by Meg Cabot
I tried to keep it light, sticking only to the highlights: how Reed and I had dated our senior year. How he’d asked me to prom. How he’d come to pick me up that night not in a rented limo, like so many of the other girls’ dates, or in the red convertible BMW he’d driven back then, but in a golf cart—his dad’s golf cart, the one he and I used to cruise around on the country club golf course on which his parents lived and on which Reed, back then, had played nine holes every day before school and then the other nine every day after class, because all Reed Steward cared about—all he lived and breathed for back then—was golf.
And me.
At least that’s what he’d said.
And how he’d decorated the golf cart in purple and white streamers and carnations—our school colors—and how hard I’d laughed when I’d seen it, and how hard our friends had laughed when we’d cruised up to Matsumori’s Tiki Palace in it, and how much fun we’d had after dinner at the prom, dancing and drinking adult beverages that someone had acquired from their parents’ liquor cabinet, the first time I’d ever done such a thing, and then how we’d driven the golf cart home, having the night of our lives . . .
Until the golf cart ended up in the country club’s pool, with both of us still inside, enraging the club’s aging security guard, who called the police, who in turn called Reed’s father, who disowned his youngest son on the spot, not so much for the damage he’d caused the club, the injury done to me (I dislocated a shoulder), and embarrassment he’d inflicted upon the Stewart family (it made the local paper), but because Reed chose that moment—as I was being loaded into an ambulance—to blurt to the Judge that he had no intention of following in his father’s footsteps and becoming a lawyer someday. He wasn’t even going to college upon graduation (as his parents were expecting him to do: he’d received a four year athletic scholarship to Indiana University). Instead, he was going to move to California to live with his uncle, a professor of psychology, and become a professional golfer.
“Is that all?” Graham asked, as he made the turn towards the house in which I’d lived all my life. “My God, the way those girls were carrying on, I thought it was something much worse.”
How could I tell Graham that it was . . . much, much worse?
I couldn’t, not without explaining everything else . . . how I’d hated Reed Stewart, not after what he’d done to me, but before we’d ever even gone out, hated seeing his tanned, lanky body in the cafeteria, in those stupid Polo shirts and khaki pants, with those even stupider rich boy Ray-Bans tucked into that dark curly hair. Hated, hated, hated him, and the way he drove that BMW to school, instead of taking the bus like Nicole and me, because our dad had no money and wasn’t a judge, he only owned a moving company and lifted boxes all day instead of making life-changing decisions.
Until the day Mrs. Leland forced us to split into pairs in government class to prepare oral presentations on the McCarthy era, and I got Reed Stewart as a partner.
I thought I would die of disdain until Reed looked at the book I was sneak-reading (because Government was so boring) and said, “‘There are few people whom I really love and still fewer of whom I think well.’”
I stared at him in shock. “You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?”
“Yes, Flowers.” He smirked. “I can read, you know.”
It was as if he’d peered into my brain. No, my soul.
“But . . .” I’d felt dismayed because all of my illusions about him being a stuck-up, ignorant rich boy jock were crumbling. “Pride and Prejudice?” How? How was this possible?
He’d shrugged. “Reading is important to my dad. He won’t let us eat until we quote something literary. Kind of like how some families say grace? In our house, we have to prove we’ve spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner . . . or that’s how he puts it, anyway. I love our housekeeper’s baked chicken more than anything in the world, so I memorized Austen pretty quick. I get why you like that one.” He nodded at my copy of Pride and Prejudice. “But I prefer the other one—Emma. It’s got a little more action. So, anyway.” He lifted our textbook. “Joe McCarthy. What a dick, am I right?”
Falling in love with him was the biggest mistake I ever made in my life. I still hate myself sometimes for it.
Even as I was doing it, I knew it was a horrible idea, and tried to cling to my friends for safety, begging them to remind me of all the reasons to hate him. There were so many.
