Eventually, though, I didn’t want to think “Screw you, Bryan Leighton” every time I put on one of my designs, but I kept the “My Favorite Mistake” theme because I liked the idea of turning ugly rejection and hurt into something special and beautiful.
The boutique owner had started carrying my necklaces and the “My Favorite Mistakes” brand had become a customer favorite in her store, and soon at my parents’ shop too, then at others in Manhattan. The trouble was I made all the charms by hand, and the bespoke nature was getting a little challenging. I needed practical skills, and I wanted to learn them from someone who knew how to make a success of a new business.
But I wasn’t only about my success. My parents ran a little gift shop in the tourist town of Mystic, Connecticut, where they’d had a hard time of it during the economic downturn a few years back. They’d taken out a loan to keep inventory stocked, and I hated to see them struggling to keep up payments. The store was their nest egg, their key to eventual retirement. They’d worked hard my whole life—putting my brother and me through college, weathering financial storms and health troubles. Now, they were within spitting distance of retirement, and I wanted to make sure they could enjoy some well-deserved time off. I’d taken out loans to pay for business school, but they weren’t due for several years. The quicker my own business ramped up, the quicker I’d be able to help pay off the loan on theirs.
Was it too much for me to ask to learn in a distraction-free zone? Working alongside the man who’d broken my heart was not conducive to focus or flow. Especially not when Bryan looked even better than before. In his early twenties, he’d had a sweet, boyish face. Now, he was twenty-eight, and his features were more refined. After five years of running a corporation, he was more sophisticated—his style, his clothes, even the way he carried himself. He’d definitely kept in shape, even with an office job. His tailored shirt hinted at toned muscles, and his handshake had gripped me as inescapably as his forest-green eyes.
The small classroom hummed with the sound of the other students and mentors chatting. I glanced over at where Professor Oliver went around, cheerfully introducing or checking in with the pairs. He seemed invested in everyone getting along and working together—he was hard not to like, actually. Maybe I should at least try to make things work before I messed up his matchmaking.
As I took the seat next to Bryan, I donned my armor and pictured my mom. She’d met everything, from a devastating car accident to the long recovery to the financial hardships that followed, with a tough kind of optimism, brushing one palm against the other and saying, “Let’s get to work.”
So that’s what I was going to do.
“This was my favorite class when I went here,” Bryan said, breaking the silence.
“Oh?” I was intently focused on . . . focusing.
He cleared his throat, sounding awkward. “You’re right. I suppose it’s not really a class,” he amended.
I looked at him in surprise—Was he nervous?—and a little confusion. “Did I say it wasn’t a class?”
“I inferred it from this”—he pointed, from a safe distance, to the knot between my brows—“thing you have going on here.”
Perfect. Now I felt awkward as I relaxed my forehead and smoothed the furrow with my finger. “Are you saying that I have a resting bitch face?”
His mouth opened soundlessly, and his eyes widened. “I would never. I can’t even imagine what that would look like on you. Which was why I thought you disagreed with my word choice.”
My exhale was more a scoff than a laugh. “Trust me—if you see my bitch face, it won’t have anything to do with what to call this . . .” I gestured to the room and its occupants, all seeming to be further along with their plans than we were.
He winced—and he ought to—and looked even more awkward and nervous than before, and he didn’t hurry to fill the silence. I gave in first.
“What do we call it, then?” I asked, turning to him expectantly. “If it’s not a class.”
Turning the question over, he mused, “It’s not strictly an internship. Not a practicum or a symposium. Maybe ‘fieldwork’?”
“That sounds like we’ll need test tubes and sample collecting . . . stuff.”
“Good point,” he said. “And there are places in the city where I wouldn’t want to collect samples without a full hazmat suit.”
“Best avoided.” I kept it deadpan. He was trying to smooth over the past, but I wasn’t ready for that, no matter how hard he worked at it. And I’d give him that—he was working pretty hard.
“A workshop?” he suggested. “At least you’d have a birdhouse by the end of it.”
How was I not going to ask? “A birdhouse?”
He flashed the lopsided smile I remembered, showing off straight white teeth. “Doesn’t everyone build a birdhouse in shop?”
“I wouldn’t know. I was in AV club.”
“Of course.” The smile became a grin, with a we have an inside joke chuckle. “You would be, the way you love movies.”
If this were a movie, there’d be a screeching tire sound effect as he realized his mistake, referencing our awkward—and painful, on my part—past. I could see him mentally searching for the undo button, but it was no good—the tiny bit of thaw I’d felt froze back up, more solid than ever.
I wrapped my hand around the camera charm on my necklace for strength. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t start with the smiles and the banter and the teasing that had carried us through that summer in Mystic. One hit and I’d be hooked again, and he’d be in the wind like before.
This wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t waste this semester or this class . . . workshop . . . seminar . . . whatever. Not only did I need it to graduate, I needed this experience not only for my business but also security for my parents and the shop. I had to absorb as much as I could from my mentor. I couldn’t spend all my mental energy second-guessing everything he said or I felt.
