B009R9RGU2 EBOK (27 page)

After Travis is toasted (and roasted), the party and decibel level really get going. The six-piece band is in full force. Nearly everyone—from parents’ friends to the siblings’ peers—is out
grooving on the dance floor that was positioned over the swimming pool. I’ve even let myself get dragged out here by the twin terrors. And I’ve had just enough well-paced cocktails to think I’ve got some smooth moves.

The lead singer is covering OneRepublic’s “Good Life” really well, and it’s totally pulsing through my veins. I feel an arm brush against mine and open my eyes to see Travis smiling down at me.

“I’m so glad you came!” he shouts over the music, but really I’m just sort of reading his lips. I smile back, relieved we can’t actually “talk.”

“Happy Birthday,” I mouth back, giving him a quick hug, which he returns in a bear squeeze before we both start lip-syncing to the irresistible chorus. We burst out laughing as we screw up the other lyrics, but still are caught up in the beat. It’s so nice to let loose and simply have fun. I am just enjoying this moment, laughing, singing, dancing with Cassie, Bridget, and Travis… and one hundred of his closest friends.

The hours pass in a blur of cake, more toasts, and spirited dancing. I am grateful that the extra ten seconds I took to turn my simple slick ponytail into a bun is such a low-maintenance style. At some point I remove my painful shoes and hide them behind a nearby planter. Even without my heels, my feet are killing me when I finally take a break from the dance floor to wait in line barefoot at the cappuccino bar and dessert crêpe station. Eyeing the decadent options, I do the girl thing of mentally guessing how many calories I’ve burned sweating and wondering if it will compensate for the strawberry crêpe I refuse to deny myself. The party hasn’t slowed down a bit. In
fact, if anything, it’s even more lively, the proverbial second (or third) wind having taken hold. And at this point it doesn’t even surprise me when I see Jacob and Damon deep in conversation with several beautiful women.

It’s like immersion therapy. I’ve now glimpsed Jacob so many times during the night that I am becoming immune to the aftershock. For instance, I watch the group chat for a second longer—even catching one pretty gal leaning in to Jacob, laughing—before the pastry chef takes my attention back to whipped dessert decisions. When I look back in the group’s direction, they are gone.

“If you share, the calories don’t count,” Bridget says, teasing me as she sneaks a bite from my delicate powdered sugar–covered plate.

“Please. Help yourself.” We sit for a beat enjoying the sugary treat in worshipful silence. I’ve met the Harrison family plenty of times since getting close with Travis through Jacob. And I’ve always gotten on well with his little sisters. But somehow tonight, maybe because I am Jacob-free, these girls have made me feel like a third sister.

“Thank you so much, Bridget. For everything tonight.” I don’t want to bring this moment down or anything. So I laugh. “It could’ve been all
Real Housewives
drama without you and Cassie to keep me in check.”

“Happy to help,” Bridget says, patting my arm, “but if there needs to be a smackdown tonight, you know I’m good for that too.” She demonstrates her mighty kung fu moves with her fork, which gets me really laughing.

And of course Travis and his always composed parents
appear right as I’m doing my best
Karate Kid
pose. I try to tuck my bare feet under the hanging tablecloth. Mrs. Harrison, I mean Connie, still looks picture perfect—as though the party only started moments ago and she’s barely left her dressing mirror. How does she do that? At my side, Bridget straightens up too. Ah, a kindred spirit, intimidated by her mother’s flawlessness.

“This evening is so lovely, Mrs…. um… Connie. Thank you for including me,” I tell her with absolute poise. My performance is blown in milliseconds, as Connie leans forward and with a motherly gesture wipes powdered sugar off my cheek. I blush. “And everything is delicious. Obviously.”

Having been part of the party from the very beginning of the night, I don’t feel at all awkward when Mrs. Harrison, I mean
Connie
, asks if I might run to the cellar to bring up a couple of reserved bottles of prized Bordeaux wine for some of the special guests (myself included).

