I gathered the sheet around me and stalked off to the bathroom.
While the steaming water coursed over my skin and the industrial-grade shampoo sudsed in my hair, I tried to hold on to my anger and ignore the searing pangs of guilt.
He had hurt me this morning, but I knew he had a point. I couldn’t be trusted with other people’s hearts. I couldn’t even be trusted with my own.
Flynn and I spent our post-sex, post-argument Saturday afternoon watching the Cubs game on TV. We were not really speaking to each other, although occasionally we would speak at each other. It was like we had never left middle school.
“Please pass the popcorn,” I said. “If that’s not moving the relationship too fast for you.”
“Here you go. But could you do me a favor and stop drooling over Kerry Wood? You’re going to flood the living room.”
“I’m not drooling over him,” I lied. “You seem to have mistaken me for someone who has any use whatsoever for men.”
“I seem to remember you having plenty of uses for me.” He said this matter-of-factly, without a trace of a taunt, then returned his attention to the TV screen. “Why the hell is Sosa all the way back in the outfield?”
I counted to ten, then did my best Grace Kelly impression. “Won’t you please excuse me?”
He stood to let me by. “Sure. Where are you going?”
“I have to make a call.” I closed the bedroom door behind me, snatched up the cordless phone and dialed.
It rang. And rang.
And then my last resort, my only port in the storm, came through.
“Hello?” Skye’s voice was thick and heavy with sleep.
I frowned. “Dude. Aren’t you up yet?”
“Faithie!” She yawned. I could picture her back in Lindbrook, all flopsy and frail in her pj’s. “I’m exhausted. I was out so late last night. Those hockey players were really fun. And then I was talking to Lars for a while. He cleaned up the whole bar after the party.”
“Why would he do that? Doesn’t he know you’re with Ian now?”
“Yeah, but, you know. He’s one of those ‘nice guys’ you read about. But who cares about me—how was your night? Did you get any?”
I rolled my eyes. “Nicely put.”
“Did you?”
Fifty miles away, I blushed. “You are so vulgar.”
“You did! I knew it! Are you in looove now?”
“Not so fast.”
“Why?” she demanded. “What happened?”
“Well.” I sat down heavily on the mattress. “That’s what I’m calling about. I know business and you know men, remember? So, I need help. A lot of help.”
“Uh-oh. What’d you do to him this time?”
“Nothing! Why would you assume that I did something?” I waited for the beat of two breaths. “Never mind, don’t answer that. Look. I thought everything was fine, and then this morning it disintegrated into a total shambles.”
“Why? What’s the problem?”
“All right. Last night we drove up to his place, and then we did things that I never thought I’d do in Lutheran Land—”
“No details!” she yelled. “You’re my sister and he’s like my brother, and I don’t need the visual!”
“Fine. And then we went to sleep, and I woke up all blissed out this morning, and I did not bolt—”
“You didn’t what?”
“Bolt. Run away. You know.” I crossed my arms and gave the bedroom wall a look of defiance.
She paused. “Do you usually? Bolt? The morning after?”
“Well…” Sometimes I forgot how much I’d sugar-coated my reports of California to my family. “Yeah. Occasionally.”
“God, you’re weird.” Her mouth was full now, probably with untoasted Pop Tart. “But okay, you didn’t run away. Good girl. You want a cookie for that?”
When did she get so uppity? “Listen, missy—”
“Right, okay, that’s not the point. I get it,” she conceded. “What’s the problem? This time?”
I sighed. “After all that, he just spurns me this morning! He rebuffed my advances and said we had to ‘slow down,’ whatever that means.”
“Huh.”
“I know! I finally smoked him out of the grass, and he ran into the underbrush! He was supposed to come to me!”
Another pause. “Huh.”
“And then he went off on this irrelevant tangent about building a house and dealing with our old issues and not rushing into things.”
“Wow.” She sounded impressed. “That’s very mature of him. That actually makes pretty good sense.”
