

“Oh, OK,” he says, looking bemused. “Go ahead.”

I hold up my iPhone and press play. Whitney in all her eighties pop glory starts serenading us both. Brody laughs and I grin nervously.

“OK, here it goes . . .” I take a breath. “You scare the crap out of me.”

“What?” He laughs again.

“No. This is my overture. You have to be quiet.”

He nods solemnly, but he’s fighting his grin.

“You terrify me. You’re all,” I wave my phone in the direction of his house, “grown-up, and it makes me feel so immature. I constantly say the wrong thing, and I never seem to be wearing the right outfit. My hair is usually big, and I’m almost always going to want to wear lashes if we go somewhere special.”

Brody’s grin is full-blown now, and he must have given up on waiting for me to finish, because he’s stepping out of the house. For a moment I just watch him walk towards me. I can’t wrap my brain around the idea that I know someone this beautiful, let alone am engaging in this conversation with him. He stops in front of me, and I clear my throat nervously.

“And you should know that I’ve never even been on an actual date before. So I’m going to be nervous, and say ridiculous things, and you’re going to have to be patient with me,” I tell him hurriedly.

He cups my face in his hands like he did that day on the beach, and it makes my heart flutter and I lose my breath for a second.

“But—I mean, in spite of all of that—if you’re still interested, I was wondering if you’d like to go on a date with me. A real one this time.”

I stare at him, waiting for some kind of response, and finally he speaks.

“Am I allowed to speak yet?” He’s playful.

I roll my eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. Then you should know that I love everything you wear, old sweatshirts, pink dresses.” He touches my sleeve. “Wet suits and bright-red snow boots. And the things you say are usually these madcap, left-field ideas that I’m positive no one else has ever even thought of before.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he rubs his thumb across my bottom lip to shush me.

“I love the things you say. And I love that you’ve never been on a real date before. I love that this is all new for you. I love that you are so very different from so many other people. But I never want you to be nervous around me. I swear, the shine will rub off really quickly and you’ll wonder how someone who annoys you so much could have ever made you apprehensive.” I giggle like an idiot, and his eyes crinkle around the edges when he smiles.

“So, I promise if you’ll be patient with me when I’m pretentious or overbearing or showing one of the million other character flaws you haven’t yet encountered, then I’ll be as patient as you need. I’ll be Job. I’ll be—”

And it’s so sweet, and perfect, and exactly what I need for him to say to me in that moment, I throw my arms around his neck and lean up on tiptoes to kiss him.

And just like the last time, my belly flips and tingles run down my arms all the way to my fingers. When he pulls away from our kiss, he runs his fingertip over the bridge of my nose where he knows my freckles are hiding.

“Do you want to come inside?”

I bite my lip nervously.

“Not ready to come in yet?”

“For what purpose exactly?” I ask dubiously.

He looks away into the yard searching for a good option, and then his eyes light up.

“You like pancakes?”

“I love pancakes,” I answer, just like I did on our first non-date.

“I know a place.” He gestures behind him to his open front door, and I can’t help but grin.

The smile is all the encouragement he needs, because he grabs my hand and pulls me into the house, and I laugh the whole way there because I’m so grateful that this grand scheme didn’t explode in my face.

Daddy was right. Half the battle is just having the courage to try.

Sometimes you aim for the sun and fall short. But if you keep fighting for your dream, it becomes something so much better than you even knew to hope for.

That little girl who wanted something bigger, that country mouse who never quite found her place, found it here. In her favorite pink dress, eating pancakes and telling the cutest boy she’s ever seen all about where her dream will take her next.

Acknowledgments

If you’ve made it this far then that means
you read my book
! Holy crud, I can’t even explain what a big deal that is to me! Thank you
so
much for giving Landon (and me) a chance. I hope, hope, hope you loved her as much as I did! ~Rachel

To Simone Blancato (and her parents) who helped me with the Spanish . . . Any mistakes are mine alone.

To Cynthia Lavers for all your help with the medical info: from insulin to hypoglycemia to diabetes and 911 operators. Max is a richer character for all your insight . . . Any mistakes are mine alone.

To Jacqueline Pilar who didn’t so much as hesitate when I asked her if she’d help me shoot a book cover. Your work is incredible, JP, and I’m so grateful for more than twenty years of collaboration.

To Amanda Pittman, my beautiful friend and favorite Texan. Thank you for answering a million questions about football, your home state, and the intricacies of sorority life.

To Brandee James, my work soul mate, sounding board, therapist, and dear friend. Thank you for always helping me figure out how to build the rocket ship.

To my mom, Sheree Edwards, who flew to town over and over to hang out with my boys so I could write away the weekend . . . And for always knowing exactly when I needed a surprise snack.

Lastly, to Dave Hollis, my best friend and the cutest boy I’ve ever met. So much of Landon and Brody’s relationship is sourced directly from the story of us, so thank you for 1,001 sweet memories. Thanks too for being the most supportive husband any girl has ever known and for going along with all my harebrained schemes. I thank God for you every day.

About the Author

Rachel Hollis is the founder of the popular lifestyle site
www.thechicsite.com
and the Los Angeles–based event planning firm Chic Events. At twenty-seven, she was named by
Inc. Magazine
as one of its “Top 30 Entrepreneurs under 30.” She has designed and produced parties for many Hollywood stars, including Bradley Cooper, Al Gore, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Ivanka Trump, Rashida Jones, Marcia Cross, Jamie King, and Cuba Gooding, Jr., among others. Rachel is a lifestyle expert for
The Talk
,
EXTRA
,
The Nate Berkus Show
,
and
The Steve Harvey Show
and has been featured in
People
,
InStyle
,
Cosmopolitan
,
OK!
,
Entertainment Weekly
,
Better Homes and Gardens
, and
Traditional Home
. Rachel lives in Los Angeles with her husband and three children. Connect with Rachel via:

Facebook/MsRachelHollis

Twitter
@MsRachelHollis

Instagram
@MsRachelHollis