Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  Aunt Greta winks at me and interrupts Bradley’s long-winded ramble. “Kensington, have you two set a date yet?”

  All eyes turn to me. I beam. I’m up. This is it. My stomach turns cartwheels.

  Bradley grabs my hand and flashes a warm smile. “No firm plans as of yet, but maybe next spring? What do you think?”

  “Maybe,” I say brightly at the thought. “Spring could be really nice—”

  “Oh! I can’t stand it anymore. Guess what will be here next spring as well?” Ren blurts out the question with an unusual amount of bubble in her voice. “A baby! We’re pregnant!”

  “Oh! Oh my goodness!” Mom squeals and is up running around the table. Her arms wrap both Ren and Grayson in an awkward bear hug. “She’s pregnant! I’m going to be Grandma Shaw!”

  Everyone’s yelling and clapping. It’s like Vegas when the slot machine hits.

  Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Team Ren: Two hundred and seventy-seven. No, three hundred! Five hundred! It’s too many to count. She’s hit the frickin’ jackpot!

  My dad’s going on about being called Grandpa. Grayson explains they couldn’t put off kids forever, what with Ren being twenty-nine and all. I mean, my God, she’s almost thirty. Even Finley is pumping my dad’s hand in congratulations. Mom yells over to me that I have no time to waste, that Bradley and I had better have a quick wedding to get things moving.

  Aunt Greta looks at me and gives me an “I know, honey” kind of look. I force a half-smile to show her it’s nothing. I mean, of course I’m happy for them.

  A baby.

  It is the jackpot.

  I’m not thirty yet, so there’s still time.

  Glancing at my engagement ring, I imagine a new you’re fired sign in thick red marker. This time it’s for my sister-in-law. No flowers or frogs for her.

  She already has a baby.

  WE DIDN’T EVEN TALK ABOUT the wedding.

  I toss my bag on my kitchen counter, peel off my coat, and head to the fridge for wine. It’s been a long day. Instead of feeling excited and happy, I’m drained. Thoughts of today’s Shaw family brunch, Shane’s sudden reappearance, and Ren’s big announcement are swirling around in my head making me dizzy.

  A bottle of white is opened and chilled, so I pour a glass. Bradley prefers the good stuff, but keeps my apartment well stocked with the less expensive sweet wine because he knows I like it. I take a sip and lean against the counter, letting the fruity blend push down the lump that’s been stuck in my throat.

  A baby is big news. It’s the first grandchild. I’m sure after the shock wears off Mom will want to discuss the wedding and help me with all the details. Of course she will. I’m her only daughter and there’s so much to do: find a dress, pick a venue—we don’t even have a date yet.

  She did like the ring.

  I hold up my hand to admire it. What’s not to like? It sparkles and radiates all the four Cs: clarity, cut, consistency, and carats. Maybe I should include one more. Crazy. Because I don’t like it.

  Well, I mean, I like it—it’s just not the ring I would have chosen. It’s traditional and really big. Maybe a little too big. My mouth lifts up in a smile because Bradley says I’m worth it.

  The ring doesn’t matter anyway, it’s beautiful and I’m happy. I’m getting married and one step closer to starting a family. Bradley wants lots of kids, a whole football team. I’d be happy with one. Maybe two.

  At least one girl.

  Staring blankly, I imagine ballet classes and dance recitals. I could be a class mom and help with costumes. I once made my doll a tutu from the petticoat of one of my dresses. I remember Mom screaming because it was from some hoity-toity designer. I wonder if my daughter will be born with hair? Bradley was bald, and I barely had enough to clip a bow in. Mom had to tape it to my head.

  Ren will probably have a girl.

  It’s fine. I’m next. There’s time.

  Finishing my wine, I promptly pour another glass. I do this after every Shaw family brunch, torturing myself with my tally of mental check marks to see how I’ve stacked up to my family’s expectations. I never win. I’m not sure why I thought today would be any different.

  One more long drink to fortify myself, and I walk over and sit at my desk, logging in to Facebook.

  I held off for a whole fifteen minutes.

