Smart Girl

by Rachel Hollis

  I scowl at her. “What do you mean ‘beyond the obvious’?”

  Casidee’s gaze goes to Landon and then back to me again, apparently urging her to deliver this news.

  Landon grins. “Girl, you know your legs aren’t long enough to pull off those shorts with combat boots.”

  Casidee nods in agreement, and I shoot them both disgruntled looks.

  “A, you’re both rude, and two, Tomb Raider is not on my list and you know it.”

  Landon shakes her head slowly as they both start to walk away to greet the guests.

  “Yeah, well, I also know that you keep adding to that list every few days, and your definition of a love story is getting more and more nebulous,” she says.

  I swipe my hair out of my face.

  “There is nothing nebulous about the Professor and Mary Ann. Theirs is an unending love!”

  Their laughter is so loud that it actually manages to make its way back to me over the sound of the enthusiastic jazz band in the corner.

  As far as the interview went, I had a great idea, but I didn’t plan for what would happen once I was actually in his office beyond asking him questions and occasionally biting my lip. That always works in the books, so I have no idea why it doesn’t yield any actual results in real life. I should have had a stronger plan in place. I should have known I was never going to get real results with something so simple.

  Landon has now mentioned that I should try something with action. She’s also told me to try a bit more subtlety. The latter isn’t really in my wheelhouse. What’s the point of trying any of the things on my list if I’m just going to tiptoe around him? Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for the last year?

  I nod at my own wisdom and drop a Sprite bottle into my shoulder bag. Liam asked me to meet him at the restaurant again to go over the plans that I didn’t get to show him the other day. I will start off this interaction like I did the last one. I’ll make conversation and see if I can get us away from our usual line of chatter. But worst-case scenario? I’m drinking what’s in that bottle.

  On the drive over to West Hollywood, I already feel nauseous. Just researching ipecac syrup is enough to make anyone retch, and my gag reflex is already pretty bad. First of all, they don’t even sell it anymore—at least that’s what the snooty pharmacist told me when I asked. So I did more research and found some homeopathic stuff you can buy over the counter. The Internet also had some recipes to create your own, but the thought of mixing egg yolks and boiled okra together made me want to puke just reading about it. No way I could actually get something like that in my mouth.

  The whole thing is a little crazy—I know. But it has to be done. It worked in Sense and Sensibility, and who am I to argue with Jane Austen? In that book Marianne gets sick and Colonel Brandon has to take care of her. I am almost certain that if I were to get sick, Liam would step up in the same way and we’d have a prolonged period of time alone, which would have to lead somewhere, right? I figure I don’t even need to be too bad off either. The recommended dosage (at least according to the Internet) is two tablespoons. If I have one small sip from the bottle in my purse—which is equal parts Sprite and syrup—it should be enough to make me believably ill without inflicting permanent damage.

  I park my car and hurry up the tree-lined street to the restaurant, wearing my favorite white jeans with holes in each knee. My black booties match my black T-shirt and the black tuxedo jacket that always makes me feel pulled together in a way that says professional, controlled, hip. When I slip in through the propped-open door, Liam is already inside on a phone call wearing a charcoal-gray suit that probably costs more than opening your own Subway franchise. An empty folding table is next to him in the center of the room, which I assume is the location for me to lay out the plans. As I walk over, he smiles at me before turning away to finish his chat.

  I pull the large printed plans from my shoulder bag and lay them out on top of the dusty tabletop. He must have pulled this table out of a back room or something; the whole thing is filthy. I use a tape measure I brought with me to hold down one corner and my makeup bag to hold down the other side. I try my cell phone on the third corner to keep it all from curling in on itself, but it isn’t heavy enough. I should have thought to bring some kind of weight or something. As Liam ends his call, I pull the Sprite bottle out to hold down the last edge of the plans.

  We look down at the large paper together.

  “What do you think?” I ask expectantly.

  “It’s the cover page with your company logo.”

  What a spoilsport.

  “I know, but it’s still pretty,” I grumble. I move all my little weights back to turn the page and then lay them all out again.

  This page is a perfect color rendering of the image I see in my head. The bowstring-truss ceiling with whitewashed wood, the exposed brick walls, the bar I love so much. It looks totally perfect.

  “This looks fantastic.”

  His smile is like sunshine.

  It takes me a minute to realize his mouth is still moving and I’m missing the words.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The elevations, can I see them?”

  I jump to move the weights back again and turn to the page we need. A large plume of dust flies up with the massive pages and then settles again. Liam feigns annoyance.

  “I’m sorry, my liege, but you’re the one with the decrepit table. I’m just trying to do your bidding.”

  He ignores my tone and looks down to inspect the plans. His eyes scan them and then look out across the room.

  “You’re imagining the shelving goes up that high?” His brow furrows. “That seems a little extreme.”

  “Not at all.” I move around the table and walk to the far wall to point it out. “If the bar is as high up as I’m thinking, then this shelving makes sense. You need the—”

  “Yech! What is this stuff?”

