by Holly Kerr
“I’m sure he loves that.” I give my head a quick shake, unable to stop the vivid image of Ruthie standing before me in the said unmentionables.
She’d go for bright colours. Maybe those little thongs, or the cheeky panties that Freyka used to complain about—
“What’s the matter?” Ruthie asks suspiciously.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Why?”
“You look strange.” A shadow crosses her face and she smiles slyly. “Did you like it when I mentioned my unmentionables? Are you thinking about me in my lacy undies?”
“I’ve got a great image of you in granny panties.” I stick up my thumb. “Thanks. I’ll be sure to remember that in the days to come.”
She smiles again. “One thing you’ll learn about me is that I’m unforgettable.”
I scowl. “Can’t wait not to learn the rest.”
Chapter Three
Ruthie
I leave Trev in the bathroom and slip down to the kitchen to grab the dish soap before heading to the laundry room in the basement to deal with his sweater. Who does this guy think he is, freaking out over a simple spot?
Maybe a big spot.
But there’s no need getting so aggravated about it. So irritated. It would have been easy to have laughed it off, but no, this guy must be one of those high-maintenance men who need everything to be perfect, and now I have to deal with that, as well as deal with the image of him shirtless that’s stuck in my mind.
Why did I have to see him half-naked and why does it affect me so much?
Bother me. It doesn’t affect me. Why should it? He’s a man, with a nice, maybe pretty impressive, chest. It’s not like I haven’t seen shirtless men before, so why do I have the urge to run my fingers through his chest hair?
And then let my fingers keep going to the hair on his head.
I find a bucket in the laundry room and angrily throw in his sweater, adding a healthy squirt of Dawn before I cover everything with vinegar.
My mother might not have been much of a mother to me, but at least she taught me a few of the fundamentals—how to get out a wine stain, how every woman should have a purse, a suitcase and an umbrella that they are proud to be seen with, and never to apologize for something that isn’t my fault.
She never explained how not to feel guilty when it is.
I finally rejoin the party, my hands smelling of vinegar. I hope this Trev appreciates it when his shirt turns a snowy white after I’m finished with it.
The living room is still full of people but the noise level is more manageable, like Flora asked everyone to take it down a notch. As much as she dislikes/fears her neighbour Mr. Cullen, I never thought she’d do that. She likes to party almost as much as I do.
I notice her across the room, holding Theo and making googly eyes at the baby. Maybe her idea of partying has changed.
Back in the days before she met Thomas, Flora had always been ready, willing and eager to do anything fun, and let her sixteen-year-old niece join in the fun. I’ve had the ability to talk myself into anywhere since grade two when I convinced the teacher to let my class stay inside during a particularly cold day. These days I mainly use my height and overall awesome personality to sweet-talk bouncers and security guards.
I once got backstage at the Pink concert. She’s as amazing in person as she is on stage.
I keep my gaze open and interested as I plunge into the crowd around the food table. Of course the person I make eye contact with is Trev.
Neither one of us smiles.
I think he’s fixed his hair.
Dean’s sweater doesn’t cling to Trev’s shoulders like his did, but it doesn’t look half bad. Except for the V-neck, which draws my attention to his chest. The gray does something interesting to his eyes, which I assumed were brown, but from across the room seem more bluey-gray.
I’ve always had good eyesight.
You know when you’re at a party and hyperaware of another person, but don’t want them to notice? That’s how it is with Trev and me for the rest of the night.
Whenever I look over at him, I find his gaze on me, or shifting away with a scowl on his face. He doesn’t look happy to be here, which surprises me, because there’s no place I’d rather be than in the midst of a group of people who know nothing about me.
If they knew me, they may not like me. If you don’t know me, you have to like me.
Trev doesn’t know me, but it’s apparent he doesn’t like me, which is basically like throwing down the gauntlet for me. I vow to win him over.
But…why do I want to?
I pull my gaze away from Trev once again. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him running a hand through his hair and I turn back. All those curls, like an older Timothée
Chalamet. Can there please be something about this guy that I don’t find interesting?
Interested, not attracted. I am not attracted to him. Even if I was, I don’t do jerks.
Not anymore.
“Ruthie,” Adam sings as he shoves between two baseball players across from me, giving them each a quick once-over. He holds the hand of a young woman about my age with a dark pixie cut, holding a glass of wine in the other. “I need you to meet Shae.”
I turn not just my attention away from Trev, but my whole body towards Adam and his friend, not even giving the baseball players a second glance. One acted like he expected me to fall at his feet, so I’ve had enough of them for the night.
I pluck the glass from Adam’s hand. “Who’s Shae?”
“Me,” says the girl. She comes up to my shoulder and reaches a beringed hand to touch one of my rose-gold curls. “I like the hair.”
“Shae and friends have just gotten back from Scotland,” Adam explains. “Edinburgh. The land of Reuben.” Reuben is the newest employee of M.K.’s patisserie, and Adam is already in thrall of the burly Highlander.
“We did the Outlander tour,” Shae says. “I’m a sucker for that show.”