  My heart beats a little faster as I type “Shane Bennett” in the search box. Small sparks of excitement flutter around inside as his face appears, listed as one of my friends. All grown up. But did he really grow up? Shane had big ideas, but lacked follow-through. He barely made it to class. In fact, I did a lot of his papers.

  I take another drink and study his photo. His hair is still in loose, messy waves, although it’s shorter. He has the beginning of scruff across his jaw. There’s a hint of a smile.

  God, he’s still gorgeous. It’s frickin’ annoying.

  The demon plan I’ve hatched includes posting several photos of my uber-ring, random posts about how wonderfully happy and successful I am, then after a few days—I need to make sure he’s had time to see it all—I’ll delete him.

  Again.

  Forever.

  Goodbye.

  I blow a wayward strand of hair from my face. Tonya, a girl we hung out with and I now work with, was the one who found out he’d cheated. I didn’t want to believe her, but when I questioned him about it, his face did that thing where the expression doesn’t quite match the words, and inside, I knew. I could feel it.

  After that, when he tried to explain, I wouldn’t listen. Then he left for the UK to work with his dad, and I was left here alone. It was done.

  We were done.

  I sigh. I’m done. I log off and change.

  My mind’s reeling with babies and Shane Bennett. I need to settle. We have a big presentation at work tomorrow. Bradley wants us well rested and ready. But I’m not resting, well or otherwise.

  I burrow into my pillow and pull my covers up. If Bradley were here, I’d at least be warm. He’s like my own personal furnace and my feet are cold. I should’ve let him stay over, but I told him I wasn’t feeling well. I’m really not. My heart’s sitting in my stomach.

  In 13 Going on 30, Jennifer Garner’s character, Jenna, wishes to be thirty and with wishing dust she wakes to find she is, and her life is everything she’d hoped for. Until she digs in deeper and discovers it came with a price. But she gets a do-over.

  Where’s my do-over?

  I’m almost thirty and my life is . . . what? Everything it’s supposed to be, but still it’s not good enough. I’m not good enough. Fighting back tears, I stare at the ceiling. Today was supposed to be one of those special moments you always remember. The big feel-good scenes like you see in the movies. Where the dad can’t believe his little girl is really getting married and the mom sheds happy tears.

  Instead, I’m the only one with tears, and my moment ended up on the cutting room floor.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ten Minutes’ Notice

  SITTING IN THE AGENCY’S parking lot, I scan my Facebook feed. Shane hasn’t updated anything. He friended me, so looking is allowed. My mom and Ren, however, both have a new status. Ren’s reads, Baby on board, followed by a slew of congratulations and likes. Mom’s says, This is Patrice Shaw. I can’t wait to be a grandma!

  There’s no mention of my engagement. Not that I’ve announced it either, but still.

  With a deep breath, I force back the emotion that’s much too close to the surface and type, “Congratulations Ren and Grayson.” It shows I’m happy and a part of things. Even if I’m really not a part of things . . . I am happy for them.

  I click off the screen, throw my phone in my bag, and head inside to prepare for my pitch. The big meeting is for the Carriage House, a trendy restaurant trying to attract the date crowd on weekends. It’s part of a larger company, and Clive, our general manager, wants the entire account.

  If I lock this in, he’s promised me a bonus. The extra money could be u
sed for the wedding, since Bradley’s bent on paying for most of it. Growing up without much, it’s really important for him to stand on his own. He won’t even consider letting my parents help like they did for Grayson and Ren. This is one of the things I love about him. Unfortunately, it also means a smaller wedding with even more scrutiny.

  I need that bonus, so I need to embody a woman who’s persuasive, someone like . . . Lucy Kelson, Sandra Bullock’s character in Two Weeks Notice. She’s smart, influential, and came up with the deciding factor between two seemingly like-styled envelopes by taste. Extremely clever girl. She’d get that bonus.

  I run a mental check as I walk in. I look the part: smart pencil skirt, crisp white blouse, and frizz-free straightened hair. I know the part: present three visual variations for an effective brand launch. Now all I have to do is play the part to win them over. Think clever, smart, and confident.

  When I enter the office, Clive’s standing by my desk. I’m set up in a huge, open room with the other designers so I’m close to my team.

  “Good morning,” I say, sliding into my chair and waking up the computer.