“He likes to party too much,” said my best friend Leeanne, who is Japanese-American and can’t metabolize alcohol (which is especially painful for her since her family owns Matsumori’s Tiki Palace, the only restaurant with a tiki bar in a fifty-mile radius).
“He likes golf,” said Nicole. “He wears belts with needlepoint crocodiles on them. He doesn’t even have any tattoos because he says it’s more unique not to. He’s just so weird.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” my mother said. “I’d like to say bad things about him for you, but I think he’s wonderful.”
“Ew!” Nicole crowed. “Mom likes him! Kiss of death to any relationship.”
We were sleeping together by Christmas break.
I told myself—and Leeanne and Nicole—that it was just sex. I wasn’t going to let my heart get involved. I read Cosmo. I knew how to use birth control effectively and also what oxytocin does to a woman’s brain. Therefore, I probably wasn’t even really in love with him. It was just all the endorphins being released in my brain every time we made love.
I didn’t have anything to measure it by, of course, never having been in a sexual relationship before. But it seemed to me that he was very, very good at lovemaking. So it was perfect. A brainless—well, mostly brainless—jock who enjoyed sex as much as I did? What could be better? He was the best guy from whom to learn these skills before I went to college.
We did it everywhere. His room. My room. His car. His parent’s hot tub. The boathouse at the country club. Everywhere. It was so much fun.
Until it all came to a crashing—literally—halt at the country club. As the police showed up—and then the EMTs—and separated us, I was sure everything was going to be all right. Even when his father appeared, looking angrier than any human being I’d ever seen, I was certain it would all work out. Sure, I was in agonizing pain, my dress and hair soaking wet, the corsage Reed had made for me—from the pages of an old copy of Pride and Prejudice that he’d fashioned into a fairly recognizable floral shape—crushed and ruined.
But standing there with his head bent before his outraged father, his tux dripping, the flashing blue lights of the cop car reflecting off that thick dark hair I so adored, he’d looked exactly the way he always had—the boy I’d never meant to fall in love with.
It never once occurred to me as I was being loaded into the ambulance behind him that this would be the last time I’d see him.
But it was.
Once my shoulder was popped back into place and I got discharged from the hospital (and my parents were done lecturing me—they weren’t angry, just “disappointed”), I called, surprised Reed hadn’t left any messages.
It went straight to voicemail.
So did my next call.
And the next.
It was a week before I found out he’d left town, and that information didn’t come from him, because he never spoke to me again. He never returned a single one of my phone calls, texts, or messages. He never even checked to see if I was all right after the accident (not that in a town the size of Bloomville it didn’t quickly become common knowledge).
But still. For the Reed I knew, it would have been common courtesy.
“I told you he was weird,” Nicole said. “Preppie freak.”
“I’m so, so sorry,” my friend Leeanne had said, over and over.
“I’m surprised,” my mom had said. “A boy like that. I really expected better of him.”
So had I . . . which was my own fault. I don’t know why I’d been so naïve. Neither of us had made any promises—except t
he one I’d made to myself that I wasn’t going to fall in love with him.
But not only had I broken that promise, I’d ended up breaking something else along the way—my heart.
It was a good lesson to learn. It had probably all been an act, because I never found another boy—or man—like him. I kept reading Austen—and Cosmo—and knew that part of it was that I kept comparing every guy to my first, which wasn’t fair, to them . . . or to me.
But there it was: He’d broken my heart, and I was back to hating him again.
Which was why it was easy to laugh along with Graham in the car when I got done describing the incident with the golf cart in the pool.
“I know. It was ridiculous, right? But, you know. Small town. It was quite a scandal. Judge Stewart was so mad, he not only swore he’d never speak to Reed again, he told him never to set foot in this town again. And he never did.”
“Never?” Graham was all astonishment.
“No. Both his siblings got married in places other than Bloomville, I think.”
