The sound of the doorbell startles me. I stand, then quickly return the vase containing my parents’ ashes to the mantle, and give them a quick kiss. I glance in the fireplace at Ivy’s notebook—the girl I once was but am no more, and dust off my hands.
Gliding to the door, I tousle my hair, and blot my face with the sleeve of my shirt. The doorbell rings again, and I jolt. Fill my lungs with a calming, deep breath, before slowly releasing it.
This is it. My first date with my future husband. I am going to be Mrs. Jansen. I am, I am, I am. And one day, I can look back on this and tell our children just how nervous and excited, but how very ready, I was.
When I open the door, my smile fades.
“Wanna hit up some Irish bars? Eat some green eggs and ham for the ol’ St. Paddy’s?”
I sigh, looking past Jared for any sign of Brooks on the barren street. “Since when do you knock?”
“Since you apparently started locking the door,” he quips.
“Sorry, I can’t. I … I have a date.”
“A date? He squints at first, but then he smiles—the bronze of his cheeks turning berry. “Well, look at you, getting out there.”
I pull the door shut behind me, and step onto the porch. “Anyway, uh … I hate to kick you out, but I don’t want my date to get the wrong idea. He should be here any minute.”
He shrugs, his hands rising in defeat. “Guess I’ll call Kim, then.”
“One of your new playthings?”
He reaches his car. Turns around and shakes his head. “Nah. She’s been around awhile.”
I laugh. “Be careful.”
I go back inside, staring at the clock on my phone impatiently. Eighteen minutes. Eighteen minutes late. I want to text him, ask where he is, but I decide thirty minutes will be less needy. Emily isn’t clingy. But he better not be blowing me off, or I’ll make him wish he were still with Eliza.
But he isn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t, because we’re meant to be, and nobody fucks with God’s plan.
Two years ago, it wasn’t even a possibility to me that my parents could both be taken from this Earth, courtesy of a drugged-out driver. And, just over a year ago, I’d have never guessed I’d be waiting for Brooks to show up at my house. Never would have expected my estranged bitch grandmother to also die, after winning the lottery—twice—and leave her millions to me. Wouldn’t have dreamed I’d have the balls to go through near total-body plastic surgery, transforming me from grotesque to hot. That I’d actually succeed in breaking up his engagement to Eliza, the bitch who tortured me as a teen after breaking my nose on purpose, and then latched onto Brooks.
Eliza—the reason I was ugly and not the content Plain Jane I was born to be. The weight loss, blonde hair, new teeth, big tits, new chin, liposuction, lip lift, fillers, blepharoplasty, and most importantly, rhinoplasty, were all for Brooks, but because of her. Playing bestie to his girlfriend and girlfriend to his bestie worked, so I suppose I should thank her.
But, where the fuck is my prize?
I didn’t spend the last four months walking my dog in the park, hoping to run into him, only to have him ghost me today. After an awkward haven’t-seen-you-in-forever chat, he’d agreed to fix my garbage disposal that I then hastily broke for him. So, I’m holding him to his commitment, just like I plan to hold him to the promise he’d made in fifth grade to marry me someday.
Twenty-two minutes. Close enough.
I just pulled up at my house. Totally forgot the time. Hope I didn’t miss you.
He replies almost immediately. On my way. Had to get supplies. Glad you weren’t waiting around.
Sounds good.
I smile, hugging the phone to my chest. Everyone always envies high school sweethearts. But Brooks and I—well, technically Ivy and Brooks, but whatever—were elementary sweethearts, and that is infinitely more special. But who cares about Ivy. Every shred of her memory is now a casserole of memories in the fireplace. I don’t need her past holding me back.
Forget her.
I’m sitting on the porch when he finally arrives, painting the final coat of emerald polish on my nails. It’s the only green I’ll be wearing today as I associate it with Eliza—who reminds me of vomit because she makes me fucking sick.
I’d imagined being inside when Brooks arrived, the gust of fresh air as I opened the door to his perfect face playing out all romantical and shit. But the plastic fumes from the binder of the notebook started to get to me. I coughed. Hacked. Then decided I needed to go outside and air out the place, so here I am.
