by Becky Monson
“And that is?” Gram looks at me inquisitively.
“It’s definitely helped me get my mind off Adam.” I take a bite of my sandwich, hoping the saltiness will help me get over my chocolate craving. It’s not working.
Oddly, when I think about it, I don’t know if I’ve thought of Adam much at all since I met up with Ian. Granted, it’s only been a day, but still . . . that’s got to be a step in the right direction. At least the signs are pointing toward the fact that I’m starting to move on from the whole Adam situation. Of course, I’m having lunch with Carla tomorrow, so who knows where I’ll be after that.
“Well, that’s good then, don’t you think?” She eyes me, searching my face.
“Yes, but now my mind is completely on Ian. Like I can’t think of anything else,” I say, still ogling the chocolate cake, dreaming of its sugary deliciousness. My mouth salivates just thinking about it. Yes, I think chocolate cake is definitely happening.
“Well, give him time then,” Gram says. She reaches for the sugar packet container, opens her purse, and dumps all of the pink, yellow, blue, and white packets into it.
“Gram!” I say, looking around wildly. Someone had to see that. I mean, she’s not even trying to hide it.
“What?” she looks up at me after she returns the empty container to its regular spot on the table.
“I thought we discussed this. That’s stealing.” I point to her stolen-goods-carrying purse.
“Oh, nonsense. I do it all the time. No one cares. Besides, they have tons of these. I’m simply helping them with the rotation so they don’t get stale,” she says, going back to her sandwich.
“Gram, I seriously can’t go out with you anymore if you keep doing that,” I say, pointing my finger at her in full lecture mode. This is not her first offense.
“Stop being such a goody-goody, Bridgette. You really need to loosen up,” she says like some marijuana-hawking junkie.
I start to say more but then stop myself. There’s no use in trying to talk her out of it. We’ve had this discussion plenty of times. I silently scold myself for not remembering to hide the container when we sat down. The crazy part is Gram has money and lots of it. She doesn’t need to steal the sugar packets, but now it’s like a habit or something and she can’t stop. Maybe it gives her a little rush.
I shake my head at her, puckering my lips into my best duckface. “Gram, what am I going to do with you?”
She looks up from her sandwich. “Well, you can start by buying that chocolate cake you’ve been eyeing.” She nods her head toward the counter display case where the lone piece of chocolate cake has been beckoning me. “Go get it,” she says. “We can share.”
I give her a small smile. Chocolate cake it is.
CHAPTER 17
“Oh, Bridgette, what am I going to dooooooooooooo?” Carla blubbers as we sit in a corner table at her favorite restaurant.
People are staring. Actually, it’s more than staring. It’s outright judging at this point. I’m trying desperately to soothe her, but nothing is working. I signal the server to bring more wine. It’s my only hope at this point.
“She’s a gold digger. I know she is,” she says through sniffles.
“Well . . .” I taper off. I don’t know what to say here. Is this even appropriate? My ex-boyfriend’s mother—an ex whom, until very (very) recently, I was pining over—is now venting to me about his new fiancée. Awkward is probably the most appropriate word to describe it.
“You know she doesn’t love him. You saw her! Why would that pencil-thin witch be interested in my son? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think Adam is handsome, of course. But not handsome enough for that slut-looking-supermodel. I pictured my Adam with someone more plain, you know? Like you.” She gestures over to me.
Ouch. And here I was thinking my tailored, black shorts paired with a white button-down shirt, and the most amazing Kenneth Cole platform sandals, looked more than plain. Silly me.
She shakes her head, “I can’t let him marry her; I just can’t.”
We sit in silence. I’m trying to think of something to say, but what is there really? I don’t know Serene personally. I have no idea if she’s marrying Adam for his money . . . money that he doesn’t have just yet. Perhaps she is, or maybe she truly loves him. That thought still stings, to be honest. I spent so much time thinking my future was with Adam. Even if my heart is feeling less broken, I still feel the need to hate her.
Carla grabs her purse and starts fishing around until she pulls out a packet of tissues and, taking one from the packet, she blows her nose loudly and obnoxiously. The staring, which had tapered off for a bit, commences yet again.
“Anyway, enough about Adam and that tramp. What’s new with you? How are things?” she says, as she wipes her nose aggressively with the tissue.
“Pretty good, I guess. Just working. Nothing exciting.” I shrug my shoulders. Wow, my life sounds dull. I guess I could go into the whole Ian drama, but I don’t feel like it. Plus, I would have to give the whole backstory for any of it to seem like a drama to Carla.
“And how is Justin?” She winks when she says his name.
Oh, dang it, Justin. I totally forgot about that whole ruse. I’ve yet to come clean.
“He’s fine,” is all I say. I’m not in the mood to confess right now, plus it probably wouldn’t help the situation much.
“Well, I hope things work out with you two.” She grabs her wine and takes a rather large swig. I just nod my head. “He’s really into you, that one,” she says after she swallows.
“Really? How so?” That was a knee-jerk reaction. Obviously, I already know it was all acting on his part. Mine, too.
“I could tell by the look in his eyes when he watched you.” She nods her head.
