by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
That’s it?
I stumble back a step, speechless. She’s clueless. She doesn’t get it. “Grayson’s awards are still on display in the basement from high school, but my paintings? You threw out my paintings?” Forget stuffing them into a drawer, she trashed them. They’re gone.
Just like she made Shane disappear.
Without another word, I dash upstairs, taking two at a time. She didn’t even call and ask. I doubt she ever even looked at them. Hell, she doesn’t even know what I’m talking about. And yet she thought she knew what was best for me and Shane? She had no right. Tears work their way through my lashes. Everything’s blending together in one big mucky mess.
On my toes, I dig at the base of my box to knock it closer to scootch it out.
Hauling it downstairs, I pass by the kitchen. Grayson’s talking about sneaking in some golf with Bradley. Dad’s saying something to Ren about the nursery. I don’t stop.
“I’m going.” That’s all I say. I’m not sure they even heard me. Right now, I don’t care. The box is balanced on my hip as I work the door. I don’t bother with closing it, I just storm to the car. I can hear Bradley behind me as I stomp down the walkway.
“Kenz? Kenzi!”
I’m already popping the back when he appears on the porch. He leans inside, momentarily. “Hey, Grayson, I’ll call you tomorrow. ’Bye, all.”
I slam the trunk and meet Bradley’s confused look with one that says Don’t ask.
He doesn’t.
But he should’ve.
THERE ARE UNSPOKEN RULES TO working out in a gym, a code that everyone adheres to. They’re not posted anywhere. But everyone knows them.
First, there are the gym-world time zones. Early morning is for everyone, newbies, fitness experts, and the in between. Afternoon is for the diehards, competitive body builders and cardio queens. And evenings are for eye candy. The in-shape A-listers.
Feel free to stare. You will be stared at. Workout optional.
Well, I’m still worked up, so this workout’s necessary. Bradley and I arrive a little late because we stopped at my parents. Great, Tonya showed, probably because she booked a session with Troy.
I hate working out with him. The guy’s muscle-on-muscle and pits us against each other in stupid competitions that I can only assume are for his pervy amusement. I mean, who really cares how many jumping jacks and burpees we can do in less than three minutes?
“Are you working out with Tonya?” Bradley asks. The conversation’s been strained. I haven’t felt like talking and I’m still upset with him about earlier. I’m upset with everyone.
“I think I might stick to cardio, burn off some steam,” I huff, and hand him my stuff to lock up.
“All right,” Bradley says, reaching over for a kiss before heading off to the weights.
Turning out of reach, I grab my earbuds. I don’t want his kiss. I wanted his understanding. His support. And now I just want to zone out in my music, burn off all the extra carbs I’ve been sneaking, and forget everything.
Tonya’s warming up on a treadmill. She’s in running shorts and a yellow tank with a built-in bra. For me, these tanks are great. Tonya, however, needs to double-bra those puppies. No one seems to mind that she doesn’t, especially the guy she’s talking to.
Second gym-world rule, never choose cardio equipment next to someone if others are open, unless you know them and it’s welcomed. I’m not sure I’m welcome, but it’s the only one open.
I start up the treadmill beside Tonya, ignoring her. Setting the incline to 2, I set the warm-up speed to 3, which is a good brisk walk.
“You actually showed this time.” Tonya’s jaw’s set.
I didn’t even think about that. Yesterday, not only did I leave Bradley waiting, Tonya was expecting me at the gym, too. Does she think I’m talking to her?
“Troy said he’ll be ready for us in ten,” Tonya says, upping her incline to 3, her voice flat.
“I’m gonna pass on Troy-boy.” I up my speed to 3.5. “So are you going to at least apologize?”
She reads my screen then ups her incline and speed to 4 without saying a word.
Bitch. I match her speed then pass it by half. “Really?” I take a drink of my water, feeling a fresh, raw pang. “I mean, you’re the one who told me he cheated . . .” I take a few quick breaths. “And it ended up being you. You!”
Her chin drops. “Wait. This is about Shane? In college?” She’s shaking her head. “Oh my God!”
“Oh my God is right, you could at least apologize.”
