How to Look Happy

by Stacey Wiedower

  I realize Aubrey is staring at me with an expectant look on her face, which pulls me back to the situation at hand. Suddenly I can’t wait to get out of here.

  “Um, yeah, okay,” I mumble. “If I get the idea that Candace is…like, gold digging or something, I’ll let you know.” As if. Candace’s soon-to-be ex-husband is loaded, as were her first and second husbands. She has no reason to find a new sugar daddy.

  I’m expecting Aubrey to laugh me off or act embarrassed. But instead she nods, with a serious expression on her face. “Thank you,” she says.

  As she walks me out, she makes a vague comment about the weather, and I comment vaguely back, and it’s as if this whole situation resulted from a normal project on a normal day, with normal people involved.

  What a job I have.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Accentuate the Positive

  I spend the entire morning Friday on a site tour of the bicycle factory, which is currently being gutted and parceled out into individual condo units. The 1930s building is steel frame with a brick exterior and huge plate glass windows—very old-school-meets-International-Style, and the developer wants to keep that juxtaposition intact. I couldn’t be more excited. I can already visualize a finished unit in my head.

  The interesting thing about this project is that Marc Rasmutin, the developer, awarded the bid not just to me but also to another designer, Amanda Jossamon-Barnes. I’ve always liked Amanda—she’s a bit older than me, probably mid-forties, and has two tween-age daughters who look exactly like her, as if they arrived via immaculate conception, no father involved at all. And there is no father involved. From what she’s told me and what I’ve heard through the grapevine in Memphis’s small, gossipy design community, she’s raising her girls completely on her own, while running her own successful business.

  I’m charged with designing one entire model unit, and Amanda is designing another. We’re collaborating on the interior finish selections for the remaining spec units. The finished building will contain forty-six condos, along with ground-floor retail space that isn’t leased yet. Marc alluded to the fact that depending on the tenant, we might get pulled in on that project too.

  I’m super-excited but also nervous, since this is another big job at a time when I’m swamped with big jobs. But I’m so thankful to be busy that I decide to focus on the positive.

  After the site tour we have lunch off-site at a deli within walking distance, and then the meeting wraps with a presentation that Marc conducts from a makeshift podium set up on the bare concrete floors of the construction site. Me, Amanda, the architect, the general contractor, and a group of five or six men in suits who I’m assuming comprise the investment team are wearing hard hats and sitting in metal folding chairs, watching Marc give his speech in front of a projector screen with images and renderings. When it’s finished, Amanda turns to me.

  “I’m bursting with ideas,” she says.

  “Me too. We should probably schedule a meeting in the next few days to make sure we’re in line with each other.” Marc made it clear that while he wants Amanda and me to put an individual spin on our units, bringing our own aesthetics and sensibilities to the project, he also wants cohesion in palette and style. It’s rare that I get to make design decisions carte blanche, and I’m aching to get to my worktable and start drafting out ideas.

  “That sounds great.” She pulls out an iPad and taps into a calendar app. “How’s…Tuesday afternoon? Say 2:30?”

  I’m scrolling down my own calendar on my phone. “I’m booked all day Tuesday,” I say.

  That’s when I’m presenting to the Santiagos. Monday is also out because I’ll spend all day prepping for that presentation. “How about Wednesday at eleven?”

  She consults her schedule. “No, I’m doing an installation that morning. I’ve got the afternoon open though. Three o’clock?”

  I shake my head, scrolling down my screen. “Sorry. I’m in a project meeting then.” I laugh, continuing to scroll. “Okay, what about Thursday at ten?”

  She chuckles too. “Thursday morning is okay, but does nine work instead of ten? I have a lunch meeting I’ll need to prepare for.”

  “Done,” I say, adding the appointment to my calendar. I look up, and she’s doing the same. “Damn, you’re as busy as I am.”

  “It’s nice to be busy,” she says, smiling at me as she tucks her tablet back into her bag. “Much better than the alternative. Although some days I really wish I could clone myself.”

