These items might already be in our warehouse. Honestly, I have little left to do other than directing the installation, buying the art and accessories, and making sure all the details come together in the end. That's a good thing, considering—and it still gives me the opportunity to put my stamp on the space. But I have no idea how the commissions will work on this job. Split three ways?
At least I'm earning a commission. I just made another mortgage payment with no hope of Jeremy's joint ownership lightening my financial burden. As I'm thinking this, my phone chimes with a new text, and I almost jump when I see Jeremy's name on the screen.
Which vet do we take Simon to? he asks.
Immediately my hackles rise and my heart jumps into my throat. First, he doesn't even know where his own dog goes to the damn vet? And then, What's wrong with Simon?
And finally the afterthought, What's with this "we" business? Which vet do "we" take Simon to? Jeremy needs me, and suddenly we're a team again?
There's something wrong with this picture—me taking on other people's responsibilities and then letting them lift them from me and dump them back on me at their whim. I'm starting to feel really sick of being a wimp.
But my worry for Simon wins out over my irritation with Jeremy. Cuddle Clinic on Summer, I text back. Why? What's wrong with him?
A long while goes by before I get a new text, to the point that I'm torn between my need to know and my need to get things wrapped up so I can run out the door to meet Eleanor. I'm going to be late—that's the one thing that's clear.
Finally, the phone dings.
He's listless.
I wait, but that's all I get. I start to type back and tell Jeremy that I'll meet him at the vet, but then I stop myself, torn by my unwillingness to disappoint Eleanor. Instead I type, Pls LMK when u find out what's wrong.
Another five minutes goes by, and then I get a brisk, K.
Well, that's something at least.
* * *
An hour later I've finally made it to the restaurant, a trendy Mexican place in Overton Square where I'm met with not just Eleanor but also Christine. It's a sister-in-law trifecta, something that hasn't happened in years—since before Christine's kids entered the picture. I'm glad Eleanor wasn't sitting here alone waiting for me at least. Though I can tell she's in bliss simply to be out. Resting in front of her is a gigantic frozen margarita in a heavy blue-rimmed glass. She's systematically turning the glass and licking off the thick crust of sugar-salt mixture that's coating the rim. It gives me a sugar high just watching her.
I order the exact same thing right after I slide into the booth next to Christine.
"What's up, chicas?" I ask as the server walks away from our table.
"We should ask you the same thing," Eleanor says. "We haven't heard from you in weeks."
I frown slightly. "That's not true…is it?" I think back, and apart from texting with Eleanor about tonight, the last time I saw or spoke to a single member of my family, other than my mom, was Jake's birthday party, which was weeks ago. That must be some kind of record for me.
"Jackie is getting concerned about you," Catherine says. "She asked us to stage an intervention."
Eleanor looks up from her licking for a few seconds. "Uh-huh. She's even keeping the kids."
"All of them," Christine adds.
"Where are your husbands?" I grumble. Can't my brothers handle their own children alone for one night?
Now that I think about it, I haven't been talking to my mom as much as usual lately. She's left a couple of messages on my voicemail, but I've been so busy trying to get my career back on track that I haven't had time to call in a few days. With Candace running interference on my ability to succeed, I've been working twice as hard to make up for it. But I didn't realize I'd been neglecting my own mother.
Eleanor and Christine watch as understanding dawns on my face.
"So what's been going on?" Christine asks, as Eleanor says, "You're not back with Jeremy, are you?"
My eyes are moving rapidly between the two of them. "What? Jeremy? Nooo," I say, but then a cloud flickers across my face as I remember Simon.
"She's lying," Eleanor says after taking a long pull on her straw.
"I am not!" My voice is too shrill, though, and if I didn't know better, I'd think I was covering something up. I stare Eleanor down as the waitress drops off my drink. And then I reach for the basket of chips—as busy as I've been today, I've barely eaten, and without food, this margarita is going to knock me on my ass in no time. I don't have a good recent track record with being drunk.
"Well, you're sleeping with someone," Christine adds. "Dish."
I give her the dirtiest look I'm capable of, which, with my earnest blue eyes and round, open face, isn't very dirty. My dad always said, growing up, that I'd be successful at anything I tried because I have such an honest face.
"I wish," I say, meeting both of their eyes in turn. I might be getting things together at work, but it's come at the expense of a social life, let alone a sex life. At this my thoughts turn to Brandon… I still haven't heard from him since our "date."
I catch them up on my work situation, all the way up to the things that haven't even happened yet, like my impending meeting about the Rasmutin condo project. I don't mention my potential new job for Amelia and her husband Noah though—I still haven't heard from her about the status of the house, and I don't want to jinx it.
I also show them the Facebook Epic Fails website, and we've just ordered our entrées and have our heads bowed over my phone, scrolling through the entries with me laughing in spite of myself, when I hear, "Jen?"
My head snaps up. Paused beside our table is my new, cute art installer…and I can't believe it, but I've forgotten his name.
