Me: I’m sorry. I miss you.
There had been no response by the time I got home and climbed into bed. I refused to cry myself to sleep, but my eyes filled with tears on more than one occasion before my brain finally gave in to rest, and I closed my eyes.
The next morning, while I was out running, I made up my mind. I wasn’t going to let Collier slip through my fingers without a fight. It had been me who hadn’t given him an accurate picture, and it would be me who had to win him over. Somehow, I had to show him what he meant to me…that I was exactly the girl he knew. Now the only question that remained was how to make that happen.
I tried calling him when I got out of the shower, knowing he’d be on his way to work, but I got his voicemail. I left a message as though nothing had changed in hopes he’d return my call. When he didn’t relinquish the ban on speaking by lunch, I tried to text him again. Being honest hadn’t worked last night, so maybe the damsel in distress might appeal to his inner alpha.
Me: I’m sitting on the side of I-78 with a flat tire.
Collier: Don’t you have AAA?
It wasn’t the response I had hoped for, but at least he had responded.
Me: Nah, I couldn’t spring for the extra $3 on my insurance per month. But I do have this amazing friend with a rockin’ red Porsche that I’d bet money isn’t in need of repair.
I was desperate. And at this point, I’d slash my own tire if it would give me five minutes with him. Although, I didn’t have a knife and would probably get arrested for vandalizing my own property.
Collier: Do you really have a flat?
My days of misleading Collier were over. I couldn’t lie to him…I’d done enough of that already.
Me: No…but I could. Have you seen the condition of our roads in this state? Someone really should contact a senator.
I waited for his response, but none came. The afternoon turned into a brainstorming session of excuses to get Collier to my house. Nothing I came up with seemed plausible, and based on his aloof reply this afternoon, my next attempt would have to be valiant…but truthful.
When I got home, the quiet evening ate away at me. I tried to clean, but all that did was destroy my nails. I cranked up the stereo to lose myself in music, but every song that played reminded me of him. Finally, I broke down and warmed up leftovers in the microwave. Each bite was worse than the last, and nothing in my fridge appealed to me. I pushed the remains of my meal down the garbage disposal and turned it on. Instead of the drain clearing, water started to back up into the sink. My initial response was panic until whatever was lodged in the blades cleared, but not before it gave me an idea.
My mind raced a mile a minute trying to think of things I could shove into the drain to jam the disposal so far beyond my ability to fix it that he’d have to come to my rescue. Food wouldn’t work. I tried paper, and it shredded the sheets as easily as it would vegetables. But fabric wasn’t quite as forgiving or destructible as perishables.
I raced up the stairs to my room in search of anything I was willing to part with in order to get Collier here. T-shirts were too thick, and there was no logical explanation for how they’d end up in my sink. Same with jeans and shorts. But panties…panties needed to be hand washed, and the sink was the perfect place to do it. Riffling through my underwear drawer, I found several pairs I didn’t mind losing to the cause, and with a smile on my face, I trotted back down to the kitchen.
My fingers clutched the satin and lace while I hovered in front of the sink. I took a deep breath in, and then one by one, I stuffed each of the five pairs deep into the hole. I turned on the water to ensure they wouldn’t just swirl around, and then I flipped the switch. The motor came to life, but instead of the garbage disposal whirring and grinding, it hummed with a high-pitched squeal and stopped.
Pleased with myself, I raised up on my toes and bounced before grabbing my phone off the counter.
Me: My garbage disposal is clogged. Can you come by and look at it?
I hit send and held the phone in my hand, waiting for it to light up with his agreement to save me. Several long minutes had passed before the beep sounded.
Collier: Plumbers typically deal with those types of things.
Me: It’s after hours. That will cost me a fortune.
The waiting was killing me. I wanted to be upset with him. He’d always been very responsive, and it felt like he was intentionally playing games.
Collier: Gibson Plumbing is sending someone out. The guy should be there in the next thirty minutes.
Me: I can’t afford that.
Collier: I gave them my credit card number. It’s taken care of.