“The books are better,” I say automatically. “Well, except for how wordy they can be, and they’re in need of a good edit.”
“I met Diana Gabaldon,” Shae admits.
“Really!” My eyes widen with admiration. I meet a lot of famous people—rock stars and athletes and the odd politician—but the ones I completely fangirl on are writers.
If I played the Who would you invite for dinner? game, my table would be made up of Nora Roberts, JoJo Moyes, and Jennifer Probst. And Shakespeare. I love that stuff.
“She was so amazing,” Shae cries, and my jealousy builds as she gushes about meeting the author of one of the best time-travelling romance series of all times.
“That’s not why I wanted you to meet her,” Adam says as soon as he can get a word in edgewise. “Shae’s going on Revolving Roommates!”
“Shut the front door!” My shriek brings the attention of all within hearing radius. Revolving Roommates is my favourite reality show, next to The Bachelor and the Great Bake Off. “I’ve been trying to get on for years! How’d you do it?”
Shae shrugs modestly. “I told them it was on my bucket list.”
“Do you think they’ll let me on if I tell them that? I just got my latest rejection. I think it might be my video. I’m not over the top enough.”
The show allows eight contestants to live together for three months, with one being voted out each week, and new contestants joining in at random times. I’ve applied four times, but I’m not giving up hope yet.
Adam narrows his eyes at me. “I can’t see that at all.”
“I do a vlog about travelling and bucket list stuff,” Shae says vaguely. “I think the producers liked that idea.”
“That’s great for you. Do you have a copy of your video I can check out to give me ideas of what a winning one looks like?” I don’t miss the quick glance Shae gives Adam, and his answering nod. “I won’t steal any state secrets.”
“No, it’s cool. There’s just some stuff on there that I don’t want the world to kn
ow.”
“But you’re going on a reality show, so the world is going to find out.”
“They said they’d allow me to do it on my own timeline. I’ve got a disease,” Shae says in a low voice. “Not a good one.”
That stops me. She seems so warm and friendly and, well, full of life. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“See, that’s why I don’t like telling anything. Everybody goes all OMG, you’re going to die.” She waves her hands like spastic jazz hands. “And they start weirding out. I might be dying, but I’m going to make sure I do all the stuff I’ve always wanted to do before I go.”
“And even some things you didn’t want to do,” Adam says with an affectionate smile.
“That’s a great way of looking at things,” I say.
“It’s the only way I can. But, look, I’m happy to send you a copy of my video for you to check out. And when I’m back from the show, I can give you some hints. I leave next week.”
“That would be great.”
After chatting for a few moments, Shae and Adam move away, leaving me back at the food table where I began. But I always look at being alone at parties as an opportunity, not something to fear. There’s not much in life that I fear, just like regret. There’s no point in wasting time on either.
Trev
I scowl as another laugh comes from the group where Ruthie is standing. She’s so noticeable with her height and the hair that I can’t go anywhere in this place without seeing her.
Plus, wearing Dean’s sweater is weird, not that Dean notices. I talked to him for ten minutes about his getting a chance to tryout for the Jays again and never once did he acknowledge that I was wearing his shirt. Of, course, if I was talking about the possibility of making it to the majors, I wouldn’t notice anything else either.
I had dreams like that once but gave them up. Playing ball at university was good enough for me, but then again, I never had Dean’s talent.
The man is a god with a bat and ball.
I know enough people at the party to join in a few groups, but I’m not in a party mood. First Freyka breaking up with me and then Ruthie—women are truly making my life difficult today.
I check my watch. I’ve only been here an hour, so I can’t leave without seeming rude, even though I’d rather be home. There’s only a week left in school and the behaviour of the students in my grade six class keeps getting worse. Yesterday, someone filmed a Tik Tok video during English, cell phones kept going off, and one of the boys actually swallowed acrylic paint during art. I’m looking forward to the two-week break as much as they are. Maybe more.
I’ve been a teacher at United Canada College for eight years, but this is the first year it feels like the boys are getting the best of me. Or maybe that they aren’t getting my best. For the past six months, all I’ve wanted to do is hide at home and work on my screenplay. Lately, I can’t go a day at school without jotting some note about a character or a scene.
I’m planning on spending most of the holiday break working on it.
Even at a party, I can’t stop thinking about it, viewing the crowd like my hero Dane Drake, international spy and all-around ladies man, would. Who is a threat? Has the villain already infiltrated the house, planning on exposing his plan? Who would be Dane’s next conquest?
Not that I’m looking for a conquest.
Should I have a party scene? What about a fight during a party, where a lovesick woman with gold hair and huge green eyes threatens to throw her glass of champagne on Dane, but he manages to catch the glass without spilling a drop?
Sometimes it’s more fun living in my fantasy world.
I cross the room, heading to the food table for something to do, not because Ruthie is there. She holds her wine glass like she’s about to spill it again, waving it around with her long arms.
Nice arms. Her shoulders are bare and what’s left of the sleeves is attached by a button at the wrist so the fabric flies open. I’m a sucker for a woman with well-defined biceps.