I held the receiver away from my ear, stared at it for a long moment, then pressed it back up to my ear. “No, it doesn’t! It makes sense to do that before you sleep with someone, not after. Now it’s just a slap in the face, because obviously he sampled the merchandise and he didn’t like it. He’s got sexual buyer’s remorse.”
She ignored this. “Where are you now?”
“We’re both watching the Cubs game in his living room and pretending to be functional adults.”
“Who’s pitching?”
I sighed. “Kerry Wood.”
“He’s such a hottie.”
I checked my watch. “But what should I do?”
“About Flynn?”
“Yes, about Flynn. I’m so humiliated. He thinks I’m an architecturally deficient chippy.”
My sister cleared her throat and took charge. “Two things. First of all, you have to stop dealing with man problems over the phone. Get off the line and suck it up, Faithie. Be a marine and fight the good fight.”
Wait a second. Hadn’t we had this same conversation when I was in Florence, telling her what to do?
But she wasn’t finished. “Second of all, he does not think you’re a chippy. He’s probably just scared that you’ll take off for California again.”
I groaned. “Why must everyone keep bringing that up? That was a really long time ago.”
“Yeah, but have you guys talked about your plans for after the summer?” she asked.
I did not have an answer for this.
“See?” She was triumphant. “He probably doesn’t want to deal with all that again. But you can change his mind. It’s easy. Just seduce him.”
“That’s your answer to everything? Weren’t you listening? He doesn’t want to be seduced.”
“Of course he does. All men want to be seduced. Just calm him down and get him to stop thinking so much.”
“And how exactly do I do that?”
“Well, to calm him down, just be nice.” Her tone suggested it was time to increase my medication dosage. “Pretend you’re wearing the homecoming crown. Be sweet and reassuring. Don’t be snarky.”
“And as for getting him to stop thinking?”
“Duh. Alcohol.” She giggled. “This whole ‘slowing down’ thing is hogwash. Take him out for a pitcher of beer after the game and you’re good to go. End of story.”
I tapped my foot. “If only it were that simple.”
“It is that simple. I’m telling you! Homecoming queen plus alcohol equals helpless man-slave!”
I did not ask her how she could be so sure of this equation.
“Look, I’m hungry and I have to go. Do what you want. I’m just afraid that if you two don’t get it together, once and for all, like normal people, you’re going to freak out again and head for the hills. And then both of you are going to be really sad.”
I sighed. “Maybe I should just head for the hills. Save us both a lot of hassle.”
There was a long pause.
“Don’t say that. You can handle this. Don’t run away again, okay? Flynn loves you. I love you.”
“Love” was not a casual word in the Geary family. Even Skye, who got assigned the bubbly, peaches and cream role, hardly ever said “love.” I cradled the phone against my ear, but there was dead silence on her end. “Okay. I won’t run away.”
“Okay!” A smile bounced b
ack into her voice. “Now go drench that man in liquor, have fun, and be safe!”
16
Skye’s romantic advice, while time-tested and all but guaranteed to succeed, lacked one tiny but crucial ingredient: a scrap of human dignity. I had to face facts. Despite what the beer commercials aired during the Super Bowl would have one believe, getting a man trashed and then leaping on him like a panther from the trees is not going to enhance one’s long-term sexual magnetism. If Flynn didn’t want to be with me, I certainly wasn’t going to beg and/or slip him a roofie.
I decided to stick to my original plan: play by his rules, new and unfathomable though they were, and beat him at his own game with my frosty poise. If he wasn’t attracted to me, I’d still get out of this with the tattered remains of my self-esteem, then leave the state. And if he was attracted to me…well, he’d have to do some serious groveling to prove it. I was thinking along the lines of roses, rare gems and many lavish apologies.
Either way, I had the upper hand. My plan was diabolical in its simplicity. Foolproof. Right?
“What time is it now?” I leaned into the cool breeze blowing off Lake Weyburn as we strolled along the shore.