I didn’t think, I knew. I totally cyber stalked the wedding of Reed’s older brother, Marshall. Their sister had eloped to Hawaii—apparently there’s no love lost between Trimble’s family and her husband, Tony—before Reed and I started dating. But Marshall married his high school sweetheart, Carly Webb, in a fancy Chicago hotel on Valentine’s Day the year after Reed and I broke up. Their wedding theme was hearts.
I’d stared for hours at those photos of Carly and Marshall, beaming at one another beneath an arch of dangling paper hearts, then hated myself for doing so.
“But you’re cool with this guy, right?” Graham asked me from the driver’s seat of his SUV. (He likes to go camping on weekends. I make sure to tell him I have to work. I don’t understand camping. It’s organized inconvenience.) “If he really is coming back to town, there aren’t any bad vibes between you two or anything?”
“Oh, God, no,” I said with a huge smile. “Nothing like that.”
“Right,” he said. “That’s what I thought. Because that doesn’t seem like you. You’re so kind.”
That’s me. “So kind.”
“I don’t have any bad vibes with any of my exes,” Graham said. “We’re all still friends.”
“Completely,” I said. “Same here. I’m completely still friends with all my exes. Especially Reed.”
“Right,” he said. “Because sometimes when there are bad feelings between exes, it means there are still—you know. Feelings of another kind.”
“Well,” I said. “There are no feelings of any kind whatsoever between me and Reed except friendship.”
I can’t believe that Graham fell for this, but he did, because the next thing I knew, he was saying, “Great!” and looking expectantly at the basement windows of the house.
That’s when I told him I had an early appointment tomorrow, and also that I didn’t want to wake up my mom.
He seemed surprised—and slightly horrified.
“But I thought your apartment was totally separate from the rest of the house. You’ve never said it was a problem before. Can your mom hear us?”
“Oh, no,” I said, feeling as horrified as he looked. “It’s not that. It’s just that I . . . I have a headache. All the wine, maybe. And the cheese.”
“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “You’re usually fine with pinot noirs. And I wasn’t serving any blues tonight. You shouldn’t have a headache.”
“I know.” What was wrong with me? “I must have forgotten to hydrate.”
I did know what was wrong with me, actually. It was Reed Stewart, back (in spirit, anyway) to ruin my whole life. AGAIN.
“I spent a lot of time stuck in traffic today, though,” I went on. “I think I inhaled a bunch of diesel fumes. Can I get a rain check until tomorrow, maybe?”
“Of course.” He tenderly tucked a curl of my hair behind one ear. I hate it when guys do this. Well, any guy except Reed. UGH, no, why did I write that? “See you tomorrow, baby.”
Seriously. I have this amazing guy who is completely into me, and I’m still obsessed with a guy I haven’t seen since high school.
I have GOT to get a hold of myself.
I’m cool. I really am. I’m a completely different person than that dumb high school girl who fell for Reed Stewart’s quirky Jane Austen quoting, BMW driving, Ray-Ban wearing golfer dude act. I own my own business now. I have a wonderful boyfriend. I have a condo. (Admittedly it’s in my mom’s basement, but whatever. Real estate prices are beyond absurd around here, and there’s no reason for me to plunk down a chunk of cash on a place when I can invest it back into the business.) I drink pinot noir.
I’m over Reed Stewart. I am over Reed Stewart.
I AM GRATEFUL FOR BEING OVER REED STEWART.
It doesn’t matter that Leeanne is in Tokyo for six months trying to learn her grandmother’s secret recipes in order to make the food at Matsumori’s Tiki Palace more “authentic”—Nicole’s least favorite word, though in this era of chain restaurants, when everyone is craving authenticity, it should also make the Palace more profitable.
But which also means Leeanne’s in a time zone fourteen hours ahead of me, making it very difficult for us to catch up with one another on Chat App like we used to, at a time when we’re both actually awake.
I can handle all of this without the advice of my best friend since kindergarten. I can.