I would request a reassignment. Professor Oliver kept office hours, and I would be there like a vulture waiting for him to open his door.
Bryan glanced over at the professor, but when he turned back, he locked his eyes with me, then lowered his voice. “Look, Kat. I had no idea.”
“No idea what?” I asked with a side-eye. He could mean a number of things. I didn’t know I’d break your heart. I didn’t realize I could be so cruel.
“When I agreed to be a mentor, I didn’t know you’d be in this class.”
He held my gaze, and I believed he was sincere. Nothing seemed false. But more than that, I could feel it in the way my stomach fluttered and my heart sped up the longer I stared into his dark-green eyes.
Besides, I had seen his surprise when he caught sight of me. Was he as unhappy about the situation as I was?
“Am I supposed to be grateful that you didn’t set this up on purpose?” I couldn’t let on that a part of me wished he had. “I’m sorry if this is awkward for you, Bryan.”
“That’s not . . .” He broke off with a shake of his head and reached out as if he was about to touch my arm. But instead, he laced his fingers together on the tabletop and took a long pause to consider his words. Then, in a low, smoky voice, he said, “What I was going to say is . . . I’m glad you are here. I’m glad it worked out this way.”
My heart jumped, and I couldn’t say which way. There was heat and softening defenses in one direction and bristling, fearful anger in the other. In the middle was confusion and indecision.
I’d spent the last five years moving past my first big love, juggling classes, making jewelry, and building my business.
I would be a fool to jump back into the fire that had already burned me once.
Time was up shortly after that, and I nearly bolted from the classroom and made a beeline for the ladies’ room, where I twisted my hair up out of the way with a clip then splashed some water onto my face and tried to get some perspective. And if I happened to give Bryan time to clear the building, even better.
I added some lip gloss so I looked more pulled together than I felt, tucked a strand of dark hair behind my ear, then ventured to the door and peered out into the empty hall. Whew.
The heels of my boots echoed in the wide hallway as I pulled out my phone and tapped the number for my parents’ shop. I needed to root myself in the realities of my life—my parents, my plans for them, my goals for the business.
“Mystic Landing. How may I help you?” Mom’s voice already made me feel steadier, more grounded.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, sweetie!” She dove right in with her usual inquisition. “How are you? How’s school? How’s Jill? How is My Favorite Mistakes?”
“I’m great. School is fine. I’ve never had a better roommate. And I’m working hard on the business. But how are you? What’s going on with you and Dad and the shop?”
I pictured her waving my question away like so much fluff as she shared a smile with a customer walking into the store. At least, I hoped there were plenty of customers.
“Everything is just fine. A young woman even came in this morning and tried on one of your necklaces.”
“Awesome. Did she buy it?”
“No, but she said she’d come back tomorrow.”
I tried not to sigh aloud. That usually translated into no sale. “So, are you still getting plenty of late-summer tourists?”
“Oh sure. Of course,” she said quickly. Too quickly to trust she wasn’t putting on a front so I wouldn’t worry, so I followed up with another question.
“What have you been up to today?”
“I rearranged some of the window displays.”
My heart sank. That meant she’d had time on her hands. If there were customers, she’d be at the cash register, working the counter, ringing up sundries and gifts for the tourists who streamed in.
She’d be standing at the very same counter where, five years ago, Bryan asked me out on our first date.
I needed blinders to keep in my lane. But would they work if the distraction came from my own mind?
Mom and I talked more about her day, then I told her I loved her and said goodbye.
As I left the building, I nearly dropped my phone when I saw Bryan waiting for me.
It wasn’t fair.
How many times after he left me had I wished to see this exact picture?
Now that I sort of semi had things rolling in the right direction, I got my wish. And it threatened to knock me right off course.
3
Bryan
Five Years Ago
Bruce Springsteen rattled through the speakers of Nate’s car as the sun beat down hard through the windshield. “Our last weeks of freedom!” Nate yelled over the music. “We’ve got to make the most of it. The Boss would want us to.”
He’d been my roommate throughout most of college at NYU and then during the MBA program. I had a pretty good read by now when he was just making noise. “Hate to break it to you,” I shouted back, “but if you’re planning a two-week party, we should have gone to Mexico or something. Not to your parents’ house to run their store.”
Nate laughed and turned down the stereo as we got into town. “Okay, fine. You got me on that.”
“Sounds like they really need this break though,” I said. His folks ran a little gift shop and were trusting two newly minted MBAs to keep Mystic Landing running smoothly.
“Well, they put me through school with the shop. And now it’s Kat who’s headed to NYU in the fall.”
Nate had told me plenty about her, to the degree that any guy talks about his sister. I’d seen her picture on Facebook and on his phone, but I’d never given her a second thought. But that changed within minutes of pulling up in his driveway.
Then Kat became all I could think about.
She flung open the door to the house and ran out to launch herself at Nate, wrapping him in a huge hug.
It was not okay for Nate to have a sister this beautiful.
