Perfect on Paper (8 page)

He nodded. “Moms are pretty amazing.”

It was the perfect chance to shift the spotlight and ask him about
his
mom, who I was sure was an angel given the way he’d said that, but the idiot in me kept me talking about mine.

“Yeah, well … it was really hard because my dad had just started pitching in the minor leagues when they had me, and apparently he had a really promising future ahead of him, but then my mom got sick, and he had to give everything up….”

He nodded again but didn’t say anything, sensing that I had more to say, just like Shane had done at Morton’s. Polite, sensitive, respectful. Wow.

I took a deep breath. “And after he quit baseball, he wasn’t able to get it together with a real career or anything … you know … so things were hard … you know, financially … and he and I … well … we just … well, we’re just so different … so it was hard that way too … actually, it’s still pretty hard … and … and, well, I help him out sometimes, but he’s still struggling a bit with managing his money.” My voice trailed off again, and I looked back down at the floor. Why was I telling him all this?

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I took a sip of my drink, my gaze still down. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you all this. I’m not really used to talking about it.”

“You feel guilty, don’t you,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

I looked back up at him and tried to laugh. “Am I that obvious, Mr. McIntyre?”

“Well, you’re clearly doing well for yourself now, and if he’s still having a hard time, it’s only natural to feel a little guilty about that.”

I shrugged. “I guess. My dad sure knows how to make me feel guilty about it.”

“I’m sure you’re more important to your dad than a career in baseball would have been, Waverly.”

I shook my head. “You’re really sweet, but I don’t think so.”

“You honestly think that baseball is more important to your dad than his own daughter?”

I nodded. “Sometimes.”

“Are you serious?”

I smiled weakly. “Okay, I’m only half serious, but I’ve noticed that I’m not always sure which half. And now that I’ve officially rained all over this parade, I’m changing the subject back to you. Where do
your
parents live?”

He put his hands up. “Okay, I’ll back off with the amateur psychoanalysis. My parents are still in Miami, in the same house where I grew up. I have an older brother who lives a few miles away from them and an older sister who lives in Boston with her husband and kids.”

“That’s nice,” I said, wondering how I could change the subject even further away from family and families. I glanced over at two security guards by the fire exit and then looked back at Jake. “Hey, have you ever noticed how almost all cops have mustaches?” I said.

He smiled. “What?”

“Security guards, too. What’s that all about?”

He shook his head. “I never really thought about it.”

I shrugged. “It’s just something I’ve noticed. It’s quite fascinating when you start to pay attention. I wonder what the percentage is compared to the general population.”

“You spend a lot of time noticing things, don’t you?” he said.

I shrugged again. “A little. Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. I just remembered that I forgot to set my DVR to record
American Idol
this week.”

He laughed. “
American Idol
? Seriously?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, nodding. “It’s my favorite show.”

“Your favorite show? For real?”

“Yep. I even went to the concert last year.”

He smiled. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Had I really just told him that I went to the
American Idol
concert on the heels of talking about my mother’s cancer and my screwed-up childhood? Was I insane? I was so flustered that I honestly had no idea what I was saying anymore. And the alcohol wasn’t helping. My head was all foggy, and I’d already forgotten half of what I had said just five minutes earlier. Sweaty Chuck was a distant memory.

I pushed my hair behind my ear and told myself to get it together.

“So, um, you said not being able to choose where you live is one of the few things you don’t like about working in the NBA. What are the other things?” I said.

“If I tell you, you’ll laugh.”

“Try me.”

He cleared his throat. “Well, sometimes it’s hard to—”

“Jake McIntyre! I thought you might be here. How are you, darling?”

We both turned around as a supertall, stick-thin brunette with matching stick-straight hair and bangs nearly jumped into Jake’s lap, or what would have been his lap if he had been sitting down.

Jake blushed, and my wobbling self-confidence took a nose dive.

“Hi, Carolyn, how are you?” he said.

“I’m just wonderful, darling. Busy with the new Prada line, but doing great. We’re off to New York on Monday to start the winter season.”

She looked at me with a frosty smile. “Hi, I’m Carolyn Weller.”

“Waverly Bryson,” I said quietly, suddenly feeling like a sixth grader in a high school locker room. How could something that skinny have such huge breasts?

She turned her attention back to Jake and put her arm around his waist. She whispered something into his ear, and he laughed. I took that as my cue to make a gracious exit. I softly said
Nice meeting you both
, but neither of them seemed to hear me, so I backed away and headed through the crowd to the bar.

Then I ordered another drink and decided that getting trashed wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty. Fifty. Fifty. Fifty.” I was sitting on a bar stool at a high round table in the corner of the room, counting out loud the white roses in the vase to my right. “Fifty roses. That’s five dozen roses. No, that’s six dozen roses. Hell, I have no idea how many dozen roses that is.”

I gazed down at my half-empty glass. How many drinks had I had? How long had I been sitting there? It’s never a good sign when you lose track.

I looked over at the huge, blurry crowd. What had I been thinking? Jake wasn’t interested in me. Why would he be? He was just being polite. My dad was right. Aaron was right. I was right. I was damaged goods, destined to sit on the back of the shelf until my expiration date.

I stood up and steadied myself, which took way too much effort. I picked up my drink and decided to go find Davey and Kent. They had to be in the crowd somewhere. I swung around and smacked right into a young couple standing by my table, spilling what was left of my drink all over the floor.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I slurred.

