Not You It's Me

by Julie Johnson

  NOT YOU

  it's me

  a novel

  Julie Johnson

  Copyright © 2015 Julie Johnson

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, product names, or named features are only used for reference, and are assumed to be property of their respective owners.

  Cover Design by Julie Johnson

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  Works by Julie Johnson

  Like Gravity

  Say the Word

  Erasing Faith

  Not You It’s Me

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Playlist

  This one’s for every girl out there who’s still waiting for her Prince Charming to show up.

  (Maybe he just got lost and is too stubborn to ask for directions)

  “You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing, and you’re terrified somebody’s gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you’re already in that cage. You built it yourself.”

  Breakfast at Tiffany’s

  Chapter One

  Caller 100

  The dial tone buzzes in my ear, mocking me — just as it’s done the last two times I called the studio.

  Damn.

  I don’t even know why I bother. I never win this kind of thing. Whether it’s scratch tickets, lottery numbers, or radio call-in prizes, I’ve got worse luck than a black cat breaking a mirror on Friday the 13th, because I’ve yet to win a damn thing.

  What’s that quote about doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different result?

  Oh, right. That’s the definition of insanity.

  And yet, I keep calling.

  Sighing, I pause with my finger poised over the power button of my cellphone. I know the sane, logical thing to do is throw it onto the passenger seat, shut off my car — which has begun to rattle ominously as I’ve been idling at the curb — and go inside… but I can’t seem to stop myself.

  I hold my breath, close my eyes, and punch the screen to redial.

  Just one more time.

  Sitting there, listening so hard it almost hurts, with my eyelids squeezed shut and all my energy honed on a single, impossible thought, I forget to breathe.

  Ring, dammit.

  Please, just freaking ring.

  For a moment, nothing happens.

  And then…

  It rings.

  My eyes fly open as a voice cracks over the line.

  “Congratulations, you’re our lucky 100th caller! Give us your name!”

  My mouth gapes like a Miss America contestant asked her opinion on the state of the crumbling global economy. I’m so stunned I can’t form words.

  “Hello? You’ve reached KXL - BOSTON, can you hear me?” The host clears his throat and laughs. “Well, if no one’s on this line, we’ll have to move on to another caller—”

  Shit!

  “I’m here!” I yell into the receiver. “Sorry, sorry, I’m here!”

  “Give us your name, sweetheart!”

  “Gemma,” I breathe, my mind spinning. “Gemma Summers.”

  “From?”

  “Cambridge.”

  “Well, Gemma Summers from Cambridge, you’ve just scored two courtside seats to tonight’s playoff game!”

  “Ohmigod,” I squeak.

  He laughs again. “Yep, the game of the season, tonight at seven at The Garden. We win tonight, we’re going all the way, baby!”

  “Thank you,” I finally manage to get out. “Thank you so much.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Gemma! We at KXL always take care of our listeners.”

  “Yeah,” I agree dumbly, still a little shell-shocked.

  I can hear him smiling through the phone when he speaks again. “Tell us — how are you feeling right now, Gemma? Are you a Celtics fan?”

  Yikes. I should’ve known this was going to come up.

  Truthfully, I hate basketball — almost as much as I hate lying. But, can I admit that on live radio without the entire male population of the greater Boston area wanting to kill me for scoring the much-coveted tickets most of them would sell their souls for?

  Probably not.

  So, I do what any self-respecting girl does in this situation.

  “Oh, huge, huge fan,” I lie through my teeth. “But not as big as my boyfriend.”

  “Well, then, he’s probably the luckiest guy in the world right now, assuming he’s your plus-one!” The host chuckles. “You’ll make him a happy man, tonight.”

  “I hope so,” I mumble, shaking my head. “If this doesn’t work, nothing will.”

  “What was that, Gemma? I couldn’t hear you.”

  Shit! Did I say that out loud?

  “Oh, nothing!” My cheeks flame. “Just, thank you so much, he’s going to be so excited!”

  I think.

  I hope.

  I pray.

  Because, seriously — if this doesn’t make him happy, I’m pretty sure nothing I ever do will.

  Chapter Two

  Gemma-Logic

  Ralph is happy.

  It’s almost weird to witness. I’m so used to seeing him look at me with that expression of half-indifference, half-frustration on his face, I’m having trouble processing the fact that he’s actually smiling at me. With teeth. For the first time in…

  Weeks?

  Or, is it months?

  Needless to say, he was thrilled about the tickets when I told him. Hell, he picked me up off the floor and spun me around in a circle, which is the most action I’ve had in…

  Weeks?

  Or, is it months?

  Jeeze, my life is pathetic.

