How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3)

by Stacey Wiedower

  Screw dating. In fact, if Brandon calls I think I might renege on my drunken promise of another date. I click save and glance at the clock in the corner of the screen. Crap. Jeremy's going to be here any minute, and I'm still a hot mess.

  The fact that I care is even more reason to avoid all members of the opposite sex. At least until I come to my senses and actually live up to the image of the competent, stable, strong woman that I'm trying so very hard to convey.

  * * *

  "Can I come in for a few minutes?"

  I'm kneeling on my front porch, getting licked within an inch of my life and almost being toppled over by one jubilant miniature schnauzer. "Ooh, I've missed you too, Buddy," I say. I keep scratching Simon behind his ears and cooing to him, pretending I don't hear Jeremy talking.

  He says it again, louder. "Can I come in?"

  I laugh as Simon manages to plant a wet doggie kiss across my right cheek. And then my expression changes as I look up to meet Jeremy's eyes.

  "Why?" My voice is suspicious.

  He's immediately defensive. "Geez. You don't have to get confrontational about it." He glances around to check who might be watching. No one is, of course. Not even the woman walking her dog on the sidewalk directly in front of my house glances over at us.

  I roll my eyes. So much for a truce.

  His voice is softer, and his eyes are pleading when he continues, "I just want to talk to you about some things. I don't want to argue."

  I stare at him for another second and then turn my attention back to Simon, who has his front paws on my bent knees and is still craning his furry little neck to lick my face. I gather him into my arms and stand, then motion with my head for Jeremy to follow me inside. Meanwhile, my thoughts are twisting in a messy jumble. What could he want to talk to me about? Are things over with Brianna? Does he want me back? Could he still want to get married?

  That last thought comes with a wistful twinge that pierces through my stomach and makes me weak in the knees. And I'm utterly disgusted with myself for feeling this way. Until this moment, I didn't realize how much I want Jeremy back—or at least, how much I want Jeremy to want me. What is wrong with me that I'm always the dumpee, never the dumper?

  At this I think of Brandon, and for a moment I'm even more torn up inside. But then in the next moment Jeremy and I are sitting close to each other on my sofa with Simon settled contentedly between us, and I can't think of anything except Jeremy's presence and how it fills the room and makes me feel whole again.

  These past few weeks, what I've really been working to do is fill this emptiness I feel…that I've felt since the day everything in my life went wrong all at once. To my horror, I start crying, fat tears leaking down both cheeks against my will.

  I'm not a pretty crier. In fact, if I don't rein this in it's going to get ugly very fast—and if there's one thing Jeremy hates, it's irrational bursts of emotion. I wipe both wrists against my cheeks and sniffle and then swallow hard. I don't dare look at Jeremy's face, but it doesn't matter, because he says:

  "Oh, God. Not you too?"

  My head snaps up, and I meet his eyes. "Too?" I manage to utter, my voice shaky. I feel like shaking myself at this ridiculous display of weakness—not the image I want to present to my ex-fiancé who might be on the verge of telling me he wants me back. What I really want is for him to close the ten-inch distance between us, wrap his arms around my shoulders, and give me the comfort I'm longing for, but that's not Jeremy's style. And I'm sick of being weak.

  He hasn't said anything, and I sniff harder and then rub the rest of the wetness from my cheeks with the backs of my hands. "What do you mean, 'too?'" I repeat, my mind spinning with this confirmation that things can't be perfect with him and Brianna if she's been acting like I'm acting right now.

  He has his nose pinched between his thumb and index finger, his head down, and I wait, my nerves tangled into taut, brittle bunches like steel wool. Finally, he looks up at me.

  "Brie is kind of…emotional right now," he says, and his voice sounds tired, weary even. He looks down again at his hands, which are now wrung together. He's leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "I don't know how to tell you this," he mumbles. "But I'm…well, I'm having a baby. I mean, she is. I mean, we are."

  I'm so shocked that I can't move. As in, I'm not even sure my heart is beating, and I can't draw a breath. And then I'm angry—so angry that my body is rigid and seems to be shutting down. I start to wonder if I'm going to pass out, and finally my breath comes in a quick, wheezing gasp.