So he cared enough to buy my way out of trouble but not come on his own. It hurt, but maybe it was progress.
Me: I’m not comfortable with a strange man in my house at night. It’s not safe.
Collier: Giselle, I don’t have time for this. He’ll be there shortly. Let him in to fix the sink.
Ugh. I hated this side of Sybil. If we ever got back on speaking terms, I had to figure out a way to put that personality to rest—no one needed to experience it, especially not me. The bubbles appeared on the screen and went on forever. I stood there waiting for his next message, but they stopped, and another message never came. It dawned on me, a plumber would be standing in my kitchen in roughly twenty minutes, and I had a garbage disposal bogged down in Victoria’s Secret’s finest thongs. With my luck, the man who showed up to bail me out would either be hot as sin who would imagine me in the shredded garment or some gnarly old man who would keep them to sniff later. Both creeped me out.
I desperately started clawing at the sink, shoving my hand in to try to pull the wet material back out the same way I’d stuffed it in. But by the time the doorbell rang, I had roughly half of one pair of twelve dollar panties in my fist, and the other four and a half pairs were still tightly wound around the blade of the garbage disposal. With one hand still trying to rip at the lace, and the other on the counter for leverage, I finally dropped my head on the counter harder than I intended when the chime came again.
My hands were wet, and the right was covered in some substance I was afraid to try to identify. I needed to disinfect the drain, the brown gunk under my nails was disgusting. My nails. Oh God, my poor nails. Not only had I ruined the polish, but I’d also broken three of them on my right hand and two on my left. They snagged on the kitchen towel I used on my way to let the plumber in.
Mortified. Embarrassed. Flustered. The list of words to describe what I was feeling ran a mile long. There was no way in hell I could explain how five pairs of panties had met their demise. But I swung the door open just the same. There on my porch stood a man who could have doubled for Luke Bryan, right down to the Southern twang.
“Hey, darlin’. I’m Chance. What seems to be the trouble tonight?”
Kill me now.
He bent over to put white booties on over his shoes to protect my floors, and his ass was every bit as delectable as the country star. In any other circumstance, I’d send up a word of thanks to the big man upstairs for this eye candy…but tonight, I just groaned.
Karma hated me.
“Garbage disposal.” I turned, leaving the front door open, and assumed he’d follow me to the kitchen.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had an after-hours call for a garbage disposal.”
I wasn’t interested in idle chitchat. If I could have found a rock, I would have crawled under it.
“Is it clogged or did it just stop working?” he asked as he set his tools down and stepped up to the sink.
“Clogged.”
“Vegetable peels?” he guessed.
“No.”
Chance turned to face me. “Egg shells?”
“Uh-uh.”
“You just going to let me keep guessin’?” He winked a brown eye in my direction and displayed a grin that I was sure had panties dropping on the regular. But all it did was cause my cheeks to flush with embarrassment, and not from
his flirting.
“Fabric.” I acted like I only knew ten words and was afraid to use them all at once. Before long, I’d just resort to grunting instead of forming syllables.
“Fabric…” He drew out those six letters like he hadn’t understood them.
“Yes.”
“Like a dishtowel?”
“No. Panties.” I cringed. “I’d prefer not to offer an explanation. Can you just fix it?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
I died a thousand deaths sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him to undo the damage I’d caused. If only it were that easy with Collier. He had me sign a bill but told me it would be charged to the card the dispatcher had taken and said goodnight. When I closed and locked the door behind him, I threw myself onto the couch and prayed for the day to end. My measly attempts to engage Collier had proven to be fruitless. It was time to up my game. Staring at my tattered fingernails, I formulated a plan.
14
Saturday morning, I stopped by my favorite nail salon. The damage I’d done with the garbage disposal last night was beyond anything I could fix. My cuticles were a wreck, there were cuts on my fingers, and it would take a hell of a lot more than cutting and filing to get my manicure looking good again.
I’d been coming here every week for years, and I considered my nail tech, Crystal, a friend. For nearly a decade, I’d sat in her chair for an hour once a week and talked to her like drunks do to bartenders. She knew everything there was to know about me, including my obsession with changing polish colors throughout the week, and my attempted rendezvouses with pundanda. She thought the whole thing had been rather humorous and enjoyed many chuckles at my expense.