  I nod, in full agreement with every part of her statement—especially considering how close I came to that “alternative” when I badmouthed my boss on Facebook. “Tell me about it.”

  * * *

  I get back to my office around 2:30 and spend the next two and a half hours hunched over the worktable drawing rough sketches, studying the renderings Marc emailed this afternoon, and researching similar adaptive-reuse projects. I want to go into Thursday’s meeting with Amanda with a clear vision so her ideas don’t muddy up my own, but at the same time, I’m looking forward to collaborating with her. She’s a class act, and her work is possibly my favorite among all the designers in the city—even Candace, whose designs can be kind of fussy and heavy-handed. Amanda leans to a clean, simple aesthetic that forms a smooth bridge between modern and traditional design—important in a city like Memphis that’s slow to embrace trends and where it’s tough to coax clients out of the Southern-traditional past. A college professor of mine liked to say that Southerners live “behind the Magnolia Curtain.”

  I’m so absorbed in my work that when Carrie texts me around five and asks me if I’m in for SOB, I gasp. I’ve completely forgotten that I told Brandon I’d meet him for drinks this afternoon.

  Immediately, my stomach tightens into a knot. Almost since the moment I said yes to meeting him, I’ve regretted the decision—but not enough to contact him and cancel. I glance down at myself. I’m pretty well put together today thanks to my client meeting, but because the site visit required sensible shoes, I’m not exactly dressed for a date.

  It is what it is. I don’t even want to go, so there’s no need to look like I dressed up for him. I text Carrie back, and then reluctantly I shut down my laptop, gather up my materials, and start loading things into my bag to take with me so I can work this weekend. If not for this date with Brandon, I’d probably be in the office past dark again tonight.

  As I’m bending over my cubbies, shelving items I don’t need to take home, Quinn walks up behind me and says, “I heard you talked to my cousin the other night.”

  I straighten up, startled. “Huh?” I’m rushing around, barely listening to her because I’m actually going to be late—Brandon and I are meeting in Midtown at 5:30, and it’s already after 5:15.

  She follows me to my desk and watches as I pull my purse from my desk drawer and sling it and my heavy bag over my shoulders.

  “Todd,” she says, and at that I stop moving so suddenly that my bag crashes hard against my right hip. “Urff,” I grunt.

  I stare at her, my head cocked to one side. “Todd is your cousin?” I pause for a second, processing this. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

  She shrugs, leaning up against the edge of Ellie Kate’s desk. She and I are the only two people left in the office, which is typical for a Friday afternoon, especially in the summer. Actually, I’m surprised she’s still here.

  “I knew he was just getting started and needed the work, and I know how particular you are,” she says. “I figured if you knew it was nepotism you’d blow me off.” She shrugs again. “And I knew he’d do a good job. Todd’s good at everything he does.”

  That sentence pulls my mind straight to the gutter, and I blush, something Quinn doesn’t miss. She smirks at me. It hits me that she might be trying to set me up with something more than a work referral, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of going there.

  “Well, you’re right,” I say, regaining control of my senses and digging
for my car keys. “He did do a good job. I’m planning to call him again to help with the Sweeties installation.”

  Did I really just commit to that? Ah, well. It’s inevitable that I will call him. Something about Todd—and we’ll call it his magnetic personality—won’t let me write him off. Just the thought of seeing him again, of talking to him on the phone, even, sends a weird charge down my spine, though I’m quick to ignore it.

  “Good,” she says.

  I glance over at her as I start toward the door, and she’s still watching me with a smug look on her face. I shake my head and move toward the lobby.

  “Have a good weekend,” I call over my shoulder. And then my thoughts turn to Brandon, and I feel weird and tingly and charged up all over again.

  * * *

  It turns out I have heels in my trunk.

  They’re tucked into a gym bag that I used last week not for going to the gym (my gym membership fee is pretty much a donation at this point) but for changing clothes at Carrie’s house after work one day.

