CHAPTER THREE
After my bath, I threw on some pajamas and put my hair up in a topknot to dry. I headed out on the deck, iPad and soda in hand. It was a tiny deck, but more than functional for my purposes—two Adirondack chairs, a tiny table, and a few plastic plants. The wide, scarred wood planks were rough on my feet as I padded over to one of the chairs and dropped into it.
I propped my feet up on the railing and nestled my Diet Coke beside my hip. From my vantage point, I had a fantastic view of the park…beautiful flowering trees and landscaped bushes, all surrounded by a modest walking trail. And when the sun set just so and lit the trees from behind, they looked like they were on fire. Sometimes I fell asleep out there, watching the orange flame turn umber, blush, and finally black.
I was immersed in a book when I suddenly heard a noise, and looked up to find Julian ambling up the deck stairs. “I tried knocking, but there was no answer.” He lifted my leg bridge to pass and put them back down. “I saw your car, so I figured you were out here.”
“You’re excommunicated.” I glared at him briefly before going back to my iPad. “So beat it.”
“I’m guessing you found out I talked to Lane?” Julian dropped down in the other deck chair, and kicked off his sandals. “Jesus, AJ. It’s not like your schedule is such a huge secret. Besides, I thought you’d be happy to have a couple days off. Like a normal person.”
“It’s a very busy time for us—”
“And you know I can handle it.” He shrugged. “Why don’t you save us some time and tell me what’s really bothering you?”
I sighed. That probably would be better than having him drag it out of me. Like I usually made him do. I caved pretty quickly. “I kind of told her I was dating someone.”
“So?”
“So now she wants me to bring him. Which would be perfectly fine if he actually existed.” I sighed, giving up on my book. My fantastical journey through the werecat world did not involve a nattering companion. “I’m going to have to fess up and look like a complete idiot. Or worse, they’ll think I’m still hung up over that fool.”
Julian popped the tab on a can of Coke I hadn’t seen until that moment. “Well, are you?”
I scowled. I had a better question. “Did you go inside my house?”
“’Course. I also did a little snacking in your fridge. Can’t shrink you on an empty stomach, dear.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Now answer the question.”
“No,” I said with a glare. I was pretty sure that was my last Diet Coke. “I’m not hung up over Adam.”
And I wasn’t. In fact, I think went through the five stages of grief fairly quickly, if I may say so myself. Friends and family may or may not agree, but since when do they know everything? I frowned, thinking about the few months of my life after Adam dumped me.
Week One: The Denial Files. I did not cancel any of the wedding arrangements. Ridiculously delusional to the end, I’d steamrolled right ahead with the planning, hoping this it was all a nightmare, and he’d come to his senses.
Week Two: Anger, Thy Name is Avery. Someone may or may not have broken into Adam’s apartment and done some terrible things involving scissors and various items of his favorite clothing. I wouldn’t know the details. If the police ask, I was here all night. All. Night.
Week Three: Let the bargaining begin! I may or may not have done my heathen best to resurrect some of my lapsed Catholic background, and did a little praying. Then a little brown-nosing to God about all the things I would do if this was all a horrible joke, and I hadn’t gotten dumped before my wedding. God was not impressed. He told me to get lost and that he was working on world hunger.
Weeks Four to Nine: Depression. I’d slacked off in most areas of my life, thoroughly exasperating friends and family. I’d lain on the floor of the bedroom, looking up at the ceiling and coming to terms. At one point, Julian had dragged me by the ankles to the living room and left me there. He also put the remote by my head, which I appreciated. The dust in my hair from his cavemen tactics, I could have done without.
Week Ten: The forgotten caterer called me and told me she was ready to deliver the food. I promptly remembered that I’d forgotten to cancel the caterer. Because she couldn’t care less, and I couldn’t blame her, she delivered the food to my home. Appetizers everywhere. It looked like a mini Last Supper in my living room.
Week Twelve: Acceptance is a four letter word. I was not equating my acceptance with the arrival of the mini quiches, but sometimes coincidence was just the design of providence. They were filled with bacon and cheese, though. If that helped.
