Walk of Shame
Page 34

“Yup.”
“Ugh, such a pig. You’re lucky you hooked up with one of the nice ones.”
There it is.
I take a slurpy sip of my soup. “Hon, you of all people know not to believe what you read in the tabloids.”
There’s a pause. A hopeful pause, I’m guessing. “Really? But you and Andrew were kissing.”
“That was . . .” I wave my spoon, trying to think of the right word, and failing. “I’d had too much to drink, and he was annoying me. I was trying to prove a point, he was trying to prove a point—”
“What point, how many molars you have?” she asks teasingly.
“It was more of a battle of wills. And if anyone asks, I totally won. But the point is, we’re not together.”
Another pause. “Okay. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I thought maybe you guys were in, like, a secret relationship, and I’d been hitting on him that night and you were mad.”
“Not mad,” I say, taking another spoonful of soup and wishing that this conversation could be over already.
“And you don’t like him?”
I feel a little twinge. If it were Marley, I might tell her the truth: that I like him too much. But though I consider Hailey a good friend, we’re not quite on the spill-your-darkest-secrets level, so instead I deflect.
“Look. You gave him your phone number, right? Has he ever used it? Texted, called, whatever?”
“Well . . . yeah, he texted, but—”
My heart sinks hard. Like, boulder-in-the-ocean hard. “See?” I say brightly, wincing at how fake I sound. “There you go. He’s never texted me. Never called me.”
She doesn’t pick up on the false brightness of my voice the way Marley would—doesn’t seem to realize that my soul is dying a little.
“Really?” Hailey sounds genuinely surprised. “There’s really nothing there? So if I ask him to be my date at that literacy fundraiser next week . . .?”
“Go for it,” I say, making a mental note to change my RSVP on that particular fundraiser to hell no.
“Okay, well . . . thanks, I guess. I mean, it’s a little weird to ask out the guy who was just making out with my friend, but—”
“Hailey,” I interrupt, “I’ve got another call coming in. But seriously, if you like Andrew, I think you guys would be good together.”
The crappy thing is, it’s sort of true. Of the people in my friend group, Hailey’s the most subdued. She parties with the rest of us, but she’s more eager than the rest of us to give up those parties for a life of white wine, early nights, and parent-teacher conferences at the ritziest prep school. She’s friendly, but also a tiny bit shy compared to the rest of us. Pretty, but classy. Funny, but not terribly snarky.
There’s nothing ridiculous about her.
In other words, she’s the dream woman for Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.
“Okay, talk soon!” Hailey says.
I chirp goodbye, and then because I really do have another call coming in . . .
“Hi, Mom.”
“There you are,” my mother says on the other end of the phone, her tone clearly exasperated. “You’ve been avoiding my calls for two days.”
“I’ve been avoiding everyone’s calls. I’ve had the flu.”
“Oh, dear,” she says, making a tsking sound. “You should have called me.”
Why, so you could tell me which of your latest bronzers would be the most flattering on sallow skin, and remind me of the game-changing powers of your under-eye concealer?
It’s an unfair thought, though. I love that my mom’s got her own thing going on. I just sometimes wish she knew when to turn off the CEO and when to turn on the mom.
“I’m better now,” I say, pushing aside the soup. It’s all I’ve had for two days and I’m sick of it.
“Good! You want to meet me for dinner?”
I wrinkle my nose. Two dinner invitations from her in as many weeks. It’s not unwelcome, just . . . odd.
“I think I need one more day of sweatpants and reruns,” I say, “But tomorrow sounds great. What kind of food are you and Dad thinking?”
“Oh. I was thinking dinner, just us girls.”
Uh-oh.
Second time in a row, no Dad. I ignore the warning bells.
“Why, what’s Dad up to?”
“Oh, I’m sure he’d love the time to himself to watch the game or whatever.”
Uh-huh. Or whatever is right. I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking which game. I guarantee she has no idea how bummed Dad is that the Yankees got knocked out of the playoffs last week or that he’s vowed to boycott all sports until spring training.
“Are you guys okay?” I ask. “You’ve seemed sort of distant lately.”
There’s a delay in her response, and when it does come, it’s vaguely impatient. “We’re fine, Georgie. If you don’t want to have dinner with your mother, you can just say so.”
Ah, the old guilt trip deflection. Classic.
“I’d love to have dinner, Mom. Let me just see how I’m feeling tomorrow after a good night’s sleep, ’kay?”
“All right,” she says, her voice still a bit stiff. “I hope you start to feel better.”
“Thanks.”
When we hang up, I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and sink onto the bar stool, resting my head in my hands.
I don’t have a headache anymore, but I still feel like I’m trying to operate through a fog. I just don’t know if the fog’s a lingering effect of the sickness or the fact that my personal life’s a super-fat mess.
On top of it all, I feel weak. Hungry for real food, not soup. But I know without looking that the fridge is mostly empty. I heave a sigh and am just reaching for my phone to order something for delivery when I hear a quiet knock at the door.
I start to stand, but before I can move, it opens, and I give a little screech of terror until I see the familiar form of a suit-wearing Andrew.
“Gawd,” I say, slumping back down and putting a hand over my chest. “You scared me. How do you still have a key?”
He stands in the doorway, looking unsure. “I thought you’d still be asleep, I didn’t want you to have to get out of bed to answer the knock. I’ll return it immediately.”