How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3)

by Stacey Wiedower

  "There's nothing to talk out, Brandon." I pull the door handle, and the car door inches open, not enough to turn on the interior lights but enough to make the dashboard sensor start to ding. "It's been nice hanging out with you again"—Ugh, what the hell is that? A lie to spare his feelings? I wish I could bite the words back in—"but I know when something isn't good for me. This isn't good for either one of us."

  "Whatever." He opens his door and gets out of the car, and he's around to my side before I can gather my bag and climb out.

  I maintain careful non-contact, stepping around him when I exit the car. But he reaches out and grasps me by the wrist again, then bends his head to mine and attempts to kiss me on the lips. I turn my face so his lips graze my cheek, trying but unable to keep the pity out of my eyes.

  "Drive safe," I say, and then I turn and walk toward my front steps, not looking back. His car is still at the curb with the engine not yet running when I open my front door, slip inside, and close and lock it behind me.

  * * *

  An hour and a half later I'm in my pj's with a towel wrapped turban-style around my head, unable to sit still. After coming inside and calling Carrie to tell her about my night, I decided to give the ancient claw-foot tub in my master bathroom some rare exercise—as crappy as this night was, I felt a deep need to scrub it off my skin.

  But it didn't help me relax.

  Oddly, I'm not too worked up about what happened with Brandon. Our argument in the car feels less than real, like a flicker of a bad dream, or an insipid TV show droning in the background. Instead, what I'm thinking about as I pace my house like a restless feline is where in this city Todd might be tonight and who he might be with. I have no way to see him again without stalking him. I know his number, of course, but I don't have any jobs for him and therefore no reason to call. I could go to the restaurant where he works, but now he knows that I know he works there—in other words, stalking.

  Wait…the fund-raiser. I stop pacing for a few seconds as the realization hits. Chick's opening night event for the bakery is happening next week. She's included me on the invitation list, but I doubt she thought to invite Todd. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I forwarded the invite to him. Or brought a date. The thought of Todd as my date warms the tips of my ears and tingles in my fingers.

  I resume pacing my bedroom. Simon is sprawled on the woven rug in front of the window, his head alert and cocked to one side, one ear folded down and the other folded back in that adorable little schnauzer stance that alternately says, "What's going on?" and "You humans sure are weird." His eyes follow my every movement.

  I turn toward my dresser, where I last laid my phone, but then I stop mid-step. Should I invite him? What if he says no? It's as much as I deserve.

  This is crazy. I should just invite him. I stride across the room and pause with my hand on my phone, which is upside down on the dresser's matte gray surface. I take a deep breath, pick it up, and flip it over.

  When I do, the screen is lit with a new text. I see that it's from Carrie, but it flashes off before I can read it. I click and swipe, and then I feel as if I'm flashing back in time, as if the past four months haven't happened at all.

  Girl, I hate to tell you this, but you'd better get on Facebook. Now.

  "What the hell?" I say it out loud, and my voice is so abrupt in the stillness of my bedroom that it surprises even me. Simon, who'd settled back into a cozy furball on the rug, lifts his head again, his ear newly cocked.

  The energy expunges itself from my body in a single gush, as if my body were inflatable and someone just uncapped the plug. I sink to the floor and land in a cross-legged heap with my back against my dresser. Sensing an invitation, Simon jumps up from his perch and trots over to me, his collar tags clanging a cheerful song. He sniffs around for a few seconds and then settles in beside me with a huff, resting his chin on my left thigh. Absently, I reach down with my left hand and stroke the soft hair behind his ears. And then, cringing inside, I swipe over to my Facebook app with my thumb and click it, squeezing my eyes shut as my profile pulls up.

  I take a deep breath and then open one eye, squinting at the screen. But I didn't put anything on Facebook. Wait…did I? I assess my level of buzz and decide it's nonexistent. I definitely did not update my Facebook status this evening. So how bad can this be? Certainly not as bad as last time, whatever it is.

  I see that I have four new notifications. Clicking the icon feels like pulling the pin from a grenade, and my finger hovers above it for an extra couple of seconds. And then I hold my breath and click.