  "Are you okay?" he says, reaching out to lay his hand on my arm and then pulling it back again, as if he knows that touching me now might make my entire being crumble into dust. I try to catch my breath but can't. I force myself to hold it together. I will not hyperventilate. I will not cry. I've never hyperventilated before, but there's always a first time. And of course, the second thought's no use—the tears are coming again, and it's pointless for me to try to stop them.

  I shake my head and then hold up one hand before jumping up from the couch and half-running out of the room. Simon, excited, jumps up and follows me, which only makes the tears come faster. What the hell? Did he bring Simon so there'd be a witness if I try to kill him? I let out a short, hysterical laugh in the midst of my tears. I go into the hallway bathroom and shut the door with Simon outside, standing with both hands braced against the sink and my head down.

  Eventually, my breathing slows, but the tears are still sliding down my cheeks, spilling into the white pedestal sink. A few make it all the way to my chin before dripping onto the front of my white, sleeveless shirt. I'm not sure what emotion is driving the tears—heartache, loss, jealousy, shock. I consider that and decide that what I feel most right now is anger.

  So that's what it would have taken all along, I think. For at least five of the seven years we dated, I waited in great anticipation for Jeremy to propose. Every time a holiday rolled around—Valentine's Day, Christmas, New Year's, my birthday—I'd hold my breath and hope it was the one. After all, if he didn't want the same things I wanted, why would he stick around so long, I'd think? And here all I really needed to do was get myself knocked up.

  How ironic. All this time, ever since I was oh, probably twenty-five, I've wanted a baby—wanted a baby so badly I could practically feel the shape of a child in my womb. But I knew Jeremy wasn't ready, so I patiently took my stupid pink pills, day after stinking day, and waited for him to change his mind and become ready. I followed every fucking rule in the fucking rulebook—even told him the pill wasn't effective when I took an antibiotic so he'd know he had to use a condom.

  Is he going to marry her? And then, half a second later, Of course he is. Of course. And he's probably here first and foremost to ask for my ring. My well of tears dries up so suddenly it leaves me lightheaded, and I'm fuming. I run cold water into the sink and splash it onto my face, pulling the hand towel off its antique brass ring and patting my face dry to avoid making a bigger mess out of myself than I already am. I don't waste a glance in the mirror, realizing how futile and pathetic it was of me to care what I looked like for him.

  I open the bathroom door and find Simon sprawled out on the rug in front of the door. He jumps up and follows as I storm back to my room, opening the mirrored jewelry box on my dresser with a movement so violent, I'm surprised it doesn't snap the hinge. And there it is, in the front left corner of the box, where I'd tossed it haphazardly after finally bothering to dig it out from behind my bookshelf, where it landed when I threw it That Night.

  The night that Jeremy Fucking Morrison ruined my life.

  I don't waste time staring at it or even considering what I'm doing. I reach down and seize the ring from the box's black velvet interior, picking it up with two fingertips and holding it out in front of me like a dead spider I'm carrying to flush down the toilet. And then I stomp back down the hallway toward the living room, Simon following.

  When I get there, Jeremy has his head in his ha
nds again, but he looks up, startled, when I enter the room. I fling the ring in his direction, and it actually hits him at the base of his throat and slides down the front of his shirt. His pink fucking polo shirt.

  The expression on his face is so surprised, you'd almost think he swallowed it.

  "What the—?" he's asking, jumping up from the couch and patting all around on his flat stomach. I see his fingers connect with the ring near his right hip, and he carefully untucks his shirt—yes, he still wears tucked-in polo shirts, like the Ole Miss, golf-playing pretty boy he is.

  I hate him right now. Really, truly hate him with a seething, hot, red fervor I've never felt in my life. I want him out. Out of my house, out of my life, right now, and I'm starting to walk toward the door to usher him there when his voice stops me.

  "Wait, Jen," he says, and I turn a defiant chin to him as I swivel mid-step. He's staring down at the ring in his fingers, and then he looks up at me, his expression clouded with confusion, or sadness, or…something.

  "What?" I spit at him. "Isn't that what you came here for? I hope you and Brie and the little bundle of joy will be very happy together." I pierce my own heart as I say this, because somewhere deep inside me is a rational person who knows his baby isn't to blame for any part of this grown-up, twisted wreckage of a mess.

