“You’re going to trip in those heels.”
Those were the words with which Kevin greeted me after five years of dating, a formal engagement, a less formal disengagement, and several weeks of estrangement.
The words with which I greeted him? “I am not going to trip. I wear shoes like this every day now.” Thanks to Aimee and her invaluable insider’s tips about the season-end clearance sales on Rodeo Drive.
I steeled myself for a filibuster about orthopedics and the research correlating high heels with the early onset of crippling arthritis, but he surprised me by letting the subject drop.
“It’s nice to see you again,” he said. “You look great.”
My mother dashed back to the kitchen to spread the word that the engagement would be back on any day now.
“Yeah, you, too,” I said vaguely, though I hadn’t really noticed any changes in his appearance. I took a moment to look him over—sandy brown hair, blue eyes, immaculately ironed button-down shirt—then smiled back. “I heard you got railroaded into having dinner with us. Sorry about that.”
“I always enjoy spending time with you and your family,” he said gallantly. “It’s no chore. And there’s no point in pretending that we never knew each other just because we’ve been, you know, taking a break.”
“You mean we’ve ‘broken up,’ ” I corrected, leading him down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Well, let’s say ‘in negotiations,’ ” he replied.
I skidded to a stop in my controversial shoes. “No. Let’s say ‘broken up.’ ”
I didn’t turn around, but I heard his quick, irritated intake of breath. “Whatever. I’m not going to have an argument about semantics when the end result is the same. You left and I miss you.”
At this, I did turn around. “But you’re the one who issued the big ultimatum when I left for L.A.”
He studied the floor tiles, suddenly looking young and vulnerable in the orange sunset glow pouring through the windows. “Yeah. Because I didn’t think you’d really go. I miss you, Becks. Don’t you miss me?”
I could hear cooking sounds down the hall—pot lids clanging, water running, oven timers dinging—but no one burst into the foyer to save me from having to answer this question.
He kept staring at the floor. “I think I deserve another chance.”
I opened my mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “Kevin. I’m sorry, but—”
He clenched his hands at his sides as if he’d been gearing up for this for weeks. “No, really. We can make this work. I know you were unhappy before, but you gave up on us too soon. Things can be different. I’ve changed.”
I sagged against the wall. “Kevin, no—”
“You’re skeptical. I understand.” He paced around the perimeter of the foyer. “But I can prove it to you.”
“There’s something you should know. I’m seeing someone else.”
He stopped pacing. “In Los Angeles?”
I nodded. Guilt washed over me.
“Is it serious?”
Nah, we’re just sleeping together and having bitter quarrels over restaurant wine lists…you know, the usual…
“I don’t know yet.” I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes. “But that’s not the point. The point is, I’ve moved on. You need things I can’t give you and we’re just not—”
Incredibly, he appeared to be relishing the idea of a challenge. “You’ve only been out in California for a few weeks. We were together for five years. It can’t be that serious.”
“It doesn’t matter how serious it is. I’ve moved on—”
“Because you weren’t happy. But I’ve changed, Becca. I get it now. I really do.” His eyebrows waggled. “I have proof.”
My eyes narrowed. “What kind of proof?”
“You’ll see. I have something to give you. Something big. After dinner.”
All the blood rushed to my head as I scrutinized his pants pockets for jewelry box-size lumps.
“Becca?” He frowned. “Are you all right?”
I could barely discern his words through the haze of panic. A second marriage proposal, witnessed by my entire family this time around? My mother would cry (again). My father would shake Kevin’s hand and welcome him to the family (again). And I…
I was going to dry heave. Again.
“Becca! Kevin!” my mother trilled down the hall. “Dinner’s ready!”
He took a few steps forward, offering a hand. “Seriously. Are you okay? You look a little—”
“’Scuse me.” I pushed past him, sprinting for the powder room.
As I slammed the bathroom door behind me, I heard Kevin’s footsteps retreating down the hall and his cheery voice saying, “Everything smells delicious, Mrs. Davis! Thanks so much for inviting me.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” my mother responded. “And for the last time, call me Linda. After all, we’re practically family.”
Dinner was the culinary equivalent of sitting through a Hitchcock film festival: no way to predict what fresh horrors would leap out of the shadows at any given moment. I cowered in silence at my end of the table, terrified that every word, every glance, every pass of the bread basket might elicit Kevin’s announcement, “As long as we’re all here together…”
Hopefully, a little more time with Claire and Andrew would dissuade him from any further contemplation of matrimony. They devoted the entire meal to sneering at each other across the table, directing barbed pleasantries at the rest of us:
“Oh, Daddy, how nice of you to give me the last piece of bread. It’s good to know that someone understands that pregnant women need special treatment.”
“Why, thank you, Linda, I’d love another piece of salmon. You’re always so aware of the needs of others.”
Et cetera.
My parents tried to compensate for the undercurrents of hostility by asking Kevin all about his new job, but I couldn’t tell if he even noticed anything was awry with my sister and her husband. He kept his gaze locked on me, leering like a serial killer whenever he managed to catch my eye.
