I chew my lip for a couple of seconds, contemplating the question. "Let me think on that, and I'll email you this weekend," I say.
He smiles easily at me, sending another tingle of electricity down my spine. "You don't have to work all the time, you know. It can wait till Monday." He pauses. "You doing anything fun this weekend?"
My brain flies to Brandon and my date tomorrow night, and my cheeks redden. Todd seems to enjoy watching me squirm, which makes me even more flustered. "Not…really. I mean, yes. I mean, I'm going to the Orpheum tomorrow night."
"Jersey Boys?" His eyes light up. "I've been wanting to see that. Dude, that's cool." He pauses again. "Well, have fun tomorrow night."
I stare at him for a beat too long. Who is this guy? The image he puts off doesn't seem to match the puzzle pieces I'm slowly putting together in my head. There's only one thing I'm sure of when it comes to Todd Birnham: he is everything I'm not.
"Thanks." And then before I can make an even bigger fool of myself, I turn and walk toward my car, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.
Sure enough, when I reach my car and glance back at him, Todd is leaning against the door of his truck, holding his phone in his right hand but not looking down at it—he's watching me. He raises his hand in a half-wave, and I wave back, glad he's too far away to see that I'm still blushing.
* * *
The next day I'm at work again until 9:30. Some Friday night. But with my current workload, it's pretty much what I can expect for the next several months at least. Instead of annoyance, a rush of adrenaline charges through me at the thought.
Earlier this afternoon Amanda emailed me back and said she'd run into Marc Rasmutin on another project and told him about our ideas, and he was enthused. Her message put me on a high that lasted at least an hour—until Candace marched through the office with a sour look on her face and shut the door without talking to anybody. I have no idea what that was about, and I'm not sure I want to know.
Tomorrow morning I'm going by Ellie Kate's house to meet Gracie Klein, and I'm super pumped about that, though I haven't had time yet to buy a baby gift and wish I'd ordered something online. That makes me realize I haven't seen my nieces and nephews in far too long, and that's one part of my recent workaholism that isn't acceptable. While I'm thinking about it I jot a group text to Eleanor and Catherine to see if they're up for hanging out Sunday afternoon. I immediately get a text back from Catherine that they're heading up to Kentucky to visit her parents this weekend, but Eleanor is game for hanging out as long as she can bring the twins, because Brian is golfing on Sunday.
I text her back to say that's exactly what I have in mind and smile to myself. And then I remember my date with Brandon, and my smile tightens and turns into a nervous flutter in the pit of my stomach.
"Third date" is kind of a secret code, at least according to what I've heard from Quinn. And even though so far Brandon and I haven't exchanged more than a few hugs and a good-night peck, I have a feeling he might have more in mind for Saturday night. I mean, I do, so maybe he does too…
My cheeks get all hot at this thought because it's totally unlike me to be thinking it. But here's the thing: After seven years of fruitless monogamy, I think I deserve to have a little fun. I've never slept with any guy I wasn't in a relationship with, and I don't want a relationship with Brandon. I'm no longer down for being a martyr or a masochist or whatever you want to call the way I set myself aside to meet Jeremy's every need—and even though Brandon might as well be Jeremy's slightly better-looking clone, the thought of being with him tonight sends a thrill down my spine.
Even in high school, Brandon was good at the make-out thing. My best memories from my sophomore and junior years mainly involve me and Brandon and his parents' upstairs playroom. And now that we're in our thirties, and with all those early years of build-up, I figure once things start between us, they're going to move fast. And I think I want that…
* * *
I slip my new dress over my head again, toss it onto my bed, and stare into my closet. I bought it earlier today in a quick trip to Anthropologie after I left Ellie Kate's house this afternoon, but I'm still undecided. It's royal blue with an all-over floral pattern, a low sweetheart neckline, and spaghetti straps, and I picked it out so fast that now I'm second-guessing myself.
I'm not sure it sends the right message. As in, I'm not sure it's sexy enough.
