“Are you pimping me out, Sophie?” Billy says, mock-offended. “What kind of a gentleman do you think I am?”
“One who can help raise a lot of money for a worthy cause.”
“Well if a ‘date’ with me can help cure cancer, I’m all for it. Count me in.”
No arm wrestling necessary. No list of conditions—coy or demanding. Or “let me discuss it with my manager first” runaround. Just a simple and sincere yes.
“Billy Fox, you really are a good guy,” I say and mean it.
“I’m just me,” Billy replies, and I can easily picture the twinkle in his eyes that effortlessly manages to charm us all. “But thanks. Your stamp of approval genuinely means a lot. I gotta run. They’re calling me back to set now.” He makes a ghoulish roar.
After promising to relay to Billy all the pertinent details, I return to the committee and take my seat.
“He’s in.” I am grinning, picturing his phone covered in slime or goo or whatever the makeup department uses to create open wounds.
There are actual cheers.
Irene puts down her iPhone. “Well I just checked my bank balance. Looks like I’m going to have to settle for a mere mortal. Hello.” Something over my shoulder captivates her complete attention. “Now that will do just fine.”
Curious, I turn to see what’s got her all enraptured.
Across the room sits an incredibly sexy man, rolled up sleeves exposing strong arms below broad shoulders, studying what looks like a pile of spreadsheets. A pin-striped suit jacket hangs on the back of his chair. His face is largely turned away, but I’d recognize that fall of soft chestnut-brown hair anywhere.
Jacob.
“Wonder what’s his story?” Irene says, joining my stare. “I don’t think I see a wedding band. Surely he can’t be straight and available? The truly eligible are as common as unicorns in LA.”
Thankfully Jacob is engrossed in his work, seemingly oblivious to being on display. He must have arrived after I left to call Billy. Maybe with my back turned and across the room he hasn’t even noted my presence. Of course I knew he was still involved with the foundation, but in our very distinct roles we’d yet to cross paths.
Seeing him now is like encountering a unicorn. Surprisingly unreal.
And the first coherent thought that comes to mind is: Hands off my man.
I thought I’d moved on. Punched it out. Shut it away in a drawer.
Yet here now with Jacob I find myself feeling territorial.
Unlike with Billy, there was never much of a reaffirming epiphany that it wasn’t right. Or real. Jacob and I ended things over disappointment, stubbornness, and hurt. But never from lack of love.
The rest of the planning meeting continues around me. I nod along and lightly participate in the final details, but my mind is elsewhere. I refuse to turn around and see if Jacob ever spots me, shielding myself from his reaction. As soon as the meeting wraps, I dart for the door, nearly holding my breath until I’m seated in my car, gripping the steering wheel. I glance up at the rearview mirror and shake my head. Once again I’ve managed to catch myself off-guard. Why did it take Irene’s appraisal for me to realize I still have feelings for Jacob? When am I gonna let it go?
Travis’s parents have a stunning California Colonial–style home with twin thick columns flanking a forest-green painted door, and knowing as I do the true gentleman beneath the laid-back, motorcycle-riding image, it’s exactly how I pictured Travis growing up. Arriving a good half hour early to the party could have been really awkward, but Connie Harrison does not allow people to feel uncomfortable in her home. She welcomed me in like a family member, and immediately put me at ease by setting me to work. So now I’m helping organize last-minute party setup with the catering staff in the immense Carrera marble–filled kitchen. Through a half-moon wall of windows leading to the backyard I watch another small crew adding chairs and lighting votive candles as the band sets up to one side of the flagstone terrace.
I’m the first guest to arrive because there was very little traffic on the 405, and while the place is way the hell out in the Pacific Palisades, my GPS got me here with none of my usual “please make the first legal U-turn” foul-ups. Plus I’m making a renewed effort to always be on time, but with traffic’s wild-card factor sometimes I overcompensate and achieve the other extreme.
