by Cindi Madsen
“On it.”
“You’re the best. I’ll pay you in pizza.”
As he went to work on my fridge, I sat on the couch and grabbed my laptop. First I ordered pizza, then I pulled up the tabs I’d been studying earlier. While I’d get advice from the hairdresser Abigail and I visited tomorrow morning, I liked to have a basic idea of what styles I thought might fit my client before going in. I found a few pictures I thought would work well and saved them to my phone.
With that done, I tackled my inbox. After sending several responses and deleting the emails I didn’t need, there was Mason’s last email. I should’ve deleted it a long time ago.
I’ll just read it one more time before I delete it. Just to make sure I didn’t miss anything the first hundred times.
One click on my scroll pad and the email I received a month after Mason left filled the screen. Women are all about closure, and I’d thought I’d had it, but this email had opened it up all over again, and now I needed to convince myself that we’d had our closure, email or not.
Hey, just thinking about you. The job’s crazy but good. I don’t know why I even have an apartment because I’m never there.
Hope things are well with you,
Mason
I’d told myself it was nice we parted on good enough terms that he wanted to email me an update about his new life. We achieved that amicable breakup I always aimed for.
So why did the end of us still feel like such a failure? Why was this the relationship that made me feel like I’d missed something? That I’d done something wrong?
I’d replied that business was good and I was happy he liked his job. I added a joke that I bet he found his Sundays boring without obligatory Gamble dinners and added how he’d missed out on my mama’s famous apple pie that week, which was his favorite. I thought more conversations would spark and prove something was still there—that it was just complicated—but instead, things fizzled out. There were only so many friendly check-in emails a person could send before they took on a desperate tone, and I refused to go there.
“Done,” Jackson said, and I jumped. I’d vaguely noticed him head toward the bathroom, but I hadn’t seen him come back. He flopped on the couch beside me and I closed my computer and set it aside.
“Are you bringing a date to Mama and Daddy’s anniversary party?” I asked.
“Probably. Unlike you, I’ve figured out that having a date keeps them from bugging me about that part of my life.”
“Sorry if I don’t want to drag just anyone home with me. One, it’s against my dating rules, and two, you know how attached Mama gets to people.”
“Believe me, I know. She still calls most of my exes to check on them, and then she updates me.” He cast me a sidelong glance, heavy on the scrutinizing. “Are you really okay? I know you take your breakups pretty hard.”
“No, I used to.”
The scrutiny turned to skepticism, and then softened to something else as he faced me. “You cover it up a bit better now, but I know you still feel it.”
“Says the guy who now refuses to date girls he’s actually interested in.”
A scowl twisted his features. “Save the analyzing for your clients and your workshops. I told you before I don’t want or need it.”
“Hey, you started it.”
We glared at each other with a mix of frustration, annoyance, and the realization that the other person had a point, the way only siblings could really pull off. “Don’t make me tell Mama on you,” I joked, needing to ease the tension.
We both laughed and he rolled his eyes. “You always were a huge tattle-tale.”
I ever-so-maturely responded by sticking out my tongue.
The doorbell rang, and I grabbed my purse so I could pay the pizza guy. Only Ivy stood in the hallway instead, no big grease-splattered box in sight, much to my stomach’s dismay. The rest of me was happy to see my best friend, though. “This is a nice surprise.”
“I came to amp you up for your big date.” Ivy’s gaze moved to Jackson and she smoothed a hand down her hair. I so rarely saw her look self-conscious that I wondered if I imagined it.
She and Jackson looked at each other for a beat, the air turning heavy and a bit hostile, and then he stood and grabbed his toolbox. “I’d better get going.”
“But the pizza,” I said.
“You two go ahead. I’d rather not be around for your dating discussion—I’ve heard where they lead before.” He gave Ivy a pointed look, and a muscle in her jaw ticked.
“Okay, well, thanks so much for fixing everything, and make sure to tell Mama and Aunt Velma that I’m fine—no, better than fine. I’m great and happy and all the required emotional states, so they don’t need to worry, and I’ll be at dinner Sunday.”
Jackson simply nodded and made for the door. Ivy stepped aside, giving him wide berth. As soon as we were alone, she muttered, “Your brother’s kind of a jackass.”
I let it go, because I didn’t want to get involved with whatever weird rivalry they currently had going on—no doubt they’d get over it and be back to covertly checking each other out soon.
The pizza guy showed up before we made it to the couch, so I paid him and then dropped the box on the coffee table so we could dig in.
As we ate, we caught up on our respective weeks, and I mentioned my meeting with Annabeth. “It’s like my brain already knew Mason would be at the wedding, but hearing it… It just brought everything back, and now I’m thinking about our relationship again. Was I delusional while I dated him? Did I miss red flags?”
Ivy readjusted the piece of pizza in her hand and shook her head. “No. I thought he was going to take you away, and I hated him a little for that. But you guys were so in love—it was a little sick to watch, actually, but I decided if it made you happy, I’d try not to loathe him forever.”
“That’s it. I’m going to delete his email.” I wiped my hands on a napkin, opened up my computer, quickly hit the delete button…and immediately felt like I’d lost something, which was so, so stupid. It suddenly hit me that it was because I needed a different kind of closure, and it involved my program, not waiting for the universe to give it to me.
