2. Rhythm. This is the points category that means different things to different people—music, dance, the cosmic rhythm of the planets. Whatever. This isn’t my thing so much. I like to dance as much as the next girl, but I don’t demand excellence in dancing like Charley does. Brad can do a decent waltz, which is great for formal events. As for dancing being an indicator for performance in bed, well, he’s perfectly fine there, too. I don’t think I obsess about sex as much as the other gals do. I like sex. Who doesn’t? But you spend a hell of a lot more time out of bed than in it, so let’s keep our priorities straight there.
3. Taste. Brad has excellent taste. I give him a solid 0.7 there. I mean, he’s a guy after all, so he can be distressingly over fond of sports-themed décor. But he thinks I’m beautiful, which I’m not, so that garners him extra latitude. And, of course, despite his other choices, he dresses well. Once we got married I could take over the decorating. With access to his money, I could really do something fantastic.
4. Touch. Just fine. He’s not repulsive or anything. I think this is another category that matters initially, but then is something you stop worrying about for the long term.
5. Chemistry. For Marcia, who wants to be a perfume nose, this is all about scent. For me, a decent cologne takes care of that, and Brad wears a good, expensive one. Ice and Julie insist this is about the *pow* attraction. Again, I don’t agree this is something that’s important for the long term. First meeting: sure. Brad and I were immediately attracted and I gave him a full point then. Once you get to know someone, though, you don’t expect to be wowed by them on a daily basis.
There is a provision in the Rules for that sixth “extra something.” I gave Brad a full point there, too. Being shortlisted for Most Eligible Bachelor ought to score at least a point—someone other than me thought Brad was a great catch. Plus, we wanted the same things out of life.
I rounded into the sixth mile, feeling good, heading home with the wind at my back. The perfect metaphor for this time in my life: young, fit, in love, and about to be engaged. It made all that effort of running into the wind at first worthwhile, to hit the final stretch and know I’d done it.
Me. I’d made this happen. Poor little Amy Taylor, scruffy charity case. It would have been nice to go to the Wildwood reunion that night with a big diamond ring to show off, but having Brad as my date would prove my point almost as well. And they’d hear the news soon enough, even if I had to work to get it in the society columns myself.
I had it all planned out: Brad would propose on Christmas Eve. Romantic and intimate, just us. We planned to have dinner at his place so we could exchange gifts before going to his family house in North Shore the next morning. That was the classy way to do things.
I’d found Brad on my own and had made myself into the kind of woman a guy like him would be attracted to. We might not have some grand passion, but I could make any combination work. That is my superpower. I may have come from ugliness, but that means I can make anything shine with some hard work and diligence.
~ 2 ~
“I could’ve gone to Wildwood,” Brad said, flashing me a smile and turning the car stereo down from blaring to tolerable. He looked perfect in his black suit, tawny hair pushed back in a stylishly arrogant wave, driving his BMW with one hand draped over the wheel. “Almost did,” he added, widening the confident grin. “Near the old neighborhood and all.”
Brad had gone to a different private high school, one in Connecticut, a boarding school for boys who came from money but who didn’t exactly have the best grades. Guys like him, though, from good North Shore families, didn’t need an amazing transcript to get into the right college. Case in point: Brad had graduated from Harvard and gone to work in marketing for the family firm.
Because he came from money, he didn’t need smarts; because I had smarts, I overcame not having money. That’s how the world works.
“Will you know anyone there?” I asked, smoothing my black sheath dress. Elegant, understated, with a necklace and earrings of silver jingle bells I’d raided from a Crate and Barrel garland. It made up in tongue-in-cheek style for what I lacked in actual good jewelry. My nails gleamed glossy scarlet, as I’d sprung that afternoon for a gel manicure. It should last me until the 23rd, when I’d get another that would take me through the new year. My present to myself: I would have perfect nails to show off my ring.
“Oh yeah, I might know as many of them as you do.” He went on a bit, telling me about the guys—and gals—from his cohort who’d gone there. I knew most of them, or at least of them, if nothing else. The school wasn’t that big.
