Not sure what to say to that.
After a while she adds, “I should have known that Philip just wasn’t meant for it.”
Yes, well, cupcake, we all know how that turned out. “Please don’t start in on Dad. He did the best he could, okay?”
Mom scoffs, an angry, sharp little noise that slices at my head like a knife. “If you put half the energy you are putting into researching this girl’s mother into looking at your own father you’ll see that he’s-“
“He’s what, mom? Did he cheat on you? Or was the greatest rift you had with him was that he had to travel for his job? Weren’t you the one that got lonely? “
Mom’s face colors and she pinches her lips together. “You don’t understand.”
“No, no I don’t. So help me.”
“He can be charming and sweet, but, he’s just… not nice.”
“He’s not nice.” I take a step away from the counter. “Well, that’s incredibly specific. I know that you’re mad, I get it, I do. He was never around and you were. Bonus points to you. But are you done? Can we go now? I have to get up for work in the morning.”
My sisters all blame dad for our parent’s divorce, but I can’t believe that one spouse is completely responsible when a marriage crumbles. If mom and dad broke up, then mom and dad didn’t work. It’s not a blame thing, it’s just a bad match. Bad chemistry.
Mom and Ted worked out, it’s a good match.
Sometimes I think it’s just that simple.
Standing, Mom says, “Piper, please. I didn’t mean to upset you, I just-“
“I know. Let’s just get home, okay? It’s not like we’re going to just bump into this woman around campus, anyway. It’s been a long day.”
She sighs and we head to the car, spending the rest of our time together in silence.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: I Messed Up
I broke one of my own rules and spoke to Piper about Phil. It went about as well as could be predicted, which is to say, terribly. I know better and still I feel like I have to warn her. The fact that he’s staying with her just sets me off.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Brush It Off
You’re going to have to forgive yourself for this one, Annie. You’re human and your ex is a royal ass.
Chapter 9
Fun with Beer and Punches
Dear Miss Behave,
My boyfriend runs really hot and cold. When we’re together, he sings me songs that he wrote for me and makes me feel like I’m the center of his universe. But when we are out in public, he won’t hold my hand, or even really look at me. Even worse is when we’re out with his friends. He acts like I don’t even exist and ignores me entirely. Is he ashamed of me, you think? How do I bring this up to him without sounding like the “crazy girlfriend”?
Sincerely,
Concerned in Connecticut
Dear Concerned,
Oh, sweetness! This is why God invented cats. Why does love have to bring so much heartache? Save yourself now while you still can and spare yourself any future misery by saying goodbye to your less-than-enthusiastic beau and adopting a sweet little kitten. Be like your wise cat-women forbearers and exchange a future full of pain for one filled with soft, purring snuggles.
Have a margarita for me, honeypie!
Sincerely,
Miss Behave
Tuesday goes pretty much the same way Monday did. I wake up, dress nice, look in the mirror, go to work. I work, wait for Hunter, flutter flutter goes my heart every time the door opens or the phone rings. But nothing. No Hunter, no word at all since that text he sent on Sunday night checking to make sure I was okay after the whole soccer-ball-in-the-face incident.
Wednesday?
The same.
Thursday?
Same again. Though I did call Ted to chat about a shark documentary that we both watched, which was fun.
But by Friday when I wake up, I sort of hate Hunter.
Now it's Friday morning and my makeup and clothes look fabulous. But every time the door opens I tell my stupid little powder-puff-puff heart to cut it out.
You know, maybe it’s not Hunter, necessarily. Maybe I’m just lonely. Dad hasn't been home at night, and neither has Gen. She’s been working on another in-depth profile of the naughty world of medical insurance.
And as for Dad, well, every night when I would get home, I’d find a note saying that he was out and not to wait up. Of course, I've waited for him for years, only to be disappointed. So why I hold out any hope to have at least one night with Dad to catch up is beyond me.
But would it be that hard to grab a burger or something?
It’s not like I’m new to heartache. I should just know better than to let it catch me off guard.
Still, I'm not so sure I'm looking forward to the rest of the weekend.
It will be filled with fun and exciting games such as: sit around and wait for a phone call that never comes! Paint toenails! Check and see if I got a text but missed it! Shave legs!
Of course, I'm being completely ridiculous. And I have work to do. I finish up the rest of my notes about this serial robber. Apparently some man has been romancing wealthy ladies out of their fortunes and then disappearing. So far there have been three cases in Connecticut and two known in Massachusetts. The police don’t think that the cases are connected but I’m not so sure. I’m also not so sure that the guy can just poof disappear the way that he does, so I’ve been doing some digging, but I haven’t been getting very far.
So I pull out a file from the desk inbox and start typing. High School football. Good. Maybe this will be something I can actually do and enjoy.
I was put on the sports page three days ago due to a sudden illness of our regular sports reporter and a lack of willingness on the part of every other reporter in the office.
Already there have been a few emails in to Abigail talking about how much people enjoyed my little pieces on the sports page.
Abigail breezes by my desk, “Piper, you’re on the UCONN game tonight. Needs to be in by eleven so we can put it to bed tonight. Got it?”