Because it’s likely I won’t even see Reed when he comes to town. If he comes to town. Why would I? None of this has anything to do with me. As far as I’m concerned, Reed Stewart can continue living his life, and I’ll continue living mine, and we’ll both continue being the happy, well-adjusted adults we’ve grown into.
Okay, well, I better finish up the last of this pinot noir that Graham gave me because there’s no point leaving this tiny bit in the bottle. It will just go bad.
But then I had better go to sleep, because tomorrow is a big day. I’ve got the Blumenthals to deal with. Plus I promised Mom I’d help her find more sticks.
See? I’m grateful that I’m an adult woman who is so over Reed Stewart that I can just forget about him after journaling and fall right to sleep.
Right. After I finish this wine.
And maybe take a Tylenol PM.
And watch one more episode of Emergency Guest Room Makeover.
From: Reed [email protected]
Date: March 13 9:07:21 PM PST
To: Lyle [email protected]
Subject: Richard and Connie
Hi, Uncle Lyle, just a quick note to let you know I’m not going to be able to have lunch with you this week like we planned.
I’m assuming by now you’ve heard about the Judge’s run-in with “the fuzz” (as you like to call them).
So I’m flying to Bloomville tomorrow.
You can wipe the smirk off your face now. I know I said I’d never go back there unless Dad begged me, and I meant it.
But I consider Dad getting arrested for fraud at a casual family-style eatery begging.
Also, when Carly asks for help, I know it’s serious. She’s only five feet tall and can’t weigh more than ninety pounds, but I’ve never met anyone tougher. Last time she was in LA, I saw her sling both her kids over her shoulders—while wearing the third in a BabyBjörn—and run a hundred yards in ten seconds flat because Marshall accidentally knocked a hornet’s nest out of a tree with the pool skimmer.
So if Carly says things are bad, they probably are. Or she’s at least come to the end of her rope, and needs a helping hand.
And yes, I know exactly what you’re going to say next:
My true motivation for going there is Becky, because I’ve found out she finally has a serious boyfriend.
If that’s what you think, you don’t know me at all.
Even if I wanted to see for myself—which I don’t—if there was some small chance the two of us could get back together after everything I’ve done, some way I could patch things up before it
’s too late and she marries the guy, I am not that person.
I wish her all the best in the world. I want her to be happy. She deserves to be happy.
And why would she even want to be with me anyway, after what I did?
And this doesn’t have anything to do with that thing you said the last time I saw you, either, about my needing closure. I do not need closure. I don’t even believe in closure.
The reason I lost at Augusta last year—and at Pebble Beach or Doral—isn’t because of what happened between me and the Judge ten years ago. And it especially isn’t because of my having anything I need to resolve with Becky. I know you were a psychology professor, but as I’ve told you before, please don’t try to shrink me.
My problem at Augusta (and Pebble Beach and Doral) doesn’t have anything to do with the past, but my future.
I’m simply ready to focus on it, and according to my real shrink—aha! You didn’t know I got one, did you? Yeah, I did. Cutler gave me the number for his—what I see in it isn’t more trophies.
He also said that if you want to eat an elephant, you have to start with the tail.
He didn’t really explain what that means, but I think it means if you want to make changes in your life, you have to start small.
So the first one I’m going to make is that I’m going to go back to Bloomville to help out Marshall and Carly. I’m sure things there can’t be as bad as they’re making them out to be.
Then after that maybe some other stuff will fall into place for me. Who knows?
Okay, well, I gotta pack. I expect it’s going to be cold in Indiana. I wonder where I put my coat. I haven’t been any place where it was actually cold in ages!
Anyway, I’m sure Mom and Dad are fine, and you and I will be back to brunching soon.
Can’t wait to hear all about the Orchid Expo. I’m positive your entry is going to take first prize, as usual.
Love,
Your Favorite Nephew,
Reed
Not-So-Crazy Cat Lady
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