“No worries,” the fresh-faced guy said. “Are you okay?”

I smoothed my hands on my jeans. “Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.” Fine? I was nearly seeing double.

“You look familiar.” The young blonde standing next to him cocked her head to one side. “Do you live in San Francisco?”

“Um, yeah,” I said.

She held out her hand. “I’m Kristi Benton. This is my boyfriend, John Callahan. We work at Reebok’s advertising agency. What’s your name?”

“Amanda Woodward. I work at D&D Advertising,” I said, shaking her hand.

“Hi, Amanda, it’s nice to meet you.”

I shook my head. “Actually, I was just kidding.”

Blank stares.

“You know, D&D Advertising, miniskirts,
Melrose Place
?” I said.

More blank stares.

Okay, I’m way old.
“Uh, I’m Waverly Bryson. I work at K.A. Marketing.”

Kristi smiled. “That’s it. I knew I’d seen you before. My older sister’s roommate works there. Mandy Edwards.”

“Oh, yes, Mandy works in my department.” Definitely slurring.

“We met Mandy for lunch at her office a few weeks ago. She says she loves working there.”

I nodded. “It’s a good company.” If Mandy only knew that no one else loved her working there.

“Well, it’s good to meet you, Waverly. I’ll tell Mandy I saw you.”

“Great,” I said.
Crap.
“It was nice talking to you.”

I turned to escape and bumped smack into someone else. Good God. I needed to drink a gallon of water and put myself to bed.

“Hey, there you are. I thought you left.”

I looked up and saw Jake standing there.

I casually reached for a barstool to keep my balance. “Um, nope, not yet. How’s it going?”

“Are you okay?” he said.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why? Did something happen?”

He shook his head. “You just disappeared. Where did you go?”

“Did I? Oh, sorry. I had to use the restroom. And you, uh, well, you seemed busy.”

“Busy? I seemed busy?” He smiled, and I could feel my heart beating faster.

I played with my earring. “Well, I mean, with your friend and all, you know, it looked like you had things to talk about, and I didn’t want to intrude….”

He said nothing for a moment, just looked at me.

Then he spoke.

“Waverly, do you want to dance?”

Did I want to dance? Was he kidding? I wanted to spring to the stage and pay the band ten grand to play a slow song.

“Uh, sure.”

“After you.” We turned toward the dance floor. As we began to walk, he put his hand on the small of my back to guide me, and the heat I felt when he touched me could have burned a hole right through me. We maneuvered our way to the dance floor, where I spotted Kent and Davey dancing with two girls I didn’t recognize. They waved us over.

“There you are! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Davey pulled me through the crowd and introduced me to his and Kent’s dancing partners, two sales reps from Nike. I could barely hear him above the sound of Madonna’s “Vogue” blasting from the stage.

“This is Jake!” I belted over the music. “Jake, this is Davey and Kent!”

“Hi, Jake!” Davey yelled.

“It’s nice to meet you!” Kent shouted.

“Nice to meet you, too!” Jake said in a near scream.

“Should I go find a bullhorn?” I slurred at a normal decibel. But I don’t think anyone heard me.

The tiny hole that had opened on the dance floor quickly closed, and Jake and I got swallowed up in the crowd. And then, as if the gods had listened to my prayers, “Vogue” ended, and the band started playing what may be the best slow-dance song ever, “Who’s Crying Now?” by Journey.

Jake looked down at me. “Should we keep on dancing?”

I shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Whatever? That’s your answer?”

I smiled. “Yeah, whatever.”

“Waverly, you are something else.” I looked up, and he laughed and put his arms around me. I rested my head on his chest, and suddenly we were dancing.

I felt my entire body heat up, and a tingling sensation ran from my head all the way to my fingers and toes.

“Waverly?” he whispered, looking down at me.

I closed my eyes and sighed. “Hmm?” I felt like I was floating.

“Can I ask you something?”

I was about to look up and answer him, but once I closed my eyes, the harsh reality of major overintoxication kicked in with a vengeance. And suddenly I felt really dizzy. Horribly, horribly dizzy.

I had to get out of there. I had to get to a bathroom. Fast.

I broke away from him and covered my hand with my mouth as I started walking away. “I have to go now.”

He grabbed my hand. “Are you okay? Where are you going?”

I didn’t know what else to say. I was suddenly so terribly drunk that I couldn’t really see or think straight, but I knew I had to get away from him, away from everyone. I pulled my hand away and pushed my way through the blurry crowd.

When I got off the dance floor, I kept moving and headed toward the lounge, nearly knocking over Mandy Edwards’s friends on the way. I ignored them and knocked open the doors to the restroom. I hurried through the plush carpeted area and ran to the last stall.

Then I threw up. Over and over and over.

When I woke up on Saturday morning, I could have sworn that I had an entire bag of jumbo-size cotton balls stuffed in my mouth. My whole body ached, and I felt like a very large nutcracker was squeezing my head. I rolled over and looked at the clock on the nightstand.

It was 7:14. What time had I gone to bed? How had I gotten back to the hotel?

I sat up and held my pounding head in my hands. Then I looked down at the bedspread. The bed was still made, and I was on top of the covers. I glanced over and saw my coat, purse, and sweater on a chair. In addition to my clothes and shoes, I was still wearing my earrings, necklace, and watch.