But the panties in the garbage disposal seemed to take the cake.
“What were you thinking, Giselle? What would you have said to Collier if he’d come over?”
It seemed obvious to me. “That I was doing laundry.” I shrugged while she clipped the tips of my pitiful nails off.
“Do you know a lot of women who wash their unmentionables in the kitchen sink? And wash five pairs down at one time?”
“So it wasn’t a well-thought-out plan. Sue me.” My brow furrowed. I’d already faced this humiliation once in the last twenty-four hours—I didn’t need to relive it with the girl I paid to make my hands look like works of art.
I sighed with relief an hour later when my nails had been restored and followed Crystal to the register. I paid for the manicure and also grabbed the six bottles of nail polish I’d come in for. I stopped by Walmart going home and picked up six little gift boxes and cards. One way or another, I’d show Collier he knew me better than anyone else, and hopefully, in the end, I’d win him over.
As much as I hated to include Beck in my plot, I didn’t have much choice. I needed to ensure he got the package each day, and if I sent them any other way, I wouldn’t be certain they made it to his desk or that he opened them.
Me: I need your help.
Beck: Sure. With what?
Me: Getting Collier back.
Beck: I’m in.
Me: You don’t even want to know what you have to do before you agree?
Beck: Nope.
Since she didn’t care about details, I didn’t give them to her. Beck promised to stop by my house tonight to pick the stuff up and deliver them in order starting Monday. I hated wasting a day, but I needed her to give him the sixth one on Saturday. I spent the rest of the night wrapping each little bottle in a corresponding color of tissue paper before tucking it neatly into a box I tied with ribbon. I wrote out a note to go along with each one and tied it to the package. They were cute, and any woman would love to get them—I only hoped Collier saw my message in them.
Monday’s color choice was “You Callin’ Me A Lyre?” He didn’t believe he knew anything about me. I didn’t want to, but I had to acknowledge where he stood and the fact that I’d put him there.
Tuesday was “I Am What I Amethyst.” Whether Collier wanted to believe it or not, I had always been into men.
Wednesday was a nod to our time by the pool, “Just Lanai-ing Around.” There’d been so many casual hours spent getting to know each other. He had to recognize none of that had been a front.
Thursday spoke to how I’d spent my time, “Pinking of You.” It seemed to be all I ever did anymore.
Friday, I hoped he’d see this was possible with “Toucan Do It If You Try.”
And Saturday would lay down the gauntlet and profess more than I’d been willing to say to anyone in years. “GPS I Love You.” And I did. Although I had no idea if he was capable of returning that sentiment.
Beck promised to let me know how he received each one but couldn’t guarantee when she’d be able to get them to him during the day. Waiting on her text Monday was agony.
Beck: Did you really send my brother a bottle of nail polish?
Me: Yep.
Me: Did he say anything?
Beck: He just looked confused. What did the note say?
Me: Just the color of the nail polish. I hope by the end of the week he gets the message. It’s kind of a timeline. Will you let me know how it goes tomorrow?
Beck: Of course.
I didn’t have to wait that long on Tuesday. Beck had gone to work early for a meeting that all the staff were required to attend, so she followed him back to his office afterward and handed him another box that looked just like the one he got the day before.
Beck: Do you want him to open a nail salon? What’s with the second bottle of polish?
Me: Did he think it was stupid?
Beck: He didn’t say anything. He just grinned…and set it next to the bottle you gave him yesterday on his desk.
Me: Is that a good thing?
Beck: Giselle, the man doesn’t keep pictures on his desk, but now has two bottles of insanely girly OPI sitting front and center. I’m going to guess it’s a positive.
Me: Eeep.
Beck: Have you tried to contact him again?
Me: Nope.
Beck: Maybe you should?
Me: I have to wait until Saturday. He’ll have a decision to make with that one. It’s up to him.