But mostly I’m uncharacteristically prompt because I’m out-of-my-mind nervous about tonight. I know I will see Jacob this evening, and every possible scenario I’ve played out in my imagination makes me feel a little sicker. Sure, I admitted to myself how I still feel about him, but he made it very clear when we broke up that it was over. Period. And his kept distance since doesn’t exactly indicate regret. Just as I was finally feeling confident again, old emotional vulnerability returned. Great. At least the simple navy sheath I’m wearing hangs ridiculously well on me—those kickboxing classes are paying off. I even went sleeveless without a second thought. But I suspect Jacob would have the same guarded reaction to me whether I was in Victoria’s Secret or a burka. We’re all adults here; I know he won’t make a scene. But I don’t know which will feel worse… having to make polite social small talk as if what happened between us didn’t mean anything, or if he gives me the “cut direct” as in some fabulously tragic moment from Jane Austen. For him to publicly shut me out completely would be devastating.
So why even show up? Why torture myself? Because it’s Travis’s birthday—and one’s three-o is a big deal.
Well, okay, that’s partially true. I mean, it is true that it’s Travis’s milestone birthday. And Travis has always been a good friend, even through this personal and professional debacle. But that’s only half of why I came. I’m here, stabbing toothpicks through prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe balls, because I need to get this inevitable encounter over with. I can’t get on with the rest of my life until I manage to face this hurdle. Otherwise the purgatory of not knowing how it will go with Jacob will haunt me indefinitely.
With nothing left to stab, I carry the elegant silver tray to Travis’s mother. “Where would you like me to put these…” She told me not to call her “Mrs. Harrison,” but my inner twelve-year-old is very close to the surface these days and feels uncomfortable using her first name.
“Just lovely, Sophie dear. Please place them out on the lanai.” And as I walk away, she adds, “On the coffee table, dear, not the antique hutch.” I love Travis’s family. Originally from Greenwich, Connecticut, they are a rare and fascinating mix of gentility and accessibility. His smart and gorgeous twin sisters, Cassie and Bridget, always crack me up. His mother only looks chic and fabulous, air kissing with the best of them, but she unabashedly lights up in the company of her outgoing brood. His father, a notable architect, was once quoted in Architectural Digest saying that building his family was the accomplishment of which he was most proud. When Tina—my intended “plus-one”—had to bail last-minute, I knew I’d still have a grand time solo.
As I step outside and try to figure out which thing is the “hutch” so I don’t put the appetizers there by mistake, the mild evening air is just perfect. It would never dare be overcast or cold for a Harrison Family Gala.
The front doorbell rings and the first on-time guests begin to file in. As only truly perfect parties do, it goes from no one to a chatty festive crowd in minutes. Released from service, I drift around, meeting Travis’s family friends, some of whom I know, most of whom I don’t. Cassie and Bridget, in slinky, jewel-toned cocktail dresses, stick close to my side, whispering the juicy gossip on everyone as we hang out at the inviting bar station set up in the grand foyer opposite the front door.
When Damon walks in, I am embarrassed to admit I cower and turn my back before he can see me. What is it about that guy that, even from twenty feet away, brings out the worst in me? He’s with his now official girlfriend, Juliet, the makeup artist I met and liked a lifetime ago, so he can’t be all bad. And, yes, he’s old friends with the Birthday Boy and Jacob.
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Jacob. Pulling myself together is no easy feat knowing that he could walk through that door at any moment.
Okay, Sophie, time to pull up your big-girl pants and grow up. It doesn’t matter how he responds. You have to be mature about this. There’s no alternative.
The twins luckily don’t seem to notice my inner pep talk, keeping up their witty banter without missing a beat. Though there is absolutely nothing important I’m expecting, out of habit and to cover my nerves, I check my phone. And surprisingly, there is a text. I didn’t even notice the buzz over the crowd.
have fun tonight. You deserve it. XO Izzy
Well, I don’t know what I “deserve.” But I couldn’t ask for a better friend, and I make a mental note to text her back the second I leave tonight.
Looking up from my phone to politely laugh at whatever Bridget said to make Cassie crack up, my eyes land squarely on Jacob’s face in the entry. He clearly spies me too. For a split second I freeze, but the momentum of my fake laugh actually carries me through the crisis. I instinctively draw breath when Jacob smiles back at me politely and nods in greeting. I nod back, and then he is pulled into the crowd of others arriving, and the moment is over.
