I lifted my pen off the page and stood staring at the words I’d just written. The same words I’d just spoken aloud into the mostly empty room. Eyes wide in surprise, I let them dart around like pinballs, trying to take it in. I loved him. Somehow, amid the teasing, and the subtle flirting, and the long talks . . . and the benefits, I’d fallen in love with Ethan. And now he was MIA and I had no idea if he felt the same.
I let my eyes swing around to gaze in bemusement at Gypsy Jane and found her beaming at me with a ghost of a twinkle in her eyes. As I watched, she clapped her hands happily and raised her brows in encouragement.
Whipping my gaze down to the clipboard, I watched in awed amazement, with a nervous, thudding heart, as words began to disappear from the page as if sucked into the ether, to remain a secret, shared between Jane and me. Within seconds, there were only a handful left, and my eyes glazed slightly, wanting to read them, but not. An encouraging nod from my co-conspirator gave me the boost I needed.
Occasionally a man thwarts even the most careful plans. why not let him.
What the hell? That’s it?? My eyes swung back up to confront my ghostly matchmaker, but she stayed only long enough to flash me a wink, and then she was gone, fading into nothing, shirking all responsibility. Shit! So her advice was to give up? What a copout—forget that! I was just going to have to come up with a plan on my own.
Assuming, of course, I could find Ethan and get him to agree to talk to me. Or even just let me do the talking. Maybe if I pulled out the l-word he’d pay attention. Perhaps not as close attention as he might pay to another l-word admission, but I’d take what I could get. He had yet to get back to me with an answer for Thanksgiving, but one way or another, I was going to pin the man down.
I stalked back into the stall and packed up my stadium seat and carryall, cramming the clipboard in next to the journal, spearing them both with a withering look. I was muttering angrily to myself when I carefully maneuvered out of the bathroom with all my paraphernalia and nearly collided with two blond beauty-pageant types with Texas-sized hairdos and tipsy laughs. I offered a blithe smile, said, “Watch out for ghosts in there,” and hurried off, just slightly smug in the knowledge that I’d given them a little pee-your-pants excitement.
Chapter 16
I still hadn’t come up with a definitive plan by the time I had to pick Gemma up at the airport on Tuesday afternoon. And from there the two of us were going straight up to Zippedy-Do-Da, my father’s zip-line business in the Texas Hill Country, not planning to be back in town until early Thursday (or possibly late Wednesday). But I was confident that with a little distance and a little one-with-nature time, I would come up with something. And I had my phone. I was reachable. I might have to climb to the top of one of the canopy platforms or linger on one of the sky bridges to place a call, but I could find a signal.
Against my better judgment, and in direct opposition to the grudge I was holding, I tucked the journal into my overnight bag, just in case. I fully expected it to stay buried and forgotten, but I was kinda having an “anything goes” sort of month.
My good-byes to Mom were a little awkward for several reasons. Partly because she suspected something was up and that it had to do with Ethan, and partly because I knew the Geek Freak—Brady—was coming over and for all I knew the two of them were going to spend the next couple of days stark naked. My poker face was severely tested as she came to stand beside the car with a togo bag of homemade oatmeal Raisinet cookies.
“Enjoy your road trip with your sister, and make sure your father knows he’s invited for Thanksgiving,” she said. “Did Ethan ever commit, one way or another? We’ll have plenty of food, but it’s nice to know who’s expected,” she added casually.
“Not yet,” I said breezily, shaking my head and avoiding eye contact, easing the bag of cookies out of her hand, considering whether to stash them in the trunk instead of on the seat beside me. Where I’d be tempted to eat the whole bag while feeling sorry for myself. “I’ll try to get a hold of him and let you know.”
“He hasn’t come for dinner in a while. Or Scrabble, for that matter.” She paused. “Or if he has, you’ve been keeping him to yourself.” The question was reaching, but I dodged it.
“I’ve barely seen him,” I admitted, wondering if my voice sounded as watery as it felt. “He’s been busy,” I offered, an optimistic excuse for both of us.
