by Becky Monson
“It’s going to be fine, Brown. I know it,” I say, and truly mean it. I can picture Brown and Matt with their children, looking like they stepped out of a magazine (they’re beautiful people so obviously their kids will be gorgeous), hosting neighborhood barbecues, and rocking sporting events. They’ll be the epitome of the perfect family.
“Thanks, Jules,” she says, reaching over and grabbing my hand.
“Anytime,” I say giving her hand a little squeeze.
~*~
“You better never say anything,” I say to Jared on the phone as I lay in my bed. It’s the only time I’ve gotten to hear his voice today. I’ve just filled him in on the Brown fertility drama that happened earlier.
“Of course not. What would I say? ‘So Matt, I heard your wife killed your swimmers,’” Jared replies, the sarcasm thick in his tone.
I snort-laugh, which used to embarrass me around him, but not so much these days. He put a ring on it. He’s stuck with me.
“It got me thinking, though,” I say, feeling a little shy about bringing this up, but it’s never truly been discussed. Sure, there’s been the mention of it, but never anything serious.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“I know we’ve both said we want kids, but I’ve never asked you how many you want,” I say, wrapping a tendril of hair around my finger. I begin to twirl it nervously.
“Seven,” he says without skipping a beat.
“Seven? Seven kids,” I say, my voice rising slightly. “We’re too old to have seven kids. I’d have to get pregnant every year in order to have them all before my eggs start to rot.” I’m not certain my voice is conveying the anxiety I’m feeling right now. Seven kids? Really?
“You’re right. I should be marrying someone younger,” he says, laughter in his tone. He’s teasing me.
“You jerk,” I say, and if he were around, I’d throw something at him and then probably kiss him. I can never stay mad at the guy for long. He’s too dang cute.
“How about we start with two and go from there,” he says, still not taking back the previously mentioned amount.
“I’m just telling you right now, this uterus isn’t having seven kids, so don’t get your hopes up.”
He laughs at that. I love that laugh so much.
“I think we’ll have one boy and one girl and we’ll name them Jared Junior and Julianna,” he says, humor still oozing through his voice.
“That sounds lovely. They won’t resent us at all,” I say cynically.
Picturing Jared and me with children makes butterflies fly around in my stomach. I can just see us in a beautiful, two-story brick house in the plush area of Cherry Creek. Maybe we’ll even have a white picket fence (although I’ve never pictured myself as a white-picket-fence kind of gal, but thing’s change). The kids will be running around outside, chasing Charlie in our beautiful landscaped yard. Jared, his arms around me as we look at our lives, pure contentment on our faces … it’s going to be amazing.
I seriously can’t wait to start a life with Jared.
“How long should we wait to have kids?” I ask, remembering how upset Brown was when Matt sprung it on her that he didn’t want to wait.
“Why put a date on it?” Jared says. “We’ll know when we’re ready.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think I just fell in love with you even more. I didn’t think that was possible.”
“I love you, Jules,” he says and I swear I’ll never tire of those words. “Now, get some sleep. You have your interview with the newspaper tomorrow.”
“Don’t remind me,” I say grudgingly.
“Jules, you’ll be great,” he says. The confidence he has for me almost makes me believe him. Almost.
“I’ll be great as long as you’re there to make sure I don’t snort when I laugh.” He chuckles.
“I’m afraid I can’t help that, but I promise I’ll be there,” he says, making the nervousness in my stomach dissipate some. I’m so not looking forward to this.
“Just think of how great this will be for the bakery,” he says.
“That’s the thing. I mean, it’s not like we need it,” I say.
“Of course you do, Jules. Marketing is always good,” he says. “Besides, I’m not just talking about the bakery. I’m talking about other bakeries.”
Right. The expansion. Crap.
“You know, I’m not so sure—“
His yawn of enormous proportions cuts me off.
“What was that?” he asks, on the tail end of his yawn.
He’s tired. I’m tired. This probably isn’t the best time. I’ll find another time to tell him that I think we should wait.