Back inside the house, I disappear into the beautiful oak cellar, happy for the chance to escape the crowd. Everyone tonight is so, well, happy. Not to say that I’m not happy. I am. Completely. But as I drift past rows of wines, casually scanning the labels, hunting for the ones on Mrs. Harrison’s list, I feel myself growing a little indignant. I’ve kept largely to the twins’ side tonight. But just because I’m not totally into making vapid small talk with semi-acquaintances doesn’t mean I’m not happy in the broad sense. I’m just not feeling “festive,” that’s all.

And now I’m having an argument with myself. Wow.

Eventually I find the Bordeaux section. Of course Mrs. Harrison has listed particular vintages as well as regions and
wineries. No problem—I’ve always been good with details. Double-checking the labels, I complete the task.

“Why aren’t you dating anyone?”

“Excuse me?” I could pretend that I don’t recognize the voice behind me. But I do. I would know his voice anywhere. I turn around, my hands filled with wine bottles, and Jacob’s stance is filling the small doorway.

“Why aren’t you dating?” he says again. This time he doesn’t sound so fierce, but still, there is an intensity to Jacob that I don’t remember ever seeing before.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Suddenly I feel defensive and trapped, and I try to take charge of the situation. I walk up to where he is blocking my exit as if to pass right through him. But of course, Jacob doesn’t budge. His stare feels like it’s drilling holes through me. “Jacob, please let me pass,” I say calmly.

“First, tell me why.” He hasn’t moved an inch since he locked eyes with me. But now he takes a step forward, backing me farther into the tiny shelf-lined room. There’s an alluring hint of whiskey and cigar coming off him.

“This is ridiculous. I don’t know why. I just haven’t.” I had been hoping to escape without answering him, but with no space between us, the words just fall out of my mouth. And now that I’ve started talking I can’t seem to shut up. “
Why?
What is this, the Inquisition? Jacob, what are you doing?” By the last, there was a squeak in my voice.

“Travis and Izzy both said you haven’t dated anyone since we broke up. Is that true?” Now my back is pressed up against the cellar wall, and the necks of a few of the bigger wine bottles
are pushing uncomfortably against my spine. The gentle clinking of bottles settling against one another complements my short breaths. Izzy hadn’t told me they spoke.

“What do you care?” I always love a good fourth-grade comeback.

“Tell me.” Jacob hasn’t changed his volume, but if possible he is even more intense than before. Clearly he is looking for a specific answer. One I don’t know. Out of the corner of my eye I see his right arm braced on the wall next to my ear, between the exit and me. He brings his face down to meet me eye to eye. I feel like he can see into my head, and I wonder if he finds whatever he’s looking for.

“Sophie…” This last comes out as a sigh. Did I hear regret in his voice, or was it acceptance? The room is still way too close, and with no air to speak of, I am only breathing in Jacob’s breath. I can’t focus. Finally Jacob ends the staring contest—he won—and his gaze travels over my face, still as intense, but now I feel the heat on my hair, my cheeks, and finally my lips. My stomach does a series of backflips.

My eyelids start to drift shut. I want him to kiss me more than anything, and I can already taste how good it will feel to have his lips on mine, and his arms coming around me. But I can feel that he hasn’t shifted his body at all. I force my eyes open again and see that we are now nose to nose. His eyes are closed too. But not gently closed, he is squeezing them shut. A dead giveaway to the tension we are both drowning in.

Maybe he needs me to kiss him. Just as I get the idea, and build up the courage to make the first move, we both hear:

“Sophie! Where are you with our wine?”

“I could die of thirst waiting for you!” A giggling duet of drunken girls. Travis’s sisters, whom I left what seems like a lifetime ago. Their footsteps echo in the hallway as they get closer.

And we still haven’t moved.