What do you think? I text Carrie, snapping a picture of the Anthro dress and clicking send before pulling my standby LBD out of my closet and snapping a pic of it too. She's seen it before. It's stretchy and fitted with a black lace overlay and a V neckline that shows what little cleavage I have to its best advantage. Not trashy, exactly—it's a classy dress, but it does paint a different picture.
Def the black one, she texts back immediately. With the hooker heels.
I giggle a little hysterically. She's talking about this pair of black-and-silver ombré peep-toe shoes with a four-inch stiletto heel that I bought on impulse in SoHo during a work trip to New York a couple years ago. I've never worn them, and they've become a running joke among my friends.
For real??? I text back. Should I also go commando and slip a condom in his pocket during the show? Ya know, just in case it's not clear what I'm going for?
Ha-ha. I'm coming over. You need me.
Alarmed, I glance at the clock. It's already 5:10, and Brandon's picking me up at 6:00 to make our 6:30 dinner reservation. The show starts at eight.
Luckily, Carrie lives a few blocks away, and ten minutes later she's ringing my doorbell.
When she gets here I'm wearing a third option—a short, navy baby-doll dress with a satin bodice, sheer sleeves, and flowy chiffon below the empire waist.
"Ooh, that one's nice," she says when I open the door. "I still say go for the black one though."
"I don't know…"
She walks past me and heads back toward my bedroom, dropping her purse on my coffee table on the way. I know she understands that my indecision is about more than which dress to wear tonight. She knows me so well.
I follow her into my room and watch as she picks up the black dress. "You deserve to have an awesome time tonight," she says. "You've already said you don't want anything serious with this guy, which I totally agree with." She gives me a pointed look, almost a reprimand. Carrie is not one hundred percent on board with me going out with Brandon, since he was such a jerk to me when we were kids.
She thrusts the dress forward. "You should get to be reckless for once in your life."
This says a lot, coming from Carrie—she's the one woman I know who's had sex with even fewer men than I have. I've been with three guys. She's been with two, her college boyfriend and then no one else until David, whom she started dating about two years ago.
"I've been reckless before," I grumble. "Remember what happened the last time I was reckless?"
She ignores me, still holding out the dress. I take it from her outstretched hands, unsure. Then I set it back on the bed and put on a quick fashion show, stepping into my sensible black patent pumps with the two sensible dresses. When I get to the black dress and—at Carrie's insistence—the black and silver stilettos, she jumps up and down and claps. Against my better judgment, I leave on the ensemble and start putting waves into my hair with my spiral curling iron. Carrie perches on the end of my bed and talks to me about other things—probably to distract me and keep me from changing out of the shoes or the dress.
She doesn't leave until 5:55, and even then I'm practically pushing her out the door. I'm in the midst of chickening out and am about to head toward my bedroom to put the blue dress back on when Brandon's BMW pulls up at the curb in front of my house.
Some friend, I grumble as I run into the hallway bathroom to check my lipstick.
* * *
"And then she said he was going to leave his wife for her, but I know damn well he isn't leaving his wife," Brandon says before pausing to take another long sip of his Scotch.
My mind has been wandering, but at this, I take notice. "His wife?" I ask, my forehead wrinkling in confusion. "He's already married?"
"Yes, he's married. He has three kids and a house in the best neighborhood in Oak Park," Brandon says, and I notice that his words are starting to slur. We're sitting in the front room of Mollie Fontaine Lounge in Victorian Village, a stretch of nifty old Victorian mansions that are all rumored to be haunted and have all been converted into things like B&Bs and museums and, in the case of Mollie Fontaine, a nightclub.
It's warm in here despite the air conditioning, and a swirl of smoke rises from a group of people seated around a big, low table next to the velvet couch where Brandon and I are sitting. The smoke mixes with the filtered, red-tinged lighting and exotic fabrics that drape from the ceiling, making the room feel more like a souk than a dive bar in Memphis, Tennessee—though the smoky, bluesy voice and languid notes of a woman playing a piano in the corner brings the vibe back home.