  I remember them just as I’m pulling into a paid parking lot in Cooper-Young, and I debate with myself for a full two minutes before deciding to retrieve them and change out of my sturdy, closed-toe flats, which were designed more for comfort than style.

  The flats are a “this is no big deal…let’s get this over with” kind of shoe. The heels, on the other hand, are total “fuck me” shoes—pale pink, buttery leather with a strap that wraps around my ankle and up my leg. It might sound stupid, but somehow I feel that by choosing to put on the shoes, I’m choosing to make other bad decisions tonight. As if to punctuate the thought, I pull down the visor mirror in my car and spend another two or three minutes reapplying mascara and lip gloss.

  All of this can lead to nothing good, I tell myself, but can’t seem to make myself listen.

  Outside the door to the restaurant, I pause and take a deep breath. Brandon is sure to be here already—it’s 5:48. In fact, I feel a surge of guilt that I haven’t texted to let him know I’m running behind. I’m past fashionably late now.

  A group walks up behind me, and I’m forced to either step aside for no good reason or push into the restaurant ahead of them, so I choose option two. Here goes nothing.

  Once inside, I spot Brandon immediately—in part because he’s so damn cute that every woman in the restaurant is probably aware of his presence and in part because the place is not big and comprises one long, open room. He’s sitting on the center stool at the long bar, chatting with a mop-haired bartender. A sign that reads, “Water is for washing” hangs on the wall behind the bar, and the TVs in the room are tuned to a St. Louis Cardinals game. I’m more attuned, though, to the jailbait blonde who’s practically hanging off of Brandon’s right arm. She’s leaning toward him, ample cleavage visible in the deep V of her tight purple top. I kid you not—she’s batting her eyelashes and laughing too loudly at something Brandon or the bartender has said.

  For some reason, this quells my nerves. Game on.

  I slide onto the empty barstool to Brandon’s left and say, “Cracking up the room, I see. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  I wink at him and then look to the bartender, who’s already sliding a beer coaster in front of me. The blonde has a half-drunk fruity cocktail in front of her, so I say, “What’s good on tap?”

  Eh, what the hell? I think. And then, Carrie would be so proud.

  Mop Man rattles off a list of beers I know nothing about, but when he mentions the one Carrie was drinking at SOB last week I stop him and say, “I’ll take a Wiseacre Ananda.”

  He nods and turns, and only then do I brave another glance at Brandon. As hoped, he looks impressed. Also, cleavage girl is no longer touching him. She’s turned and is now facing the girl beside her and talking in a low voice—about me, no doubt. I smile to myself.

  “How’s your week going?” Brandon asks in a lazy, relaxed drawl, as if he’s already two drinks in. For all I know, he might be.

  I give him a wry smile. “I’m not really sure. I haven’t had time to pause and ask myself that question.”

  “Well, that’s good, right? Everybody wants you.” A tiny hint of a spark comes into his eyes as he says this, which lights an instant spark in other places in my body. This is so, so bad.

  “You tell me,” I reply coyly, thinking What the hell am I doing? I’m acting like I’m in a competition with the blonde to see which one of us will take Brandon home tonight. I notice that she’s facing forward again and sitting close enough to him that their thighs might even be touching. I shift on my stool so I’m closer to him, too.

  The bartender sets my beer in front of me and then turns to her. “Another appletini?” he asks, even though her glass is still half full.

  “Um,” she says, and Brandon glances in her direction.

  “Ah, come on,” he says. “The night’s young.”

  The night’s young? Did he really just say that? Of course he did—how could I forget that Brandon can be such an asshat? I think about him dumping me for Missy Tompkins and shift on my stool again, moving slightly away from him. I pick up my beer and glance around the bar.

  Cooper-Young is more of a nighttime spot than a happy-hour hangout, but the place is already about two-thirds full. In a few hours it’ll be standing room only. Most of the people here are dressed in work clothes like me and like Brandon, who’s wearing a navy suit with a pale pink shirt and no tie. Why am I attracted to the types of guys who wear pink? That’s probably my problem.