  I whirl around in surprise at Liam’s screech and then race across the room in a blind panic. He’s staring at my Sprite bottle in disgust, and I’m not sure how to react or why he has it or why the cap is off. I do the only thing I can think of: I slap it out of his hand like it’s on fire. He jumps backwards, away from the flying bottle and the subsequent puddle at our feet.

  “Why did you do that?” we both yell at the same time.

  He’s looking at me like I’m insane, and for once I can’t even blame him.

  “I got dust in my throat. I didn’t think you’d mind if I had a drink of your soda. What was in that?” he says.

  Oh Zeus, Athena, and all the other gods! How much did he drink?

  “How much did you drink?” I demand.

  “I don’t know—a few gulps, why?”

  His panic is starting to catch up with mine.

  Crap! Think, Miko!

  “Uh, it’s just been in my bag for, like, two or three weeks. I’m worried it might make you sick.”

  Oh crappity crap, is it going to make him sick?

  “Is that all?” His shoulders relax, and he chuckles a little. “You scared me. I thought it was something really bad.”

  Really bad, as in medicine to make you puke that I got from some website called Moon Goddess Homeopathics? My laugh comes out a little maniacal. He throws me a curious glance before heading back over to the plans.

  Should I tell him? Should I warn him in some way? The bottle said it wouldn’t take long to kick in, so I was going to ask him for a ride back to the office and “get sick” on the way there. But now . . .

  “So are you thinking that we’ll get this marble façade from a local artisan?”

  He sounds totally fine; he looks like a Nautica ad. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe the Moon Goddess’s potions don’t work on someone the size of a linebacker. I walk over to stand next to him, eyeballing him for any signs of distress.

 
“Actually, there’s an artist down in Mexico I’d love to use,” I tell him carefully.

  “Of course there is.” He rolls his eyes playfully.

  You probably can’t roll your eyes if you’re on the verge of total stomach failure, right? I let myself relax a little.

  “And this here.” I point out the seating areas. “I’m imagining it will be a sort of mix and match of Old and New World.”

  The smallest wrinkle appears between his brows. He rubs the frown away with his fingertips. Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of mix and match?

  “I mean, we could do it as one or the other, but I just thought—”

  He rubs a hand across his stomach.

  I curse internally in two languages and some elfish I learned last summer at the Renaissance faire.

  “Are you . . . ?”

  My voice trails off as the look on his face grows sort of panicked.

  “I am so sorry,” he says abruptly. “I think I have to go.”

  He hurries off towards the door, and I hurry after him. Oh man, what if he gets sick while he’s driving and wrecks his car? Should I tell him what happened? Should I call poison control? Oh gods, this was so stupid!

  “Liam, maybe I should give you a ride.”

  He whirls around, clutching his stomach with both hands. His eyes are wild, and his face is covered with sweat. If only the beautiful unisex bathroom with its antique fountain turned hand-washing station and the toilet stalls I fashioned after a confessional booth in an old church were already installed. But they’ve only plumbed the water main, and the fancy toilets are still in crates lining the back wall.

  “I think your Sprite was bad,” he groans. “I think I’m going to be sick!”

  OK, I need to take control of this situation before it gets worse.

  “Stay right there!” I yell and sprint back to grab my bag. I don’t even get the plans or any of the items off the table. I just grab my purse and my car keys and race to him. He’s leaning against the wall by the door, and his face is nearly green. He’s covered in sweat, and he keeps swallowing.

  I am going to burn in Hades for this.

  I grab his elbow and tow the sick giant to my teeny tiny British car. He doesn’t even protest when I tuck him into the passenger seat, which really shows just how far gone he is. Once I get him inside and myself in the driver’s seat, I pull out into traffic like a bat out of hell. It’s only then that I realize I don’t actually know where he lives.

  “Where do you want me to—?”

  My sentence is covered up by the sound of him gagging. I fight the bile in my own throat.

  “Oh God,” he moans into the hand covering his mouth. “I am so sorry. I just can’t stop—”

  He gags again, louder this time. I drive faster.

  He groans painfully. “Maybe it was the Indian food I had for lunch.”

  Sweet merciful baby angels, not Indian food!

  “Oh God.” His eyes go wide in panic. “You have to pull over!”

  I look around wildly. “I can’t pull over, Liam. We’re in the middle of rush-hour traffic!”

  Crazy eyes stare into mine. “You have to!”

  I reach for my neon-green shoulder bag with one hand and dump the contents into the backseat. I shove it into his lap. To his credit, he does manage to look even more disgusted by the suggestion.

  “It’s your purse,” he groans.

  “It’s from Target!” I yell back hysterically.

  Apparently that was all the convincing he needed. Between one blink and the next, Liam buries his head in the oversize tote and starts puking up his guts. At the first sound of his retching, my gag reflex kicks in like Pavlov’s dog.

  I will not puke! I’m the one who made this mess, and at the very least I can try to get him somewhere where he can throw up into a toilet like a human being. I roll down my window as fast as the vintage crank will allow to get air into the car, which now smells like the worst parts of—no! I will not think about what it smells like in here!