Wow, just when I thought my weekend would be totally bust. “Of course I'll go! I really do like sports, you know."
She blinks once. Twice. Her face resembling a mouse. “Yeah. In by eleven.”
She saunters away and I hum as I turn back to my work.
I wonder if I can get dad to come with me. That would be so much fun. I take out my phone and text him and then set it down and focus on the task at hand. But it's hard, really, because UConn football is a blast. To cover college game as opposed to a high school game, where people can actually play, is such a treat.
Maybe I can add my coverage of the UConn game to my portfolio for the Chicago Sentinel. They actually seem pretty interested in me. One of the editors emailed me quite a few times asking for more details on my resume.
Lunch is over and done before I know it and finally four hours after I sent the initial text I get word back from my father.
It reads simply:
Sorry. Can't make it tonight. Busy.
My heart hardens in my chest. Well, all right then, is Gen still in the office? I'll ask Gen. I send her a text and her response comes back in less than a minute. Damn, she's working late. I close my eyes and rub my fingers on my temple. I don’t like that she’s working late, given that there have been strange cars driving by the house at night with men slowing down and staring. We live in a cute house and all, but still, it’s freaking me out.
But the game tonight will be great. I can drink some beer and maybe even get one of those soft pretzels without having to feel like anyone's eyes are sizing up my calorie counts.
I hate that. A girl’s going to eat when she's hungry and if she's hungry at a ballgame, she gets a hot dog. And a pretzel. And maybe nachos. There’s no shame in tha
t.
"Why is unicorn girl looking so glum?" Hunter’s voice snaps me like a bra strap and I sit up straight in my chair, heart zing-wham-powing its way up into my ears. I put both my hands on my desk and stare into that hard jaw and day-old stubble and green eyes. He adds, "Did you not get your wish or something?"
If he thinks he can mosey into the office late in the day on Friday after not showing up all week and make me melt like candy with the sound of that ridiculously low, honeyed voice, he’s got another thing coming.
“Where have you been all week?” I ask, reigning in the hostility and doing my best to sound only slightly miffed.
“Prepping for the launch of the two new lines. Hunkered down in my workshop, I still don’t know if I’ll get everything done on time, but it was time to come up for air.”
“Here I am thinking that you’re too ashamed to admit that you’ve been frantically searching for a roasted pig recipe to match Aunt Elise’s.”
“Well, and that, of course. Though I’m pretty sure that no matter what I come up with, it wouldn’t be possible to even come close to your Aunt’s recipe.”
He’s wearing a sweater that fits him just a little snuggly, in that fashionably tight, sort of hipster but not really hipster kind of way. I move my eyes down to his large hands, oh God, the things he could do with those hands.
I’m pathetic. Seriously. I need help.
I take a deep breath and say, "Well, whether it was the unicorn or my fairy godmother is a subject open for debate. But I am most definitely not glum, because someone has granted my wishes” -I hold up the two tickets to the football game- "I get to cover the game tonight."
“Mind if I tag along?"
Is this a trick question? Seriously, I spent all week acting about as mature as a middle-schooler waiting for him to come to work and now he wants to invite himself to my game?
My fingers grip the straps of my purse and I pull it out from underneath the table and slam it down on my desk. "Don't you have a date with your girlfriend or something? I'm sure she wouldn't enjoy knowing that you're off to the ballgame with an employee. And God knows your mother wouldn’t approve."
His eyes are cold as his hand slides over one of the tickets and slips it into the back pocket of his jeans.
Oh my god, those jeans, that ass.
Calm it down. Now. No ass-admiring. You’re angry, remember?
"It just so happens that my mother, much to my dismay, is out on a date. And my girlfriend, such as she was, seems to think that our relationship is getting in the way her career, so we’ve decided to take a break."
Take a break? My heart goes wham pow zam and I square my shoulders. Forget not looking. Stare at the ass!
I say, "Fine. We’ll go. But I’m warning you now, you are going to end up wishing that you never got in my car."
I have to play it cool. Have to not panic. He smiles. Cool, Piper, play it cool!
“Nope. This time, I’m driving.”
So the car is a lot like the man. Sleek but understated. A BMW two-door. Sports cars aren't really part of my day-to-day vocabulary, but it's black and I imagine it goes very fast. He stops me when I reach for the door and opens it for me. "After you," he says.
I slide past him and into the sleek seat. Why oh why does he have to smell so damn good? He slides into the driver’s seat and we’re off onto the freeway.
The radio is off. He drives with no radio? Or does he listen to music that he's afraid people wouldn’t approve of? Curious minds want to know.
God, I hate the fact that I react to him the way that I do.
I can’t let myself crush on my boss. My past throbs thick and miserable in my head, like a wad of old gum that I can’t ever peel free from my memory.
My phone rings. Dad. I look over to Hunter, "I'm going to have to take this call. It’s my father."
"Sure."
I hold the phone to my ear as I shuffle my feet on the clutter-free, well-vacuumed floor mat.