It was fine. We smiled, we exchanged head-nods… it’s fine.
“Sophie, just so you know,” Bridget says sotto voce, “Jacob just got here.” Cassie discreetly points toward him with the rim of her champagne glass, but I don’t need to look. Their tone is hesitantly sympathetic. The twins know what went down from Travis, but I love them for not grilling me for details, for just being there with me.
“I saw him. And it’s okay.” It is. I mean, what am I gonna do? I realize now, I’ve built up this moment in my mind like it was going to be some big awakening. And it’s not. I still don’t have a job. I still screwed up a great relationship with a guy I really loved. And I’m still the new me—the one who loves kickboxing, has a fresh appreciation for her mother, and has big plans for the rest of her life. Even if some of the details are hazy…
I take a deep breath, look around, and take in the diverse gathered crowd.
“What a great party. Your mom doesn’t kid around.”
“Please. You should’ve seen their fortieth anniversary party,” Cassie says. “This is nothing!” Seconds later she is deep into a description of the ice sculpture portrait of their parents when the birthday boy himself saves me with his grand entrance.
After Travis is toasted (and roasted), the party and decibel level really get going. The six-piece band is in full force. Nearly everyone—from parents’ friends to the siblings’ peers—is out grooving on the dance floor that was positioned over the swimming pool. I’ve even let myself get dragged out here by the twin terrors. And I’ve had just enough well-paced cocktails to think I’ve got some smooth moves.
The lead singer is covering OneRepublic’s “Good Life” really well, and it’s totally pulsing through my veins. I feel an arm brush against mine and open my eyes to see Travis smiling down at me.
“I’m so glad you came!” he shouts over the music, but really I’m just sort of reading his lips. I smile back, relieved we can’t actually “talk.”
“Happy Birthday,” I mouth back, giving him a quick hug, which he returns in a bear squeeze before we both start lip-syncing to the irresistible chorus. We burst out laughing as we screw up the other lyrics, but still are caught up in the beat. It’s so nice to let loose and simply have fun. I am just enjoying this moment, laughing, singing, dancing with Cassie, Bridget, and Travis… and one hundred of his closest friends.
The hours pass in a blur of cake, more toasts, and spirited dancing. I am grateful that the extra ten seconds I took to turn my simple slick ponytail into a bun is such a low-maintenance style. At some point I remove my painful shoes and hide them behind a nearby planter. Even without my heels, my feet are killing me when I finally take a break from the dance floor to wait in line barefoot at the cappuccino bar and dessert crêpe station. Eyeing the decadent options, I do the girl thing of mentally guessing how many calories I’ve burned sweating and wondering if it will compensate for the strawberry crêpe I refuse to deny myself. The party hasn’t slowed down a bit. In fact, if anything, it’s even more lively, the proverbial second (or third) wind having taken hold. And at this point it doesn’t even surprise me when I see Jacob and Damon deep in conversation with several beautiful women.
It’s like immersion therapy. I’ve now glimpsed Jacob so many times during the night that I am becoming immune to the aftershock. For instance, I watch the group chat for a second longer—even catching one pretty gal leaning in to Jacob, laughing—before the pastry chef takes my attention back to whipped dessert decisions. When I look back in the group’s direction, they are gone.
“If you share, the calories don’t count,” Bridget says, teasing me as she sneaks a bite from my delicate powdered sugar–covered plate.
“Please. Help yourself.” We sit for a beat enjoying the sugary treat in worshipful silence. I’ve met the Harrison family plenty of times since getting close with Travis through Jacob. And I’ve always gotten on well with his little sisters. But somehow tonight, maybe because I am Jacob-free, these girls have made me feel like a third sister.
“Thank you so much, Bridget. For everything tonight.” I don’t want to bring this moment down or anything. So I laugh. “It could’ve been all Real Housewives drama without you and Cassie to keep me in check.”