Try telling any of that to Julian, who was on a roll. “I fail to see the problem. Your dad’s birthday isn’t for another month, Winters. Surely even you can scare up a date in a month.”
“I’m going to ignore that ‘even you’ part. At least until I can come up with a suitable rejoinder. I’m not sure what it’s going to be yet, but I’m leaning toward something about your hair.”
“Well, am I wrong?” he demanded. “You’re smart. Fun. Relatively sane. Not exactly bad-looking.”
“Not exactly bad looking?” I pretended to preen. “Now that’s the kind of objectifying a girl could get used to.”
“I’m serious.” He gave me a hard nudge. A push, really. “I may be gay, but I think guys still go for tall, pretty, and stacked.”
I scowled. “Are you forgetting my recent foray into the dating pool o’ horrors? When I decided to jump in and see what I could catch?”
Turned out I’d caught a fishing boot, an old rusty can, and a tire. Like Dylan, who’d used a calculator to figure out our portions when the bill came. To the cent. Or Dale, who’d taken me on my first trip to Dave and Buster’s since my thirteenth birthday. He’d used the word “dude” obsessively. Unfortunately, I also used that word way too much, and you can’t have two people “dude-ing” one another in a relationship. It just didn’t work.
Dude, did you see that?
Yeah, dude. I did.
That’s awesome, dude.
We’d sound like two stoners who forgot where they parked their car. Then there was Martin, who’d brought his mom along on our date to the movies because, well…you know what, I was really still not sure on that one. Oh, and don’t forget about Rand, who’d made me watch a Sharknado marathon.
I thoughtfully nibbled on a thumbnail. I didn’t know if I can ever forgive him for that.
Long story short, I’d gone on enough dates to know that the old adage about frog kissing was completely, hopelessly incorrect. If you keep kissing frogs, you do not discover prince charming. If you keep kissing frogs, you just wind up as an expert on kissing frogs…which was, frankly, disgusting.
Besides, I wasn’t into forcing something that wasn’t going to happen. I was more about fluidity and nature that way. If I was supposed to meet someone, I would. If not? Well, I had my friends, my family, my work…it was enough. Lane had been more about making things happen on schedule—she’d had a plan and it had gone off without a hitch. She’d wanted to be married by twenty-five and have her first child by thirty. She’d met her husband in graduate school and she’d done exactly that. But that wasn’t me.
I wasn’t living my life to find someone. I wasn’t like my friends—it seemed like more often than not, each social media update was about someone getting married or a picture of a sonogram with a cute inscription. It was beautiful, wonderful, even, but that wasn’t my life. And I wasn’t quite ready to lie down and die because I hadn’t found a mate. I had one life to live, and whether I found someone or not, I was going to live it.
None of this I’m-woman-hear-me-roar rhetoric helped me with my current situation.
Julian wasn’t quite finished. “All right, what about a fake date?”
“I’m not taking a stranger home with me.” I continued deleting emails. “If I’m going to be murdered, I kind of want it to be a surprise.”
Julian was undeterred. “Well, what about my brother?”
I shook my head. “Of course. What else would a big shot lawyer do with his time other than be my fake boyfriend?”
“He could use the vacation. As far as I can tell, the man never leaves his office.”
I’d only met Julian’s brother only a few times, but I knew that wouldn’t work. Who was Jackson, in a nutshell? Smart. Capable. He’d graduated near the top of his class at Duke and went straight into an internship at a prestigious firm. As far as I knew, he was on the cusp of becoming partner at a successful family law practice. The very epitome of someone who had his life together. If I were in the middle of a divorce, his face was the last face I’d want to see across the table.
I shuddered, thinking about Julian telling his put-together, handsome, successful brother that I was pathetic enough to need a fake date. No. All kinds of hells no. Wrap that “no” up in a slice of “I don’t think so” and serve it with a side of “what the fuck are you thinking” sauce.
