“Jon Ahearn. Amy’s old friend.” Jon shook Brad’s hand, producing a genial smile, but his eyes didn’t reflect it. They cut to me, some implicit accusation in them.
“Don’t let me interrupt your reminiscing.” Brad squeezed my shoulder. “I’m on my way to the bar, seeing if you want another one yet, Ames.”
“No, I’m good.” Unaccountably I felt a flush of embarrassment. And I didn’t want him to linger.
“Nurse that thing too long and it’ll expect a college fund,” Brad cracked, winking at Jon. “Hey, I’ll get a pic of you two.”
He held up his phone and obediently we moved to stand shoulder to shoulder, smiling for the lens.
“Two steps to the right and we’ll get the Wildwood Academy seal on the wall there,” Brad coached. “Lift your head there, Amy, so you don’t get that double chin—that’s my girl. Get a bit closer, so you look like you like each other.”
Jon’s arm slid around my waist, warm through the silk crêpe, his body otherwise rigid. Brad clicked several, looked at the screen and nodded. “Good ones. Jon—you’ll pick them up from, Amy, right? I assume you’re friends.”
He moved off and Jon frowned. “I just told him we’re friends—have you said otherwise?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to say I hadn’t told Brad anything about Jon because there wasn’t anything to tell, but I swallowed it back. His weird paranoia and off-the-wall accusations didn’t call for me to be cruel.
“He means on social media. You know: that stuff you don’t look at. ‘Friending’ is how you find each other’s posts.”
Jon regarded me a moment, aggravated and something else. “I guess I’ve heard the kids calling it that. But you know me, Ames—I’ve never been hip like you are.”
Hey, I knew Brad shortening my name like that was overly cutesy, but Jon didn’t need to be a dick about it. In fact, he didn’t need to be such a dick, full stop, and I was done taking it. “Being current is my job. Everything I’m working on is for next spring,” I replied. “I live in the future. Anyway, nice seeing you again.” I moved to make my escape.
“Maybe you’ll remember next time,” he muttered at my back.
I spun around, fully and completely irritated, tossed the rest of my drink back in lieu of tossing it in his face, set the glass on the cloth-draped table with other empties and folded my arms. “Okay—you got me. I don’t remember. Mea culpa. Why was I supposed to call you? Something we talked about at last year’s party, I’m guessing, but I confess that evening is a little blurry for me.”
“A lot blurry, I’d think. You were pretty drunk.”
I raised a Spock eyebrow. “Throwing stones? So unlike you, Judgey Jon.”
He pressed his mouth into frustrated grimace. “Oh, wow, we really are back in high school.”
“Only physically. Some of us have moved on,” I retorted.
“Oh, have you? With that guy—seriously, Ames?”
“You know that sarcasm isn’t an actual substitute for wit, right? Do better.”
“I always left the wit to you, which meant I thought you were smarter than this, but apparently not.”
I held up a hand, my scarlet nails flashing and the tiny silver jingle bells on the bracelet chiming. “Let’s back up. What exactly are you busting my balls over right now?”
“I can’t believe you’re here with him. One of them.” He raked a hand through his hair, making it even more unruly. “Don’t you remember how fucking miserable they made our lives?”
Of course I did. But Jon made it sound like we’d been some sort of team, the righteous charity cases against the mean rich kids. Maybe he’d have liked it that way. We’d been friends, sure, but in the way kids not picked for dodgeball teams get to be buddies on the sidelines. Mutual social exile made for decent company, that was all. Besides, that was ancient history.
“Brad didn’t go to Wildwood,” I pointed out.
“Immaterial,” Jon snapped back. “Look at him, one of the bros.”
Involuntarily, I glanced, and there was Brad, doing his thing again with the selfie stick. “He’s in marketing,” I explained. “Social media is his thing. It’s not evil.”
“Are you sure?” Jon saw my eyebrow raise and upped the stakes. “I seem to recall a teenage Amy ranting about how the internet made fashion into a game of paper dolls, taking all the art out of it.”
“I hope I’ve learned something since I was sixteen. Have you?”
