“Just remember why you’re doing this.”
For Jo, for the book, for the house. “Might as well get it over with.”
“Chelsea, Betty, it’s nice to see you both.”
They say hello in unison.
Betty starts, “Is Sean here? I’m really excited to meet him. Andrew described him as so dreamy.”
He is. Or rather . . . was.
“Don’t forget about me. I’m anxious to meet him, too,” Chelsea says, stepping a few inches in front of Betty.
Two gorgeous women with sculpted bodies both vying for Sean. Awesome. For Jo, for the book, for the house.
“Yes, I’m sure he’s looking forward to meeting you both. He’ll be here soon.”
“Is that him?”
Like the gods parted the gates, Sean strides into the gallery with the sun haloing behind him, dressed in khaki trousers and a short-sleeve black rayon button-up shirt.
It’s a new shirt.
He looks good.
“Yes, excuse me a moment.” I step toward Sean.
He smells good, too.
Which I find incredibly irritating. “I can’t believe you’re going ahead with this.”
“Why? I’m here and ready to say yes to love.”
“My book and my business are not a joke. I desperately need this book to sell well. Jo—” I decide not to tell him. He’s opted out of my life. He doesn’t deserve to know. “You’re making light of my future.”
“Speaking of your future.” He inches close and says with the warmth of the polar ice cap, “Is your boyfriend here? Thought maybe he and I could compare notes.”
“So this is how it’s going to be?”
“Hey, I’m not the one who has a boyfriend.”
“I’m not the one who dumped me.”
“A formality, I’d say. Because from what I’m told, you and Nick go way back. Tell me, did it ever get confusing dating us both, keeping the two of us straight?”
“Fine. There they are.” I point toward Chelsea and Betty, waiting in line for a drink at the bar. “Have at it. Go on and—”
“Pardon me, Bree?”
“What?” I say in haste only to find sweet Sara. I drop my head for a brief second. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”
“My security team is asking for a list of attendees.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll have Andrew get it for you.”
“Thanks.” She doesn’t look happy.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nixon just called. He’s not coming.”
“He’s not?” Jesus, Bree, listen to yourself. First you tamper with a budding relationship and now you pretend like you don’t know. Congratulations, you’re a total jerk.
“Last-minute meeting. God, I hope he isn’t blowing me off.”
“Nah, he’s just a busy guy.”
“You think? I know we’ve only gone on one date and it’s none of my business, but is he seeing someone else?”
Besides me?
She notices Sean. “Oh, I’m sorry. I completely interrupted your conversation.”
“No, problem. Is this your gallery, Sara?” he asks, reading her name tag and flashing his trial opening argument smile. The same smile he practiced in the mirror for six weeks.
“Yes, it is.”
“Nice place. I’m Sean.”
“Sara . . . as you know.”
The tone of Sean’s voice has grown warmer. “Bree, you didn’t answer me. Is your boyfriend coming tonight?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Sara says. “Nick, isn’t it? I read about him in the article. You two seem so cute together.”
“Aren’t they?” Sean says. “Damn near the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I take it back. Sean’s the total jerk.
“No, I’m sorry. He has a surgery scheduled.” I cringe at how easily lies have been rolling off my tongue. I reach for my neck and scrape my already sore skin.
“Oops.” Betty laughs, catching our attention. She bends over, exposing the edge of her lace stocking through the slit in her dress. She picks up the lime wheel fallen from her glass.
“I think she needs me.” Sean laughs. “Great meeting you, Sara.”
“You, too.” She turns to me. “He seems nice.”
I used to think so.
“I’m gonna buzz around the room, answer any questions about the art. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do, thanks. And Sara, I’m sorry about Nixon.” And I am. I really am.
I glance again at Sean. He shakes Chelsea’s hand, then offers Betty a napkin. Look at him. I know exactly what he’s doing, exercising what he calls his “mental floss,” running mnemonic techniques through his mind to remember their names.
Whenever he meets someone, he assigns a label to their face. Prideful of his “gift,” he’d tell me what stamps he came up with. I hate to admit it, but I’d laugh, even at the monikers on the verge of being cruel. Rick the dick. Prissy Missy. Elizabeth lizard breath.
He casts his eyes over Betty’s ample chest.
Her name is not Betty Big Boobs.
An hour later, after the impromptu art presentation Sara offered, the party’s in full swing.
Andrew mingles with the crowd, tending to minor details like “My heels are rubbing on my pinkie toe, do you have a Band-Aid?” and “A waiter asked for my phone number, should I give to him?”
I hang back, as I customarily do, studying the group’s dynamic, the conversations, and, of course, the body language.
Those who found someone interesting have shrunk their personal space to no more than a couple of inches, and the typical clues are evident. The women lick their lips, trace their fingers along their palms or forearms, angle their chin toward the man, pat his arm.
The men laugh with a deeper tenor or stand with widened legs as if they just corralled the cattle and dismounted a horse. They spew strength and masculinity while at the same time are insecure, hoping desperately to read the women’s clues correctly.
