by Kate, Lily
“This isn’t about you.”
“Then who is this about? It’s my life.” It’s a struggle not to yell. I don’t want to raise my voice to my own mother, but I can’t help but feel a tingle in my fingers as I clench and unclench them, thinking of Mr. Motorcycle-Hair-Cooper asking out my best friend while I sit here alone, wishing it were me. “Who is this for? It’s not Delilah, she has already shown her disinterest in me.”
“Why don’t you tell me what this is about?” My mother stands, pushing her chair back with such a vengeance it scratches against the floor. Her hands clutch at the counter. “If you didn’t like Delilah, I wish you would’ve told me so we could’ve moved on. There will be others; you’ve been on failed dates before, goodness knows. You go through more shirts than you do scrubs.”
“Why did you set Allie up on the same date as me? It wasn’t her father asking you to do that, was it?” I take a step closer to the counter. “It was you trying to pair us both off, get us both married so your worst fears don’t come true.”
“And what, son, do you think my worst fear is?”
“That I fall in love with my best friend.”
To my surprise, my mother’s expression is flat as she watches me through lidded eyes. She doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even look surprised.
Finally, she purses her lips, rights the chair, and eases back into it. “I’m looking out for you. It’s for the best if you and Allie remain as you are—just friends.”
For some reason, this admission hits me like a stake through the heart. I struggle to catch my breath. “How can you possibly think that? You’ve seen us together; you must know how much I care for her.”
“Exactly, and therein lies the problem. The girl loves you, Jack. Idolizes you. She’s like...like this little puppy, drooling over your feet.” My mother makes some dismissive gesture with her hands. “We can’t have that in this family.”
“Allie...” I swallow, painfully choking down my immediate outbursts for a more civilized one. “Allie loves me?”
“Heaven knows it, Jack. Everyone knows it. I wouldn’t be surprised if her parents are harboring a bottle of champagne just waiting for the day their daughter catches a Darcy.”
“The Jenkins family isn’t like that.”
“Maybe not Franklin, he’s always been a bit...” My mother pauses, tilts her head to the side. “Off.”
“Frank’s the nicest man I know. And I’m including my father in that.”
“Your father is the most respected man in the club. He’s intelligent and charming and handsome. And—”
“And his life’s resume is exquisite,” I say, the words dripping with sarcasm. “Is that why you married him?”
My mother stops, completely frozen, at my question. I’m shocked how hard this question seems to have hit her. I’d thought it had been rhetorical, but apparently, I’d struck a chord.
“I’m telling you a story,” my mother says, her voice a deathly quiet. “And you’d do well to heed it.”
“Fine.” I lean against the counter. “I’m listening.”
“My freshmen year of college, I met a man. A boy, I suppose. Lab partner. We were in love. A whirlwind romance.”
“You had a whirlwind romance?” I pause in disbelief. Everything my mother does is calculated. Thought out. Planned. Nothing is as crazy, as desperate, as madly illogical as love. “With whom?”
“Believe it or not, I grew into this personality.” My mother offers the most fleeting of smiles. “Three years we were together. We were going to get engaged after he returned from studying abroad.”
“I’m guessing that this story isn’t about dad?”
“Your father—we met senior year while my boyfriend was away. Nothing happened, we were merely acquaintances at the club.”
“But?”
“But when my boyfriend returned, he proposed. As was planned.”
“And?”
“And I said no, obviously.”
I squint in her direction. “I thought you were in love.”
“I was! Madly. Deeply, but it didn’t make sense!” She threw her arms up in the air. “He wanted to be an artist. He’d been studying art in Florence for a semester and came back with dreams of painting for a living. Gallery showings and custom work, and...I don’t know what else.”
“I don’t understand the point to this story.”
“I ran into him at a class reunion a few years back.”
“Is he an artist?”
She shrugs. “Of sorts. A self-employed graphic designer.”
“Sounds respectable enough to me.”
“Maybe,” she says, sounding unconvinced, speaking softer. “He has a house in the suburbs and four kids. A wife. She’s quite beautiful.”
“Again, I’m not understanding your point.”
“There’s nothing extraordinary about them. He works, his wife raises their children. They go to soccer games and take their golden retriever to the vet. It’s all so very average.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do I know what?” She gives me a genuinely confused look. “He never became the artist he wanted to be. He settled for a middle-class life, and he—”
“That’s not what I asked. Is he happy?”
Once again, I’m struck by the surprise at my mother’s response. She blinks, a hitch sounding in her breath as she visibly recoils back into her seat.
I give her time, space, sipping the mug of coffee as I wait for her answer. When it doesn’t come, I prompt her with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes,” she says, her lip quivering ever-so-slightly. “Incredibly happy.”
“Well, maybe that’s all of the extraordinary he needs,” I say, setting my mug on the counter. “I want extraordinary, mother, and if it doesn’t look like your version, I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Do you regret saying no?”
My mother’s hands tremble as she takes a shaky sip of coffee. “Of course not. I love your father, and because we met, we have you. I wouldn’t... couldn’t regret that.”