“The Shane thing was a million years ago, Kenz.” Her words are coming out in chops. “It didn’t . . . mean anything—”
“It meant everything!” I step off the conveyer onto the side rails and stare her down. “You said he cheated!” My calm and cool tone is now red-hot. “I completely believed you!”
Tonya steps from the tread onto her rails and takes a big breath. “You were going to leave everything and follow him to the UK.”
“So you sabotaged my life?” I can’t believe her. My frustration with Mom, Bradley, Shane, her, it all comes out in a roar. “You know what, Tonya? You’re a backstabbing liar!” I said that too loud. I knew it as soon as it came out of my mouth. People heard me. Bradley even looked over with a startled expression.
“Dial it back, for chrissakes!” She wipes at her forehead with her towel, then shoves it back in the console, stepping back on the tread. “Let’s be honest, he could have told you it was me, begged you to forgive him. But he didn’t! Yeah, that’s what you’re really pissed about.”
Her words stab me through the heart. “Screw you.” Lit up from anger and adrenaline, I jump back on and up the speed to 5. My gym shoes are clopping against the rubber tread pretty fast now. This is a serious jog.
She eyeballs me, matches my speed, and raises her incline not one level, but two. She’s on 9!
I kick the speed to 5.5 and raise my incline to 10. Beads of sweat are forming at my hairline. My legs aren’t as long, and this is a run. Uphill.
She’s huffing, eyeing my screen, then me. Don’t you—
Slam. She’s at an incline of 12. Her hair is sticking to her face, but she can’t let go of the rails to wipe it free.
The machine has an incline max of 15. I know where this is going. This is classic Tonya, always competing with me. And no way is she going to win. Not this time.
I drive the button down and hold, passing 12 and hitting 13. That’s right! To keep my balance, I hold on to the handle grips in front with both hands. My feet kick out behind me in loud clomp-clomp-clomps as I try to keep up.
She’s shooting daggers at me from the corners of her eyes. My machine beeps and flashes a warning at me. SLOW DOWN. SLOW DOWN. My heart rate’s 175!
No! I’ve had it with everyone today. My feet pound the conveyer, the machine continues to beep, the motor whines loudly.
Tonya’s pushing the button and it’s rising to 14. I don’t want to go to 14. Shit! This is ridiculous. She’s bent over, gripping the handrails, trying to keep up.
Our feet stomp heavily as we full-on run uphill. We look insane. People are now watching. I can hear them gathered around to witness this display of stupidity.
Troy-boy’s between us. He’s grinning like an idiot and chanting. “Go, go, go!”
Other people are joining in, “Go! Go! Go!”
Tonya doesn’t care. My mom doesn’t care. Does Bradley? Did Shane ever care? I’ve had it. In How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Kate Hudson’s character, Andy, asks Ben, “True or false, all’s fair in love and war?” How he answers determines how badly she messes with him.
Well, I say “False.” It’s not fair! And I’m tired of people messing with me, lying to me. If Tonya wants a war . . . I lift my hand high and slam!
The treadmill cranks upward. Level 15!
The top level!
Ha! I win!
Cheers erupt.
Troy-boy slams on our stops, and the treadmills sl
ow and decline.
Oh. Thank. God.
We both collapse, drenched in sweat and out of breath. Shit, my chest is heaving for air. I’m nauseated. Tonya covers her mouth and makes a dash for the bathroom. Bradley looks first in her direction then toward me. He mouths, What’s going on?
This he asks about? I swear if he comes over here and says anything I’m going to completely lose my mind.
CHAPTER NINE
Ghost of Boyfriend Past
IT’S FRIDAY. I’VE BEEN happily painting the new conceptual for the Carriage House at my desk all morning. Not with real paint, but with digital painting software, using a tablet and pen. I’m also chatting with Ellie and watching the clock.
My co-workers are throwing Bradley and me an engagement party at Ditty’s after work. And unlike my family’s, it’s not shared with anyone. Tonya was wrong. Ren didn’t need to start showing before my family would kiss my wedding plans goodbye.
They never even said hello.