Not everyone finds a match. Love is trial and error, that’s why a mutual relationship that ebbs and flows organically feels so good.
And when it’s gone, hurts so bad.
Candace joins me. “It didn’t take long for our boy to settle into a quiet conversation with a young woman.”
I’ve tried like hell to avoid glancing at Sean, seated on a leather bench beside Betty, chatting for twenty-seven and a half minutes.
“What do you see? Any chemistry between the two?”
I don’t want to look. I want to bury my face in my hands like I did at my friend’s end-of-summer slumber party when we watched The Shining.
“Your thoughts?”
Be a grown-up, Bree. For Jo, for the book, for the house.
“Right. Well, if you’ll notice, her legs are tightly crossed and aimed toward Sean.”
“Why is that significant?”
“Because the farther away the body part is from the brain, the less aware we are of it. We control our facial expressions, shoulders, and hand gestures but often forget our feet. So it’s what the lower body is doing that tells us what a person is truly feeling.”
“Interesting.”
“And see, she’s facing him, showing off her legs. It’s a position that increases her sexual allure, emphasizing her feminine shape and tone.”
Jesus, this is unbearable. A root canal is less painful.
“What else?”
Wasn’t that enough? I breathe deeply. “All right, see how she’s sliding her thumb and finger up and down the stem of her wineglass?”
“Yes?”
“She might as well unzip his pants and pull out the real thing.”
“Pardon?” Candace asks.
I said that out loud, d
idn’t I? “Um . . . what I meant to say is, that gesture is a phallic transference, stimulating basic urges in males.”
“Oh, my.”
Betty tosses her head back and laughs.
She likes him.
Candace’s phone rings. “Excuse me for a minute.”
Andrew steps near. “Guess what?”
“Betty is a transvestite?”
“No, no.” He laughs. “Our bank executive sparked a connection with the Escondido Realtor.”
“Great.” My tone is flat.
“Don’t let him get to you.”
“I thought I knew him. All this time together and I really thought I knew him. But now, watching him, I’d never picked him as the kind of guy who could discard our past so easily and move on to another woman. What do you suppose he sees in her?”
“Maybe it’s her kick-ass body.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I know, but hell, look at her. A couple more glasses of wine and I’ll go home with her.” Andrew nudges my shoulder in an it’ll-be-okay way.
Sean leans toward Betty as she whispers something in his ear. He laughs, then slides his hand on the small of her back.
He likes her, too.
Bree, what have you done?
nineteen
Sean and Candace sit beside each other across from my desk the next morning. Thankfully, they arrived at the same time, so I didn’t have to fill the awkward air space between Sean and me with silly chitchat. I’ve done an excellent job avoiding his eyes.
“So, Mr. Sean,” Candace says, “looks like you found someone who captured your attention? A dental hygienist, right?”
“Yes, I had a fun conversation with her.”
“Gorgeous girl. Do you plan to see her again?”
“Well, she offered me a free cleaning.” Sean folds his arms over his head and leans against the chair’s backrest. “Said she’d show me her instruments, if you know what I mean.”
Oh, give me a break. Nobody says stuff like that. He’s just trying to get at me.
“She seems like a great girl,” he says, “but I’m not going to ask her out.”
“You’re not?” I say, feeling calmer hearing this.
“Last night I found someone even more captivating.” He moves forward, meeting my eyes.
No, Sean. Please don’t bring me into this.
“Really? One of Bree’s contacts?”
“She had a hand in it, yes. Bree knows what I like.”
Don’t say any more. Not one more word about me. You’ll ruin everything.
“So, tell us, what’s her name?”
No, don’t say it. Please. Don’t—
“Sara,” he says.
“Candace, I can explain, I . . . Sara?” I stare at Sean.
“Yes,” he says, “the gallery owner.”
Yes, I know who Sara is, thank you very much. But Sara? Nixon’s Sara?
Candace jots a note. “Oh, she’s lovely. Tell me what you like about her.”
“She’s intelligent and confident, knows how to carry herself in a room. We both love the Bay Area, and she’s got a spunky sense of humor.”
Other than a few minutes early in the evening, when did he talk with her? “Sara? Are you sure?”
“Bree, you sound surprised,” Candace says.
“I . . . I . . . just thought he showed more interest in Betty during the evening.” I didn’t know he took his eyes off her boobs long enough to engage with anyone else. Actually, that’s not true. Sean’s not the type to ogle women. I wouldn’t have dated him if he were.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he says, “Betty is likely one hell of a good time, but, I don’t know, Sara’s got something. Something interesting.”
What about Nixon? My heart breaks a little for him.
“Do you want to see her again?” Candace asks.
“Absolutely.”
My heart breaks a little for me.
“Sara it is,” Candace says. “Bree, what happens now?”
Knowing there’s potential in this match, I force myself to answer with an unemotional, nonquivering voice. “I’ll call Sara and see if she’s interested. She’s seeing someone else, so I can’t guarantee she’ll be receptive.” Truth is, I have no idea how she’ll react. But I toss the barb out because it makes me feel better. “If she says it’s okay, I’ll pass on her number to um . . . Sean.”