"We'd have lived in that neighborhood eventually," he goes on. "I was one, maybe two years, tops, from a VP position. We'd have joined the club. Michelle would've played tennis with his wife. They would've gone shopping together, traded fucking nanny stories." His voice is drenched in bitterness, and he takes another long, slow pull on his scotch.
I reach to the table in front of me to pick up my own drink, a glass of deep red zinfandel. Before taking a sip, I ask, "What's going to happen now?"
"Oh, hell. I don't know. I guess he'll set her up in a new place, support her kid? I don't even know if the wife knows about any of this. I wouldn't be surprised if the dickwad's living a double life."
"Mmm, that's awful," I murmur. I've been listening to Brandon talk about his ex-fiancée for a solid hour now—not exactly how I envisioned this night proceeding. Before tonight, I'd had the impression that Brandon hated her for what she'd done to him, but now I realize he hates her because he actually still loves her, and she doesn't feel the same way.
I know what a kick in the gut that is.
"Yeah." He stares down into his drink, and I feel a prick of sympathy.
I reach up and lace my fingers into his—he has one arm slung across my shoulders against the back of the antique, tufted velvet sofa. "You're better off without her."
He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and I glance up at his face. We had a good time together earlier in the night, at dinner and then the show. But then we came to Mollie's, and he put back three glasses of whiskey in quick succession… Now he's looking at me as if he's seeing me for the first time since we got here.
Something jumps inside my stomach, and I can tell he's going to kiss me before he moves his head.
Sure enough, in the next second his lips are against mine, soft and with the honey-sweet tang of his drink. He moves away briefly to set his glass on the table, and he takes my glass too. And then his lips are on my lips, and my head is so fully immersed in his kiss that I forget how bored I've been for the last hour as he treated me more like his therapist than his date.
His right hand slides onto my leg, up my thigh, and pushes up my skirt, making me squirm a little, aware that we're in a public place. "You're a good kisser," he breathes into my cheek, pausing to nuzzle me under my ear and then kissing along my jaw until he reaches my mouth again. I'd just been thinking the same thing about him.
My breathing hitches when he moves his lips back to my ear. "Let's get out of here," he whispers, his breath rustling my hair and tickling my cheek. We've already paid our bill, so he threads his fingers through mine and stands, pulling me toward the door as if I don't have a say in the matter.
In the car, which I insist on driving, I find out he's been living with his parents since he got back to town, so he wants to go to my house. This penetrates the sexed-up haze that's overtaken my brain and makes me start to second-guess myself again. He's been back for, what, two months? Much as I love my mom and dad, I can't imagine any life circumstance that would compel me to move back into their house at age thirty-one. But then I rationalize that his heart's been broken, and he's hit rock bottom, and I squeeze his hand in the darkened car. The look he gives me gets me all charged up again.
When I park his car in front of my house and walk up the steps with Brandon behind me, I'm remembering our last date, when I was seventeen, and thinking this night has a strange shroud of nostalgia that feels almost like a do-over.
We'd gone to a theater that night too—a movie theater, not a live show—and ended the night as usual on the sectional sofa in his parents' playroom. His parents weren't home. There was a babysitter and the low drone of a TV downstairs, and his two younger brothers were in bed down the hall, but they weren't asleep. Every few minutes a yelp or a giggle pierced the quiet. Brandon had the playroom TV on but on mute to give us warning if anybody approached. I was taut as a drum as he unbuttoned my shirt and slid it from my shoulders, my heart beating a hard, staccato rhythm as we moved around the bases faster than we ever had before.
He'd wriggled my panties down and had his fingers inside me, kissing down my jaw and my neck just like he had tonight at the club. I was trembling, terrified, as he shrugged out of his boxers and guided my head into his lap. Just then a door opened down the hall—one of his brothers—and a few seconds later, we both froze as we heard the babysitter's steps on the stairs. Brandon grabbed a blanket and covered us up, stuffing our clothes under the blanket with us. He turned the TV volume to a barely audible level so we could hear what was happening outside.