“Yes—not that you’ll bother to find out.”
“What is with this martyred pose you’re taking? This isn’t about Brad, because he wasn’t with me last year. Yes, I got drunk. Sue me. I was having a good time.”
“I know that,” Jon gritted out. “I remember—and we had a good time. Together.”
“Wait… what?” My mouth felt all sticky and I wished I hadn’t finished my drink. It would’ve been nice to do something with my hands while my mind raced to catch up. Jon didn’t help, staring at me expectantly, a wry curl to his mouth. That mouth…surely we hadn’t—No. I would have known if we’d had sex. Wouldn’t I? With a condom there’s not always evidence, though. Still, I’d never been the sort for one night stands. The points, if nothing else, made sure we of the Fab Five didn’t randomly bed guys. Plus I’d never found Jon attractive. I hadn’t been that drunk.
Had I?
Shit! If so, I had a serious problem. I’d become my parents after all. Kill me now.
Jon still waited, studying me with that superior scientific sneer that I longed to slap off his face. Maybe I should. If he’d done that, then he wasn’t a friend and never had been. I leaned in. “You know, Jon, if I was that drunk and you fucked me anyway, there’s a word for that and it’s not a nice one.”
His face blanked. Then went to utter horror. “What? No!” He raked both hands through his hair and clutched it. “Jesus! How could you even think that?”
“Then what?” I hissed at him, full of rage. I did not need this shit from him. Not tonight. Tonight was supposed to have been a perfect whirl of fun and glitz, and somehow I found myself back at the two-mile marker, straining for breath and just wanting to go home and crawl back into bed.
“We kissed!” He flung it back at me, releasing his hair to wave his hands. “I can’t believe you don’t remember. We went for a walk, out by the old track where you used to run yourself to death, and by the pond. We talked about old times, and we kissed. That’s all.”
My world righted again. If I couldn’t trust Jon, then I might’ve lost something fundamental in my world. And maybe I did kind of remember now. Something about his mouth… I’d been drinking champagne, my favorite, and they’d had Dom Perignon last year, so I’d had a lot of it. Champagne is a happy drunk for me. Cold air and the winter pond. Jon’s mouth hot on mine. Wow. I had been drunk.
“We kissed,” I echoed. “Out by the gazebo.”
“Yeah. I thought it was pretty fantastic, but clearly not so much for you.” Deflated, he stuck his hands in his front pockets, pushing back the jacket to do it. Not a terrible sport coat, but too shiny, and at least a size too big. That was Jon. Maybe a 0.5 for basic looks, but downgraded to barely a 0.1 with style—and the frayed jeans—factored in. We’d known each other for so long that I had no idea which round I’d have to score him at. The kiss made it at least round three, though—and I doubt I’d have scored him at the 4.0 necessary to get there. Which meant I’d kissed him without scoring. The rest of the Fab Five would have had me doing dishes for a week for that one.
“So. Yeah.” Jon shrugged, a tight gesture, with his hands still shoved deep in his pockets. “I gave you my cell number, and you said you’d call, but you never did. I didn’t have yours.”
Well, no, because I wouldn’t have given it without a direct request—strictly against the Rules—and even if I’d remembered, I never call a guy back in the first 24 hours. At which point I would have thought better of it anyway, even if I had remembered. Jon was not what I wanted out of life. A
pparently I did have a memory pit I’d shoved the events of that evening into. What a shitty, ho-bag thing to do.
“I’m really sorry.” I put a hand on his arm. Ugh, a cheap rayon blend, no less. This boy needed someone to dress him properly. “You’re right—I was too drunk and I need to do something about that. I truly didn’t remember.”
He shrugged again, muscles flexing under my arm with surprising bulk. Not the scrawny guy I remembered from back then. A humorless, closed-lipped smile tightened his narrow lips, making echoing angles on either side. He dipped his chin. With the long line of his strong nose pointed down, Jon’s eyes glinted with even more intensity. “Let’s be honest with each other, Amy. You weren’t all that drunk. You didn’t remember because it wasn’t important enough.” That sharp gaze flicked to Brad, whose boisterous laugh rang out over the soft jazz background music. “Because I’m not that guy.”