“Happy to help,” Bridget says, patting my arm, “but if there needs to be a smackdown tonight, you know I’m good for that too.” She demonstrates her mighty kung fu moves with her fork, which gets me really laughing.
And of course Travis and his always composed parents appear right as I’m doing my best Karate Kid pose. I try to tuck my bare feet under the hanging tablecloth. Mrs. Harrison, I mean Connie, still looks picture perfect—as though the party only started moments ago and she’s barely left her dressing mirror. How does she do that? At my side, Bridget straightens up too. Ah, a kindred spirit, intimidated by her mother’s flawlessness.
“This evening is so lovely, Mrs…. um… Connie. Thank you for including me,” I tell her with absolute poise. My performance is blown in milliseconds, as Connie leans forward and with a motherly gesture wipes powdered sugar off my cheek. I blush. “And everything is delicious. Obviously.”
Having been part of the party from the very beginning of the night, I don’t feel at all awkward when Mrs. Harrison, I mean Connie, asks if I might run to the cellar to bring up a couple of reserved bottles of prized Bordeaux wine for some of the special guests (myself included).
Back inside the house, I disappear into the beautiful oak cellar, happy for the chance to escape the crowd. Everyone tonight is so, well, happy. Not to say that I’m not happy. I am. Completely. But as I drift past rows of wines, casually scanning the labels, hunting for the ones on Mrs. Harrison’s list, I feel myself growing a little indignant. I’ve kept largely to the twins’ side tonight. But just because I’m not totally into making vapid small talk with semi-acquaintances doesn’t mean I’m not happy in the broad sense. I’m just not feeling “festive,” that’s all.
And now I’m having an argument with myself. Wow.
Eventually I find the Bordeaux section. Of course Mrs. Harrison has listed particular vintages as well as regions and wineries. No problem—I’ve always been good with details. Double-checking the labels, I complete the task.
“Why aren’t you dating anyone?”
“Excuse me?” I could pretend that I don’t recognize the voice behind me. But I do. I would know his voice anywhere. I turn around, my hands filled with wine bottles, and Jacob’s stance is filling the small doorway.
“Why aren’t you dating?” he says again. This time he doesn’t sound so fierce, but still, there is an intensity to Jacob that I don’t remember ever seeing before.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Suddenly I feel defensive and trapped, and I try to take charge of the situ
ation. I walk up to where he is blocking my exit as if to pass right through him. But of course, Jacob doesn’t budge. His stare feels like it’s drilling holes through me. “Jacob, please let me pass,” I say calmly.
“First, tell me why.” He hasn’t moved an inch since he locked eyes with me. But now he takes a step forward, backing me farther into the tiny shelf-lined room. There’s an alluring hint of whiskey and cigar coming off him.
“This is ridiculous. I don’t know why. I just haven’t.” I had been hoping to escape without answering him, but with no space between us, the words just fall out of my mouth. And now that I’ve started talking I can’t seem to shut up. “Why? What is this, the Inquisition? Jacob, what are you doing?” By the last, there was a squeak in my voice.
“Travis and Izzy both said you haven’t dated anyone since we broke up. Is that true?” Now my back is pressed up against the cellar wall, and the necks of a few of the bigger wine bottles are pushing uncomfortably against my spine. The gentle clinking of bottles settling against one another complements my short breaths. Izzy hadn’t told me they spoke.
“What do you care?” I always love a good fourth-grade comeback.
“Tell me.” Jacob hasn’t changed his volume, but if possible he is even more intense than before. Clearly he is looking for a specific answer. One I don’t know. Out of the corner of my eye I see his right arm braced on the wall next to my ear, between the exit and me. He brings his face down to meet me eye to eye. I feel like he can see into my head, and I wonder if he finds whatever he’s looking for.
“Sophie…” This last comes out as a sigh. Did I hear regret in his voice, or was it acceptance? The room is still way too close, and with no air to speak of, I am only breathing in Jacob’s breath. I can’t focus. Finally Jacob ends the staring contest—he won—and his gaze travels over my face, still as intense, but now I feel the heat on my hair, my cheeks, and finally my lips. My stomach does a series of backflips.
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