  He sits back down on my couch—no, sinks there, really, as if he simply doesn't have the power to stand and is lucky there's something solid behind him to hold him up. His eyes are wide and scared as he looks up at me, like a bewildered little boy who's lost his mother in the crowd. I feel my anger grow duller by the tiniest degree, but I still don't make a move toward him. Simon's head has been swiveling back and forth between us, his little body following it, but finally he gives up and plops down on the shag rug. He expels a loud, sharp breath and places his head on his paws.

  We both look at him, and then I look back at Jeremy, my rage boiling down to a low simmer.

  Jeremy sighs. "Can you just sit down for a minute?" he says, his eyes pleading with me.

  I study him for a couple seconds, unsure what to feel or do. Finally, I nod once, briskly, and force my feet to move forward but not toward him. Instead I veer left toward Simon and sink onto the carpet beside him. I slide my fingers into the soft fur at his collar, and he lifts his head and drops his chin onto my leg.

  "What is it, Jeremy? What do you want?" My voice is weary but not nearly as beaten down and defeated as I feel.

  When he talks, his voice is muffled, and I look up and see that it's because his face is in his hands, and his fingers are pressed into his cheeks and mouth. It sounds like he says, "I'm a doughnut too."

  "What?" I ask.

  He shakes his head, and I can see that he's in as much agony as I am. And this confuses me, because shouldn't he be the one of us who's happy? He's the one who got out, who got what he wanted with someone he feels more than "complacent" to be with. He's the one whose life is moving forward, away from mine.

  He moves his hands, and suddenly he stands and begins pacing around the room. My eyes follow his movement, wary, and Simon lifts his head.

  "I don't know what to do," he says, his fingers going to the bridge of his nose again.

  "What do you mean?" I ask, genuinely confused. "You said Brianna is pregnant. Shouldn't you be happy? Aren't you getting married?"

  Call me old-fashioned, but that was the assumption that landed in my head. He stares at me like I'm a hologram beamed in from the 1950s.

  "No!" he bellows, sounding not at all like the Jeremy I know. "I mean, I don't know. Shit." He's pacing again, faster now.

  "God, could you be any more commitment phobic?" At least now I know it's not just me.

  He stops walking then and looks at me. "This was a bad idea," he says. He shifts his body slightly toward the door. "I should go."

  I close my eyes for a long moment and then say, "No. Wait." He looks down at me, and I think how unfair it is that he's coming to me expecting answers or reassurance or comfort. I guess I've always been in this role for him. It was always Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, and I pushed myself and my own needs aside. What does Jeremy want? What can I do to make Jeremy comfortable? I start to feel sorry for Brianna. She didn't pick an easy man to trap.

  I sigh, and he begins to pace again. "Tell me what happened," I say. "Start at the beginning. When did you find out she's pregnant?"

  "This morning," he says. He stops and looks down at me, his expression guarded. "About ten minutes before I texted you."

  I open my mouth slightly and then close it again, not sure what to do with that. "Oh…kay," I say. "How did she tell you, and what did you say?" I hold up my hand. "Wait. First, can I assume this pregnancy wasn't planned?"

  He lets out an exasperated sigh. "I don't want kids, Jenny. What do you think?"

  I raise my eyebrows to hide the fact that these words dropkick me right in the gut. Boy, how well I know this. The words make me feel happy for the first time since he got here. Happy that he ended things before I put on a white dress and waltzed into a fairy tale of misery.

  My hand is mechanically scratching Simon behind his ears and around his collar, and he wiggles onto his back so I can reach his belly. He feels like my anchor in this storm. Maybe that's why Jeremy brought him. No, that would require thinking about someone other than himself. I stifle a snort, and Jeremy looks at me expectantly.

  I shake my head. "What does Brianna want?"

  "I don't know," he says. "I've told her I'm not ready to get married. I just ended my engagement, for God's sake." He at least has the decency to look abashed as he says this.

  "But what does she want?" I guide him, thinking, It's all about him. Again. Of course.