  I wasn’t always this girl — you know, the one who settled for consistent sex at the sake of both that elusive spark and her self-respect. I guess I just got tired of waiting. When I moved to the city eight years ago, I was an idealistic eighteen-year-old full of energy and hope and passion. Being single was exciting, rather than exhausting. I spent years going to bar after bar, club after club, dancing the night away with anonymous strangers. Doing what my generation does best — total physical intimacy with none of the emotional baggage.

  Then I hit twenty-four, and slowly began to watch my friends, who’d once matched my every tequila-shooter and shimmi
ed until the wee hours by my side, pair off into couples.

  And then married pairs.

  And then parents.

  I can barely keep my plants alive, let alone a tiny human.

  By the time I hit twenty-six and realized what was happening, it was too late. I’d already become Single Gemma — the one who throws off the even-numbered dinner party, the one my friends look at as a pet-project rather than a person. They’re well meaning, of course, but I can’t say it’s always appreciated.

  First there’s Shelby: “My dentist is single, Gemma! Recently divorced, full head of hair… I really think you two might hit it off! I’ll set something up when I go in for my cleaning tomorrow. He’s stable — you would do so well with a guy like him! And he almost never makes my gums bleed.”

  Breathe, Gem. She’s not trying to be patronizing, she’s just trying to help.

  Then there’s Chrissy: “Oh, my Cross-Fit trainer is mega-hot — seriously, you should see his abs. I wish Mark still had abs like that, but he keeps talking about gaining ‘daddy-weight’ — like he’s the one who carried the goddamn baby around in his goddamn womb for nine goddamn months. Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right, Steve. I’ll slip him your number after my next class.”

  See, marriage isn’t the Crock-Pot ‘o gold everyone makes it out to be, Gemma. If you were married, you’d probably know what the hell daddy-weight is and be required to accept the fact that your husband let himself go less than a year after the wedding. The world of Budweiser-tumors and marital resentment is not for you.

  But, no matter what I tell myself, I can’t shake the feeling that something is simply wrong with me. I’m a twenty-six year old woman living in a modern metropolis and I’ve never been in a serious relationship in my life. There are literally thousands of men at my fingertips with the help of Tinder and OkCupid and CoffeeMeetsBagel and Hinge and a million other online-matching services whose mission statements guarantee they’ll help me find my perfect match.

  So… where the hell is he?

  And, if date after date after date after date leads to absolutely nothing more than coffee or a one-night stand… if none of the hundreds of men I’ve met since I moved to Boston are right…

  It has to be me.

  That’s the only logical conclusion.

  Which brings us back to Ralph.

  With his cheap haircut, pudgy physique, and a wardrobe most sixteen year-old boys would kill for — seeing as it consists almost entirely of Boston sports team logo tees and track pants — Ralph Goldstein isn’t exactly a stunning specimen of man. But he is one crucial thing my friends seem to think outweighs all the questionable fashion choices and lack of sexual magnetism: single.

  I met him six months ago, when he moved into the apartment across the hall from mine. He isn’t my type — in fact, I’m not sure he’s anyone’s type — but I felt like I had to at least try this relationship-thing everyone else is always raving about.

  So I tried.

  I’ve been trying for about four months now.

  But no matter what I say, do, or pretend to feel, I just can’t seem to make it work.

  In a shocking turn of events, Gemma Summers fails once again to find her true love.

  At least at first, I could console myself with the fact that, if not a soulmate, Ralph was a decent enough sexmate. But then, time passed and even that wasn’t enough to keep what minimal heat existed between us burning. Now, it seems like we fight more than we talk, and I can’t really remember why I was so determined to be coupled-up in the first place. Sometimes, I think I was happier as Single Gemma than I’ve ever been as Relationship Gemma, even if it is nice to have someone to go to the movies with and to drag along to the wedding showers that seem to be getting more and more frequent as the years slip by.

  But maybe my luck is about to change. Winning these tickets — maybe it’s a sign that things can get better between Ralph and me. Maybe two people who aren’t perfect for one another can still be happy. Or, if not happy, then maybe… content?

  I don’t know.

  But I’m glad when he laces his fingers through mine and guides me across the street into the TD Garden stadium — better known to every Bostonian as The Gahden. It’s the most loving gesture he’s showed me in… well, maybe ever… and I smile as we jostle through the crowd with our hands entwined. There are people everywhere, a sea of green jerseys and foam fingers and face paint crowding in from every direction as nearly 20,000 fans cram inside and fight to find their seats.

  Boston takes its sporting events very seriously.

  We find the box office and collect our tickets, and I pretend it’s not annoying when Ralph speaks over me to the window attendant. He doesn’t even let me hold the tickets I won as we make our way through the arena, but he is still grasping my hand as we walk down a billion steps, and I figure that has to count for something.

  Right?