The sitter never opened the playroom door, and his brother went back to bed. We lay there together, unmoving, until we didn't hear another sound, but it didn't matter. As soon as the coast was clear, I quickly pulled my clothes back on and asked if he could take me home.
He broke up with me less than a week later.
I'm still thinking about this once we've moved up my porch steps and crossed the threshold into my living room, bathed in a warm, golden glow from the lamp I left on beside the sofa. Simon barreling into the room quells my nerves, and I spend a few seconds squatting to pet him—awkward in my sexy shoes—before looking up and asking Brandon if he wants a drink.
"Sure," he says. "Got any scotch?"
I shake my head. "All out," I say in a dry voice. I've never even tasted scotch, let alone stocked my home bar with it. "How about some wine?"
He nods and looks around. "Nice house," he says.
I'm wondering if he's being polite or if he means it—with Brandon, it's hard to tell. But I do have a nice house. Maybe not worthy of my profession, since I can't afford a lot of the products I sell my wealthy clients, even at cost. But it's comfortable, and I have a few nice pieces I've scored in my years as a designer—an Eames leather chair and ottoman given to me by a client who was moving and downsizing and a gorgeous original abstract I bought at a charity auction a couple years ago that hangs above my white-brick fireplace.
While pouring the drinks, I take my phone out of my purse and swipe it open out of habit. I see that I have a new text. Even though the screen reads "Todd," it takes me a minute to process who it's from. We've never texted each other before, so when I click into the message it's a brand new thread.
How was Jersey Boys?
I stare at the screen in surprise, an involuntary smile curling my lips. Just then, Brandon comes up behind me and puts his hand on my arm—I hadn't even heard him approach, and I jump, the phone clattering out of my hand and onto the granite counter.
"Need some help?" he asks in a low, gravelly voice. His lips on my neck leave me feeling confused, my head swirling with images of him and me tangled on his parents' sofa, his hand on my leg in Mollie Fontaine, Todd's unanswered text waiting on my phone's screen.
Why is Todd texting me?
I glance at the phone, which landed facedown, and say, "Here, I've got it."
I hand Brandon his drink and pick up my own, glancing at the phone once more before turning away from it, leaving it there. Brandon takes a
long swig from his glass and then runs his hand down my arm and laces his fingers through mine.
"How about a tour?"
I smile wryly, knowing there's only one room in my house Brandon is interested in touring. My stomach gives another tug, and suddenly my hand is sweating in his. "Sure," I say, my voice glib. I turn intentionally back toward the living room, buying myself as much time as possible to make sense of the thoughts swirling in my brain.
"This is the living room," I announce as we step from the hallway. His fingers release mine, and his hand moves to my back. I glance up at him. "You've already seen it, I guess." My voice wavers just enough to punctuate the sentence with my nervousness.
"Mmm-hmm," he says. His lips twitch at the corners as he tugs down the zipper on the back of my dress about an inch, turning my home tour into a striptease. My pulse is beating in my throat, and now the back of my neck is damp.
"And this is the guest room," I say as we weave through another door and turn down my back hallway. He barely spares it a glance, tugging harder on the zipper of my dress. We keep walking, and, my breathing erratic, I gesture to another room. "This is the laundry room."
"Yeah," he says, and his voice is husky, low. The only place left to go is either up the back stairs or out the back door, and I fight my flight instinct to do the latter. The only rooms upstairs are two more bedrooms, including mine, and two baths. I start up the stairs, and he follows. I don't even bother to point out my roommate's old bedroom, which is still empty except for a few things I've shoved in there, out of the way.
By the time we move inside my room, my zipper is all the way down, and his hand is inside my dress, skimming my back and moving to the edge of my panties. My skin is flushed, on fire, and my head is filled with a static buzz I can't think through. I turn, which causes his hand to slip out of my dress, and see that he's unbuttoned his own shirt, missing a button in the middle so it doesn't open all the way.
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 19