  Brandon Royer has tagged you in a photo.

  That's what I see first. My stomach gives a warning jolt, bracing itself. I move on to the next notification, which reads, Brandon Royer has updated his relationship status. And then, Quinn Cunningham and 26 others have commented on your photo.

  "Oh no, he did not."

  Now I'm clicking with fury—my fingers can't move fast enough, and I fumble over them as I struggle to navigate the app. I pull up the wall on my profile and see that Brandon has posted both of the photos he took tonight, first the cheesy shot of us smiling in the front seat of his car and then the shot of us kissing in the movie theater. That shot is a little fuzzy and cuts off the back half of my head, but it's effective enough as a tool for revenge. When I click on it, the caption reads, Just like old times.

  "I am going to kill you," I say aloud, now grasping my phone with both hands and glaring at the screen. Simon raises his head, and I glance down at him, returning my fingers to his fur.

  "Not you, buddy," I murmur. "Sorry."

  I read through the comments to view the extent of the damage. Brandon has changed his relationship status to "In a Relationship." And the status update that tops the images reads, There's nothing like reconnecting with your first love.

  "You are so full of shit," I yell, uncrossing my legs and struggling to stand. Simon jumps backward and shoots me another humans-are-so-crazy look before wandering back to his spot in front of the window, circling once before settling down and eyeing me warily.

  My fingers are flying over the screen now, first scrolling to read the comments and view the "likes" on each element of the status update. The image of us kissing has the most comments, including the one from Quinn, which just reads, Well, well.

  Other comments are from Brandon's and my mutual Facebook friends—high school acquaintances mostly—but there are a couple from real-life, current friends either congratulating me or weighing in on the "cuteness" of the photo. The likes are rampant.

  Blood rushes hot through my veins, and my head fills with a startling pressure, giving me a new take on the expression "steam coming out of your ears." I feel like a teakettle that's reached the boiling point, my need to scream the whistle.

  And then, as I fumble off of the images and return to the status to figure out how to delete it, or untag myself, or…something, I inadvertently click the notification to "see who likes this image." And what I see makes my body go cold. First on the list of likes is Todd Birnham.

  * * *

  "So let me get this straight. You are not dating Brandon Royer again." My mother has asked this question multiple times now, as if she doesn't believe my answer. And, I have to admit, the situation is rather unbelievable.

  "That is correct," I say, rolling my eyes in a reprise of my teenage self, who has appeared too many times this week already. I straighten my back in my chair, a grown-up stance, and gird my patience. "I went out with him a few times, but we are absolutely not dating."

  "Wait, a few times?" breaks in Catherine, and I remember that I only filled them in on two dates—the show at the Orpheum and last night's disaster. I couldn't get around it, since Brandon so helpfully documented both dates on Facebook. "How many dates is 'a few times?'"

  Eleanor is watching me with sympathy, as she knows the whole story. She's the only family member—or person in general besides Carrie—that I've confided in about my run-ins with Brandon and Jere
my. Oh, geez. Jeremy. If my mom knew about Brianna's pregnancy I'd be getting the third degree about that too. I have half a mind to announce it, just to turn the conversation away from Brandon.

  If I'd had any inkling that tonight's family festivities would revolve around my messed-up, and yet still somehow nonexistent, love life I'd have faked a stomach flu to get out of it.

  "Three times, I think," I mutter.

  "Three times!" This is from my dad, which is mortifying.

  "I can't believe you're going out with him again," adds my mother, forcing another involuntary eye roll. "He was so awful to you back in school." The look in her eyes shames me to my very core. It conveys things like, I'm very worried about you, and Didn't our talk about Jeremy mean anything?, and Where is my capable, adult daughter?

  I get it. If I were my own mother, I'd be thinking the same things. I don't exactly have a track record for sound decision-making of late.

  "I promise you guys, Brandon and I aren't dating. That Facebook status was totally bogus."

  "But why would he put that out there, if it isn't true?" That's my dad, for whom the world is black and white. Honest in word, deed, and facial expression. Right now he looks perplexed.