"Oh," I say. "Hi!" My face is already red—whether it's a product of my forgetfulness, my half-drained margarita, or my quasi-crush on him is anybody's call. For one dreadful second, he's just standing there, staring at me, and so are Eleanor and Christine. "Oh," I say again, feeling every bit the moron. I gesture to the two of them, my hands flailing awkwardly, and say, "These are my sisters-in-law, Eleanor and Christine." And then…nothing.
"Hi, Eleanor and Christine," he says in his easygoing drawl. "I'm Todd." He gives me a pointed look. "Forgot about me already, huh? Were you just pulling my leg when you said you'd use me again?"
"Me?" I shake my head. "No! I mean, yes. I mean, sure, I'll call you again." Could I be any more lame? Oh. My. Gawd.
He grins at all three of us and then walks off, and that's when I notice for the first time that he's carrying a small stack of black leather folders that hold people's dinner receipts. A small white towel is sticking out of his back pocket. "Oh my God," I say out loud. "He works here?"
Eleanor and Christine are gaping at me, and I'm gaping at his retreating back, and all three of us are having a moment, though theirs is occurring for a different reason than mine.
"Use me again?" Christine repeats, incredulous. "What exactly are you using him for?"
"I'd use him," Eleanor says in a suggestive voice, and even though my mouth is hanging open, unsure what to explain first, I can't help myself. I burst out laughing, and within seconds I'm giggling so hard that my eyes are watering, and both Eleanor and Christine have joined in.
Panting, I take a huge gulp of my fruity drink, freezing my throat in the process. I shudder as the margarita slides down my throat and then look around to make sure Todd isn't within earshot. I spot him waiting on a table halfway across the restaurant.
"He installed the artwork on one of my projects a couple weeks ago," I finally manage to get out. "I knew that he was new to the business, but I didn't know it was a side job. Quinn recommended him to me."
"He's yummy," Eleanor says, and I can see from her glazed expression that she's already feeling the effects of her tequila, even though the drink is so watered down and fruity I can barely taste the alcohol.
Christine nods in agreement, and I glance
across the room again, but Todd is no longer within view.
"He's probably no older than twenty-five," I say. "And clearly he's not career focused." Out of the corner of my eye I see Christine give Eleanor a look, and I wonder vaguely what it means. "Not that it matters. I don't have time to chase after a guy right now. I'm too busy trying to remake my reputation and rescue my career from my spectacular anti-marketing efforts."
"It doesn't sound like your 'anti-marketing efforts' have affected your work that much," Christine says, making air quotes with her fingers.
"Yeah, you're so busy you don't even have time to call us," Eleanor says, poking out her lower lip the tiniest bit. She's definitely on her way to a buzz, judging by that expression. When Eleanor drinks she gets moody—not in a bad way but in a comical way.
I'm still chewing over Christine's statement when the server arrives with our entrees. She's right. Even though my Facebook status damaged my relationship with Candace, apart from the blip in my project with Brewster—which had already happened before I posted the status update—my clients haven't deserted me, as I'd feared.
Maybe I'll even need to hire an art installer again soon.
* * *
After we finish eating, we continue sitting at our table, talking and laughing, until most of the restaurant has cleared out. Eleanor is well past buzzing now, which means I'll be taking her home with me until she sobers up, since I live five minutes from the restaurant. I stopped after the one margarita, planning to work some more after I get home. My new projects mean I'll likely be working overtime on a regular basis, but now, thanks to Eleanor and Christine's encouragement, instead of worrying me, that thought energizes me.
Christine has just said, "Well, better get home. Long drive, and Jake poking me in the face at 5:30 in the morning is going to come awfully quick," when I spot Todd again. I've been watching him out of the corner of my eye for the past hour and a half, a fact that doesn't escape Christine's notice.
"Why don't you go over and talk to him?" she says, pulling her bag onto her shoulder. She nudges me toward the edge of the booth with her hip.
"Pushy, pushy," I say. I glance over at Todd, and at the same moment he looks up at me and flashes a smile. Can I help it that my heart lifts and flutters inside my chest? His smile is heartbreaking. Never mind that he's way too young for me and that I'm way too busy for a love life right now even if he wasn't.
Embarrassed, I glance back down at the tabletop and say, "If you must know, I am planning to talk to him on my way out. But that's because I have a job coming up I need his help on."
In reality, I've been sitting here for the past thirty minutes trying to come up with a reason to need him. I do have some projects coming up that might require a professional installer but none that are happening soon. Except the bakery art wall. I feel a little funny mentioning that to him since I don't have the deal firmed up with Chick or the artist, but if and when it happens, I'll definitely need help placing and hanging artwork.
It's just that, if he wasn't so adorable, would I really consider hiring Todd for a project this big? Yes, he did a good job in Sandra's office, but that work was simple enough that I could have done it myself. His qualifications are sketchy at best, and my only knowledge of his background is through a reference from Quinn, who isn't exactly known for her reliability. Hell, I haven't even Googled him. He told me himself that Sandra's office was his first-ever gig, and now I know that he moonlights as a waiter.
I'm still debating all of this when I see him heading straight for our table. Christine is trying to scoot me out of her way, but she stops when Todd is a few steps away.
"I'm sorry we're shutting the place down," I say, smiling up at him. Why is it that when I speak to Todd, my tongue—and all my limbs, for that matter—feels three sizes too big? It's as if I'm aware of every single cell in my body every time this boy gets within three feet of me.