  Clive’s eyeing the disarray of papers scattered about and his thick brows are creased in frustration. I have a process. It’s messy. He needs to get over it.

  “Morning. I was hoping to see today’s conceptuals again.” His hand taps excessively against his leg. “I want to make sure everything’s in the pocket.” He’s dressed in his black power suit with white shirt and brick-red tie. It’s the same thing he wears for every big meeting. He says it’s lucky. Let’s hope so. I want that bonus.

  “I set them up last night,” I say with bright enthusiasm. “They’re all ready to go in the conference room.” I hate his last minute look-sees. It’s too late to change anything. Lucy Kelson’s boss never questioned her choices. Of course, her boss was Hugh Grant. Clive’s more like Howard, the brother character, but with hair.

  “Thirty minutes,” he says glancing at his watch, and heads off to inspect them. For whatever reason, Clive has been particularly anxious about this account.

  He’s making me nervous.

  The moment I log in, I pop open Facebook, just to see if, oh I don’t know, my engagement’s been announced in the last five minutes. My chat window pops up with the familiar chime. Ellie must be in. My eyes swivel down.

  My heart jumps. Not Ellie.

  SHANE BENNETT: Hi, Kensington.

  It was never Kenz or Kenzi. Always Kensington, and I loved how it sounded on his lips. I’m frozen, vacantly staring at his name and photo icon. It’s been years and yet . . .

  I can feel him through the computer.

  Feel him.

  Okay, breathe. It’s fine. Just keep it short and say you’ve got to go. I sit up a little straighter, place both feet flat on the floor, determined to be poised and nonchalant. As if I’m composing some major literary masterpiece, I type two letters with an exaggerated exactness, then hit Enter.

  KENZI SHAW: Hi.

  SHANE BENNETT: You look great.

  I look great? I don’t respond. Instead, I stare inanely at the words, jaw clenched, eyes wide.

  SHANE BENNETT: The business shot is nice, but the one with paint in your hair is my favorite.

  He went through my albums?

  I quickly scroll through my images and find my business shots, all professional and perfect. Bradley loves these, says I look like a million bucks. I search down and find the one Shane mentioned. I’m sitting in front of a canvas, a brush in my hand, paint on my face, and my knotted-up pigtails are covered in splashes of yellow and blue. I’m smiling and a mess.

  I should change my profile picture to one of me and Bradley from this summer’s pool party at my parents’. We’re laughing and being silly. Plus, his shirt’s off in most of them and he’s seriously ripped.

  SHANE BENNETT: Still there?

  KENZI SHAW: Working. Getting ready for a big presentation.

  I type this like we talk all the time and there was never anything between us. My emotions are bubbling around wildly, as if they’re carbonated and someone shook the bottle. It was ages ago. What is he doing? Why is he contacting me now? I’m perched on the edge of my chair, gawking at the screen in disbelief. My heart resides in my throat. This is crazy.

  SHANE BENNETT: I returned to the States about six months ago.

  My hand covers my mouth. He’s here? I don’t respond. Instead, I blink hard and wait, breathing deeply through my nose.

  SHANE BENNETT: Caught Pretty Woman on TV. Remember that one?

  Only every line. I’m smiling in spite of myself. It’s one of my favorites. Okay, they’re all my favorites. There’s something so innocent and sweet about romantic movies. The world doesn’t always make sense, but in a good romantic comedy, I’m guaranteed a happily ever after. The girl always gets the right guy, the guy that really gets her at the most basic level.

  In Pretty Woman, Edward sees Vivian as a bright, special woman. She wants desperately to believe that about herself.

  A bubble of bliss swells in my chest. I bet Shane and I watched Pretty Woman at least fifty times. Late at night snuggled on the couch. Laughing, saying the lines. Kissing in between them.

  There’s a familiar tug on my heart followed by a twinge of guilt. My smile drops. I shouldn’t be thinking about this.

  I’m happily engaged.

  I lean over and type with speed.

  KENZI SHAW: Really need to work. Sorry.

  Oh my God. Clicking off Facebook, I sit gaping at the screen. With a quick gasp of air to clear away the confusion, I lean back. What was that?