Well, that was not what I was expecting. Did Justin do that great of an acting job?
“Heaven knows, I’ve never seen that look in Serene’s eyes when she looks at my Adam.” Her eyes well up with tears again, and she grabs her wine glass and gulps more down, probably trying to keep the tears at bay. “They’ve already set a date, you know,” she says with a frog-like voice, as she chokes back the tears.
“What? They’ve set a date . . . already?” My stomach sinks. I guess I wasn’t expecting them to actually set a date. But, of course, that’s what you do when you get engaged. I already knew Adam wasn’t mine anymore, and I was coming to grips with that. But for some reason this piece of info sets me back just slightly. It seems so final.
“Yes, September twenty-first.” Carla taps the side of the wine glass with a long manicured nail.
“Well, that’s far enough away that maybe things will change,” I say, trying to give her some hope. It also helps my spirits lift a little. Not that I want to be with Adam again . . . or do I? I’m so confused at all the feelings going through my mind right now. I think I might need therapy.
“No, Bridgette.” She leans toward me and looks me directly in the eyes, “September twenty-first of this year.” She practically spits the words out as she says them.
“This year? But that’s only three months away!” I say louder than I intended.
“That’s what I said to them. But they seem set on it. Oh, what am I going to do?” She starts blubbering again, and the staring starts up, as well.
Three months? Who gets married in only three months’ time? I don’t even think you can book a venue in that amount of time in this city. Not a decent one, at least.
The server brings our food to the table. Both of us just stare at it. I know I don’t really feel like eating, and I’m pretty sure Carla feels the same.
My phone beeps.
Sorry.
Ian. Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure I would hear from him after we met up the other night. He didn’t reply to any of the texts I sent him. I will not admit to how many I sent, but I will say it was more than four and less than twenty . . . or so. I don’t know. My shame kept me from counting.
“Who was that?
” I look up to see Carla looking inquisitively at my phone. I better grab on tight in case she feels the need to rip it out of my hands. That’s not happening again, not if I can help it, at least.
“Just someone from college,” I say, hoping to divert her from the questioning game she so loves to play. “Let me reply really quick.” I start typing rapidly after she nods an approval of sorts, half-occupied with her wine.
What happened?
My phone beeps again, not too long after I hit send.
Don’t want to explain over text. Coffee Monday night?
I text him back a “sure” and then put my phone in my purse. A sudden feeling of relief lands on my shoulders. I was carrying more tension there than I thought. Obviously, Ian and I have more to discuss about our past. Clearly it was not just “water under the bridge.”
The rest of the lunch is somewhat strained. I don’t have much to offer Carla in the way of sympathy or good advice. I don’t feel like it’s my place. The only thing I can offer is a listening ear, and I think Carla might be drained, because she doesn’t have much to say. Not as much as she usually does, at least. Poor Carla. This is so hard for her.
“Sorry to go on like I did,” Carla says as we walk out of the restaurant.
“Why are you sorry? I’m here to listen,” I say, and I truly mean it, even given how awkward the whole situation is.
She gives me a hug, and we say goodbye.
Thank goodness I got the text from Ian. At least I have that to hold on to. Having Ian around took off some of the burn from the breakup with Adam. I was beginning to wonder if I would have gone back to my old stalking-Adam ways without Ian in my life. I doubt it, but I guess I won’t have to find out.
CHAPTER 18
University of Connecticut, Junior Year, Winter
“Want me to punch him?” Ian asked, his arms around me as we sat on the couch in my apartment living room. I was looking glamorous in a graphic tee shirt and cutoff sweats.
“Yes,” I sniffled.
“Seriously, Bridge, I never liked him for you,” he said, leaning his head against mine.
“I know,” I said through the balled-up tissue I was holding up to my ever-running nose. I was finally over the hiccupping, thank goodness. He never came out and said it until right now, but I could always tell that Ian was not on Team Brandon.
“You could have said something sooner, though,” I said, feeling defeated and heartbroken.
“Would you have listened if I did?” he asked, pulling me tighter into him.
I sighed. “Probably not.”
We sat there in silence for a bit, Ian rubbing my arm with his hand and holding me tight.
“Now that it’s out, what didn’t you like about him?” I asked through my sniffling.
“I don’t know,” he said. But I could tell by his tone that he was just buying time to figure out how to articulate what he really wanted to say. “I guess it wasn’t him so much. It was more the fact that you weren’t totally yourself around him.”
“How so?” That caught me off guard. I felt like I had been myself around Brandon.
“You just—I don’t know how to explain it,” he said, still not coming clean. “I guess . . . I guess you just seemed to conform to what Brandon wanted and not really what you wanted.”
“I did?”
He only nodded his head. I felt like there was more there, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to prod further. Was I really that big of a doormat?
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” he asked. I shrugged my shoulders, conceding. No point in rehashing it all now. Brandon and I were done.
“I guess not,” I said, the tears starting up again.
“I will seriously punch him if you want me to,” Ian said. I actually believed he would if I asked. Part of me wanted him to, of course. But what good would it do? Plus, like it or not, Brandon and Ian were still roommates.