Wednesday’s news didn’t come in the form of a text. Beck called me to tell me her co-workers were concerned about the multiple bottles of nail polish her brother kept on his desk. I tried to reassure her there was no cause for concern unless he started using them.
The silence from Collier was bad enough, but when I didn’t hear from Beck all day on Thursday, I started to worry. Maybe he didn’t understand “Pinking of You,” or maybe he was pissed that I’d involved his sister. I was hanging on by a thread that threatened to break at any moment. I had a dream of nail polish bottles all over Collier’s office after years of trying to convince him to give me a chance, one color at a time. Thousands of bottles lined every inch of space, but right before I woke up, Goodwill came to collect them for the needy. Clearly, I was losing my mind.
I’d sent Beck a couple of texts but gave up and went to sleep. Friday, sitting at my desk while watching dust gather on the fake plants in my office, my friend finally resurfaced.
Beck: Work has been hell. Sorry about yesterday.
Me: How’d it go?
Beck: Not all that great. I’m sorry, Giselle. He’s just a jerk.
Me: It’s not your fault. I created this mess.
Beck: Don’t give up. You’re pulling out the big guns tomorrow, right?
Me: Yeah, I guess so.
Beck: What time do you want me to give it to him?
Me: In the morning. That will give him all day to decide what he wants to do.
Beck: No matter what happens, I still love you.
Me: Love you, too, Beck. Thanks for all your help.
I warred with conflicting emotions the remainder of the day, and Saturday was no better. Beck had come by to let me know she gave him the last bottle, but he hadn’t opened it in front of her and had gotten mad when she insisted on it. I hadn’t inten
ded to put her at odds with Collier. Luckily, she wasn’t holding his mood against me. I wanted to sit around and whine and worry all day, but it wasn’t fair to her, so I let her escape unharmed. Each minute that ticked by seemed like an hour, and I started to believe the universe had slowed its spin just to drag this out a little longer.
By the time six o’clock had finally found its way to the face of the clock on my wall, I’d worked myself up into a frenzy of uncertainty. I put on a pair of skinny jeans and a blouse with the shoulders cut out. My belt matched my heels, and I hitched my new purse into the crook of my arm. I wish I felt half as good as I looked, but insecurity had taken root in my gut, and I was a nanosecond away from tossing my stomach on the pavement next to my car. Even a pep talk from Ronnie hadn’t helped ease my anxiety, but at the very least, in less than fifteen minutes, I’d know if I’d lost him forever.
I’d made reservations at Posh, another oddly named establishment in Podunk, USA. The name indicated one thing, while in actuality, the atmosphere was casual—the food was the luxury. I’d left the address on the final card along with a time. I prayed I wouldn’t be dining alone, but I mentally prepared myself for that possibility on the drive over.
I didn’t see Collier’s Porsche when I pulled in and found a place to park, but I was a few minutes early. Sitting in my car didn’t offer the comfort it normally did. I felt like I was being deprived of oxygen, and suffocating was worse than being stood up.
With more confidence than I actually had, I strolled to the front door, stepped inside to the hostess stand, and gave her the name on the reservation. She grinned and ducked down. When she reappeared, she handed me a gift bag no bigger than a cell phone. I eyed her with suspicion, but if she knew anything, she didn’t offer up the information. She also didn’t offer to seat me or ask if I wanted to wait. I took it upon myself to sit on the bench and open the bag. I looked around to see if I was being Punked, but other than the hostess, not a soul paid any attention to me or had even noticed my arrival.
I took several deep breaths, preparing myself for Collier’s epic blow off. No one else knew I was here. And since he hadn’t shown up, I could only assume he’d chosen to part ways. As much as I didn’t want to say goodbye, this had been going on too long, and I needed an answer. There were three sheets of tissue paper popping out of the top of the bag. I pulled each one out separately, folded them neatly in a pile, and finally reached in to pull out the box. The black velvet box teased me. It was too heavy to be jewelry, but I was scared to open the lid. I bit my lip and counted to three. When I finally popped it up, I closed my eyes before I could see what lay inside.
Girl Crush Page 19
