Walk of Shame
Page 25
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“Hmm?”
His smile is a touch smug as he turns the tables. “I told you mine. Now you tell me why you asked about the opposites-attract thing.”
I run my red nail along the seam of the two leaves in the table. “It’s that guy. The one in my building I mentioned last week.”
“The divorce lawyer?”
I nod.
“Can’t say I ever saw you being interested in an attorney.”
“I don’t know that I am interested. I’m just . . . intrigued. He’s so different from any other guy I know. He’s so different from me.”
“Does he like you?”
I snort. “No. Not even a little bit.”
He thinks I’m perfectly ridiculous. And I’m starting to think I misinterpreted that card. That it really was a dismissal, not an endearment.
“Do you think maybe that’s part of the appeal?” my dad asks gently.
I give him a look. “You’re implying that I want what I can’t have?”
He shrugs. “Human nature.”
“I suppose that’s part of the allure,” I admit. “It’s not like I want to have him eating out of my hand or anything. I just . . .”
My dad leans back in his chair and studies me. “You want my advice?”
“Sure.”
“Forget him,” my dad says. “You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and you’re fun. If he doesn’t see that—doesn’t appreciate that about you—from the very beginning, he’s not the one.”
I blink. It’s good advice. Solid. Smart. Logically sound.
And yet it leaves me feeling a little . . . I don’t know.
Sad.
My dad’s right, though. Do I really want to win over a guy who thinks I’m brainless and then can’t utter a proper apology for it? Or a guy who eats only salad for lunch and power shakes for breakfast, and who can’t even acknowledge receiving a text message, no matter how lame?
Andrew Mulroney may have been right to drag me along during his daily routine in an attempt to show me I don’t belong.
And I don’t have to drag him along for a day in my world to know he wouldn’t fit any better there than I do in his.
“Surely there’s someone in your life who does appreciate you,” he says. “If not, Joseph’s son just moved back from San Diego, and you guys always got along so well—”
I laugh and hold up a hand. “Please. Do not set me up with Caleb Myers. He used to try to wipe boogers in my ponytail.”
“Well, I see I’ve missed some riveting conversation,” my mom says, striding into the dining room. “Georgie, hon, love the silk blouse. Michael Kors?”
I look down and shrug. “How’d the call go?”
“Hmm?” She gives me a sharp look.
“Your call? Dad said you were on the phone?”
“Oh, right.” She waves her hand. “Paris didn’t get their swatches on time, and I had to assure Celeste it was simply a shipping hiccup.”
My dad’s attention is already back on his newspaper, and I study my mom as she fixes herself a mimosa. I hear a faint strain of off-key music, and—
“Mom, are you humming?” I ask.
She stills, and my dad peers at her over the top of his newspaper.
Her laugh is nervous. “Just in a good mood, I guess.”
My dad and I exchange a glance, and he shrugs, turning his attention back to his paper.
Mom joins me at the table, suspiciously free of her iPhone and laptop. I know I should be glad that she’s in such a good mood, but I can’t shake the feeling that something seems off. I’d asked her about that during our chat last week, but she said nothing’s up.
She’s lying, but maybe I can’t blame her.
I keep thinking about what my dad said about that Heidi woman.
How she needed him, just a little.
Did my mom ever need my dad? Did he ever need her?
I mean, I’m a modern woman and all—I know I’m supposed to subscribe to the notion that a woman can be complete without a man and vice versa, and I do. I really do.
And yet, sitting here with two people who somehow share the same air, the same life, but barely seem aware of the other person’s presence, I can’t shake the sense that while maybe I don’t need someone to need me, I really, really wouldn’t mind spending time with someone who at least wants me.
Georgie
MONDAY, 4:59 A.M. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?
It’s a question I’ve repeated about a hundred times to myself on the cab ride home.
Not a solo cab ride. Nope. For reasons I can’t quite seem to wrap my head around, I’m in a cab with Brody Nash, and we’re headed back to my place.
It all started when I let him kiss me, sometime around three A.M. The rest of the crew was on the dance floor, and I’d switched over to my usual early morning round of sparkling water. He joined me in the San Pellegrino party, and it was a nice change. Usually I’m the only one sobering up while the rest of my friends are still pounding shots.
He was sitting close, his attention all on me. He laughed at my jokes and asked me about my day, and I just kept thinking about what my dad had talked about. About how I deserved someone who wanted me. Someone I didn’t have to convince of my worth.
And then Brody leaned over, pausing, giving me plenty of time to move away. Instead, I’d closed my eyes and let his mouth meet mine.
It had been, well . . .
Underwhelming. Wildly so.
But, but . . . I’ve learned something in the past few years: first kisses are never like they are in the movies. There’s never fireworks and foot lifting and butterflies. It takes a while for two people to get used to each other, to learn what the other one likes.
So I’m giving Brody a chance.
I mean, don’t freak out on me—I’m not going to sleep with him. But I don’t feel like sleeping at all, don’t feel like being alone with my thoughts, so when he suggested coming back to my place and having some coffee . . .
Why the hell not? Maybe a cup of coffee with a nice guy is precisely what I need to make me forget the time I’m not spending with a not-so-nice guy.
The cab pulls up in front of my building, and I feel a knot in my stomach as I watch Brody pay the cab driver before grabbing the pink donut box I made us stop for.