“Well,” I said and punctuated the single word with a deep breath let out quickly. “Enjoy your time with Brady!” An image of tossed pillows and a mauled chocolate cake flashed into my head, and I blinked and shifted, trying hard to dispel it. But as I leaned in for a good-bye hug, visions of Mom in dominatrix attire had me choking back a fit of giggles. I quickly slid into the car, but Mom held the door open.
“Two things I learned a long time ago, Cate: Don’t hold a grudge longer than it takes to work your way through a pan of brownies all by yourself, and don’t begrudge someone an apology if they deserve it.”
“I get it, Mom. Thanks.” I pulled the door quickly shut and waved as I pulled out of the driveway, already unzipping the zip-lock.
It didn’t take long before I blurted the embarrassment of the past weeks to an unsuspecting Gemma. I didn’t mean to . . . it was mostly a defense mechanism against hearing any more fetish stories, which she was able to churn out one after the other. I very carefully kept Ethan out of it—the benefits, the secret life, the burner phone, and the flirty phone call. But otherwise, I had no more secrets.
“That sucks about Jake—he sounds like an immature prick. Trouble with the Cary Grants of the world?” She glanced at me and took a big bite of cookie. “The little shits know what they’ve got . . . and that we want it. We’re powerless to resist, until we catch a flash of the man behind the charm and he’s not quite the gem we imagined.”
Actually this was mostly conveyed in a garbled, full-mouth mumble, but I caught the gist.
She dusted the crumbs off her fingers and resealed the bag of cookies.
“Any Cary Grants charming you over the phone?” I asked, tongue-in-cheek, but also seriously curious.
“Nah. Charm is the first thing to go when you’re paying a dollar a minute for the call,” she admitted, ever practical. “I’m like any retail clerk . . . taking orders and doing my best to fill them. Customer service is job one!” she said, punctuating with a jaunty fist pump and inciting a fit of giggles.
“So . . . are you seeing anyone?” I asked her as we drove past rolling fields dotted with scraggly cedars and the occasional, majestic live oak.
“Seriously? No.”
“Frivolously, then?” I said, grinning.
She looked at me then, and the read I got from the quick glance I sent in her direction was that she was waffling on her answer.
“You’re not going to want to hear this, but I have an arrangement with a grad student in the next lab over. Whenever time allows, and we’re both hungry—or horny—we go out on a ‘date,’ and that tides us both over for a little while. On the rare occasion neither of us is hungry and the lab is empty, so . . .” She trailed off, and I turned to look at her, ready to comment on this.
A sexy memory of Ethan and me losing control in the computer lab quick-flashed in my brain, and I popped my mouth shut. It looked like the Kendall sisters were all about the benefits. Until they ran out.
“I’d let you set me up, but I’ve only got two nights at Dad’s and one night at Mom’s, so unless your specialty is one- and two-night stands, it’s probably not a good idea.”
She propped her feet on the dash, her toes sporting the chipped remains of bright green nail polish. Eye-catching, like the rest of her. She’d stepped out of the airport wearing narrow-legged khakis, zebra-stripe espadrille wedges, a pale pink, ruffly tuxedo shirt, with a dusty blue cardigan thrown over her shoulders and a necklace of chubby turquoise beads. I’d glanced down at my own denim capris and faded hoodie and grimaced. I actually looked like a woman scorned.
“Unless it’s Et
han,” she amended. “I’d be just fine with that. We already know each other . . . and I have my suspicions about the wild man behind that buttoned-down façade.”
“Forget it,” I said, a little heavy on the jealous girlfriend. “He may not even be around to fend off your advances. But you can have your way with Dmitri. He’d probably love you.” I looked over at her. “With your direct—some would say slutty—approach and your worldly attitude. And with your phone sex experience, you’re all set for a long-distance relationship.” I chuckled to myself, and after a few seconds, Gemma finally spoke up.
“He sounds perfect!”
It was exactly the escape I needed. We stayed up late, curled up on chaises around the fire pit, and marveled at the far-flung scattering of stars in a wide-open sky. There was a brief touchy, resentful period when I felt like I was all alone in the world, abandoned by Jake, Ethan, and even literary darling Jane Austen. But that bit was short-lived. With Baileys and hot chocolate in quiet collaboration, I started warming up a little.
