On the other hand, I’m not giving her a chance to choose me. I was mute last night when I could have shared my feelings. But I can’t quite commit to the idea of telling Stevie I love her and want to be with her. It feels too direct. She’ll panic.
The waitress comes by and I order a Madame Psychosis, their current IPA brew, then lean forward, arms folded on the table.
“We need a plan,” I say.
“I have a few ideas.” She smiles, but it looks forced.
“What are you thinking?”
“We both have something, a secret weapon, that we can use.” She leans forward, too. “We know them as well as we know ourselves. Example. Jude has some definite dislikes in women he dates. I’m sure it’s the same with the men Stevie goes out with. If we mislead them a bit, suggest those very same things for their date with each other, maybe we can buy ourselves some time to figure out the best way to convince them we’re the ones for them.”
I shift my cocktail napkin around. It’s not exactly mature, but it could buy time, like she said. “Okay. How?”
“First things first. Let’s do this, and then we’ll work on a plan for making them see reason.” She sips her beer.
“What are some things that Jude doesn’t like?”
“Makeup. He’s not crazy about heavily made up women.”
I squint. “Stevie doesn’t wear a lot of makeup. I’m not sure she owns much makeup.”
Emmy shakes her head slightly. “Don’t underestimate the power of suggestion . . . or the depth of a woman’s cosmetic drawer. If you hint that she’d look better with a full face of makeup, I’ll bet she’ll at least wear more than she normally would on the date.”
I have no idea how to tell Stevie that in a casual way, but Emmy’s already moving on.
“Now what’s something that Stevie hates?” she asks.
I tell her my idea.
Emmy grins slyly. “Okay, I’ll suggest that to Jude.”
“Perfect. Go team.” I raise a hand for her to high-five, and she pats it lightly.
“Go team.”
“We’ve got this,” I say.
And I really hope I’m right.
Chapter Fifteen
Stevie
Somehow, despite the fact that we share a less than two thousand-square-foot home, I manage to avoid Logan for the next five days. I make excuses, hide in my room, go over to Mom’s house, to Tamara and Dean’s, or over to one of my handful of friends’ homes.
He doesn’t seem to mind . . . or even to notice. Which makes me feel worse.
After he’d denied that anything was wrong, which was clearly untrue, I’d slept fitfully, wondering what I’d done to mess up our friendship. It had to be me, something I’ve done.
Actually, it probably is me. I’m what’s wrong. I mean, who would want to continue to live and be friends with such an epic train wreck? Logan is a fully functioning adult. I can’t get my life together beyond the basics of working to collect a meager income and maintaining a minimal level of personal hygiene. And I even fail at that, given that daily flossing is on my bucket list.
So, when Jude asked me out on Monday, I said yes. It was . . . a balm for my sore ego. Someone thinks I’m okay, although I’m sure he’ll change his mind when he gets to know me better.
Now it’s Friday, and I’m meeting Jude in an hour, and I’m having second thoughts. I’m not in the right mood to start a new relationship. Dating is so exhausting, and it never seems to work out.
But . . . we are going to a nice place for dinner and to an exhibit at Think, one of my favorite art galleries in RiNo, the River North neighborhood of Denver, a fun and funky area chock full of old warehouses converted into hip restaurants, bars, shops, and galleries. And I like Jude, so there’s that.
I take a last look at myself. I’m wearing my black summer dress, my one pair of heels, a long braided necklace, some stacked bracelets, and a few swipes of mascara and lip gloss.
I creak open my bedroom door and peek out. No sound from the living room or kitchen, so I tiptoe to the back door to let Bean out before I go. I haven’t told Logan I’m going out with Jude, and I’d as soon avoid the teasing he’ll undoubtedly inflict on me. He always manages to find something to criticize about the guys I go out with, and the longer I go out with them, the worse it gets.
No luck in sneaking out today. Logan’s leaning against the kitchen counter, drinking from a bottle of water and looking at his phone. He glances at me, and I straighten my shoulders.
“Hey. You look nice. Where are you headed?” He sounds distracted. Uninterested.
“I’m meeting someone at Think.”
“Yeah? Who?” He looks at his phone.
I sigh. “Jude.”
He nods and sips his water. “Cool. Have fun.”
Frowning, I step outside with Bean, hoping to close the door and end the conversation, but Logan wanders out.
“What are you doing tonight?” I ask him.
“Going out with Emmy.”
He is? Since when? I knew they’d been talking, but this is new. And I’m glad about it. Right? Number one is happening like I planned.
“Oh. Where are you going?” I ask.
“We haven’t decided yet. Dinner. Then we’ll see.”
O-kay. Hello, vague. “Well, have a good time.”
“Thanks, you too. Oh, and Stevie—a tip,” he says in a bored voice. “You might want to put on a little more makeup. Emmy told me that Jude likes women who look really polished. I guess he dated a makeup artist a while ago and he got a taste for it. Or something like that.”
I stare at him. How weird. But I guess he’s trying to help. “Thanks.”
I leave Logan outside to put food in Bean’s bowl and order my Lyft to go downtown. Then, I glance at my watch. I have a few minutes.
I dart to my bathroom and add more blush. And more lipstick. I layer on the mascara and try to add some eyeliner which frankly doesn’t go very well. Finally, I use this contouring stick that Tamara gave me, so my cheekbones are more defined, and I brush a finishing powder over my face with a tiny bit of glitter in it. The final impression is kind of . . . overdone, in my opinion. But it’s definitely more polished than before.
Logan’s walking to his room as I leave. He looks my way, and his eyes widen. For a second I wonder if he’s about to laugh, but his face immediately calms.
“Looks great,” he says. “He’ll love it. Have fun.”
I leave, feeling more confused about my friend than ever. As I ride in the back of the Lyft, the driver talking my ear off about the upcoming presidential election, Jude texts that he’s waiting outside the gallery and looking forward to seeing me. How sweet.
As I step out of the car, I catch a reflected look at myself in the rearview mirror and nearly stumble. Clearly, my bathroom mirror isn’t as bright as daylight. I don’t look polished; I look like a poorly drawn clown.
But I’m out of options because Jude’s right here. I turn my look of horror to a smile and greet him. His warm expression slips when he gets a good look at me, and his eyes go wide like Logan’s had.