“Sounds like you need sleep as well,” I say.
“I think I do. Goodnight, Jules,” he says, groggily.
We hang up and I roll over on my side, snuggling into my pillow. I know I need to talk to him about how I’m truly feeling about the expansion. But I don’t want to let him down either. Maybe if we slowed it down a bit. I’ll definitely talk to him tomorrow after I have this interview behind me.
As I start to drift off I think about how soon I’ll be snuggling up to Jared every night of my life instead of this stupid lumpy pillow.
My days of sleeping as a single woman are numbered. And I can’t wait.
CHAPTER 5
Jared is a big fat lying liar head.
I’m so ticked right now, I can’t even see straight. First of all, my alarm didn’t go off when it was supposed to, so I slept in. And I had a rough night of sleep as it was. I had that stupid recurring dream where I was walking naked down the aisle at my wedding, only this time Lisa was there with a notepad taking detailed notes of my naked wedding to put in her newspaper article. It went on and on all night.
So my plan to actually look presentable today didn’t happen. I was smart enough to iron the light pink polo shirt with my logo on it last night, so at least I have that. Although Charlie decided to use it as a pillow, so it was covered with cat hair this morning. That was super fun to try to get off. I was in such a hurry I threw on jeans that were dirty because I forgot to dry the jeans that I’d washed last night. Then there’s the disaster that is my hair—which is in a messy knot on the top of my head. And to complete my look, I went all-natural by wearing no makeup whatsoever. I brought makeup with me, but there’s no help for my hair.
My appearance was bad enough that Patti, upon seeing me, said that I looked like I’d been “rode hard and tied up wet.” Which I completely misunderstood and took to be something pervy. She laughed until she cried. Her and her crazy southern sayings can stuff it.
Then, to make matters worse, Jared called to tell me he has some “fire” with his company happening on the East Coast that must be taken care of immediately. He swears he’ll make it to the bakery at some point during my interview, but now it won’t be as I pictured it, with him sitting near me and making me feel more confident. Now I’m on my own and who knows what I’ll say. Left to my own devices I’ve said some stupid things. Like, ridiculously stupid.
Holy crap, I’m freaking out. I think I’m actually having heart palpitations. I’ve never had a panic attack, but I think one’s coming. I’ve also developed an award winning eye twitch. It can actually be seen from space, it’s so bad.
I don’t have time to do anything about my look right now because it’s nearly opening time. Luckily Debbie, Patti, and Kate had things happening before I got here. At least that part is going well for me. My staff knows how to run my bakery with or without me. Maybe I can get Lisa to take a picture of them instead of me … and have them do the interview, as well. Heaven knows Patti would be much more entertaining and better suited for it.
“What’s going on with your eye,” Kate asks me as I enter the front of the bakery from the kitchen. She looks wide awake for this time in the morning, her brown hair pulled back into a slick looking ponytail. Must’ve been nice to not oversleep. It’s not her faul
t I’m having a crappy morning, but I’m looking for someone to blame. Maybe Jared is the better option since I’m already annoyed with him.
“Eye twitch,” I say as I open the door to the display case and slide in the tray of raspberry almond scones that I was carrying. Everything looks ready to go, which is a good thing since it’s time to unlock the doors.
“Yikes,” Kate says, moving her face up close to mine. “That’s a terrible one. You look like you have Tourette’s.”
Well, if that isn’t offensive on many levels, I don’t know what is. I make the conscious decision to not even reply to that. Plus, I saw the twitch myself in the mirror earlier, and thought the exact same thing. But unlike Kate, I usually keep non-politically correct declarations, such as that, inside my head where they belong.
“Also, you’ve got something in your hair,” Kate says as she grabs a set of keys from a drawer under the cash register.
“What?” I say, and then reach up to my hair.
“I think it might be frosting,” she moves her head up close to mine again to inspect. “Yep, it’s frosting.”