  Down, down, down — light-years closer than I’ve been at any kind of event before. The only tickets I’ve ever been able to afford on my artist salary were nosebleeds at Fenway three summers ago, and, if I’m being honest, it was to see Bruno Mars, not the Red Sox. Sports aren’t exactly my thing.

  Still, when we hit the court it’s so surreal, I nearly stumble, my Chucks squeaking against the high-polished wood. Instead of steadying me, Ralph drops his hand so I don’t take him down too if I fall on my face, which is kind of a dick move. Thankfully, it doesn’t matter — I manage to right myself at the last minute and prevent a potentially mortifying moment in front of thousands of people.

  A dowdy-looking usher looks me up and down skeptically — rude — before scanning our tickets and pointing us toward a stretch of empty seats on the mid-court sideline.

  Jeeze, I already know I look ridiculous, lady, you don’t need to rub it in.

  Frankly, I’m considering writing a sternly-worded letter to KXL the moment I get home, suggesting that next time they give out free tickets, they also provide a pamphlet with “what to wear” guidelines. That’d be really helpful and would probably prevent people like me from wearing bridesmaid dresses to basketball games.

  What you have to understand is, I’ve never been to a basketball game in my life — and certainly not a playoff game. Courtside. With cameras and celebrities and giant, gorgeous NBA players so close I’ll be able to see individual beads of sweat on their brows. (Side note: Yum.) So, naturally, I called Chrissy this afternoon, hoping she might have a little fashion insight to help me blend in at an event like this.

  I can see from the usher’s expression that I’m definitely not blending. In fact, I think Chrissy’s advice (“Wear something fancy, you’re going to be on television if you’re sitting courtside! Hell, Ben Affleck might be there!”) has led me very, very astray.

  See, I’m an artist. A freaking oil painter. Which means there are maybe four items in my closet free of paint-speckles and grime-smudges. Of those four, only two could possibly be considered fancy — and they just so happen to be my old bridesmaid dresses from Chrissy and Shelby’s weddings.

  So, here I am — crammed into a two-year old, blue-black cocktail dress that’s at least a size too small in the boob region and makes my ribs ache if I breathe too hard. And, because I’m me, an idiot, I listened to not only Chrissy, but also to the sincerely-flawed Gemma-Logic that thought it might be a good idea to “dress down” my ridiculous getup — not with a casual-but-still-appropriate pair of heels or flats, but with my beat-up, black Chuck Taylors.

  In other words, I’m a walking disaster.

  Ralph is so self-absorbed, I don’t think he’s noticed. That’s possibly due to the fact that he’s been on his cellphone since I told him I scored us tickets, calling every guy he’s known since fourth grade to brag about the “seats he won.” Whatever. Hopefully he’ll put the phone down when the game starts.

  The sad thing is, even if he doesn’t, this is still the best date we’ve ever had.

  Chapter Three

  Dickwa
d

  “Wooo!” I yell, my fists thrown to the sky. “Nice block, 33! Look left, he’s open — Number 14 is open! Ohmigod, he’s open are you blind?”

  Ralph glares at me out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge my screams. Apparently, I’m making it hard to hear whoever he’s chatting with.

  Oh, did I mention he’s still on the phone?

  But that’s okay. I’m not letting him get me down. I’m having a hell of a good time all by myself, thank you very much.

  The four beers I’ve consumed are helping.

  In fact, I’ve discovered I kind of like basketball. It’s exciting — especially when you’re so freaking close to the action. Since it’s a playoff game, every seat in the arena is full, and with each basket Boston makes, everyone in the stands behind me roars so loud the floor vibrates. Despite the snarky side-eye Ralph keeps throwing my way, I roar right along with them.

  I’m going to have fun tonight, dammit. I have to. Because if I don’t keep smiling, I’ll surely cry about the fact that as soon as that final buzzer rings, my one, pathetic attempt at a relationship is officially, 100% over. Four whole months wasted on a mediocre guy who won’t even make eye contact with me half the time — frankly, it makes me want to weep. And Gemma Summers being reduced to tears by a man-child named Ralph is just too pathetic to contemplate.

  “Nice play, 14! Shoot! Shoot!” I’m on the edge of my seat, hands curled into fists. “YES!” I scream, leaping to my feet when the player sinks the basket.

  Because I’m fully absorbed in the game (the rules of which I still don’t fully understand — I mean, come on, the ref blows that damn whistle every ten seconds) I don’t realize that Ralph isn’t the only one taking notice of my enthusiastic cheering. In fact, I’m so wrapped up, I haven’t given more than a fleeting thought to the tall-drink-of-water who took the seat on my other side just after the game got underway — besides to mentally note that I’d never seen a simple jeans-and-tee combo look so good on anyone who wasn’t an Abercrombie poster boy. But that was over an hour ago, at the start of the game.