I carefully planned my wardrobe to transition from work to the party. I’m wearing a gray sleeveless tank dress I bought with Ren a while back and to-die-for pumps. I have a cardigan on now for the office and my hair is tied back in a loose pony. But as soon as it’s time to go, the sweater and tail are history.
Tonya left a Starbucks on my desk this morning. She won’t really apologize, but at least she knows why I’m mad. Mom still doesn’t know why, but she apologized, twice, first in an e-mail, then in a voice message asking if I got her e-mail. Why e-mail if you’re going to call?
ELLIE-BELL: Did he actually call them Mary Kate and Mary Francis?
KENZI SHAW: Yes, and they were completely into the whole movie thing.
ELLIE-BELL: I’m dying. DYING! I want a Pretty Woman moment!
I haven’t talked with Shane since yesterday. I keep eyeing the chat window on Facebook to see if the green dot is lit up next to his name. I’m sure they have Internet at the farm. Maybe not. It’s gray. Or maybe he’s on his way back already? I don’t know. He’s not online, which is good because I don’t want him to know that I am. I could turn off my chat, but then how would I know if he were, or talk to Ellie about him? Very mature reasoning.
Using the movie images Shane provided as the background, I’m almost done blocking in the colors on another layer. I call it the mucky-muck layer. It’s my own made-up term for the loose foundation of a painting. The detail work comes in after to give it shape and perspective.
I couldn’t sleep, and we need to get the Carriage House conceptual done, so I came in a few hours early. Being lost in my process again is calming, almost therapeutic. Maybe needed.
Michelangelo is known for saying every block of stone has a statue inside. And it’s the artist’s job to release it. It’s the same with painting. The final work already exists. It just needs to be revealed. I’ve tried to explain how this works to Bradley, but he doesn’t really understand what I mean. I’m not sure I understand it. I just accept its truth.
Using my pen and tablet, I start to apply lines in thin strokes to define the main movie images. Right now, I’m working on the poster image of Love Actually.
I love the story line with Colin Firth and his housekeeper, who speaks only Portuguese. One of my favorite moments is when he marches through town with her entire family behind him. He proposes in her language only to hear the answer in his. Language doesn’t prove to be a barrier at all.
Biting my lip, I’m lost in the feeling of . . . of what? I’m completely getting carried away in all of this. Which was the point, right? Isn’t that what Shane wanted? For me to remember how much I loved these romantic comedies so it would transfer into my work. That’s the whole point of the Love Like the Movies list. I open the e-mail and look through them again.
1. Sleepless in Seattle
2. Pretty Woman
3. Bridget Jones’s Diary
4. 27 Dresses
5. Dirty Dancing
6. Sixteen Candles
7. Love Actually
8. Say Anything
9. You’ve Got Mail
10. My Best Friend’s Wedding
I stare at the screen, deflated.
It’s about his concept, not me. And these are movie moments, not real life. I almost wish Shane had never come back, because the comparison is a bit depressing.
Glancing up, I catch sight of Bradley walking over. I minimize the chat window and continue to mix colors, trying to get a rich russet, but since I’m painting with the digital color wheel of RGB, my primary mix is giving me a brown-gray sludge.
“Hi, hon.” Bradley glances at the monitor then leans on my desk, facing away from it.
He looks good. Clean cut and sophisticated in a fitted crisp white button down. Bradley eyes my bright pink cardigan with matching skinny belt and bunches his forehead. “You’re bright today.”
“Oh, yeah. Guess I am.” I hadn’t thought about it. This morning I just felt like wearing something colorful.
Bradley leans close and lowers his voice even though no one’s around. “Look, I’ve been thinking about what you said, about the wedding, and if you want spring, then it’s spring. I don’t care. I just want you.”
I stop mixing my sludge and look at him. Bright blue eyes stare back. He just wants me.
“But will you at least consider moving things up? Please?” His lips curl in a soft smile as he hands me a Post-it. “Yeah, I had an early lunch with Grayson and we got to talking, and he said Ren knew someone. Anyway, he just called back with her number.”
I look at the note. Bethany Chesawit. Wedding planner. The phone number and address are scribbled below her name. I’m shaking my head. “Bradley, we didn’t even pick a date.”