Flynn checked his watch. “We’re five minutes closer to death than the last time you asked that. What’s going on with you?”
I took off the baseball cap he’d insisted I wear (along with half a bottle of sunscreen) and let my hair whip around in the wind. “Nothing. I just want to make sure we have time to change before dinner.”
“We do.” He stopped his progress through the sand and plunked down on the dunes, tugging me down next to him. Sunset at the lakeshore. Very romantic. Now if only we could drum up some sweeping background music and two adults who could discuss a relationship without making reference to cars, home repair, or other Time-Life book topics.
We sat in silence and watched the waves.
He would always be my first love, but the problem with that title was that it was a one-shot deal. We could never go back to the way things were when we were younger. He’d changed and I’d changed…but had we changed enough to overcome the flaws that wrenched us apart in the first place?
He cleared his throat. “Okay. If the reservations are at eight, we should get going.”
“Yeah.” The flaming summer sun reflected in his eyes, but I saw twin autumn pools underneath, deep and still and cool.
“I’m starving,” he warned. “Is this place going to be some post-modern dive where you can only get wheatless pasta and vegetarian sushi?”
I struggled to my feet, ignoring the outstretched hand he offered to help me up. “It should be great. Leah recommended it. She said it reminded her of some organic fusion bistro in San Francisco.”
He shook his head and tossed me his sweatshirt. “Well, that answers that question. Any chance we can pick up a pizza on the way?”
Normally, I would have gotten swanked out in some fail-safe, black-on-black outfit, but upon returning to Flynn’s place, I discovered that my Saturday night packing job had been as disorganized as my thought process. My options were limited to what I’d “borrowed” from Skye’s bureau: sweatpants, T-shirts and lingerie. Oops. Should have skipped the Cubs game today and hit the mall. Ever resourceful, I threw on a simple gray silk chemise. Technically underwear, but who really allows themselves to be hemmed in by such arbitrary categorizations?
Doing the best I could with my overachieving hair, strappy silver sandals, the could-pass-as-a-dress chemise, and a lot of false confidence, I tried to transform myself into a sultry siren à la Catherine Zeta-Jones.
When I emerged from the bathroom, Flynn, who had completed his wardrobe and grooming routine in four minutes flat, was kicked back watching ESPN. He turned his head and took his time looking me up and down. This is what he said:
“Aren’t you ready yet?”
Then he turned back to the game.
I would bet the Roof Rat that Catherine Zeta-Jones has never heard “Aren’t you ready yet?” in her life.
I retreated to the bathroom, stared at myself in the mirror, and wondered what was going on with him now. The chemise, though bearing a Victoria’s Secret label, was a perfectly respectable slip that fell to just above the knee. And okay, my skin was alternately sunburned and chalky white, my hair was in a state of anarchy, and I was still flatter than Lara Flynn Boyle. But I looked the same as I had last night and he’d wanted me then.
Screw it. I was done letting him jerk me around. Hell would freeze over before I’d humiliate myself in front of him again.
“Let’s get a bottle of red wine,” I suggested the minute we sat down at Café Guaio.
The low ceilings, dim lights, and dusty brick walls lent the place an intimate, speakeasy atmosphere. Black and white photos of the Rat Pack adorned the entryway and little green tendrils of ivy twisted to the ceiling.
Flynn had donned one of his newer gray T-shirts for the evening, and as a couple, we looked very grim and very goal-oriented. We were really applying ourselves to the task of having a pleasant evening.
“You want red wine?” he asked. “I thought you didn’t like red wine.”
“I didn’t like red wine in high school because I always drank too much of it and threw up. But I like to think I’ve gotten a little more sophisticated since then.”
While he flagged down the waiter and ordered a Shiraz, I glanced around at our fellow diners. They all appeared to be in full Catherine Zeta-Jones mode. Our table remained the lone desert island of tension in a sea of celebration and general joie de vivre. This whole “slowing down” thing didn’t seem to be working out so well.
The wine arrived just as I was about to head to the ladies’ room to escape the awkward silence between us.