You don’t want to marry me! I wanted to scream. Look at your prospective in-laws and run while you have the chance!
Well. I’d just have to straighten him out after dessert. And if he decided to make his big move before then, I’d have to straighten him out in front of my entire family and my mom would have to fetch her smelling salts. Because, no matter what happened with Connor, I was not about to get ambushed into another promise I’d regret. Kevin and I were through and I wasn’t buying his claims of newfound enlightenment and flexibility.
Men don’t change. Everyone knew that. It was a fundamental life truth, along with “horizontal stripes make you look fat” and “turn off your cell phone in a movie theater.”
And then Kevin put down his fork and reached under the table. Oh hell, what if he was going for his pocket?
There was only one thing to do: employ diversionary tactics.
“Claire,” I said. “Why don’t you tell Mom and Dad about the names you’ve picked out for the babies?”
This had the intended effect of throwing a freshly slain rabbit carcass into a hyena pack.
“You’ve already picked out names?” Mom’s lower lip quivered. “And nobody told me?”
“We have a few suggestions, you know,” my father said. “We thought a family name might be nice.”
“The ones we’re considering are family names,” Andrew hedged. “From my side of the family. Elise and Evelyn for girls…”
My mother continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “What about Anastacia? That was my grandmother.”
“What about Archibald?” my dad threw in.
“Archibald?” Claire made a face. “What self-respecting girl is ever going to go to the prom with an Archibald? Or worse, Archie?”
“He’ll be beaten mercilessly on the playground,” Andrew agreed, momentarily reuniting with his wife in a show of solidarity against bad baby names.
“All ri
ght, then, what about Gertrude? Trudie for short, isn’t that adorable?”
Claire and Andrew shared another glance. “No.”
“Herbert?”
“Come on.”
“Dorcas?”
“Now you’re just making stuff up.”
The debate raged on all through dessert. Even Kevin offered up a suggestion: Isaac, as in Isaac Newton. Which I had to admit was sort of cute.
As we were preparing to uncork a bottle of wine and take the discussion out to the patio, the doorbell rang again.
“Finally!” Andrew consulted his watch. “Took him long enough.”
“Who?” Claire demanded.
“Connor. He drove out from L.A. to pick me up.”
23
Connor?” I croaked. “Connor as in Connor Sullivan?”
“What the hell is going on?” Claire demanded.
“I asked him to come out, pick me up, and drive me back to Los Angeles.” His tone defied her to challenge him. “Called him before our plane took off. I can’t stay here with you right now. And since we can’t afford a hotel room and my credit card is too maxed to get a rental car…”
“Oh my God. You’re leaving me?” She staggered backward into the kitchen counter. My mother rushed to her side.
“Hang on a second.” I held up a hand. “You’re telling me that Connor Sullivan is standing on our front porch, ringing our doorbell, right now?”
“Who’s Connor Sullivan?” Kevin asked as my dad headed off to get the door.
“A buddy from Los Angeles.” Andrew’s glance caromed from me to Kevin, as if finally realizing that this might be more than a little awkward for me. “And no, Claire, I’m not leaving you. Yet. But I need to think about what you did, and I can’t do that while I’m sleeping in your old bedroom at your parents’ house. So I’m going back to L.A. for a little while. I’ll pack up the apartment and drive back out here when the move is finished.”
My mother rounded on Claire. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” Claire yelped. To which Andrew responded with a fantastically bitter, “Ha.”
My mother brandished her spatula at both of them. “I will not have my grandchildren born into a broken home, do you hear me? So whatever little spat you two are having—”
“Hi.” Connor stepped into the kitchen, followed by my dad, who looked like he would commit unspeakable crimes to be able to return to the safety and sanity of televised golf in the den.
Connor headed straight for me, threading through the drama unfolding by the counter to give me a kiss on the cheek. Which I interpreted to mean that he was calling truce on our Cabernet skirmish, or at least putting it on hold. Relief and gratitude washed through me; I would have kissed him back if my whole family hadn’t been staring us down.
Along with my ex-fiancé.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” I pulled away and made the introductions. “Mom, Dad, this is Connor Sullivan.”
“I thought you were Andrew’s friend?” my mother asked, bewildered.
“I am.” Connor smiled his warm, easy smile. “But Becca and I have started—”
“So you’re the competition.” Kevin jostled his way through the crowd and offered up a handshake. “I’m Kevin Bradley.”
Connor shot me a questioning look. I sighed. “Yeah, that Kevin.”
The two men stood toe to toe, sizing each other up.
“We should get going.” Andrew stepped in. “It’s a long drive back to Los Angeles.”
“No, we should get going,” Kevin shot back. “Becca and I have places to go and things to do.”
Connor didn’t seem at all bothered by this. If anything, his smile got a little wider. “Is that a fact?”
“Yes, it is.” Kevin hitched up his khakis. “That’s what I kept trying to tell you at dinner, Becca. I have something to show you. Get your coat.”
“It’s seventy-five degrees out,” I said.
“Then get your purse. We’re leaving.”