His smile is a touch smug as he turns the tables. “I told you mine. Now you tell me why you asked about the opposites-attract thing.”
I run my red nail along the seam of the two leaves in the table. “It’s that guy. The one in my building I mentioned last week.”
“The divorce lawyer?”
I nod.
“Can’t say I ever saw you being interested in an attorney.”
“I don’t know that I am interested. I’m just . . . intrigued. He’s so different from any other guy I know. He’s so different from me.”
“Does he like you?”
I snort. “No. Not even a little bit.”
He thinks I’m perfectly ridiculous. And I’m starting to think I misinterpreted that card. That it really was a dismissal, not an endearment.
“Do you think maybe that’s part of the appeal?” my dad asks gently.
I give him a look. “You’re implying that I want what I can’t have?”
He shrugs. “Human nature.”
“I suppose that’s part of the allure,” I admit. “It’s not like I want to have him eating out of my hand or anything. I just . . .”
My dad leans back in his chair and studies me. “You want my advice?”
“Sure.”
“Forget him,” my dad says. “You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and you’re fun. If he doesn’t see that—doesn’t appreciate that about you—from the very beginning, he’s not the one.”
I blink. It’s good advice. Solid. Smart. Logically sound.
And yet it leaves me feeling a little . . . I don’t know.
Sad.
My dad’s right, though. Do I really want to win over a guy who thinks I’m brainless and then can’t utter a proper apology for it? Or a guy who eats only salad for lunch and power shakes for breakfast, and who can’t even acknowledge receiving a text message, no matter how lame?
Andrew Mulroney may have been right to drag me along during his daily routine in an attempt to show me I don’t belong.
And I don’t have to drag him along for a day in my world to know he wouldn’t fit any better there than I do in his.
“Surely there’s someone in your life who does appreciate you,” he says. “If not, Joseph’s son just moved back from San Diego, and you guys always got along so well—”
I laugh and hold up a hand. “Please. Do not set me up with Caleb Myers. He used to try to wipe boogers in my ponytail.”
“Well, I see I’ve missed some riveting conversation,” my mom says, striding into the dining room. “Georgie, hon, love the silk blouse. Michael Kors?”
I look down and shrug. “How’d the call go?”
“Hmm?” She gives me a sharp look.
“Your call? Dad said you were on the phone?”
“Oh, right.” She waves her hand. “Paris didn’t get their swatches on time, and I had to assure Celeste it was simply a shipping hiccup.”
My dad’s attention is already back on his newspaper, and I study my mom as she fixes herself a mimosa. I hear a faint strain of off-key music, and—
“Mom, are you humming?” I ask.
She stills, and my dad peers at her over the top of his newspaper.
Her laugh is nervous. “Just in a good mood, I guess.”
My dad and I exchange a glance, and he shrugs, turning his attention back to his paper.
Mom joins me at the table, suspiciously free of her iPhone and laptop. I know I should be glad that she’s in such a good mood, but I can’t shake the feeling that something seems off. I’d asked her about that during our chat last week, but she said nothing’s up.
She’s lying, but maybe I can’t blame her.
I keep thinking about what my dad said about that Heidi woman.
How she needed him, just a little.
Did my mom ever need my dad? Did he ever need her?
I mean, I’m a modern woman and all—I know I’m supposed to subscribe to the notion that a woman can be complete without a man and vice versa, and I do. I really do.
And yet, sitting here with two people who somehow share the same air, the same life, but barely seem aware of the other person’s presence, I can’t shake the sense that while maybe I don’t need someone to need me, I really, really wouldn’t mind spending time with someone who at least wants me.
Georgie
MONDAY, 4:59 A.M. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?
It’s a question I’ve repeated about a hundred times to myself on the cab ride home.
Not a solo cab ride. Nope. For reasons I can’t quite seem to wrap my head around, I’m in a cab with Brody Nash, and we’re headed back to my place.
It all started when I let him kiss me, sometime around three A.M. The rest of the crew was on the dance floor, and I’d switched over to my usual early morning round of sparkling water. He joined me in the San Pellegrino party, and it was a nice change. Usually I’m the only one sobering up while the rest of my friends are still pounding shots.
He was sitting close, his attention all on me. He laughed at my jokes and asked me about my day, and I just kept thinking about what my dad had talked about. About how I deserved someone who wanted me. Someone I didn’t have to convince of my worth.
And then Brody leaned over, pausing, giving me plenty of time to move away. Instead, I’d closed my eyes and let his mouth meet mine.
It had been, well . . .
Underwhelming. Wildly so.
But, but . . . I’ve learned something in the past few years: first kisses are never like they are in the movies. There’s never fireworks and foot lifting and butterflies. It takes a while for two people to get used to each other, to learn what the other one likes.
So I’m giving Brody a chance.
I mean, don’t freak out on me—I’m not going to sleep with him. But I don’t feel like sleeping at all, don’t feel like being alone with my thoughts, so when he suggested coming back to my place and having some coffee . . .
Why the hell not? Maybe a cup of coffee with a nice guy is precisely what I need to make me forget the time I’m not spending with a not-so-nice guy.
The cab pulls up in front of my building, and I feel a knot in my stomach as I watch Brody pay the cab driver before grabbing the pink donut box I made us stop for.