Without realizing it, my mother manages to partially dodge my question, a fact that doesn’t escape me. If anything, her story has backfired and given me the incentive I need to ensure Allie Jenkins doesn’t get away.
With renewed resolve, I move to the sink and set my coffee mug there. I will not be the one sitting at my kitchen counter, paying an alarming monthly sum to belong to a club, with tears in my eyes as I realize I might’ve passed up love.
“Thanks for the talk, mom.” I give her a quick kiss on the cheek as I turn to leave. “I know what I need to do.”
“Jack—”
“Allie Jenkins is anything but average, and I’m in love with her.” I step around my mother and stride toward the door. “I have to go.”
I’m halfway outside when my mother’s voice calls once more, stilling me in my tracks. Her heels click as she moves to stand in the entryway, her eyes livid, her hands shaking as she grips the doorknob. “If you propose to Allie Jenkins, we will have no choice but to cut you out of our will.”
“Sounds like you and dad have had a plan for this scenario my whole life.”
“It’s easy enough to see she’s stealing your heart.” My mother hisses. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Jack. Allie is average. You don’t deserve average, you deserve extraordinary. Your father and I agree it’s for the best. It will be us, or it will be Allie—your choice.”
My lips curl as my heart pounds. I’ve never wanted to disrespect my mother, but this is a choice that’s not hers to make. “I might not have to choose,” I tell her in a measured tone. “So long as it’s not too late.”
“Too late?”
“If I propose to Allie, and if she says yes, she will become my family.” My feet pull me away, stepping backward slow, slower, until finally, I’m next to my motorcycle. “If you want to be a part of my family, then I suggest you reconsider. I’m not the one who needs to change.�
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Climbing onto the bike, I snap on my helmet and crank it into gear. My mother hates that I ride a motorcycle. I used to feel bad about making her uncomfortable, but today there’s an odd satisfaction knowing she hates I’m on this vehicle.
“Don’t drive away from me, Jack.”
I look up, pop the visor open on my helmet. “What don’t you understand, mother? Allie is my extraordinary.”
Chapter 24
JACK DARCY
“Please help me.”
“Sure!” A bright-eyed woman smiles gently at me. “What are you looking for today?”
“Romance,” I tell her. “I need to romance a woman.”
“Fantastic. We have everything you can think of under the sun.” She waves her hand, and sure enough, I’m reminded of the stacks on stacks on stacks of books lining every shelf of the two-floor facility. “Do you like witches? Erotica? Contemporary? Lawyers? Garbage men?”
“Um, how about normal guys?” I shrug my shoulders. “I’m looking for advice.”
She laughs. “We have normal guys. Any sort of story appealing to you? Enemies to lovers? Single dad? Friends?”
“Friends. Books with very specific examples. I’m talking paint-by-numbers, here.”
After leaving my mother’s, I cruised through town, headed straight toward the only place that could help me now—the place where this all began. If I learned one thing from fairytales, it’s that every fairytale starts with the words once upon a time. They end with happily ever after. I just need some help getting from A to B, and I have a feeling this magical place can point me in the right direction.
“Specific examples of what?”
“Actually.” I lean on the counter and let my idea fully form. “You probably read a lot of books since you own this place, huh?”
Another laugh from her. “That I do.”
“So, if I needed some help, or...I don’t know, the SparkNotes version of these books, you’d be the right person to talk to?”
“I suppose.”
“What if I proposed a deal? Let’s say I buy...” I hesitate, then glance toward a table covered with brand new paperbacks. “Twenty of those.”
“Which ones?”
“The ones with, I dunno, the girl in the dress.”
“They all have girls in pretty dresses. That’s our historical section.”
“Let me finish my proposal. I need a little help with romance,” I tell her, turning back to the counter where a line has started to form behind me. “I was in here a few days ago. You probably don’t remember me.”
“No, I do. You bought the doctor romance.”
“Wow, your memory is good.”
“I just thought it was great to see a man in here with his girlfriend, checking out our gay romance section.”
“Gay romance?”
She blinks. “There are two men on the front cover. What did you think you were buying?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. “What matters is that the woman in here wasn’t my girlfriend. She still isn’t, but I want her to be.”
“You need help winning her over?”
“I was going to read all the books you suggested to get advice, but I will run out of time.” I’m practically pleading with her. “I’m desperate. I’ll buy every book you give me the SparkNotes version of if you help me out.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“Money? I’ll donate to the store.”
“You have to read the books.”
“What?”
“I don’t just want your money,” she says with a cheeky sort of grin. “I want you to read them all. It doesn’t matter how long it takes you, but you have to give them a fair shot.”
“Fine. I’ll spend the next twenty years of my life catching up on them if you help me now.”
“Deal.” She extends her hand, and we shake on it, a look of mutual satisfaction passing between us. “Now, I say we begin over here...”
Two hours later, I’ve purchased exactly one hundred and ninety-three dollars’ worth of books and have a lifetime of reading cut out for me. I didn’t exactly plan on how to carry them home on my motorcycle, so I ended up purchasing a forty-five-dollar backpack that says Smart Girls Read Romance. But don’t worry, the ladies at the store told me. It’s “super-cute.”