I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why I felt so exposed and somehow unclean. Except that Jon was absolutely right. “Brad is a wonderful man. You don’t even know him.”
“Do you?” Jon asked the question in that way of his, like he really wanted a substantive answer.
“Yes.” But my answer lacked conviction. Great—now I felt like I hadn’t studied for some pop quiz and was guessing. “Of course I do. We’ve been dating for months and—” I cut myself off. Back in the day, Jon and I had been good enough friends that I could have told him I expected to get engaged to Brad soon. But this new Jon seemed like he would rip that idea apart with a few well-chosen observations. “I like him very much.”
“Do you love him?”
I laughed. Mostly that Jon Ahearn of all people would ask me that question. “None of your business.”
“That’s a no.”
“That’s a yes, but I have no intention of discussing it with you.”
“Then drill down a little. Is that a ‘yes, he rocks my world for the moment’ or ‘yes, I’m madly in love and want to have his babies’?”
“Did you miss the none of your business part?” I asked, though Jon had always been like this, pushing his way into my personal life no matter what I said.
“I think it’s the former.” Jon continued to study me, as if looking over some steely pair of spectacles he wasn’t wearing. “He’s another of your passing flings.”
“For your information, we’ve discussed marriage.” There, I said it.
Astonishment blanked his face before he pulled his expression into exaggerated shock. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious. Brad is everything I want in a man. I’m expecting a diamond ring for Christmas, in fact.” The ring. From Tiffany. The ultimate Christmas present. Something Jon would not—
“You can’t do that,” he burst out.
“I can and I—”
“He’s not your equal in any way, Amy. Not intellectually, not your integrity, your artistic sensibility. He’s a cartoon of a man, a wealthy, well-connected prop you can hang onto to prove that you belong.”
I swallowed back my embarrassment, not wanting to recall how I’d earlier thought of Brad as arm candy. That had been a joke to myself. Sort of.
“You can’t live your life forever trying to get these assholes to accept you.” Jon tossed his head at the laughing gathering, dismissing them all.
“I’m not,” I finally got out. “And fuck you for saying that.”
“Yes, you are. You wanted it when you were sixteen and you still want it. But it’s not real. It won’t make you happy.”
“Brad makes me happy,” I whispered, wishing I could say it with more conviction, laugh it off.
Jon stared at me a moment longer, then finally leaned back, shrugging, his face hard and remote. “I hope so. You deserve happy. I wish you well.”
“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”
“No one could ever make you do anything,” he sounded grimly amused. “It was always one of my favorite things about you—and it drove me crazy.” He tipped his chin at my purse. “Call me if you ever want to talk. The number should be in your phone still, if you didn’t delete it.”
“Yeah. Okay. Well, Merry Christmas, Jon.”
“And happy New Year,” he agreed, rocking from heel to toe. “See you next Christmas, maybe.”
Not if I could help it. I wasn’t coming to this stupid reunion ever again. I wouldn’t need to, because I’d be married to Brad and everything would be perfect. Jon could fall back into the memory pit for all I cared.
~ 4 ~
The asphalt slapped solid and steady under my feet. Cruising into mile six, warm and feeling pretty good, all things considered.
At least that conversation—confrontation?—with Jon Ahearn had left me resolved not to drink any more than the one signature cocktail last night. Of course, that meant I’d stayed distressingly sober while Brad got progressively more lit. That’s why his antics hadn’t amused me as much as usual. That and Jon’s sour-grapes observations hadn’t exactly left me in a party mood. He didn’t know me. So we’d been friends at Wildwood, but hardly at all in the ensuing years.
Now I remembered why. Jon was a smart guy, but that arrogant, judgmental side had always driven me crazy. I’d dock him a point just for that. What would it fall under—chemistry? Or rhythm. That boy had a messed-up synchronicity with life and it would just make him—and everyone around him—utterly fucking miserable. Good riddance.