“I am not alone,” I announced to Gemma, probably two hours after Dad had kissed the tops of our heads and headed in to bed. “And I’m not going to run from a fight.”
“‘Course not!” she agreed.
“I don’t need to wait for a man to make the first move either.” By now I was starting to confuse two separate problems in my mind. Bottom line, I needed to quit tiptoeing around and deal with both Ethan and Bad Manners; the order in which I accomplished those tasks was irrelevant.
“Damn straight! You are in charge of your own orgasm.”
I squinted at Gemma, briefly considering whether that advice was useful in either case. Not likely.
“That’s not what I meant,” I clarified, snuffing out an impending giggle. “I meant I don’t need a man to take the lead or to swoop in and save me. And frankly, I don’t want to be in charge of my own orgasm—I’d rather it be outsourced.”
The two of us dissolved into a fit of tipsy giggling.
“What do you need saving from . . . besides yourself?” Gemma inquired.
I looked at her, figuring I should object, but decided she was right. “A cheating bastard.”
Her head swiveled in my direction. “Who cheated on you?” she demanded. “Nobody bothered to mention that little nugget!”
I felt my eyebrows dip down in exasperation. “Why would someone mention that to you? My life’s not a soap opera—”
“You got that right.” The comment was droll and unappreciated.
I glared in her direction. “Nobody cheated on me. I caught someone cheating and he freaked. Now he’s trying to use his position on the school board to make things uncomfortable for me.”
“Prick, the Second,” she confirmed. “Let’s deal him a crushing blow.” She paused and held up her hand. “Wait. Who are you expecting to swoop in and save you? Your life’s not a comic strip either—you’d be pinup curvy. Superheroes are few and far between.”
“Ethan,” I mumbled. “He was there for the ‘outing.’”
“Ahh. Well, that’s just coincidence. This is your fight. I am, however, available for consultation, and if you’d like to avail yourself of my professional expertise, I could offer you a freebie.”
I sat quietly for a moment as an idea began to form in my mind. I waffled a bit, knowing that my plan had the potential to hurt one of my students, but I convinced myself that perpetrating the deception was far worse.
Watching my face, registering the smile that signified that I was down with cold revenge, Gemma pulled out her phone with a flourish. Seconds later she pulled me to my feet as the Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling” tumbled out of the speakers like fireworks launched into a quiet sky. We could pin down the details later. Right now we celebrated with a frenzy of arm-waving, butt-bouncing, girls’-night-out dancing, until we collapsed in awkward fashion, exhausted.
We woke up on the patio to a terrified shriek that had us bolting up off our lounge chairs, then suddenly shrinking back, lifting our arms in defense against the sunlight and eventually resuming the fetal position, certain that we’d merely heard a first-time zip-liner taking off down the wire, sailing over the trees. Anyone watching this display of ours against the panorama of scraggly oaks and spiny prickly pear likely assumed we were a couple of weirdos from Austin, practicing some sort of interpretive dance.
I’d fallen back into a groggy funk by the time the world intruded a second time. But I smelled coffee. Dad plunked down two stoneware mugs on the table between Gemma and me and shook the backs of both our chairs, making my teeth rattle.
“Did you girls sleep out here?” he said, the surprise clear in his voice.
I squinted, watching my arm snake out from under the covers to snag my coffee cup. Gemma was visible just beyond, a tousle of hair and feral raccoon eyes, watching me.
“Yes,” I groaned in answer. “And my feet are like ice cubes.”
“Well, it’s warming up! Sun’s been up for a while now,” he said. I peeked up at him as he removed his hat and swept a hand through his slightly damp hair. “Some skittish ones up there today.”
“We heard,” Gemma said, shifting onto her back and taking a long swig of hot coffee.
“Why don’t you girls stop lazin’ around and get your cabooses up there? You can help me with the last few stragglers and then maybe take a ride yourselves.”