Flynn filled both our glasses halfway and we clinked them together, meeting each other’s gazes with equal parts speculation and suspicion. “Here’s to building a solid foundation.”
Gag.
I took a small swallow of wine and tried to dredge up something to talk about. Something other than: sex, betrayal, cars, houses, bass players, and small business failure rates.
“Hey! Would you like to hear the story of how I got lost in the catacombs in Rome?”
By the time a server finally deigned to take our dinner order, I was somehow, inexplicably, on my third glass of Shiraz. I wasn’t really hungry anymore, but I was feeling much more sociable.
“You know what?” I asked the server, who politely waited with pen in hand. “I’m just going to have a peach martini.”
Flynn raised an eyebrow. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I have more good ideas before nine A.M. than most people have all day.” I took a delicate, ladylike sip of the wine and tossed a saucy grin his way.
“Fine. It’s your funeral.”
A warm rosy flush spread through my body, smoothing down the sharp ridges of tension. I poured myself another glass, dribbling a spotty pink trail on the tablebloth. “Oops.”
Flynn refrained from comment, but gave me a very pointed look.
“What?” I demanded. “Do you have something you’d like to say?”
He half-smiled and toasted me with his water glass. “I know better than that. There’s no point in telling you to do anything right now, because you’ll either ignore me or do the opposite. You’re contrary enough when you’re sober, but now? Forget it.”
I gasped in outraged modesty. “That’s not very chivalrous.”
He pushed my hair away from the open flame of the candle. “But it is true.”
The waiter reappeared with my martini and Flynn’s steak. I rocked back into my chair, swamped for a moment by the swirls of smoke and music and light. The conversations going on around us blended into one thick hum.
By the time he finished his meal, I was practically Dorothy Parker: wry, chatty, with bon mots galore. Perhaps wine was the true secret to social success.
“Wow,” I said out loud, “Dale Carnegie must have been a raging alcohol
ic.”
He stared at me. “What?”
“Oh…” He couldn’t hear my inner monologue. Right. “Yeah, see, I was just thinking about how to win friends and influence people, and…”
“You and the red wine. Some things never change.” He shook his head. “I think you’ve had enough, tiger.”
I rolled my eyes. The world went spinning off its axis. “To pura—to para phrase William Blake: ‘You never know what is enough until you know what is too much.’ ”
I had had way too much. I kept my eyes closed during the ride back to Flynn’s apartment, trying to ignore the cloying sweetness of the fruity martinis rising in the back of my throat.
He frog-marched me into his bedroom like Fred Astaire slogging a doped-up Ginger Rogers. I winced and rubbed my eyes as he snapped on the glaring overhead light.
“Ugh. Mayday. Turn it off.” I gave up trying to balance on my sandals and leaned back against the closet door.
“Hang on one second.” He crossed the room to the lamp on the bedside table. The room went soft and muted as he turned off the overhead light.
I threw myself down on the bed. “I can’t walk another step in these heels.”
He sighed and crouched down next to me. “You’re impossible.”
“It’s part of my charm.”
He tried to figure out the complicated criss-cross straps of my sandals. “Do me a favor, Geary. Next time you decide to go swimming in wine, wear more practical shoes.”
“Sorry.” But I couldn’t even get it together enough to lift up my head, let alone slip my toes out of the designer stilettos. “That Stuart Weitzman is a crafty one.”
“Okay.” The nerves in my feet tingled back to life as he tossed the sandals to the floor. “I’ll be back in thirty seconds. Try to not to fall asleep or do any permanent tissue damage while I’m gone.”
Half a minute later, he was shaking me awake. “Hang on a second. Drink this before you pass out.” He shoved a glass of water in my face.
I scowled up at him. “Huh-uh. I’m tired.”
“I know you are, sweetheart, but if you don’t hydrate, you’re going to be even more miserable in the morning.” He stroked the hair back from my temples.
My Favorite Mistake Page 15