Her pictures didn’t do her justice. I didn’t know what would. She was the kind of pretty that was impossible to capture.
“I missed you, you big knucklehead,” she was telling Nate with a laugh.
“Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to get sick of me,” he said, hugging her back. “You having a good last summer before college starts?”
“The best,” she said, then turned to me as I climbed out of the car.
Her dark-brown eyes met and held mine, and I swear I could feel time slow down, full of the heady possibility of a spark.
Then she glanced away, trying not to look at me. The thought that she might feel this too nearly knocked me out.
She wore a light-blue T-shirt, jean shorts, and flip-flops. She was an Ivory Soap kind of girl who didn’t need makeup, who could roll out of bed gorgeous because it was all her—the way her eyes sparkled and her smile lit up a . . . well, in this case, a driveway.
“Bryan, this is my sister, Kat.”
I set down my duffel bag and extended a hand, quickly realizing she wasn’t a handshake kind of girl. So I wrapped her in a friendly hug. She smelled like oranges and sunshine, and the metal of her necklace pendant pressed against my chest.
“I feel like I know you already,” I said when I pulled back, and kept to a safe, friendly topic. “Nate says you’re a huge movie fan, when you’re not making necklaces. Is there anything better than skipping class for a matinee?”
She flashed a smile at me. “A matinee and popcorn.”
“Doesn’t get any better than that. But what kind of popcorn?” I wasn’t ready to let go of the moment. “Regular? Buttered or kettle corn?”
She rolled her eyes and parked her hands on her hips. “Is that some kind of trick question?”
I arched an eyebrow. She was playful. Kill me now. My kryptonite was a woman who liked to banter. “Maybe it is.”
“Obviously, the answer is kettle corn.”
We were only discussing popcorn. I knew that. Still, I felt like Hugh Grant in Love Actually when he meets the woman he falls for on his first day of work and knows, just knows, he’s a goner.
“Good point.” But I could have done her one better. What I could have said, but didn’t, was A matinee, popcorn, and a girl exactly like you.
4
Kat
Present Day
He stood framed by Washington Square Park, the late afternoon clouds behind him.
“Fancy meeting you here,” he said once I was within speaking distance.
What part of me bolting out of the classroom was hard to interpret? The anger that had uncoiled as I talked to my mom tightened back up again. Because he’d waited for me. Because he could be so easy and friendly in his manner, or else fake it really well. Because he seemed impervious to my ice-gaze, while with one look he could set off fifty different emotions in me like a long row of firecrackers.
“Who would have thought?” I replied, keeping my tone cool, at least. I reached for the movie camera charm and touched it once, as if it brought me power and strength. Nearby, a mime walked an imaginary dog and a grown woman in a Glinda dress created giant bubbles with a wand, to the delight of the toddlers chasing them.
“So, I was thinking,” he said, in a here-goes-nothing voice that hinted he may not be as impervious as I thought, “I want this mentorship to go well and be useful for you. So, what if, for the sake of the class, we start over? Just wipe the slate clean and go on like we just met today.”
“And what?” I asked, stunned that he thought I could flip the past hurt off with a switch. “Just reset the past like a video game?”
He raised an eyebrow. I didn’t want to let on that I had this riot of feelings inside, but I couldn’t seem to help it around him.
Changing his tone slightly, he tipped his head toward an open bench. “Want to chat for a bit?”
No. You broke my heart. I don’t want to be near you in any way, shape, or form.
But if I couldn’t switch mentors tomorrow, I’d have to
work with him—be civil, at least. For now, a clean slate was a good approach. I could pretend he’d meant as little to me as I apparently had to him. After all, I’d been over him for a long time. Seeing him again had simply stirred old memories, like dust in an unused room.
So, playing along, I extended a hand and an all-business smile. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kat Harper. I’m an aspiring jewelry designer.”
He shook my hand. “Bryan Leighton. A pleasure to meet you too. I run Made Here. We make things like this,” he said, and fingered the onyx cuff links on his sleeves.
We walked to the bench, and I sat on the far end, hoping he’d take the hint. But he took the middle, ignoring all the empty space on his other side. With him this close, the memories closed in—how we couldn’t keep our hands off each other that summer, how he was always touching my back, my legs, my waist.
I pictured profit and loss statements instead of the planes of his flat stomach, his firm chest, his sculpted arms.
He leaned an arm against the back of the bench, glancing down at my necklace. “Tell me about your jewelry designs, Kat.”
If anyone else had asked, I’d say I always loved dressing up as a kid and rooting through my mom’s jewelry box to find bangles and necklaces and rings. But they hardly fit, so I began making my own jewelry, first just stringing together beads and baubles from a kit and little charms on wire. In junior high, I sold some of my necklaces at local craft fairs, then moved on to heart pendants in high school. I was eighteen when I had the idea of making a charm necklace—something unique with special meaning to the wearer. A charm that celebrated the mistakes we made as we moved past them.
The Second Chance Plan (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 3) Page 2