“I know, but look . . .” He points to the Post-it. “She’s supposed to be the best and she owes Ren a favor, so she fit you in on Monday. This way you can get an idea of the needed time frame to schedule everything.”
“Wait, I can get an idea? You’re not coming?”
“No. Remember, I’m leaving after the party and won’t be back until Monday night, so maybe ask your mom? Or even Ren?”
ELLIE-BELL: Okay, I’m back.
He turns at the chirp, but disregards it. “Listen, we’ll do it whenever you want, but the sooner we’re married, the sooner we can start trying.” He gives a sheepish grin. “I don’t know. I’m just ready, I guess. I’ve really been thinking about it lately.”
My heart skips. He’s been thinking about it. I can almost hear the baby clock ticking. I’m going to be thirty. Looking at Bradley and his blond-hair, blue-eye combo, I can’t help but think of the little girl I saw at the mall. Are the dad’s traits responsible for hair and eye color?
I shrug with a smile. “Okay, I’ll at least get an idea of the time frame needed. But . . .” I hold up a finger. “I’m not promising anything. And definitely not six weeks.” This is everything I’ve wanted. Marriage, a family . . . and he’s ready.
Bradley pushes a stray strand of hair from my cheek, leans over and sneaks a chaste kiss, then eyes the screen. “Is that for Bennett?”
“Yeah . . .” I’m actually pleased with how well it’s turning out. I’m kind of proud of it. I angle the screen so he can take a better look.
He doesn’t. “Sooner it’s finished, sooner he’s outta here.”
“Hey, I was looking for you.” Clive’s leaning out of his office and pointing at Bradley.
“I’ll see ya later.” He winks before leaving.
I watch him walk away. Broad shoulders, clean cut, and golden. That’s Bradley. I do love him. We have a great foundation to build on and he’s ready.
Maybe it won’t be a movie life, but it still can be a good one.
WHEN ELLIE AND I GOT back from our late lunch, the conference room door was closed. Not a big incident in its own right. I mean, doors do open and close. But Shane’s supposed to be back and meeting with Clive and Bradley, and I’m almost positive he’s in there.
A day without Shane
around has cleared my head a little. I’ve dissected the situation from every angle and perspective, and have come to a conclusion.
He’s a ghost, a boyfriend from the past whose sudden reappearance has conjured up old, lingering feelings. And those are getting mixed up with the movie moments. It’s stress from the wedding, my job, Ren’s pregnancy announcement, and Tonya. It’s a lot to take in.
Ellie said I should put it to a challenge. She’s calling it the TFT. Tummy Flip Test.
After not seeing Shane for a day, and no new movie moments to obscure things, it shouldn’t be confusing at all when I do. It should be a nonevent, really. No fireworks or firecrackers, maybe just a tiny sparkler to signify an old flame. That’s all. And that’s perfectly acceptable.
I’m anxious to put myself to the TFT, so I can put all this SBN, Shane Bennett Nonsense, behind me. Marriage is about stability and family with someone you can trust. Not some haunting attraction with someone you can’t. The TFT will prove I’m capable of keeping the past, and its ghosts, deeply buried.
“Hey, Kenzi, are you excited for the engagement party? It’s almost time,” says Maggie, our receptionist, as she walks back to the front desk to grab the phone.
I smile brightly. “I can’t wait. Thanks.”
My smile drops with the click of the conference room door. This is it. Operation TFT is now in motion.
KENZI SHAW: It’s a go. Stand by.
I close out my chat and online windows with one hand and chew on the thumbnail of the other. Immediately, I’m busy, staring at my work in progress on the screen. Through my lashes, over the screen’s top, I can still see the legs of whoever comes out.
The door swings open. Dark denim. It’s him. He’s always in jeans. He’s not moving. Nothing is. The office seems silent, still. The only sound is my thumping heart.
I lift my eyes cautiously and see him standing in the doorway, talking with Clive. He’s wearing a fitted V-neck sweater over a tee, and there’s scruff on his jaw. I don’t remember if it’s rough, or if it softens by day’s end. I do remember shaving it once for him, though. I foamed up his face and slowly, carefully started to run the razor, when he jumped as if I’d nicked him. I didn’t, and we ended up in a shaving cream fight.