“I guess I won’t be spending much time at your apartment anymore,” I said. Pulling out of his grasp, I sat back on the couch. I pulled my knees into my chest and wrapped my arms around them like a cocoon.
“That’s cool. We can hang out here.” Ian said. Leaning back against the couch, he placed his hands in his lap.
“I’m sure Brittany would love that.” Brittany was Ian’s flavor of the month. In truth, I didn’t mind Brittany, but I liked to say her name with as much snobbery as I could. It’s a snobby name, after all. Brit-knee. Brit-nay. Any way you sliced it, really.
“Don’t worry about her,” Ian said, his head falling back against the couch.
“I’m not,” I said, and I truly wasn’t. Ian and I were a package deal. The women in Ian’s life who protested were quickly kicked to the curb. Brandon never seemed to mind Ian and me. That was another reason it would be hard to start over. Who knew if the next guy would be so understanding? If there would be another guy. I couldn’t even think about that at the moment.
“So, how long does this last?” Ian asked, turning his head toward me.
“How long does what last?” I asked, scrunching up my face at him.
“This.” He made an imaginary circle around my face with his pointer finger. “This whole, woe-is-me-Bridgette thing you’ve got going on here.”
“You jerk. We just broke up today,” I said, as I unwrapped a hand from the cocoon I had put myself in and slapped him on the arm.
“Couple days? Week? Two weeks?” He kept going, searching my face to see if he’d even come within the ballpark of the end date for my mourning.
“Are you serious?” My mouth fell open in complete shock at his lack of any emotional intelligence. Ian was better at that than most men.
“Yes, I’ve never been around brokenhearted Bridgette. I’m just wondering how long I will have to listen to it.” His lip twitched as he held back a grin.
I called him a not-so-nice word and pushed him with both of my hands. He dramatically toppled over to the side.
“I’ll get over it when I’m over it. I’m not like you,” I said, pushing him again. This time I used more strength.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian asked as he righted himself, his brow furrowed in my direction.
“It means you can just move on without even a thought. It takes us girls longer than that.” I wrapped my arms around my knees, cocooning myself once again.
Ian feigned exasperation. “I don’t just move on without a thought. It can take me a while, too. I just don’t make it worse by watching sappy movies and listening to breakup music.”
“I don’t do that,” I said, protesting. Although I probably would do both of those things, eventually.
“You’d be surprised how long it takes me to get over someone,” he said, his head looking forward.
“Yeah, sure,” I said, with an eye roll that he couldn’t see.
“Some people you never get over,” he said quietly.
“Why, Ian Davies, that was probably the cheesiest thing that’s ever come out of your mouth,” I said, teasing, but also feeling somewhat shocked by his admission.
“Well,” he shrugged, “it’s true.”
“So, who is it?” I nudged him with my elbow.
“Who’s what?” He scrunched his face at me.
“This girl you never got over,” I asked, digging my elbow into his arm further.
He shook his head, looking away from me. “No one.”
I didn’t press further, because I could tell he wasn’t going to tell me even if I tried.
“Give me a week,” I said, knowing it would take longer than that to get over Brandon, but that I would most likely stop sulking by then.
“That, I can do,” he said, reaching his arm over. He pulled me toward him, and I nuzzled my head into his neck.
I could totally handle this, as long as I had Ian.
CHAPTER 19
“BRIDGETTE!” Ursula yells as she walks into the staging area.
Crap, what did I do now? We’re cleaning up from our latest cater
ing job. One of my favorite kinds of parties – famous people. I can’t say who was in attendance but their names rhyme with Drad Bitt and Banjolina Holie. It was quite exciting.
“Yes?” I say somewhat timidly. Seriously, I’m wracking my brain here. I don’t think I did anything wrong, but you never know with The Sea Witch. I could glance in the wrong direction for one second, and she would catch it. She has eyes in the back of her head and on pretty much every other part of her body. She can just “sense” when something is amiss.
“Vee need to talk.” She gestures for me to come over to where she is.
I look back at Ashley and Justin who are both staring. Their expressions look as if I am facing my impending death. I just might be.
Ursula turns around and walks out the door, and I follow her. My heart rate is picking up by the second.
“Bridgette, I have been vatchink you tonight,” she says in her thick German accent.
Oh, crap.
“Yes, I’m really sorry about that,” I say, not entirely sure what I’m apologizing for.
“Vat are you sorry about?” She furrows her brow.
“Um, nothing. Never mind. Vat . . . er . . . I mean what were you saying?” Oh, that was brilliant. I blame Justin. He was making me do my Ursula impression before she came in the room yelling my name. Not one of my smartest moves.
She shakes her head as if she’s begun to doubt what she intended to say.
“Business is pickink up, and I need a new caterink manager,” she finally says, and rather flatly.
I stand there, gaping at her. She needs a new catering manager? What does that have to do with me?
“You vant zee job, don’t you?” She gives me a confused look.
Catering manager? Me? Uh, yeah, since the day I started working for her. Is she really saying what I think she’s saying? It can’t be. It’s been so long that I’ve wanted this job, but then months passed (years, actually) and it never happened . . . I guess I thought it never would.