"Aw, y'all are fine," he answers. That lazy manner of speaking he has sends shivers down my spine. He's like the total opposite of Jeremy, who talks fast and is "on" at all times, except when he's asleep—and maybe even then. He's not a good sleeper. He thrashes all night long, stressed out even in his dreams.
Todd looks straight at me then, which has the effect of making me drop my eyes to the table. I feel about fifteen years old—I can almost feel the braces on my teeth and the giant zit on my chin.
"I'm still working on trying to grow my business," he says to me, digging into his front pocket, coming out with a jumbled stack of paper items, and flicking through them until he pulls out a rumpled gray business card. I reach out when he hands it to me and scan it quickly: "Todd Birnham, Jack of All Trades." Cute. Underneath that, in smaller letters, it reads "Art Installation, Light Moving & Professional Organizing." Professional organizing? I don't have to glance up at him to picture his tousled hair and general disheveled appearance.
"You do a little bit of everything," I say, finally looking up at him.
He laughs a short laugh, and even that sounds laid back. I wonder if anything riles this man at all, ever. "Yeah, I used to work days at a record label too," he says. "None of it pays all that well, but at least it covers the bills and keeps me happy." I'm marveling over this lackadaisical approach to life when he continues, "I guess I'm still trying to figure out what I'm gonna be when I grow up." He shrugs and grins.
Christine pinches me on the thigh, and I suppress a squeal, not sure exactly what message she's trying to convey. A glance at Eleanor shows that she's not paying attention to what's going on, but at least she's drinking water now and not tequila. She's slouched down over the table, looking at her phone screen.
I hold up Todd's card and say, "I have some projects coming up that I'm going to call you about." I wonder as I'm saying it if I'm being sincere or appeasing him. It's hard for even me to tell—especially since I slipped into my "office voice" as I said it.
"Yeah, well, I hope so," he says. He lingers there for another few seconds, still smiling, but none of us seems to know what to say next. Finally he takes a step back, and then he grabs a receipt folder off the table beside us. I stand up, Christine follows, and Eleanor gets the drift and stands too. I eye her critically, gauging for drunkenness.
"I'm fine, you guys," she says. "I can drive home."
"Y'all be safe, now," Todd says, and as the three of us head for the front doors of the restaurant, Christine is shaking her head.
"What?" I say once we're finally outside, with the restaurant doors safely closed behind us.
"You've got it bad for the waiter," she says, a Cheshire cat grin plastered on her face.
"You're crazy," I say. "He's cute. A lot of guys are cute and totally inappropriate for me."
"Yeah, but this one's got it bad for you too," she says before veering off toward her car. I don't have time to protest before she calls out over her shoulder, "You sure you're all right to drive, El?"
Eleanor is walking a steady, straight line beside me. "I'm fine," she answers. She's parked beside me on the other end of the lot, so we walk off together, me shaking my head the whole way.
"Christine is being ridiculous," I say. "I've seen Todd all of three times, two of them at work. I know nothing about him except for the fact that he and I are completely incompatible, and he's at least six years younger than me. And that he is not interested in me that way."
"I believe you," she says.
I feel deflated in a weird way that she's so easily agreed with me.
"Right," I say. And then and there, I decide to hire Todd for the gallery wall if and when the project comes together.
The question I'm trying not to ask myself is, Why? And the answer is, I'm not entirely sure.
* * *
As I'm getting ready for bed half an hour later—after blowing off the idea of getting more work done tonight—I still haven't heard from Jeremy. Figures. I debate with myself for another half hour, periodically checking my phone. Finally, I give in and text him.
&nb
sp; Is Simon OK?
I expect another long wait, but he texts back within thirty seconds.
Don't know. They're keeping him overnight.
I'm instantly panicked. Why? What'd they say?
I can practically hear Jeremy sigh through the medium of text message, can all but see his eyes roll. He thinks I have a tendency to overreact…though I think the problem is that he tends to underreact. And I don't trust him with my dog.
They think he has food poisoning.
What? What the hell did Jeremy feed him? We've never given Simon table food, only Purina and puppy treats. I'm trying to figure out how to respond to this when Jeremy texts, Brie had chocolate sitting out. He got into it while we were at work.
Well, duh. Chocolate is poison to a dog. That's common knowledge—or so I thought. Go figure that Jeremy's bimbo housemate is the one person on the planet to not know this, and go figure that it's her who poisoned my dog.
Do they think he'll be OK? I text back.
Yes. Keeping him as a precaution.
My stomach begins to unclench—though not entirely, since I am, after all, communicating with Jeremy. That alone is enough to tie me up in knots. I decide to take this opportunity to get out everything I need to say to him all at once, to minimize communication. LMK how he is tmrw, please. Also, I've got a box of your stuff. Want me to set it on porch?
This time several long minutes pass before I hear from him again. I'm brushing my teeth in my pajamas when my phone chimes with a new text.
Will do. 'S fine. I'll come by later this week.
I'll make sure to not be here, I think, but I text back, K. I'll put it on porch behind the blue chair. Thx.
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 14