  Jeremy could pull off pink. Todd likely wouldn’t touch a pink shirt to save his own life…unless he accidentally threw a red sock in the wash.

  Wait. Why am I thinking about Todd?

  I shake my head again and take a long pull on my beer and then another one. Carrie’s right, actually—this stuff isn’t half bad.

  “What are you thinking about so hard over there?” Brandon elbows me lightly in the side, causing me to jump. Beer sloshes a little in my glass but doesn’t spill.

  “Eh, nothing,” I say. “Just work.” I smile at him. “How are things going with your ex-girlfriend mission?”

  He smiles a lazy smile, clearly in his element now that I’ve asked him to talk about himself. “Stalled.” He picks up his drink—something in a highball glass that involves whiskey, judging by the color—and takes a slow sip. “I haven’t called anybody else since I talked to you.”

  This piques my curiosity. “Why not?”

  He looks me in the eyes for a couple seconds before he says, “Because if all my other exes are as direct as you and Missy were about what a jackass I am, I might get more depressed than I already am.” He leans toward me, and I can smell the bourbon on his breath. “And besides, I haven’t wanted to talk to other women when I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  I think my heart stops beating for about five seconds. As much as Brandon is a douchebag, he’s a sexy douchebag who played a major role in my complicated history…and he makes me hungry in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.

  Brandon’s blonde friend saves me from having to answer, which is good, since the only thoughts in my head involve things I’m not drunk enough to say. Things like, You know, I never got over you, and I haven’t had sex in a very long time.

  It’s as if she smells blood in the water and is circling in for the kill.

  “Oh, oops,” she says, falling out of her barstool and into Brandon’s side. “I’m such a klutz.” She flashes us a smile that shows more cleavage than teeth.

  He barely looks at her, and she sulks off to the ladies’ room. I take a long pull from my pint glass, wishing now that I’d ordered something that’d get me buzzed much faster than beer. If I’m going to survive this night, I need to catch up with Brandon. Then again…I’m still sober enough to know that’s not a good idea.

  He’s staring at me, but my brain’s repertoire of witty comebacks picks this moment to go on hiatus. “What have you been thinking?” I finally ask, feeling my cheeks go up i
n flames.

  His voice grows husky. “I’ve been thinking that there’s unfinished business between us.” He pauses but doesn’t drop his gaze. “Do you agree?”

  Ohgodohgodohgod. I know all too well what our “unfinished business” entails.

  “Some things from the past belong in the past,” I say, mentally congratulating my brain for making a comeback even as my body language betrays me. I’m leaning toward him, and he’s leaning toward me, and our cheeks are almost touching. When cleavage girl walks back into the room, I spot her in my peripheral vision motioning to the bartender for her tab.

  Check. Mate. I think. But what have I won?

  “Ouch, Dawson,” Brandon says, moving his head away from mine. “Was it really as bad as all that?”

  I lean away from him, too, placing my left elbow on the bar and resting my head on my hand. The question might have been rhetorical, but I feel like giving him a real answer. “You know, we were kids…” My voice trails off as I struggle to find words that won’t worsen his depression or let him off the hook. Looking down at the bar top, I say, “You were my first love.” I pause for a second and then look up at him, still not quite meeting his eyes. “But I don’t think I was yours. You can see where I might have a little trouble with this.” I gesture with my right hand between the two of us.

  “Then why did you meet me here tonight?”

  I smile. “Touché.”

  Brandon finishes the last swig of his drink, sets it down, and pushes it forward to the inner edge of the bar. When he meets my eyes again, his are serious. “I was in love with you.”

  I can’t help it. At this, I actually snort. “Funny way you had of showing it.” I pick up my own glass and toy with it. It’s getting warm, and my new love affair with craft brew isn’t strong enough to make me want warm beer. But I need liquid courage for this conversation, so I take a drink anyway.