  Thankfully a swarm of servers arrives beside the long array of pushed-together tables with our entrees—dinner for twelve, which means that by the time everybody has their food and settles back down, I'll be off the hook. The conversation devolves to things like, "The blackened salmon pasta? That's me." And, "No, I have the one with steamed vegetables instead of fries." That's Eleanor, still fighting back against the baby weight. The table is alive with passed dishes and condiment requests and toddlers who won't be settled down. My niece Charlotte is seated beside me, and I spend a couple of minutes helping her pound the side of a ketchup bottle without splotching any on her outfit—a pair of hot-pink-and-white striped leggings with a purple skirt and a sparkly off-the-shoulder top with a tank beneath. On her feet are silver ballet flats, and she's topped off the ensemble with a glittery purple bag that she carefully hung from the back of her chair, emulating me. I'm not sure when she morphed into this budding fashionista, but it makes me wish I'd been spending more time with my family. I'm missing too much.

  That sentiment changes when we're all settled again, and the subject returns to me. "He really lied about your relationship status on Facebook?" This time it's Chris. "That's balls."

  "Christopher." Christine elbows her husband, gesturing around at all the kids at the table, who aren't paying any attention but are babbling in every direction and doing anything but eating. Only Charlotte is paying rapt attention, and I'm hoping most of this is flying right over her head.

  "What?" he says. "I think it's funny, that's all." He looks over at me with sparkling eyes. "Want me to beat him up for you?"

  "Would you really beat him up, Daddy?" asks Charlotte in her high, sweet trilling voice, eliciting another elbow into Chris's side from Christine.

  "Okay, y'all. That's enough." It's Eleanor, and I shoot her a grateful look. "I think the lessons we can all gather here are that you can't believe everything you read on Facebook, and"—she gives me a sidelong glance—"that Jen should maybe think about shutting down her Facebook profile."

  "Cheers to that," Chris says, holding up his glass of sweet tea.

  My dad follows suit. "Hear, hear."

  And then my other brother, Brian, pipes up with, "Oh, hey, Jen. Ever heard of a website called Facebook Epic Fails?"

  I glare first at him and then at Eleanor, beside him, who's pursing her lips and trying not to laugh. And then I glare in turn at each member of my family of traitors and say, "How 'bout them Titans?"

  If anything can distract a table full of Southerners, it's football.

  * * *

  By the time Monday morning rolls around I have no more insight into how to handle Brandon's Facebook attack, though I did at least figure out how to untag myself from his photos and remove his posts from my wall. I also unfriended him, but I'm not sure what good any of that's going to do, since the damage is already done.

  That's the most infuriating thing about social media—once something's out there, it's taken as fact and almost impossible to retract. Also, and this is the worst part, it's impossible to erase it from people's memories. I've learned that lesson in the past four months, if nothing else.

  Why do I have to learn every lesson the hard way? Seriously, I'm thirty-one. Actually, I'm almost thirty-two—my birthday's in a little over three weeks. When I blow out the candle on the cake Carrie is sure to bake, my wish will be that thirty-two is the year I learn from my mistakes and avoid turning my life into one giant "If only I hadn't…"

  The good thing about this morning is that I'm faced with another workweek that's so busy I don't have time to dwell on said mistakes. Today I'm checking in on the work at the Santiagos' house and meeting with Amanda Jossamon-Barnes to discuss the delay on the bicycle-factory condo project. I'm also working to pull together ideas for Amelia and Noah's house based on the feedback Amelia gave me last week.

  I've just risen from my chair to start sifting through fabric books when my cell phone rings in my left hand. It's a number I don't recognize.

  "Jen Dawson," I say, distracted as I pull a Romo book from the shelf.

  "Hi, Jen. My name is Calliope Redwing." The woman at the other end hesitates long enough for me to scroll down my mental list, but her name doesn't ring a bell—and I'm sure I wouldn't forget a name like Calliope Redwing. "I, um, I got your number from my, um, from my…colleague, Sandra Jonas?" The way she hesitates on the word "colleague" makes me wonder if she's not actually a colleague but one of Sandra's patients. Though there's no shame in it, I know people are often reluctant to admit they see a psychologist. "I absolutely love the work you did in Sandra's office, and I wondered if you might be available for a consultation?"