Of course. How could I forget Step Three?
Step Three: Make a searching and fearless inventory of past relationships and take responsibility for your failures. Study your past mistakes, both in choosing your partner, and the ones you made while you were with them. Take the lessons, shove away the baggage you don’t need.
Step Three was how a person got closure, no matter how the relationship ended. It was also why it was best to take a little bit of time after a relationship before jumping right back in.
Let’s see… What lessons did I learn?
First off, I needed to make sure a guy was planning on sticking around before outlining an entire future with him. We’d had the big talks about our career goals and being in a committed relationship, but I’d assumed our girlfriend/boyfriend status meant we’d discuss decisions like moving states together.
I should’ve communicated better about that, and how I felt about the relocation, so I take full responsibility for that.
With those thoughts in mind, I shoved away everything else. It was over. He’d literally moved on, all the way to another state. Obviously we cared about each other still, and it’d be a little weird to see him at the wedding, but I’d be so strong by then. When he came to the wedding, I’d approach him as a friend. Hey, if I could be friends with Linc, I could be friends with Mason.
“Savannah?” Ivy snapped her fingers, but it wasn’t very loud, probably thanks to the pizza grease. “You still with me?”
“Sorry. I was just assessing my mistakes and what lessons I’ve learned, and now I’m shoving away my baggage, so I can focus on the two dates I’ve got this weekend. Not that I need a man to move on.”
“Naturally. It’s just more fun with one.” This was probably what Jackson meant when he said he didn’t want to be here for our dat
e talk. Ivy joked around a lot about hating commitment, but I knew some of her issues came from the fact that her mama had been married several times, and most of them had been pretty worthless guys, one to the point of abusive. I knew she decided long ago that she’d rather choose her path than have it chosen for her.
Just like she knew that we could joke about sex and having fun with guys, but in the end, I didn’t do casual. Part of it had to do with who I was, but another part had to do with seriously looking for a guy to have a lasting relationship with.
She leaned forward, placed her hand on my knee, and shot me a grin. “You’re going to rock your dates this weekend.”
“Hell yeah I am,” I said. Then I lowered my eyebrows. “What does one wear to a jazz concert, anyway?”
…
“I’m sorry,” Andrew said to me, the whites of his eyes showing in the dim light of the jazz club even more as he widened them. “I can’t remember what your favorite drink is, and it was just last week, so I really should, but I told your friend to deliver it and I didn’t pay enough attention.”
To say Andrew was nervous would be an understatement. I placed my hand on his arm, since that seemed to help last time. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t expect you to remember, and I think I’ll switch it up anyway.” I smiled at the cocktail waitress who wasn’t doing a good job masking her impatience. “I’ll have a glass of your house red.”
The wine list was extensive and clearly their specialty, so I doubted they’d welcome my usual. Andrew ordered the same and she hurried away. I hadn’t been to this particular club before—most likely because I didn’t usually listen to jazz or care much about wine—but it had a swanky yet cozy feel to it, with candlelit tables and a small stage up front, and a baby grand piano tucked in the corner.
I did a surreptitious inventory of singles for my article. More people had filtered in since I’d met Andrew at the entrance ten minutes ago, and quite a few of them were in friendly groups, with a lot of guys thrown into the mix. Their single status was uncertain, but I’d guess there were several available men and women.
Andrew glanced at his watch and then ran his palms down his dressy jeans. “I thought it started at seven. I didn’t realize they wouldn’t be playing music until eight.”
“It’s fine, really. This place has a great vibe. How’d you discover it?”
“One of my exes—” He cut himself off and seemed lost on how to continue. “I used to come here often. Because of the music. I like it. I told you that the other night, though. And you don’t, so maybe this was a bad idea.”
I shot him a smile. “I’m always open to trying new things.”
He nodded, like he had the night at the bar, over and over. With a side of more nodding.
Our drinks showed up and he reached for the tray at the same time the waitress lowered it. The glasses wobbled, liquid sloshing over the rims before she regained control. Andrew turned a red so bright not even the dim lighting could mask it. At Azure, he’d been a bit shy, but I thought I’d shown him enough interest he wouldn’t be so unsure of himself.
Once the waitress left, he gulped down half of his drink. “I feel like I’m making all the wrong moves.”
“You’re not, I swear.”
He rubbed a couple of fingers across his forehead. “Do you ever get the urge to coach the people you date? I wouldn’t mind if you felt the need to give me a few tips—obviously I could use all the help I could get.”
I opened my mouth to again assure him he was doing fine, but he charged right on before I could.
“I bet you can’t help seeing all the mistakes. It’s like how I can’t help calculating interest, even when I’m not at work.”
Honestly, I almost wanted to give him tips just so he’d relax. Luckily there was more than one way to put someone at ease. “I’m so glad you invited me out tonight,” I said, crossing my legs to turn me toward him and twirling a strand of hair around my finger for good measure. Classic I’m-Interested signals most people instinctively picked up on. “I actually wished I’d asked for your number the first night we met.”