  I need to get my focus back on track. I have a presentation. A fiancé.

  I need to see Bradley.

  Swiveling my chair, I jump up and head toward his office, peeking into Tonya’s as I pass. She has a potential client with her and looks bored. I can always tell because her eyes glaze over and her smile’s painted on. If she hasn’t closed the deal in thirty minutes, she’s ready to kick them out. “It’s a numbers game, sweetie,” she always says.

  Tonya attended the same college as Shane and me. We used to be somewhat close. In fact, she was the one who told me the creative director position here had opened up, although I think it surprised her when I got it. Does Tonya know Shane’s back?

  “Hi.” I smile at Bradley and settle into one of the club chairs across from him. I catch the scent of his aftershave. It smells like the forest, all woodsy and fresh.

  Looking up, he flashes a smile but then his expression drops. “You okay?”

  My head kicks back. “What do you mean? Yeah, I’m great.” I’m not. I’m a cocktail of confusion. Is it that obvious?

  Bradley’s big shoulders fall. “You’re still upset about yesterday, aren’t you?”

  I shrug, dismissively. “Yeah, of course.” Actually, I hadn’t thought about it for at least fifteen minutes. But before that, yes, definitely still upset. “It’s just . . . well, the timing of Ren’s announcement.” He hates the whole Ren, Mom, and me thing. I’m not sure he really understands it.

  “Kenz, everyone’s just excited. It’s the first grandchild.”

  I cross my arms defensively and furrow my brows. “I get that, trust me, I do. A baby’s exciting. But so is a wedding. Our wedding. She couldn’t wait a week and let me have this one day?” I hear the barb in my voice and mentally pull it out. My arms fall loose and I pick at my nonmanicured nail instead. “It’s just . . . I wanted to start planning with everyone.”

  “I know. And you will. As soon as things calm down, you’ll wish your mom would leave you alone.” Bradley likes to solve things. If it were up to him, the three of us would sit down and have a mature discussion to set things right. But how can a lifetime of hurts get set right when only one side feels them?

  I stand and walk to the doorway, my lips pulled up in a trying smile. “It’s fine.”

  “Hey . . . it is fine.”

  You’d think by now men would be able to decode
the word fine. It doesn’t mean everything’s okay. No, it means there’s more to say, much more. As an acronym it could stand for Feelings Inside Not Expressed. And it needs a P.S., because they will be, eventually. It’s just a matter of time.

  I gesture toward the hall. “I’m gonna grab a water before we start, you want one?”

  “No. I’m good. Listen . . .” Bradley’s expression tightens and he leans forward on his desk. “I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you, but I don’t want you to be worried.”

  “Discuss what?” I’m frozen in the doorway, already concerned.

  He lowers his voice. “The agency’s in a bit of trouble. Financially.”

  I step forward, surprised. “What are you talking about? How much trouble?”

  “Enough that we’re depending on this account to pull us through next quarter.”

  “Wait, what?” I’m standing rigid now, my hands on my hips. He has my complete attention. This doesn’t make sense. We’ve been busy.

  “Clive needs to make some cuts. A round of layoffs.”

  No way. Stepping closer, I stand in front of his desk, eyes wide.

  “Yeah, and um . . .” His eyes soften. “It includes the creative director position, Kenz.”

  “Wait. My position . . . or me?”

  “Both, I’m sorry.”

  My knees wobble. I lean on his desk so my hands can support me.

  Bradley’s talking fast. “Clive can save your position’s salary and just use a few of the designers to get us through. It’s the way he ran things in the beginning. He was going to talk with you after today’s meeting.”

  “So you tell me now? Ten minutes before the presentation?” I push off the desk, swallowing hard. I don’t know what else to say. Did I really just hear him right? Maybe I overchanneled Sandra’s character in Two Weeks Notice. I need this job.

  His hand runs over his jaw in frustration. “I didn’t want to tell you at all. I’ve been scrambling, trying to convince Clive of other options. But this morning he mentioned he was going to talk with you and I didn’t want you to hear it from him. . . . I’m sorry.” He shifts, sitting straighter. “Look, worst case, we hold off the wedding a while.”