  Oh, wow. What a time for a referral. "Absolutely," I say, because there is no other answer. Besides, I just wrapped up the Sweeties project and progress is stalled on both Brewster's place (at least, I'm stalling) and the Rasmutin project, so the timing actually sort of works. "What type of project did you have in mind?"

  "Well, it's work in my office," Calliope says.

  "Oh, are you a clinical psychologist too?" I ask, thinking maybe I misread her hesitation.

  "No, I'm a lawyer," she says, abashed. Yep, she's totally one of Sandra's patients.

  "Oh, well, great," I say. "I'd be happy to meet with you." A private lawyer's office should be a piece of cake. "Do you work from a home office as well, or do you have outside office space?"

  "Oh, it's outside office space all right," she says, and there's an edge to her voice that makes me feel as if I'm missing something. "It's an office of forty-two attorneys, fifteen paralegals, and about seventy members of support staff. Have you heard of Jameson, Jameson & Pflug, PLC?" I'm working to pick my jaw up from the floor when she continues. "Our offices are in a historic building downtown. It's an old cotton warehouse that was converted in the '80s. Anyhow, the place hasn't had a face-lift since I've been there, and I've been a partner now for sixteen years."

  I'm stunned into silence, though my head is spinning with questions I need to ask. Meanwhile, she keeps going.

  "Sandra mentioned that you have a particular love of historic restoration and adaptive reuse, and she's highly complimentary of your work ethic. I know this is a big project, and you're part of a small design studio, but I saw that your firm does handle commercial work, and I wanted to call you first and gauge your interest."

  "I…um… well, I'm flattered, first of all," I say. "I'll have to thank Sandra for the nice referral. And I imagine that with a project of this scope and in a corporate setting, you'll probably be working through a committee and seeking proposals?"

  "Yes…ish," she says with a laugh. "It's a large firm, but it's a family-run business that's privately owned, and it's very much a good ol' boy enterprise. I've worked on Chet, our managing partner, long en
ough now about our need for renovations that he's finally given in and given me a budget, and so you'd basically be working with me—a committee of one. If you're interested once you see the space, I'll ask you to put together an initial presentation package that details your rates and availability and what you might be able to do for us."

  "Of course." My thoughts are still spinning, and my eyes are roving over our little studio. There's no way I can handle a project this big on my own with everything else that's on my plate, but my collaboration options are ever-dwindling. Ellie Kate's now gone, and Candace hasn't begun to interview for her replacement yet. And these days, I don't feel comfortable asking Candace or even Rachael to partner with me on a job. That leaves Quinn and Brice, and Brice doesn't yet have the certifications to qualify him for commercial work. Squelching my hint of panic, I add, "When would you like to meet?"

  It can't hurt to check out the space, at any rate. If it's too much for me or my firm to handle, I can always decline and refer her to someone else.

  "How about this Thursday?"

  "Um…" I walk back over to my desk and pull up my Outlook calendar. "This Thursday is fine. How is two o'clock?"

  She pauses. "Two works for me," she finally says. "I can move an appointment."

  When we hang up the call, I'm feeling the first stirrings of excitement overriding my shock. I've done only two large corporate office projects in the past, and they involved rigid standards set by corporate committees. It sounds like I'd face none—or at least less—of that bureaucratic red tape here. But I would need to find a collaborator, possibly more than one. In fact, I'd need to assemble an entire team.

  Adrenaline is pumping in my veins, to the point that I can't focus on my fabric search. I've flipped through a Duralee book twice without really seeing the patterns when the front door bell jangles, distracting me further. I look up to see Quinn rounding the corner from the lobby. As soon as she spots me, she drops her bag on the floor beside her desk, tosses her purse onto her chair, and walks over—no, stomps over—to my perch at the worktable.