Not that I’m admiring anything about that woman after she ruined my sweater.
I set my drink—a non-staining beer—on the table and pick up a paper plate and survey the offerings.
“Good party,” a voice beside me says.
I perk up. She’s small and compact, with dark hair and eyes, wearing a black dress that shows off all her curves. “It is now.” I run a hand through my hair, stopping halfway through as I remember Freyka needling me on how much I touch my hair. “How do you know Dean?” I ask, awkwardly dropping my hand.
“I don’t. I know Flora. I work at the gym beside her shop. And I know M.K.”
This perks me up even more as I check out any sign of well-defined arms. “Flora’s great. I don’t know M.K. very well yet, but she seems nice.”
“I think so.” She puts a handful of potato chips onto her plate along the colourful variety of vegetables already there.
I follow suit. “I guess you can eat whatever you want when you work at a gym.” I shake my head with self-disgust. “Not that you need to worry about anything—eat what you want. I don’t know why I said that.”
There’s no way I will be basing the dialogue in my movie on my own. I’ve crashed and burned enough times to know I need serious help.
Meeting women has always been hard for me, and only gets more difficult as I get older. And the more I crash and burn, the more I accept the names and numbers my mother procures for me.
Maybe I should rethink accepting numbers from Mom.
I’m glad when she smiles. “I run the juice bar, but yes, Paulo puts me through the paces.”
“Maybe I should check it out. Now that the season is over, I need more of a workout then walking my dog.”
“Oh, you play baseball too?”
“With Dean. And Clay, M.K.’s significant other.” I point out Clay across the room. “And a bunch of other guys here too.”
“It’s a baseball party,” she says with delight. “I play on a women’s softball team. I’ve been trying to recruit Flora to join.”
We chat about sports for a while, standing off to the side as we eat the potato chips and I’m about to make the move to ask for her number, when she looks up at a motion from a woman across the room. “Look, I have to run,” she says apologetically. “It’s been nice talking to you. Drop by the gym sometime.”
“I will,” I say, opening my mouth to say more, but she hurries off.
Now I’m all alone by the food table, without a drink and holding my empty plate.
Ruthie sidles up to me with a bottle of beer in her hand. “Here,” she says handing it to me. “It’s the least I can do since most of yours ended up on me.”
“I don’t think it happened quite like that.”
“Smell my shoulder.” She’s tall enough to be able to jerk her bare shoulder right under my nose. “Stinks of beer.”
I smell her before I can stop myself. “I don’t smell beer.”
I smell cookies. Ruthie smells like cookies with a faint buttery scent.
Why am I analyzing her scent?
“It’s there. I’m going to reek of it in the morning.” She reaches behind me with a tortilla chip, stabbing into the remains of the spinach dip. As she raises it to her mouth, still covered by that shimmering lipstick, a tiny glob falls off the chip.
I watch as it falls right onto my shoe.
“Oops.” Ruthie shrugs.
“Really? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“What do you want me to say? Sorry I didn’t properly scoop my dip.” I sniff my displeasure and Ruthie’s eyes narrow. “You know, I thought you played baseball.”
“I do,” I say. “Why?”
“Do you like the team you play on?”
“Yeah, I started it. It used to be teacher friends, but now anyone—Why?” I ask suspiciously.
“Your new friend over there?” She gestures with her chin. “The lovely lady you just spent twenty minutes talking to? The one you looked li
ke you were about to ask for her number?”
“Were you watching me?”
“I’m observant. I notice things.”
“Ok, so?”
“She likes the team she plays on too. Only it’s a different team than yours.” Ruthie stares at me, looking expectant, until things finally click into place. “You get it now, don’t you?”
I walk away without a word.
Chapter Four
Ruthie
I wake up the morning after the party to find pictures of me and Colton splashed over Instagram.
Pictures of us at brunch, hanging out in the hotel room with the television in the background and popcorn kernels on the bed. I took that pic and it’s a good one.
There’s also a close-up of the Ring Pop on my finger with the caption #happiestguyalive.
I stare at the picture on my phone, wishing the twinge in my stomach were hunger rather than unease. It’s not because I’ve been blasted all over social media—a quick check shows that more pictures can be found on Facebook and Twitter—but what the pictures signify.
Colton has told the whole world that we’re engaged and I haven’t even mentioned it to my best friends.
The blue sugar from the candy washed off when I rinsed out Trev’s sweater last night but the plastic still circles my finger. Why would I accept it when I have no intention of marrying anyone, let alone Colton? He’s cute and sweet and I like the way he kisses, but he knows nothing about me, and I know even less about him.
It must be a publicity stunt. That’s the only reason for his causal offer and now seemingly official announcement. He wants the city to love him for more than his baseball prowess and he’s using me and our facsimile of a relationship to do it.
I don’t mind him using me like this, although it would have been nice to be told in advance. I’ve done similar things for a previous boyfriend—not that Rafe was much of a boyfriend. He’s an Ultimate Fighter who wanted to get into acting, so his publicist suggested a girlfriend might help. Enter me, through a friend of a friend.