“Seriously?” I feel around my head until my fingers land on what feels like a greasy blob on the right side of my head. I pull a little off with my fingernails and inspect. Oh, not frosting again! And this time it’s hot pink.
The frosting was a mishap to begin with. It was supposed to be a soft pink, but I accidently put too much coloring in and it turned into a fuchsia color. Instead of diluting it out, I just thought I’d run with it.
I let out a long sigh, grab a napkin and start blotting the frosting out.
Of course, trying to get frosting out of your hair isn’t easy. And I would know, as this isn’t my first mishap. The 1980’s bangs episode was also not my first mishap. Yeah, it’s happened a lot. So now, along with my messy hair and no makeup, I also get to look like a grease ball. A hot pink one. Just fantastic.
“What else can go wrong?” I ask aloud, and then quickly clamp my hands over my mouth.
Holy crap I’ve just unleashed the deadliest of questions, which is never to be spoken aloud, lest you want to find out exactly what else can actually go wrong. I need a take-back. Or some holy water and a priest. I need anything that might scourge the question from history.
Kate unlocks the main door to the bakery as I try to work the frosting out of my hair. Customers who had been waiting outside in the brisk morning start filing in.
Here we go.
“Hello, Julia,” a sickly sweet voice says from the other side of the counter.
“Hi Lia,” I say and start to grab her normal breakfast order. “You’re here early,” I state as I place a blueberry streusel muffin on a small white ceramic plate.
“Yes,” she says, eyeing me as I grab her a cup for coffee.
“What is it?” I ask as she looks at me. “Is my aura off again?” I’m sure it is. When has my aura ever been on?
“Not that, I mean—yes, it’s off—but I’m actually talking about your hair,” she says pointing to the top of my head.
“Oh right. That’s icing,” I say, reaching up to feel my greasy hair.
“Oh,” she says, not convinced. What the heck else would it be? “Can I get some orange juice today?” she asks just as I’ve poured her some coffee.
“Uh, sure,” I say setting the cup of coffee aside. I go to the tall glass-front cooler and grab the pitcher of orange juice and pour her a cup. I go to set it on the counter in front of her just as she goes to grab it, and within a millisecond, orange juice is dripping down the front of me.
“I’m so sorry!” Lia says so loudly, everyone turns to look at me.
It’s at this point that I realize in my haste to get everything ready after starting late, I never put on my apron. Now the entire bakery can see my lacy white bra through my shirt.
It’s official. I’ve jinxed myself. I think what would be best right now is if I went home, back to bed, and hope that this is all a nightmare and I can get a do-over.
I make a beeline for the back and send Debbie to the front as I’m trying to pull the orange juice covered shirt away from my skin as it has suctioned itself to me. Why couldn’t it have been water? Of course it had to be sticky sugar-filled juice.
In my office I have a spare T-shirt—no logo on it—but it’ll have to do. I grab it and a clean dishtowel and head to the bathroom to clean up.
Donned with a clean shirt (well, it wasn’t as clean as I had hoped, but it’ll do) and mostly sticky free, I head back up to the front. At least this time I remember my apron. Stupid hindsight.
The line has gotten quite long since the orange juice debacle. I’d briefly debated running home and attempting to hose myself off, but the bakery is extra busy this morning so there’s no possible way for me to leave. I’ll have to make do with what I have.
Despite my morning of turmoil, I somehow survive the breakfast rush without any further misfortunes. Lia was overly apologetic and cast some sort of light spell on the bakery to make up for the spill. I’m not even sure what a light spell is, but I didn’t have time to ask. Let’s just hope it reverses the jinx I put on myself.
Before I know it, it’s nearly nine o’clock and I only have a half hour until Lisa gets here with her photographer. I head to the bathroom in the back and inspect myself. There’s no helping my look today. Although I took a stab at the pink frosting in my hair after I cleaned up the orange juice mess, I didn’t have time to do a decent job. Now as I take a towel and try to clean it up, I see that the pink has stained my hair. This could be cool, if I were fifteen. But since I’m not, it’s just a tacky pink streak in the front of my hair. Not somewhere easily hidden of course … Of-freaking-course.
