Jesus Christ. She’s talking to her mom about this shit? Does the whole neighborhood know what a fuckup I am?
“If you’re wondering if she’s talking about it with the other moms in town, the answer is yes. I heard her telling Crystal Yont on the phone yesterday that you’d rather date your dog than have a girlfriend.”
Crystal and her husband Paul live on the next block and I only know this because when I first moved in, Chewy got loose and ran down the street, into their yard. I found him humping the leg of their Great Dane.
“I would not rather date my dog.” What kind of a loser do they think I am? How friggin’ embarrassing. “I’m not completely helpless when it comes to women.”
Molly snorts. “So let me ask you again—what are you going to do about the Chandler situation?”
“I…” I don’t know. Crap, I really am terrible at this. “What do you think I should do?”
I can’t believe I’m asking a fifteen-year-old for advice, but this is what my life has come to right now. I can’t call Hollis and lord knows I cannot call my mother because then I would have to explain the situation and my guess is Mom has no idea she set off an avalanche.
“For starters, you should shower. Your bedhead is horrible.”
I pat the back of my head, feeling around for a cowlick. “What else?”
“Well, you shouldn’t go another day without contacting her, that’s for dang sure.”
“What else?”
“You’re going to have to lay it out there for her, dude. Be vulnerable and stuff.”
“What, just charge into her place and start spilling my guts?”
“I mean, ring the doorbell first, duh.” Another eye roll. “You’re being super dramatic about this.”
“No I’m not! I’m seriously asking!”
Molly stands and walks around the couch, to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and standing in front of it. “Then yeah, I’m being serious. Dig deep and tell her you’re starting to have feelings for her.”
“I’m not in love with her.” Is it just me or do I sound a little too defensive?
I’m not in love with her. I can’t be.
It’s been a few weeks and I might be a lot of things, but I am not my brother—the guy who gets himself engaged after dating someone for less than a month.
That will never be me.
She’s taking down a package of bagels and a container of cream cheese. “Who said anything about love? You can still care and want to get to know her without confessing your dying devotion. Jeez, drama drama drama.”
I refuse to acknowledge her dig or get offended by a teenager’s interpretation of the situation. A teenager who’s tugging open the toaster cabinet and plopping one half into each side.
How the hell does she know where all this shit is?
I need to install cameras, stat, and change my damn door codes before she wises up, invites her friends over, and throws a raging kegger at my house while I’m traveling for work.
“You think I should go over there?”
Molly gives me an incredulous look. “You don’t honestly think she’d step foot in this house, do you? After last night? Get real.” The bagel pops up and she quickly pulls each piece out, dropping the hot carbs onto a plate. “You could ask her to meet you at The Ivy. That would be romantic.”
“The scene of the crime…” I say ominously.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
But now that she’s mentioned it, it’s a great idea. Invite her to the place where we met for drinks, but this time, it will be a real date. One where I grovel and beg and confess my…my…
That I like her.
Now how am I supposed to get her there?
Twenty-Three
Chandler
Hollis: I’m starving!
Me: Maybe you’re pregnant.
Hollis: Why does everyone keep saying I might be pregnant?
Me: Because you might be pregnant?
Hollis: Fine, it’s true that we’ve been trying, but NO I AM NOT. And that’s not why I texted you…
Me: Sorry, lol. What’s up?
Hollis: I’m starving.
Me: Okay…?
Hollis: Wanna eat with me? Trace is working on one of his houses.
It’s always weird hearing my cousin call her husband by his real name rather than his nickname and I always forget he flips houses in the off-season.
Me: Sure, I could eat. What did you have in mind?
Hollis: Somewhere with amazing drinks. I’m in the mood for a cocktail.
Me: That’s SO many places…
Hollis: What about The Ivy?
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keypad on my phone, top teeth biting into my bottom lip.
Who cares if it’s the place where I went with Tripp—it’s not like it holds sentimental value. It’s just a restaurant. I’m a big girl; it’s not going to trigger me.
Me: Sure, that sounds good. What time?
Hollis: How about…meet me there in an hour? I’m just wearing jeans.
Me: Cool. See you in an hour.
Same curbside. Same valet. Same walk up the concrete sidewalk to the front door of The Ivy.
It looks semi-deserted and I wonder if Hollis made a mistake choosing this place because it does not appear to be open. Then again, it’s still too early for a dinner rush or a drinking crowd.
Same doorman.
Same hostess.
“Chandler Westbrooke?”
I nod.
“Right this way please.”
She’s leading me to the bar, the room quiet but not completely devoid of customers; an older couple is enjoying cocktails at the long counter, and a gentleman with his back to me sits at one of the high-top tables.
I do not see my cousin anywhere.
Confused that the hostess recognized me, I consider going to check the dining room; surely she’s mistaken. We’re here for dinner, not drinks, and Hollis hasn’t arrived yet.
My stomach growls.
If the hostess will seat me, I can order a bread basket and maybe some appetizers, or even—
“Chandler.”
Tripp is rising from the high-top, all six foot three of him, and I stare, dumbfounded. Give my head a little shake.
“My cousin isn’t coming, is she? This was a setup.”
“Guilty.” He holds his hands out. “I didn’t think you’d see me otherwise.”
I didn’t think he wanted to, considering he hasn’t even tried to contact me. No texts, no phone calls. No flowers.
A bouquet I hadn’t noticed rests on the tabletop.
Okay, I will admit, the flowers are a nice touch.
A little bit of the ice that formed when he hurt me thaws.
“I guess you’ll never know since you didn’t reach out.” I say it because he needs to know staying silent is no way to work through a misunderstanding.
“Would it have mattered?”
“Yes.”
He nods. “Alright. I’ll remember that.”
I hope he writes that shit down because I have no interest in teaching a grown man how to be in a relationship.
Slow down, speedy—you don’t know why he brought you here.