Gemma groaned. “You have got to be kidding! Hearing one of those half-excited/half-nervous screams up close right now might be enough to have me jumping off the platform just to make it stop. There’s also the possibility I might toss the screamer off. . . .”
With a headache pounding behind my eyes, I knew exactly how she felt. And shuttling through the sky on a suspension wire didn’t sound doable either. I tipped my head up to smile weakly at my dad. “Maybe later? About all I can handle right now is a walk.” I took a sip of coffee. “And even that’s going to have to wait till I get this entire cup down.”
“Well, get up, get something to eat, and come on. You got one day here, let’s make it a good one!” Dad walked back inside and Gemma and I both indulged in “five more minutes,” with caffeine.
Once the coffee had kicked in, things were better. The world started to feel less fuzzy and more deterministic. I breathed deep, imagined a little connection with nature, felt on top of the world. Nothing like planning a little revenge in the evening to wake up fresh. . . . Now I just needed to decide how I was going to play it with Ethan. Which reminded me, I hadn’t checked my phone since before dinner last night. I had no idea if he’d called and RSVP’d.
I slid my legs over the side of the lounge chair and faced Gemma, already feeling fidgety with anticipation.
“So, you up for a walk?” I said, my legs bobbing up and down.
She peered at me out of one eye. “I can do a stroll.”
“You can set the pace,” I assured her. “I’m gonna get dressed—I’ll meet you back here in . . . ten?”
“Fine,” she agreed. Before I’d even turned away she’d flipped the blanket up over her head, evidently intent on squirreling away a few final minutes of private time. Once she was all the way under, I sprinted inside, cringing against the headache, hurtled up the stairs, and rummaged through my bag in search of the phone.
I had a single message, from Courtney, confirming her plans to be there for dinner with Micah. Nothing from Ethan. I threw the phone down in disgust, not sure who it was aimed at (the disgust), quickly changed, grabbed a hat and sunglasses, and fled.
Probably the reason I was five minutes early and she was five minutes late in meeting back up, giving me ten solid minutes to let the impotence of my situation fester. When Gemma appeared, geared up but still scoping out her surroundings like the paparazzi were after her, I plastered a smile on my face, tamped down on the coulda/shoulda/woulda train chugging out of the station in my head, and decided to enjoy this rare morning with my sister. I was fine with putting Ethan on hold—it was possible he’d alrea
dy disconnected.
I shook my head, which was clearly jumbled with metaphors and crazy imagery, and took advantage of the fact that I was wearing huge, dark sunglasses. I admit, I let my eyes get hot and tingly with tears, but I refused to let even a single one fall. This was my idea of self-control.
I tried gulping in deep breaths of the cool, crisp air, drawing on the whole nature thing again, but mostly it just made me feel light-headed. Luckily, Gemma seemed distracted with her own thoughts, because I didn’t particularly want to rehash it all and have it confirmed that I’d screwed things up royally. Gemma, I was sure, would get some sort of whispered lowdown from Mom during cornbread stuffing prep.
We took it easy, walking the relatively flat hiking trail around the lake. Halfway around we’d both found our stride and were pushing each other to an ever more brisk pace that, in the end, had us sprinting the last stretch, elbows out, jostling for position.
“Whew!” Gemma said, glancing around, probably hoping, as I was, that our little spectacle had gone unwitnessed. “Now I’m ready for breakfast. Or lunch. Or breakfast for lunch, yum! Let’s see if Cheyenne will make waffles.”
After a late lunch of pasta salad and garlic bread, with waffles promised for pre-Thanksgiving dinner, Gemma and I were sprawled on the leather sectional in the great room, flipping through Gemma’s airplane reading, i.e., the impulse-buy glossy magazines she’d picked up in the airport.
“Want to ride the zip-line? Just once before it gets dark? It’s kind of a tradition . . .” I reminded her.
Her face, a moment ago blissfully content, now scrunched in consideration. She glanced at her watch before posing a suggestion. “Why don’t we go shower, brush our teeth, and change into our yoga duds and do a little meditation in the trees?”
I felt my eyebrows turn down in confusion.
“Why are we showering and brushing first?”
Austensibly Ordinary Page 23