For the first time, though, I doubted my wisdom in bringing Brad along. What if they told him some story about how I’d been back then? But that was silly to worry about. Brad knew what I came from—or rather, what I didn’t come from—and he didn’t care. They couldn’t tell him something he didn’t already know. Besides, I wasn’t that girl anymore and Brad is a very now kind of guy.
“I’ve got a surprise planned for you,” Brad said, looking all pleased and excited.
“What? When?” I tamped down my incipient panic. Breathe.
“That would spoil the surprise if I told you.” He laughed at me and reached over to tug my hair. “Silly girly.”
“Brad…” I batted his hand away and smoothed my hair. “You know I hate surprises.”
“But this is a good surprise. I promise. You’ll like it.”
I sighed internally. It’s nearly impossible to explain to people that those of us who can’t stand surprises hate all kinds. It doesn’t matter if it’s supposedly a good surprise: all unexpected and startling events induce this gut-watering terror. It makes no sense to people because it’s not a rational thing. “Please just tell me,” I begged, trying to be cute. “Now I’m all curious.”
A failed tactic, as Brad only looked more pleased with himself and refused. All I could do was brace for it. Which, if you’re like me, only makes the eventual surprise worse because you’re all tense, waiting for it. My dad was a practical joker. Drunk or sober, he loved to lurk in a dark hallway, leaping out and grabbing me. The louder he could make me scream, the more hysterical he found it. My brothers learned it from him, coming up with inventive ways to scare the bejeesus out of me. Once my younger brother, Carl, hid under my bed when I was thirteen. The switch for the overhead light was by the door, so I’d have to turn it off and walk across the room to my bed. Just as I was about to climb in, Carl grabbed my ankle.
I shrieked bloody murder, waking the neighbors on the other side of our thin apartment walls. They laughed about that one for months—and still sometimes brought it up.
“I’d really rather know, so I can look forward to it,” I tried one last time.
“The rewards will be worth it,” Brad told me, patting my knee.
We pulled up the circular drive, the BMW fitting in perfectly with the other pricey makes and models, shining in the amber light of the faux gas lamps. “Selfie,” Brad instructed after we got out, putting his arm around me and positioning us so the grand entrance showed clearly. I obediently posed while he took several, waiting while he selected one and posted it, even though I was cold. I didn’t have a coat formal enough for the occasion, so I’d punted, figuring I wouldn’t be outside for long. I knew Brad wouldn’t notice, and the dress looked better without a coat for the pics anyway.
“Hashtag Wildwood Academy, hashtag Chicago, hashtag Christmas,” he muttered. “Hey, is there a tag for this party?”
“The invite didn’t mention.”
“Got it on Instagram. Share to Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr…”
“Let’s go in,” I said as soon as he hit the button to finish posting, putting my hand through the crook of his elbow, suddenly and unreasonably irritated. Nerves—and worrying about that fucking surprise in my future—had me wired, so I jumped when my phone pinged in my silver evening clutch. Just the notifications from Brad tagging me. I’d have to silence it when I got a chance. Surreptit
iously checking my Fitbit, I confirmed that my heart rate had elevated considerably, so I worked at calming myself.
We strolled up to the registration table, where Penelope Highsmith sat, managing to look elegantly bored in this season’s Chanel crimson silk. I might’ve drooled over it if it wouldn’t have made her gloat intolerably.
“Amy Taylor!” she gushed. “You look fabulous, as always. So creative with your budget. Here’s your name tag. We have the magnetic kind, so they won’t mess up the fabric of our dresses. And for you, Brad. Was surprised to see you as Amy’s plus one,” she purred, pursing lips that matched the dress exactly. “It’s been some time.”
Brad grinned at her charmingly. “Missy Brinkman’s sixteenth birthday party. Spin the bottle in the pool house.”
She laughed and fluttered her acrylics before her face, as if having the vapors. “And I remember the dare that followed! Skinny dipping,” she confided to me in a stage whisper.