And then I’ll throw up.
“Excellent. I can’t imagine anyone not interested in you, Sean. Now, Bree, any advice for our man of the hour?”
Wear your green polo that makes you look like a leprechaun. Bore her with one of your drawn-out narratives about 1031 tax implications. And try not to be so damn handsome.
I squash my thoughts and say, “Well, Sean, a few first-date ground rules. No bathing suits. No—”
“Why’s that?” Candace asks.
“No woman wants to be seen in a swimming suit on the first date.” Or the hundredth, for that matter. “They shouldn’t show off the merchandise too early.”
“Makes sense.”
“Stay away from religion, politics, abortion, or death penalty discussions. And lastly . . . no sex.” I can hardly get the words out, for the image of him naked, tangled between the sheets, skin-to-skin with another woman shoots a rush of heat to my forehead.
“Well, it sounds like love is in the air. On all counts.” Candace winks at me.
“Yes, how is Nick?” Sean asks.
“Great. Really great. So great. Never had anyone better,” I sneer.
“Take care, all; it’s going to be a busy week.” Candace gathers her things. “From here on out, I’ll meet with Sean privately, keeping tabs on the dates with Sara.”
“I’ll walk you out, Candace,” he says. “Can’t wait for my date.” And with a wink he’s gone.
Andrew tosses me a piece of Ghirardelli salted caramel candy. We save a stash of the treat for moments like this. Or whenever.
I tear open the wrapped square. “Why is he doing this to me?”
“Because he’s hurt.”
“So am I.”
“Because he’s scum.”
I drop my head into my hands.
“I know things seem bad.”
“Because they are bad.”
“Maybe, but you no longer are doing this for just yourself. Grab the bull by the horns and find a lover for your ex-boyfriend.”
I look at him. “That’s such a stupid expression. Why would I ever grab a bull by the horns?”
“Call Sara and get it over with. Your popularity has created a hell storm of work. We’ve got a lot to do.”
“This isn’t easy for me, you know.”
“Think it’s easy to watch my best friend suffer? I’m furious with Sean for what he did, but wallowing in it just gives him the upper hand.”
“You’re right.”
“Another piece of chocolate?”
“Make it two. Okay, three, but no more than four.”
Mr. Chambers’s e-mail pops into my inbox, interrupting my pity party. I click it open and skim through the list of requested documents, six total. He includes a recorded acknowledgment from the IRS regarding the hearing date and reminds me the case is set for nine a.m. sharp, the nineteenth.
Sometimes it sucks to be a grown-up.
For Jo, for the book, for the house.
I release a long exhale and dial Sara.
She answers after several rings. “Hello?”
“Hi, Sara. It’s Bree.”
“Bree. How are you?”
I’m fine except for the fact that you’re dating my fake boyfriend and about to date my real boyfriend . . . er . . . ex-boyfriend. “Great. How are you?”
“Exhausted from last night. So exhilara
ted from the evening, I barely slept, recounting the evening over and over in my mind. One of your clients, Sean, bought two pieces for his office.”
“Did he?”
“Not to mention, he’s fascinating and funny. Cute, too. Did you know he won a skateboarding competition in eighth grade?”
Did you know he’s allergic to strawberries, has a hardened speck of cartilage in his right ear from a closed piercing that I used to fiddle with on long drives, and he gets turned on when I do the splits? “Actually, Sara, Sean’s the reason I’m calling.”
“It is?”
“You’ll likely think this is crazy, and you don’t have to say yes, but Sean’s wondering if you’d go out with him.” Gag. “I explained that you’ve just met Nixon and won’t be interested, but—”
“Why wouldn’t I be interested?”
Because four days ago you were ready to freeze your eggs until Nixon’s ready. “Last time we spoke you seemed excited about Nixon, and—”
“I am excited about him. Have you seen Nixon’s swagger and my God, that sexy little crevice between his brows when he frowns?”
Yes, actually I have.
“But we’ve gone on one date and talked only a handful of times. Gosh, would I be a terrible person if I went on a date with Sean?”
Yes.
“Dating two men at once, does that make me a floozy?”
Yes.
“Nixon and I aren’t exclusive or anything. Not like you and Nick. I’m loving the article thing, by the way; can’t wait for the next one.”
“That reminds me. You may be featured in the paper if you date Sean.”
“Ooh . . . that’s even more tempting. My fifteen minutes of fame.” She giggles. “I have to admit, it’s kinda fun. I’ve never had two men interested in me at once.”
“You hardly know Sean. He might be a serial killer.”
“I hardly know Nixon, either. And I don’t think you’d sail me down that river twice.”
Ouch. How could I have forgotten her stint in the police station? “No, of course not, I’m just looking out for my clients. I need to make sure everyone is up front and honest.”
“I understand. I’ll have a chat with Nixon, but you said yourself to calm down and take it slow. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll take it slow . . . with two men.” She laughs.
Can I See You Again? Page 14