I tried to demure with, “I’m not sure this is a great idea…”
“Becca.” My mother was still wielding the spatula. “Kevin has rearranged his schedule just to see you.”
“But…” I groped for any excuse. “We have company who came all the way from California.”
I could tell Connor was trying not to laugh. “Don’t stay on my account,” he said as Kevin marched toward the door. “It’s rude enough that I show up uninvited and unannounced. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to cancel your big date.”
“Oh, believe me, it’d be my pleasure.”
“Becca?” Kevin commanded from the front hall. “Let’s go.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” I grabbed my bag and trudged out the front door after my ex-fiancé.
“You kids have fun!” Mom yelled after us.
And, right before Kevin closed the door behind us, I heard my dad say, “Well, Connor, at least you don’t seem like the jealous type.”
“So that’s the new man in your life,” Kevin mused, setting the car’s cruise control for precisely the speed limit as we headed north on the highway. “Interesting.”
I crossed my arms. “Comments?”
“Nope. Except he seems a little old for you.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
After another silent half mile, he said, “You know, Becca, people do change. When they want to. You can’t change someone else, but you can change your own life. And that’s what I’ve done. It is possible—you have to admit that because you yourself have changed a lot over the last few months.”
“Yes, okay, I admit it. Change is possible. But—”
“We put in five solid years together.”
“You say that like it’s serving prison time. Don’t you think that speaks volumes about our relationship? Yes, we dated for a long time, but we probably stayed together a lot longer than we should have because we felt comfortable and we were scared to start over.”
“I never felt that way.”
I leaned my head against the window and welcomed the cool draft from the dashboard air conditioner.
“Would you still be with me if I hadn’t taken back the ring?” he asked.
I tried to imagine how everything would have played out if he hadn’t given me the ultimatum. If he hadn’t insisted I give up all my dreams to fulfill his. I would have made the break by myself, eventually. It just would have taken me a bit longer to decide that my future was worth the risk.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“I think you would.” His expression got all grim and determined.
“But I think I wouldn’t.”
“Yes, you would,” he decided. “How about I give the ring back and we work things out?”
“No,” I said firmly. “Do not give back the ring.”
“You can’t stop me,” he warned.
My jaw dropped. “Yes, I can, actually.”
He swerved off the freeway at the next exit, barreled down a bumpy side street, and pulled over into a deserted parking lot.
If my life were a miniseries, this would be the part where my seemingly mild-mannered ex-boyfriend’s diabolical alter ego would emerge, his face half-obscured by shadow. He would reach for the glovebox, blathering that if he couldn’t have me, nobody could, and too late I’d notice the cold glint of steel in the moonlight…
But this wasn’t prime-time television. This was the Kevin Bradley show, and the contents of the glovebox were limited to road maps, flashlights, breath mints, and insurance forms. The man wouldn’t even let people eat in his car, let alone bleed all over the front seat.
“Why are we stopping here?” I demanded. “Where are we?”
“Surprise.” He unbuckled his seat belt, opened his door, and stepped into the parking lot.
“I’m not kidding around, Kevin. Where are we?” I’d been too busy debating the voluntary nature of engagement ring wearing to keep track of the exit signs on the highway.
“Oh.” Surprise is a fast-growing suburb on the west side of Phoenix. “What are we doing out here?”
“I wanted to show you this.” He gestured toward the vacant storefront on the other side of the parking lot. “They’re going to be building up this whole area soon. Lots of new residents, storefronts, even a mall or two. And this will be right in the middle of the action.”
“Oh. Great.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. “And why are you showing me this, again?”
“I put down an earnest deposit to hold the property. For you.”
Perhaps I had not heard that correctly. “For me?”
He nodded. “So you can move back here and open a boutique.”
Suddenly, that cold glint of steel under the moonlight wasn’t sounding so bad.
“You’re springing another piece of property on me? Without any warning?” I stared at him.
“It’s a very sweet gesture,” he informed me. “You should be touched. Most girlfriends would weep for joy.”
But I was in no mood to cry on cue. “I am not your girlfriend, dammit!”
“You say that now—”
“And didn’t you learn anything from the last stealth mortgage? What is the matter with you?”
“We’ll start over. Just quit your job in L.A. and open up your own store here. I’ll pay the lease, I’ll buy the sewing equipment, cloth, whatever else you need.”
I turned back toward the car. “I am going to go home now and when I wake up tomorrow, this whole debacle never happened. Got it?”
“You have to give me one more chance, Becca!”
“No.” I enunciated clearly, since he seemed deaf to this particular word. “No.”
“Yes,” he insisted. “I already put down the deposit, so you have to move back and work here.”
“No!” My mantra devolved into primal scream.
“Things will be different this time,” he wheedled. “I’ve changed. I’m a new man.”
“No.” As I powered toward his Honda, my heel caught the edge of a jagged pothole and I stumbled forward, arms pin-wheeling, catching myself just before my face flattened against the concrete.
“Ouch.” I examined the fresh scrapes on my palms, then wiped the gravel off my jeans. “Let’s go. Kevin?”
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