I hadn’t gotten much sleep, but I hadn’t expected to, after a Thursday night party. The wages of socializing with the ladies who lunch and gents who golf. Most of them didn’t have to get up early if they chose not to. Despite the early morning after a late night, the run made me feel more like myself again.
Busy day at work ahead of me, drinks with Brad for happy hour, then the weekend. I needed the planning time. Christmas Eve was a week from Sunday. I wanted everything to be perfect for our intimate, romantic evening, the ideal setting for the proposal. Which would take a bit of doing with Brad’s place. So maybe I wouldn’t shoot for perfect, but tweaked to max potential.
I’d cook—Julie had helped me plan a sensual and romantic menu—and I’d saved a really expensive bottle of champagne a client had given me as a thank you for a rush alteration. Then Brad and I would celebrate together, making love in front of the fire, with me wearing only my new ring.
Which meant I needed to find something for us to make love on in front of his fireplace. Maybe I could sew a throw rug from some of the faux fur remnants? That would add a cozy touch of sensuality.
Adding that to my mental checklist, I slowed to walk the last block to the house, cooling down a bit. More of the upstairs lights were on at our place, which meant at least Marcia was up and getting ready for work. Ice had been up all night, studying for finals. Julie had been working late at the restaurant, so she’d sleep in. I let myself in, the old locks turning stiffly with cold under my key. God bless Aunt Katie, who rented the big place to the five of us for next to nothing.
I’d have to talk to her about the house—and letting the other gals live there still—after Brad and I got married. They could have it, if they still wanted it. Ice had another semester of med school classes, then three years of residency, and Julie would likely want to live there a while longer. Charley hadn’t said as much, but she had to be moving in with Daniel soon. Marcia and Damien were pretty new to each other—both scraping for money—so she wouldn’t be going anywhere. Even if they had to replace me and Charley, the gals could keep the house. I hoped they would, as I loved the Arts and Crafts style, the gleam of the wood and even the warping in the leaded glass that distorted the view.
Brad hated the place, having no patience for antique anything. He always talked like I’d eventually move into his upscale downtown condo, which would be marvelous, of course—closer to work for me, and I liked downtown. We’d want to buy a house eventually, but that could wait until we had kids. I didn’t want to deal with babies until I’d at least had my own show. After th
at, I could afford to sit back and simply design, with my minions working the long hours I currently did.
Minions. What a lovely fantasy to contemplate. What wouldn’t I give for a minion or two to help me out with the day ahead?
The shower upstairs was running, so I went ahead and put the kettle on to heat, to start the tea for me and Marcia. I’d set out most of the supplies before my run, but kept the tea components in their air-tight containers. Keeping in mind both the winter chill and the holiday season fully in swing, I measured out a combination of ginger and cinnamon for warmth, mixing that with the green tea to help detox the fat and sugar we’d all be eating too much of. I like the exactness and order of making tea. Pay attention to the details and it always comes out the way you want it.
Boots too heavy to be Marcia’s clomped down the stairs, and I poked my head out of the kitchen, just in case Ice had caught a new lay and hadn’t been exactly studying all night. No new gossip, alas, but old news—Marcia’s boyfriend.
“Hi Damien,” I called, just a little disappointed. And concerned, maybe. It wasn’t like Ice to go so long without bringing a guy home. We were overdue for a talk, but I doubted I’d get anything out of her until she made it through exams. “Want some tea?”
“Good morning.” He gave me a sleepy smile, running hands over his mussed hair on the unshaven side. “Is coffee out of the question?”
“Nope.” I got out the espresso press. “Though you’re missing out.”
He slid into the breakfast nook, moving aside some of Julie’s cookbooks and stacks of recipes so he could lean his elbows on the table. “I hear your teas are an aesthetic experience, but I’m much too manly to drink that shit.” He grinned at me amiably, the chipped front tooth making it extra charming. Without it, he’d be too pretty—although the brow and lip piercings mitigated that, too. Not my type at all, but then he hadn’t been Marcia’s either. Go figure on that one.
“I wouldn’t want you to be less than manly,” I teased.
Missed Connections Box Set Page 27