Giving up on my hair, I slap on some makeup. The lighting in the back bathroom is dim, but I do my best to give my pale appearance some color. The bags under my eyes couldn’t be more obvious, so there’s not much I can do there. Good heavens, I look like I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in ages. That’s actually fairly accurate. I suddenly wish I’d purchased that under eye treatment I saw on the home shopping network … when I couldn’t sleep last week. I’m aware of the irony there.
“Julia,” Patti yells from the other side of the bathroom door. “How’re ya doing in there?”
I open the door and by the look on her face, she’s not impressed by my appearance.
“Bless your heart, you’re a right mess,” she says eyeing my face and my hair. I’d pulled my hair out of the messy bun when I tried to get the frosting out. I thought I’d done a decent job of fingering through the tangles—I’d forgotten a brush—but apparently not.
“I am a mess,” I say, my shoulders slouching. In so many ways, I want to add, but that would be moot.
“No worries, darlin’, let Patti help ya,” she says, referring to herself in third person.
She leaves me standing in the doorway of the bathroom as she runs and grabs her purse. I’m too tired right now to fight her. Besides, anything she can do will probably be better than what I’ve been able to accomplish. I only have fifteen minutes until Lisa gets here; I basically need a miracle.
“We got ourselves an emergency, Debbie,” I hear her yell out to the front of the bakery where Debbie had gone to help Kate while I tried to fix myself.
It’s not long until I hear both Debbie and Patti, feet shuffling, as they come toward me. Patti must’ve informed Debbie of the hot mess that I am because she doesn’t even give me a once over.
Debbie pulls the rolling chair out of my office, and Patti pushes me into it. And then they go to work. They tug and pull as they work on my hair and then once they both agree that’s in order, they spray it to oblivion with terrible smelling hairspray. Then they get to work on my face.
“Dear heavens, what in tarnation is going on with your eye?” Patti asks as she tries to apply mascara.
“I have a twitch,” I say, reaching up to touch my eye. She bats my hand away with hers.
“That right there
isn’t your run-of-the-mill eye twitch. You look like you’re havin’ a seizure,” she says, pulling the corner of my eye taut so she can try to keep the twitch at bay as she applies mascara.
Lovely.
Once the mascara is applied as best as it can be, they go to work on the rest of my face. I flinch a few times when I see the bright red blush and lipstick Patti pulls out of her bag. I’m sure she knows what she’s doing … I hope. Maybe I should start praying.
“Okay, whaddya think, Debbie?” Patti asks, and they both stare at me for what seems longer than necessary. I’m hoping it’s passable because we’re nearly out of time.
“I think it’s the best we can do under the circumstances,” Debbie shakes her head with pity.
“It’s much better than the disaster she had going on before,” Patti says, nodding her head toward me.
“You know I can hear you, right?” I ask, as if they forgot I was a real person.
I stand up and go into the bathroom. The anticipation of seeing what might reflect in the mirror is making my anxiousness move to a fever pitch.
I close my eyes as if I’m being presented to myself, face the mirror, and open them.
Oh my holy crap, mother of hell.
I look like the wife of Colonel Sanders. And to be honest, I’m not even entirely sure what his wife looked like, but this must be it.
Let’s start with my makeup. It’s so overdone, I hardly recognize myself. Bright red blush adorns my cheeks and dramatic blue eye shadow on my eyelids. They’ve outlined my lips to be slightly bigger than my actual lips (not really necessary since they weren’t thin to begin with) and the bright red lipstick they filled in with makes me look like a prostitute with clown undertones.
Then there’s my hair. So backcombed on the top, it’s almost as high as Patti’s hair. It’s been sprayed to the max, and I’m fairly confident that even a tornado couldn’t bring this ‘do down. Plus, the pink frosting streak is even more obvious now.
“You guys,” I say, turning to Debbie and Patti. “I can’t go out there like this!”