I stuff the polish in my pocket, my heartbeat indecisive as his car turns in my driveway. I can’t see his face due to the glare on the windshield, but I stand. Walk to the bottom of the steps, and wait. The driver’s side door opens, and in a haze of euphoria, he’s approaching me, million-dollar smile, muscles showcased under a tight, green T-shirt with a clover on the front.
He reaches me, bag of tools in hand, still smiling. I want to hug him, but then I’d probably rip off his clothes, and my nails haven’t cured yet.
“Sorry I am late. Long line at Home Depot.”
“I’m glad you were, since I was too.” I smile. Lead him inside to the house I’ve scrubbed sterile for him.
I shut the door behind us, and Lucy barks from the bedroom. Sometimes I think she senses my thoughts, so I think: Quiet down, bitch. Then, I feel bad, so: Sorry, just kidding, love you, bye.
Brooks sniffs. “You smell that?”
“What?” Oh, my God, did I put on deodorant?
“Smells like … burning plastic or something.” His eyes move to the fireplace.
“Oh … yeah. Old house,” I shrug.
He smiles, then moves past me to the kitchen, and sets his tool bag on the counter. He turns on the water and watches the sink fill. “How long has it been clogged?”
I hover behind him at a distance, but close enough to smell the scent of a fresh shower on him. “Couple days.”
He flips the switch to turn on the disposal. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t hum. It is D-E-A-D, dead. Whew! My eyes are glued to him, memorizing, as he gets on his knees to tinker beneath the sink. His shirt rises amid all his shifting, revealing the shallow dips of two dimples above the top of his jeans.
“Hmm,” he says. He gets up and looks through the bag he brought. He stretches some gloves over his hands. Reaches into the disposal. “Well, there is definitely something down here.”
“Really? What is it?”
He struggles a bit, the muscles in his arms rising and falling with every jerk. I wonder if that’s how they’d look if I watched him jerk off from behind—a real voyeur, I’d be!
“I don’t know, but...” he grunts. “It’s almost like it’s a part of the damn thing.”
Finally, he pulls something out, his back still to me. Then, he flips the switch, and the disposal is up and running again. Dammit, that was too quick. I wanted to see that ass all day.
“What was it?” But, of course, I know it’s a hunk of toothpicks and melted candle wax.
He flips off the disposal, then turns. Holds the chunk of waxy, wooden shards closer to me, wearing a look of what the fuck on his face. “Looks like an army of termites threw up in your sink.”
“Oh my God.” My eyes bulge, and I open the trashcan for him.
He chucks it inside before tossing his gloves too. He laughs. “You know you aren’t supposed to put toothpicks down your disposal, right?”
“Obviously.” I roll my eyes playfully. “Must have happened when I watched my neighbor’s kid.” There really is a little girl named Everly, and I really did see her outside during my clogging efforts, so yay for basically telling the truth!
“Kids.” He smiles, then gathers up his tools and zips his bag.
I move back into the living area, not knowing what to do or say next other than, “Thank you. I really appreciate you fixing it.”
He follows, closing the distance between us. “Hard to resist a damsel in distress.”
Is that what he likes? Come to think of it, Eliza was a fucking mess. Is a mess.
We stare at each other, the seconds ticking into an uncomfortable silence. If I didn’t know him, I’d be afraid. He’s intimidating in the dingy light of this room, bag of potential murder weapons in hand. The blank expression and dark hair only softened by the bright turquoise of his eyes—eyes that make you want to hold their gaze, while their owner fucks you senseless.
His lips curl into a half-smile. “Well, I would say we could catch up over a drink since it’s St. Patrick’s Day and all, but I’m sure you probably have plans.”
“I don’t!” I blurt, and then try to fix my eagerness. “I mean, St. Patrick’s isn’t really a big deal to me, hence the very little green I’m wearing.” I hold up my hands, showing him my nails.
His free hand grabs for one of them, and I shiver. “Cheater,” he says, releasing his grip. No, pretty sure that’s your cunt ex-fiance, I think. “Put on a green shirt. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Oh my God. He’ll wait for me. In the car. His car. A drink. A date. My dream. I roll my eyes. Lift my shoulders. “Well, I’m not one to turn down a free drink.”