“Think about it,” Julian continued, gathering steam. He clearly loved his idea and the sound of his own voice. He was like his namesake lemur on Madagascar that way. “He owes me a couple thousand favors. What better way to show up Adam than show up with Jackson?”
“This would be more than a favor, Jules. It would be a weekend with my family. Add that to a few days of travel, and it’s not just a quick visit. If he did this, I’m pretty sure you would owe him your firstborn child.” I gave him a poke. “And for the last time, this is not about showing up Adam. This is about—”
“Proving that you’re okay. I know, I know. Jesus.” He rolled his eyes. “Trust me. It wouldn’t be a problem. I was thinking about cashing in my favors for something monetary. Something big. Like a car, maybe. But I figured that would make me—”
“A shameless opportunist?” I suggested helpfully.
“A bad brother,” he finished with a glare. “You want my help or not?”
“Not. I don’t need to pretend my life is anything other than it is.” I shook my head. “When did it become pathetic and sad to be happy by yourself? Is that not allowed?”
He slumped in his chair. “Here we go.”
“No, I’m serious. Do you really need someone on your arm to be complete? Am I no less of a person because I’m perfectly all right being by myself?”
He raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “You know, that all sounds really good and healthy. But none of that is going to get you out of this blind date. Or the others. How many dates do you think Lane could set up in a weekend? In her hometown, no less?”
I swallowed, suitably scared. “A lot.”
“Besides, I’m more interested in you rubbing your happiness in Adam’s face than anything else.”
I scowled. “That’s immature.”
He shrugged. “I’m immature.”
I had to admit—he had me there.
At my silence, he sighed and pushed out of the chair. “I’m going to raid the fridge again.” He disappeared inside the house, the screen door sliding shut behind him quietly.
I sighed, clicking through my Facebook feed. I was officially a creeper. An undercover lurker. Any moment now, Chris Hansen was going to pop out of my bushes, offer me some lemonade and cookies, and ask me if this was something I usually did. Obstinately, I flicked through Adam’s photos again—there was plenty of time to register as a creepy offender later.
I was over him. Happy for him. But I couldn’t deny that seeing those engagement pictures made me feel some kind of way. I scrolled past a photo of the two of them on a tandem bike. Then another of the two of them sharing some sort of dessert stacked high with pineapple and whipped cream.
Anyone could look happy in pictures. It was one moment in time, a split second to smile. I looked at the picture of Adam and Nicole, slow-dancing under softly glowing Chinese lanterns. So maybe Adam was happy and maybe he wasn’t. But if a picture was worth a thousand words, this picture was talking. It was talking with its hand on its hip, and mostly it was saying, “Honey, I’m over you.”
I squinted at the sassy picture. “Shut up,” I muttered. Christ. I needed to get out more. And maybe see someone qualified to prescribe me something. Before I could change my mind, I called out for Julian. “Julie!”
After a moment, he cracked the screen door and stuck his head through. He had a pint of my whole fruit sorbet in one hand and a spoon handle sticking out of his mouth. “Don’t call me that. Whadd’ya want?”
I scowled. “Black cherry is my favorite. Isn’t that my last one?”
He scowled right back, pulling out the spoon and pointing it in my direction. “Didn’t you drink my last wine cooler?”
Oh. Memory refreshed. Indignation shelved. “I need a date,” I declared.
“Honey, you are not my type, fabulous hair notwithstanding.”
“Get over yourself, Sparks.” I flipped the aforementioned hair over my shoulder. I closed the browser window before I officially went insane. “Find me someone suitable.”
“What’s suitable?”
The word “suitable” really could mean just about anything. I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “The usual suspects.”
“So…Kevin Spacey then?” Julian made a frustrated noise. “Come on, give me something to work with. Tall? Short? Blond? Brunette?”
“Just pick someone. Someone…nice.”
Nice. That sounded corny as hell, but that was where I was in my life. I didn’t care how he looked or what he did. I needed someone to play a role. Someone to take home and trot in front of my family to prove to everyone I was perfectly all right.
And if he could be hot enough to make Adam’s bottom lip drop like a scroll, well, I could probably live with that.