I laughed along, pretending that I didn’t give a thought to the fact that Missy and I had been, if not exactly besties, reasonably good friends at that point in time—and that she had not invited me to that party. I hadn’t even known she’d had a party. I’d made her a bookmark for that birthday, embroidered with her name and dragonflies—her Patronus—and Missy had thanked me, hugged me, and never said a word about a party at her parents’ pool house.
“Is Missy here?” I asked, trying to sound casually curious. She hadn’t come the year before, so I crossed my fingers I wouldn’t have to chat with her, knowing this.
“No.” Penelope pouted. “She’s in Martinique for the holidays.”
Thank God. “That’s too bad.”
“Time to hit the bar?” Brad asked me. “Let’s see what Wildwood puts out for its distinguished alums. I have high expectations.”
Penelope waggled her fingers at us, then squealed as one of her besties arrived—one worth springing up for—and tottered across the tile in her Italian heels. I swear, women should practice walking in the things if they’re going to wear them. That totter was a crime against the elegance of those heels.
“Yes, I’m parched,” I told Brad, not ready to see who it was that Penelope was so excited to welcome and seizing the excuse. It would have been nice if some of my real friends were there. My housemates Charley, Ice, Julie, and Marcia had been my buds since freshman year at Northwestern—but they had not gone to Wildwood. They’d saved me when my random lottery roommate turned out to be a psycho. I missed them with a sudden, intense pang of loneliness, so I squeezed Brad’s arm, smiling brightly at him when he patted my hand.
We made it through the knot at the bar, Brad getting us the evening’s signature cocktail. A bourbon something, it turned out, with a tinsel-garnished maraschino cherry. That was fine, because I could sip it. Not my favorite thing, with the too-sweet mixer they used—and, of course, that kind of cherry is pickled death—but Brad always liked to get the signature drink. He said it’s rude not to, at least for the first round, and I figured he knew more about these social circles than I did. I never wanted to embarrass him, for sure. Besides, at the most basic level, alcohol is alcohol, and I really needed to chill.
Brad immediately ran into someone he knew, who dragged him off to reunite with some of the “other guys” and I half trailed after, half tried to look for people I knew. The reunion party encompassed all the class years, and with everyone all dressed up I didn’t immediately recognize anyone. Not without peering at nametags, nearly illegible in the dim lounge lighting meant to enhance all the Christmas lights. I’d come to the party every year, of course, but with each holiday, everyone from my year seemed to look so much more glossy and grown-up, blending with the previous classes.
The year before I’d gotten way too drunk out of sheer misery and had to take a Lyft home, a nasty charge on my credit card. I wouldn’t do that again. Particularly if Brad got lit up, as he was likely to do, and I’d have to be the one to drive.
Tempting, though, to down the cocktail and move on to something else. My parents’ legacy there, that I craved the hot burn of booze in my bloodstream to make myself feel better. Running was the only other thing that created the same feeling, but I could hardly run laps on the track in my heels and sheath dress. Speaking of tottering. The thought brought back nostalgia, though. I’d spent a lot of time on that track, running by myself. That’s probably where I’d been during Missy Brinkman’s birthday party she didn’t invite me to.
Water under the bridge. I needed to let that bit of poisonous thought go. Along with my worry about Brad’s surprise.
With renewed determination, I wove through the crush looking for Brad. The whole point of bringing him was so I wouldn’t have to stand around alone. I’d brought him to be my arm candy. Men did it all the time, so I refused to feel bad about wanting the same. I craned my neck, looking for him. There he was, taking a group pic with some guys using the telescoping selfie-stick he kept in his jacket pocket like a ballpoint pen. The pocket-protector of the modern era—that fashion statement telegraphed social media aficionado. The guys held up their signature cocktails, identical smiles of white and even teeth, the flash strobing from flattering shadows to glaring bright reveal.