The tension in his posture eased, and I hoped that’d be the end of his questioning every move he made.
We let the music playing through the speakers fill the gaps in our conversation, and eventually the jazz band took the stage. Andrew scooted his chair closer so we were both facing the stage, and I rewarded the subtle move with an encouraging smile.
I did another quick sweep to feel out the vibe as the first song started. If you’re into jazz or want someone who’s into jazz, this looks like the place to be.
Andrew went to put his arm around me, and his watch snagged in my hair. Both of us moved to untangle it, and I bristled as his fingers dragged through the strands, even though I knew he wasn’t trying to make a move. It just felt too intimate for where we were at, and I’d always had this weird hair boundary issue. Whenever past boyfriends had run their hands through it, I tried not to shudder while finding a way to get them to stop.
We finally managed to free the watch, although it took a few strands as a souvenir, which brought the tension right back. At least the music was loud enough that any attempt at conversation would be futile.
As for the music…Well, it was jazz. Piano. Saxophone. Not really my thing, but mellow, and it added to the nice ambiance. I’ll take it to my grave, but Linc’s spoiler alert was right. I do wish I were listening to Katy Perry.
A few couples took to the dance floor. I thought about asking Andrew, but I worried he might have a nervous breakdown about dancing, so I decided to simply sit back and enjoy.
Even though Andrew kept offering me another drink, I stuck to one glass. The band played for nearly two hours and then thanked everyone for coming. Once the applause died down, Andrew carefully leaned in, his hands curled around his knees, and asked if I was ready to go.
After being in the overly air-conditioned club, the warm night air felt nice against my skin, if a bit humid. Andrew walked me to my car, and while it hadn’t been a bad date, I was glad I’d driven. I wasn’t sure an awkward ride in the car would be a good way to end the night. If needed, I could come up with plenty of conversation topics, but sometimes it was nice not to have to.
“So, what’s the rule after date one?” he asked.
I fiddled with the clasp of my purse, wanting to open it and dig out my keys, but politely kept eye contact. “There aren’t any rules.”
“Come on. I’m sure you give your clients rules. I’d rather you tell me so I don’t do anything wrong. Or anything more wrong. Is your head okay?” He reached for my hair and I jerked back, then worked to cover, running a hand down it myself. “It’s fine, thanks. I enjoyed the show, too. Honestly.”
While Andrew was nice, no question, I feared I needed a stronger, more self-assured guy. One who wouldn’t ask for rules or tips on how to date me. More proof that my career often psyched guys out, even when I thought they were okay with it.
“I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow with a client, so I better get going.” I dug out the keys and unlocked the car. “Like I said, I enjoyed the show, so thanks for the invite. Good night, Andrew.”
“Night. I’ll, uh, call you later?”
“Sounds good.” Maybe he’d be calmer on a second date. Either way, I didn’t want to dent his already fragile ego.
I climbed into my car and headed toward home. Why’s it so hard to find a guy I can banter back and forth with? My brain decided now would be a good time to remind me that I’d had great banter with Linc last night. I’d laughed, and it’d been so easy…
He definitely didn’t question every move, either, just took me to the batting cages and used his strong hands to place me how he wanted me.
Stop those dangerous thoughts right there. The residual butterflies swirling through my gut only proved I was going down a bad path, so I reminded myself of why making those parallels would be unfair, not to mention hazardous to my health.
For
one, I’ve known Linc a lot longer, and for two, I already know he and I are a bad idea. I’ll take the lessons I learned from falling for him—good banter and chemistry doesn’t equal a happy ending—and find those qualities in a guy who won’t shy away from commitment, who I can have a happy ending with.
With any luck my date on Sunday would go better, and then I could put the men in my life in the boxes they belonged in.
Chapter Ten
I stood behind Abigail and faced our reflection in the salon mirror. “You’re in good hands. And after Rachel is finished with your hair, we’ll take new pictures to add to your online profile.”
“Did you tell her my hair’s curly?” Abigail asked, and I could see the question was genuine, although I couldn’t think of a response that would sound the same. Rachel had gone to mix dye—nothing drastic, just a few subtle caramel highlights. But obviously she had eyes, so Abigail’s curly hair wouldn’t come as a shock. “It’s just that my hair is really unmanageable, and everything I’ve done to tame it has been a complete disaster.”
Which was why we were going professional, instead of at-home experiment, which Abigail had confessed was her usual way to try out new hairstyles. “Rachel knows what she’s doing.” I placed my hand on Abigail’s shoulder and shot her a smile via the mirror. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
The tense muscles underneath my palm relaxed a fraction and she blew her too-long bangs out of her eyes. They fluttered up and then immediately fell exactly where they’d been. “I wish I could just change my hair the way I do in my online games. One click and it’s short or curly or blond. Or even pink or blue.”
During our last phone consult, I’d learned Abigail was obsessed with online games. She played a mixture of Sims when she wanted to be in the “real world” and League of Legends when she felt like wielding a sword.
“That would be pretty nice, actually,” I said. “No worry about blow-dryers, serum, or flat irons, and the Atlanta humidity that’ll ruin it all the second you step outside.”