  "Well, she didn't say she wanted an abortion." He perches on the edge of the large white ottoman in front of my fireplace and stares off into space for several seconds. "I don't know." He looks at me. "I didn't really ask her. But I guess I can assume she wants what all of you want." He looks down at his fist, which I realize contains the ring. My ring.

  "Did you come here to insult me or just abuse me for your own amusement?" I ask dryly, and he looks at me like he's forgotten I was here.

  He shakes his head again. "I'm sorry," he says. "I guess this isn't fair to you." You think?? "I just…" He pauses for a long moment. "You're my best friend, Jenny. I…I don't know who else to talk to about this."

  I close my eyes, and when I open them, there are tears in them again, but this time I manage to stop them from escaping to my cheeks. "Brianna," I say, looking directly at him. "The person you need to talk to about this is Brianna."

  I scramble to my feet, causing Simon to do the same. I look down at him sadly.

  "I think you should go," I say. He reaches an arm out to me as if to protest, and I hold up one hand and say, "I don't mean to be mean, and I don't want to fight with you, but things are over between us. You ended them. You can't get rid of me and then expect to keep the parts of me you need, whenever you need them. It's all or nothing."

  "It doesn't have to be that way."

  "It does, though." I'm not sure where this strength is coming from, but I feel somehow that I have Candace Greenlee and Jeremy himself—all the people who have screwed me over in recent months—to thank for it. I want my fire back.

  I bend down and pick up Simon, and I squeeze him to me, presumably for one last time. I kiss him on the top of the head and then walk with him over to Jeremy, who looks as if somebody or something just knocked the wind out of his chest. As I hand over Simon, my arms brush his, but this time I don't feel any electricity. Instead I just feel numb. There's no painful twinge of desire, no familiarity or warmth, no sense that the man in front of me is mine.

  "You're going to be a father," I say to him and watch his features twist with anguish at the words. "I'm sure it's going to take time to process it, but that's the one thing in all of this that isn't going to change, no matter what you do."

  I step aside, and he walks woodenly toward
the door. "Good luck," I call after him softly, watching Simon's furry snout poke around Jeremy's arm, straining back to me.

  "Oh," Jeremy says, stopping short. He turns around, and I'm thinking, What now?

  He looks down at Simon and then up at me. "I also came here to ask you—" His face looks torn with indecision. "Do you want… I mean, can you…can you keep Simon? He's pretty miserable cooped up in the condo, and…" He pauses to sigh. "It turns out Brie is allergic."

  I gape at him. "Are you kidding?" I rush forward to take him as Jeremy bends down to set him on the floor, and his cheek grazes mine. I step back as if I've been burned.

  Jeremy pauses for a long moment, looking at me, and then before I can stop him, he pulls me to him for a tight, intimate-feeling hug. At first my body is stiff as I strain against him, but then I relax and let him have this moment of closure. I'm relieved to realize I still feel nothing, nothing at all, even as his body presses into the length of mine. To my shock and his, I feel him grow hard against my hip. We pull away from each other at the same moment, and he reaches for the doorknob, avoiding my eyes.

  "I've got a box of Simon's stuff in the car," he mumbles. "I'll leave it on the porch where you left my stuff."

  "Okay," I say, still mortified. "And Jeremy?" He's on the porch now and glances back at me. "Thank you," I say. "And I meant it when I said good luck. I hope everything works out for you."

  He nods tersely and bends down to pick up the box I've left for him, and I turn to go inside to hug my dog, still in disbelief that I have him back. I think about Brianna, whom I've only ever seen in Facebook photos. She's dark-haired and petite, with curly hair and small, precise teeth that show gum when she smiles. She's my physical opposite, and judging by the way she's taken Jeremy's life and turned it inside out in a matter of two months, she's my opposite in other ways, as well.

  I don't think he even knew what was hitting him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Safety First

  Wednesday afternoon I leave my meeting with Chick Emerson and Annalise Kustoff, the artist whose work we're officially hanging in Sweeties' study room. Annalise was totally excited, and Chick's already run with my idea to hold an art opening fund-raiser at the bakery's kick-off event. The next step is for me to make a visit to Annalise's Midtown studio to select paintings, and then I'll need to call Todd to schedule an installation date.