“Amy.” Jon Ahearn appeared in front of me, a serious smile on his stubbly face. And not stubbly in a hip statement way, but in an “I forgot to shave” way. Or maybe an “I didn’t bother to buy new razor blades” way. He, for one, had barely changed since our teens. I’d know him anywhere, though we only ever saw each other anymore at this party.
“Jon. Merry Christmas.” I gave him a light hug with lots of air in it, trying to look past him unobtrusively. They were trying another pose.
“How’ve you been?” Jon asked. “I mean,” he added, “you look fantastic. But then, you always do.”
“Thanks.” I gave up keeping an eye on Brad and focused a smile on Jon. I would not be like our ruder classmates, forever scanning for someone more important to talk to. Jon had been a scholarship student, too, only he’d been defiantly uncaring about it, wearing whatever and refusing to play any of the polite games. He was at Wildwood, he’d once told me, to get into MIT, and that was all he cared about. He’d done it, too, then went for graduate school at University of Chicago. “How’s grad school?” I asked politely. Then jumped as my phone chimed with notifications. I sipped more from my drink.
“A gauntlet from hell,” Jon confided, adding a rueful grimace. “Which is exactly how they intend it to be. Semester ended today, so I at least have teaching over with, except for the grading. I’m hoping to get some substantial work done on my dissertation over the break.”
“Hmm,” I said. He’d told me at a previous reunion party what he was working on. Last year or the one before. He worked on an intersection of math, physics, and engineering, something esoteric enough that I’d retained little of it. Perpetual motion and entropy… Nope. Wasn’t in my head, so I shouldn’t try or I’d butcher it. “That will be good.”
“How’s your job—ready for world domination yet?”
I smiled. “World domination through silk and cashmere, anyway, but yeah—working at Exposition Way is amazing and Adelina is even looking at my designs.”
“She’s smart then, because you’re really talented.”
“Thanks.” We gazed at each other and I was thinking up something else to ask when my phone chimed again. At least I didn’t jump that time.
“Do you need to get that?” Jon pointed his chin at my clutch, hanging from its silver chain against my hip. “Your phone.”
“No.” I should have silenced the damn thing. Flicking open the purse catch, I reached in and flipped the side switch to mute. “It’s just tags—Instagram, Facebook. You know.”
“Tags. Yeah. No.” He shook his head and I had to laugh.
“You’re still not doing social media? I can’t believe you’ve escaped its clutches entirely.”
“The secret is never looking at the stuff.” Then he tilted his
head slightly and added a significant lift to his dark brows. “I never heard from you.”
Quite the transition, there. I searched my mind. Had I promised to call him or something? People ask me for job leads sometimes—fashion is all about who you know—but that wouldn’t be Jon. Besides, we didn’t have any contact outside of these semi-awkward annual reunions. Jon was part of a past I didn’t like to think about, and I’d thought he, if not delighted about that, at least had not objected.
He watched me flailing, not giving any more hints, a kind of benign resignation settling over his expression. Jon wasn’t unhandsome, once you got past the scruffiness, with curly black hair that tended toward unruly—especially as he never bothered to get a good haircut—and dark brown eyes, intense with intelligence. I felt a bit like a lab rat that failed to escape the maze. No cheese for you, I thought to myself grimly, and awarded myself a healthy swallow of the cocktail.
“You don’t remember,” he said. Not accusing, but stating a fact. He shook his head a little, as annoyed with himself as I’d been about my phone. Then he met my gaze again and, to my surprise—and you know I don’t like surprises—I saw anger in them. Jon was pissed at me and I had no idea why.
“So, what is it?” he asked in a measured tone that didn’t fool me. “Do you have some special pit in your head where you toss everything that has to do with me?”
~ 3 ~
“Excuse me?” I floundered, feeling the sting of the attack, all the more for being caught off guard. What the hell could I have done to him? We’d barely spoken since graduation.
“Hey, babe. There you are.” Brad slung an arm around my shoulders, his breath sweet from bourbon, and thrust a hand at Jon. “Hi. Brad Deffelman. Amy’s plus one.”
Missed Connections Box Set Page 26