I do feel fabulous strapping on my “super-cute” backpack that feels as if it’s stuffed full of bricks. Several friends of the store walk me to the door, wishing me luck as I turn to say good-bye.
As I puzzle through all of the advice, I’m still not a hundred percent sure what my actual next steps need to be. I mean, I have a list of about a hundred of them, but they’re all so un-Jack it’s making me uneasy.
“Are you sure I can’t just...” I hesitate. “I don’t know, throw rocks at her window? Romeo and Juliet style?”
“Have you ever read Romeo and Juliet?”
“No,” I admit.
“Don’t throw rocks at her window,” one of the ladies says. “Just text her and say you’re coming over. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“But—”
“You’re not going to listen to our advice, are you?”
I take a deep breath. “Yes, I am. Thank you—for everything.”
“She’s a lucky lady,” one of the women says. “Don’t worry so much.”
I offer one last smile of thanks, climbing onto the bike with my “super-cute” backpack strapped tight. “So... no rocks?”
“No rocks.”
Chapter 25
JACK DARCY
All of the romantic advice I received at the bookstore assumes one thing.
One very important thing.
That Allie Jenkins opens her damn door.
I’ve called Allie a few times since I arrived. I came straight to her apartment, “super-cute” backpack and all, and she hasn’t answered a single phone call. I might assume she’s busy, or still with Aimee, except for one little problem.
I can hear her phone ringing through the door. Clearly, she’s avoiding me, since the door is staying shut. I try one more time, hear the familiar ring, and call out Allie’s name, and still...nothing.
So, I head outside and revert back to my first idea, despite all advice to the contrary.
Rocks.
Selecting a few pebbles from near the front tire of my motorcycle, I hold them in my hand, feeling their weight burn into my palm. I glance up, finding Allie’s window on the third floor. I can throw a dodgeball—I should be able to hit the target, no problem.
I’m wrong.
The first handful scatters in every direction, missing entirely. I probably should have given up then and waited, like a normal person, for Allie to call me back. But there’s a panic burning in my gut, and that panic propels me to continue picking up pebbles and tossing them, one handful after the next, as a few find her window and sprinkle across the glass.
“What the hell are you doing?” The window below Allie’s flies open, and an older woman with curlers in her hair and a cigarette in hand sticks her head out. “I’m going to call the cops, you pervert.”
“I’m not—”
Before I can explain, her window slams shut. The panic rises; I can’t believe Allie’s ignored me this long. We had one awkward kiss, one weird night. Is she really going to throw a whole life’s worth of friendship away before I can explain?
I have a few more stones in my hand, slightly larger than the pebbles, and I take my time with the aim. This is my last chance to hit Allie’s window. After this, I’m giving up. I’m going home before the cops show up, and I’ll try again later.
Sirens wail in the distance. The cops can’t be here so fast, I think, and I take another few seconds to aim. Winding up, my anxiety at an all-time high, I pull my elbow back and launch the pebbles with ten times the amount of force necessary.
This time, my target is on point.
The velocity, however, is not.
I’ve apparently hit the right
pressure point on the window, the sweet spot, and the entire pane of glass shatters to a thousand pieces. The sound drowns out the siren, the LA traffic, and the only follow up is a shrill scream—probably from the old woman with the curlers.
“Oh, shit,” I breathe as the building’s alarm begins to sound.
The cops arrive minutes later. Apparently, they can get here that fast.
The next few hours are...humbling.
When I cut off ties from my mother this morning, I had never anticipated reneging on my promise so soon. But, Allie doesn’t seem to be interested in picking up her phone when I call, so, I have one more option, and I dial the number I’d planned to delete.
“Hello, mother,” I say. “It’s Jack. I have a favor to ask of you.”
Chapter 26
ALLIE
My morning date with Aimee has been somewhat of a success. I don’t know what to do about Jack, but I do know that I’m not interested in dating anyone else. So that’s something.
I climb in my car and head for home after our walk. Maybe I can put all this anxiety and confusion into another blog post. It seemed to work well the first time, and it’s not like I can do much of anything else; I have too many thoughts swirling in my brain to relax, and I’m too much of a grouch to be around company. Writing—alone in my bubble—sounds like the best available option.
I ponder the topic of my next post on the drive home. I could do a follow-up piece about last night since it seems as if people want to hear a resolution to my faulty pro and con list. But what would I say? What could I say? It didn’t sound spectacularly fun to explain that my best friend had hard-core rejected me after I’d laid myself in his bed, literally.
My palms grow a bit sweaty at the thought. Exposing my embarrassment for the world to see isn’t exactly appealing. Reliving my rejection—again—is not what I’d call an excellent start to my day.
On the other hand, the blog is completely anonymous. The comments I’ve read suggest that people like the imperfections, the rawness and honesty. If they liked my mess of a first post, maybe they’d be interested in hearing the imperfect ending?