  I look over at him in concern. Sadly his hair, which I love so much, keeps sliding forward into the bag along with his head. Two seconds later we’re at a stop sign, and I pull the hair tie off my wrist and gather his now sweaty locks into an awkward bun at the back of his head. For a year, all I’ve wanted to do was touch his hair. I never thought the first time would be to hold it back so he could projectile vomit into my favorite bag.

  I rub his back in small circles like my mom used to do for me when I was sick. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he moans back to me.

  “We’re almost to your parents’ house, OK?”

  I’m not sure where he lives, and Charlie and Viv are closest. At the very least the housekeeper will be there to open the door for us.

  He nods slowly, still clutching the sides of the purse around his face like a protective shield. When I think about the fact that his head is trapped in the same synthetic leather as his puke, I gag again, only this time it’s not just a gag. This time I throw up along with him.

  By the time we make it to Charlie and Vivian’s house, I’ve ruined my favorite white jeans and he’s ruined my purse. I’m not even sure I can ever air my car out long enough to get rid of the smell. When Maria opens the front door, she’s so flustered by the sight of us that she starts speaking rapidly in Spanish. Liam stumbles to the closest bathroom, and the sound of him in there almost sets me off again. Honestly, I can’t even believe he has anything left to throw up. I sneak up to Max’s old bedroom and commandeer a T-shirt and some old sweatpants that fit me once I roll them at the waist a hundred times. The dirty clothes go into a trash bag Maria so helpfully provided. My purse goes into the garbage. Rest in peace, old friend.

  When I walk into the hallway, I can hear the sound of the shower next to the boys’ old bedrooms. Liam must have found his way up here.

  I sneak over and knock on the door.

  “Liam? Can I get you anything?”

  “Miko,” he groans over the sound of the shower. “If you have an ounce of pity in your soul, you will leave here right now. I promise I will call you tomorrow, I’ll have your car detailed—I’ll give you a hundred million dollars. Just please, for the love of God, don’t make me embarrass myself any more in front of you today.”

  I wince and move away from the door when I hear him dry heave.

  Like I said, I am going to burn for this one for sure.

  When I tell Landon about everything that happened on the phone that night, she is laughing so hard that she almost hyperventilates. When she calms down enough to ask if Liam is OK, and I assure her that I received a text from him verifying that my rotten Sprite hadn’t killed him no matter how hard it tried, she starts laughing again.

  “You’re really not helping me here.” My exasperation must be evident, because she finally stops laughing.

  “I know, girl. I’m sorry.” She chokes again, takes a deep cleansing breath, and starts throwing out words rapid-fire. “Hairless cats, mom jeans, growing out bangs, paying back my student loans, forgetting to shave one armpit—”

  And people act like I’m the weirdo in this friendship.

  “What are you doing?” My demand makes her pause.

  “I’m thinking of things that make me sad,” she tells me seriously. “You told me to stop laughing, and it’s the only thing that works.”

  “Oh—well, you’re right. Hairless cats are really upsetting.”

  “So are hairless dogs,” she adds. “Like when they shave off all of a dog’s fur just because it’s summer. It seems so rude. How do they know he wouldn’t prefer to have hair even if it makes him hot?”

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Some allowances must be made in the name of looking good.”

  “Exactly!” She pauses long enough to take a sip of whatever she’s
drinking. “I do like it when they shave Pomeranians to look like a lion, though. Now that is adorable!”

  And just like that we’re off on the topic of dog haircuts and her aunt’s cousin who once got bit by a Doberman and lost a finger but still plays a beautiful dulcimer even with the nine-finger limitation. And I’m laughing and considering dulcimer lessons, and even though we never get around to figuring out what my next—hopefully much more subtle—plan is with Liam, I feel so much better than I did before I called her. Which was her exact hope all along, I’m sure.

  Chapter FIVE

  In Twilight there are so many great options to choose from that it was difficult to narrow it down to one for the list. So I didn’t. I added several different choices and figured that when the opportunity presented itself, I’d know which one to choose. When Landon suggested something with an activity involved, I remembered that scene where Bella almost gets jumped by some street thugs and Edward rescues her. Sure, the rescue is heroic and he’s battling the urge to go vampire on everyone, but my favorite part is their drive back home. Being locked in a car together for a lengthy period of time has a way of drawing out conversation. I’m just hoping a conversation goes better this time than it did the last.

  As for our last interaction, I will be the first to admit that mistakes were made. Nearly poisoning Liam to death and ruining my favorite purse are definitely cause for concern. I recognize now that I made a bad choice with the whole syrup idea. I mean, in the book Marianne Dashwood clearly had a respiratory problem, and I decided to go rogue with something gastrointestinal. I consider the fact that my car still reeks of chicken tikka masala as a justified penance for a badly thought-out plan.

  This time I’ve got a great plan. This time I’ve got a whole slew of ideas, and whether he likes it or not, my brother, Tosh, is at the center of most of them.

  I throw him a side eye, but he’s too distracted by whatever is on his phone to notice it.

  “You have to put that away when we get inside,” I say as we walk slowly towards the Ashtons’ ornately carved front door.