Jacob’s eyes are open again and he’s back to reading my brain. But there’s a slight smile on his lips as he finally pulls away from me. He doesn’t step aside, but he lowers the arm he had caging me in. I feel the coolness of the room come back to me and I realize that my body is missing Jacob’s warmth. I don’t meet his eyes again. I just slip around his solid frame and through the cellar door. What I need is time to think, but Bridget and Cassie are upon me, and there isn’t even a second for me to take a breath before they’ve grabbed me and the wine bottles and I’m shepherding them back to the party. I don’t want them to see Jacob in the cellar.

That moment, whatever it was, is a secret I keep close, tucked away inside me for the rest of the night.

Thirty-six hours after Travis’s celebration, I’m still
replaying the intense encounter with Jacob. His determination. The electric sensation of our bodies nearly touching. The inscrutable thought behind his stare. If not for the twins’ interruption, where might it have led? And most important, what does it
mean
going forward?

It’s incredibly disorienting.

Twice I nearly phone him, to hear his voice and pry for answers. But he could just as easily call me. He doesn’t need to stalk wine cellars to secure an audience. My numbers are the same. And yet he hasn’t reached out. The reminder stops me each time from completing the call.

You see I too have pride.

For Jacob, nothing’s fundamentally changed. It’s built-up sexual tension—plain and simple. We could have kissed, even rolled around on a bed of wine bottles, but it doesn’t change the underlying stalemate. Yes, it’s wonderful to be desired, but mutual attraction was never our issue. I resign to the reality of the status quo.

As welcome distraction on a lazy Sunday, I choose to catch
up on last week’s recorded episodes of
Black Mountain Valley
. Nothing puts my less-than-ideal life into perspective more than following the cursed inhabitants of a deceptively sleepy and incestuous little town. I may be alone and suspended from my beloved job, but so far I have eluded amnesia, an evil twin, a murderous robot resembling my deceased husband, and, worst of all, only two restaurants and three eligible men within city limits.

I’ll take consolation wherever I can find it.

Less than two hours later, while I am zipping through a block of laundry detergent and home hair coloring ads in
BMV
’s mid-week installment, the apartment buzzer rings.

Now, who would come by unannounced on a Sunday afternoon?

No one I wish to talk to, I decide.

Unless it’s Jacob…

The buzzer rings again.

What the hell
. I pause the resumed soap and race to the intercom before whoever’s downstairs believes no one’s home.

“Yes?” I answer with a bit of don’t-mess-with-me attitude in case it’s a pushy pollster or a salesman.

“Hi, Sophie,” says a familiar if surprising voice. “It’s Tru. May I come up and talk to you for a sec?”

Now,
this
is unexpected. I deeply appreciate—and have missed—my trusty assistant, but we’re not exactly girlfriends outside of work. Other than driving me to my last day at Bennett/Peters weeks ago, I can’t remember the last time Tru’s been to my condo building.

“Um, sure, of course. I’ll buzz you in.”

Moments later Tru—in retro hair and makeup, looking like a brunette Veronica Lake—is grinning at my doorstep. And she’s not alone. Beside her, in “off-duty” dark selvedge jeans and a Lady Gaga tour tee, is Jeff. He’s curiously smiling too. It’s an impromptu office team reunion.

I’m thrilled to see their friendly faces, but the all-smiles ambush reminds me of a goodwill hospital visit. Behind them I almost expect to find a bouquet of “Get Well Soon!” Mylar balloons. Instead, I’m further dumbstruck to discover they’ve brought a special guest—my former client, Megan Keef, which makes the scene only more surreal because her character Annabelle’s anguished face is frozen on my TV screen.

“Wow. This is a great… and unusual… surprise.” When two former coworkers and a client show up unexpectedly on a Sunday, it’s hard for my first panicky reaction not to be: “Okay,
now
what did I do?”

Finally remembering my manners, I deliver hugs and usher the troop inside.

I don’t have to wait long for an explanation.

“Jeff and Tru told me what happened,” Megan says, her eyes surveying my pad and settling contentedly on the TV screen. Then she removes a manila envelope from her designer shoulder bag and places it on the coffee table. “When I was in my
temporary
publicist’s office Friday, I ran across this and figured it was yours.”

Confused, I unclasp the envelope and peer inside.