Voice crisp and snappy like a fresh peapod, Dad says, "So, I just got your email about the Chicago Sentinel beginning to show interest. Finally, a real job! Gets you out of this podunk nothing town and into the world you deserve."
My chest expands, swelling. It's a new feeling for me, to be honest, but it's a good-new not a bad-new that makes my head light. I lean back into the comfortable seat and say, "Well, nothing is definite yet, but they did sound interested, and by covering the game today hopefully I can show some depth as a writer, you know?"
"Do whatever it takes, you hear me?"
I can do that. I can do this. I can get a job that will showcase my skill as a writer, will give me future, like a real future, and one day, maybe Dad will be coming to stay with me and some gorgeous apartment in Chicago. I ask, "Will you be home when I get back? I have some wine in the fridge and maybe we can grab some takeout-"
"No, baby girl. I've got things to do. So I won't be here when you get back. But I'll probably be back by Monday, if you want to do something then."
My chest sort of deflates a little bit, but I say, "Yeah, that’ll be great."
What on earth is taking him away for the whole stupid weekend? This sucks, I’ve barely spent any time with him at all and now he’s leaving again?
I know I'm being silly. But I can't find anything but disappointment.
Over and over and over and still every time I let it hurt me. Be cool, Piper, keep it calm. It’s just a weekend.
I say goodbye and turn off the ringer as the call ends.
Leaning back in the seat, I close my eyes. Wanting to melt into the warm cushion and smell of leather.
Hunter clears his throat, "You okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, it’s my dad." I pause, wondering if I should mention the whole looking for another job thing.
I swallow as my eyes fall to his lips, which are thick and parted and wow gee I want to suck that bottom one, just a little, I bet he’d taste like-
"I need music." I turn on the radio and open my mouth to sing along to...Metallica? Really? I didn’t expect that to be coming out of his radio. Either way, I sing really loud and close my eyes so we won’t have to talk.
But then he opens his mouth and sings along.
We make terrible, awful, no-good music together, and it’s… well, it’s glorious.
Pat-downs suck. I hate being fondled by some wand in front of strangers. Not my kink.
I rip my bag from the security lady’s hand after she’s done with her evil stick and she makes me swear on the life of my first born that I am not carrying any outside food or drink into the arena.
Because, you know, if we don’t pay $18 for a hot dog and $5 for a cup of flat soda, the terrorists win.
Hunter goes into He-Man mode as we make our way to our seats, stiff-arming anyone with an over-filled cup of beer that gets within spilling distance. Not that Hunter looks anything like He-man of course, remember those bangs? I shiver at the thought. But you know that whole nothing-but-a-loincloth look wouldn't be such a bad idea in the right circumstances.
We find our seats and he leans back in the stiff plastic chair, sweater pulling tight against his abs.
I have to get out of here. "I’m going to get a beer, want one?"
"Yeah, want me to come with?" He asks.
"No!” I stub my toe as I stand and I bend as I gasp. Oh wow that hurts. “You can stay here. Just tell me what you want and I'll grab it." He stares at me like he can't believe what I'm saying, his handsome face softening, and I tilt my head to the side and ask, "What?"
He leans forward and reaches around to his back pocket, "Let me give you the money."
"Relax, it's just a beer. You can get the next one."
"You sure?"
Dear God, has anyone bought this man a beer? "Shut it and tell me what you want." I smile at him and wink, hoping it has half the effect on him as it does on me. "And you may not like what I choose."
"Okay- get me whatever you’re having."
"You sure?"
He laughs, "If it's anything like a hockey game, then we’ll be lucky if our drinks aren’t ripped from our hands and thrown at the opposing team."
Huh. He’s funny. It’s sort of difficult to believe, but I like it. Mostly. In a definite not-crushy sort of way.
"Exactly." I make my way up into the crowd telling my stupid heart to stop beating so uncomfortably fast.
I grab the drinks and head back to our seats.
"We were in luck. They happened to have Sam Adams. So if I find you throwing good beer at the opposing team, I'm going to have to be very upset with you."
"Thank God.”
The fans in the stadium around us are a mix of college kids in their school jerseys and families of young children.
I juggle my sips of beer with my note taking.
Hunter leans over my shoulder and points to some scribble with a raised eyebrow. The strong lines on his face slowly morph into a smile and when his shoulder brushes against mine, the air is heavy and thick with promise.
Something in the right here and right now, in the middle of a screaming, beer-guzzling crowd, in this space in time it feels like he's all mine.
Wait, what’s that? I leap out of my chair. “Catch it!” The pass on the field flies through the air for a wicked, forty-yard pass and he-
Catches it!
The crowds jump and shout and I grab Hunter’s arm and join the throngs now singing the Huskies fight song.
Hunter’s face softens and he smiles as the crowd bursts into song and he shakes his head in wonder. Like he’s an anthropologist experiencing an unknown tribal ritual for the first time.
Unfortunately, despite the great gain on the field, they run a short pass on the next play that gets intercepted, and I shriek in horror as the opposing team runs the interception in for a touchdown.
The crowd sits, like a balloon slowly losing oxygen, in a chorus of low grumbles and barely contained cusses.
Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1) Page 11