The Opposite of Me (59 page)

Renee hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it for the past week. When the e-mail had popped up in her in-box—
Stop by for a few drinks next Saturday night
—she’d actually felt her heart thud against her rib cage, until she saw it was also addressed to dozens of other people. Still, she’d saved it for the thrill of seeing his name on her computer screen. She’d waited two days, then typed back,
Sounds great. I’ll try to make it!

Casual. She had to be casual this time.

She wondered if it could be a sign: After all, she’d met Trey at another party, just a few months earlier. She’d known who he was, of course, but that was the first time they’d ever talked. Renee leaned against the sink while she brushed her teeth and thought back to that night, when, in a room full of women, Trey had noticed
her
.

That entire day had seemed laced with magic, from the moment Renee had woken up. She’d taken a long, hot shower—miraculously, the temperature had remained consistent—then had wandered out to run errands and stumbled across a beautiful leather purse in the window of a thrift shop, marked down to just thirty dollars. Who cared if it had a big purple ink stain on the lining? No one would ever see.

A block later, her new purse on her shoulder, she’d passed by a farmers’ market and impulsively decided to wander among the stalls. The sun had warmed her bare arms as she inhaled the scents of wildflowers and artisanal cheeses and freshly baked bread studded with rosemary. She’d accepted a sample of watermelon from a vendor, closing her eyes as she bit into the crisp triangle of fruit. Impulsively, she’d pulled out her cell phone and dialed Jennifer, one of the few female staff writers for
The Great Beyond.
Jennifer was hosting the potluck party that evening.

“Can I bring anything tonight?” Renee had asked.

“Oh, just a bottle of wine,” Jennifer had said.

“No, let me bring something good,” Renee had said. “I love to cook.”

“Maybe onion dip?” Jennifer had suggested.

Renee had laughed. “I’ll think of something.”

Renee had roamed around the farmers’ market, filling her arms with a slim bunch of parsley, organic chicken breasts, some freshly churned butter, and a few vegetables with flecks of earth still clinging to them; then she’d hurried home. She’d spent the afternoon rolling out crust and dredging chicken in flour and slicing carrots into coins, losing herself in the rhythms. Other people sought out yoga or meditation, but Renee found the same experience in cooking: It transported her to a better place.

She’d rejected two crusts—deciding, Goldilocks-like, that one was too hard and one was too soft—before crimping the edges of a perfect one, and finally slipped her potpie into the oven. Before she’d even finished getting dressed, a mouthwatering smell had seeped into her bedroom. Even Naomi had stopped doing leg lifts and wandered over to peer in the oven.

When Renee had arrived at the party, she’d put her still-warm potpie on a kitchen counter and wandered away. Not ten minutes later, she’d heard a voice boom across the apartment: “I have to meet the woman who cooked this.”

She’d known who the deep voice belonged to, known it was her potpie, even before she turned around and saw Jennifer raise a finger to point her out to Trey.

“I’m Trey Watkins,” he’d said as he swallowed up the space between them with four big steps. He was holding an empty plate; not even a crumb remained. “And I’d like to propose.”

Renee had tossed back her head and laughed. She’d sipped a glass of wine while getting ready for the party, and she knew her cheeks were flushed pink and her hair, which misbehaved about as often as a two-year-old on a sugar high, had been tamed into submission by a flat iron.

“Will cooking potpies be part of my marital duties?” she’d asked Trey.

“Every single night,” he’d said, looking right into her eyes.

She’d laughed again as she felt a tingle low in her belly, and then—miracle of miracles—Trey hadn’t walked away. He’d stayed next to her, chatting, for twenty minutes. When he finally did leave, her phone number was tucked in his pocket.

“Oh, honey,” Jennifer had said, materializing next to Renee and shaking her head. “Be careful.”

“Why?” Renee had asked, unable to stop watching Trey. Just as she’d suspected, the view was every bit as good from the rear.

“Because he’s a nice enough guy, but he’s a serial dater. And because you’re looking at him the way he was looking at your potpie.”

“So he dates a lot?” Renee had asked.

“He just broke up with a model. God, was she high maintenance,” Jennifer had said.

“A high-maintenance model? How shocking.” Renee had taken a sip of her drink as her eyes flitted toward Trey again. “Maybe that explains it.”

“Explains what?” Jennifer had asked.

“Why he asked me out. I guess he wanted something different.”

She’d gone out with Trey three times. Their first two dates were amazing, but the third one—well, even now, months later, the thought of what had transpired that night made Renee shut her eyes tightly and her face grow hot. But maybe enough time had passed that the images had blurred in Trey’s mind, even though space had only sharpened them in Renee’s. She’d seen him around the building dozens of times since then, and she’d been brisk but friendly, masking the fact that her insides were swooping down like she was on a roller coaster. Once she’d even gone over to the cafeteria table where he was sitting with a few other people she knew, plopped down with her coffee, and chatted a bit before getting up to leave—making sure she exited before Trey did.

I can do this,
she was trying to show him.
I can be casual. Give me another chance.

She’d been planning for this party from the moment she got the invitation. Yesterday afternoon, Renee had gone into the fashion closet at the office—they called it a closet, but it was more of a series of connecting rooms conjured out of the wildest fantasies of Sarah Jessica Parker—and borrowed an outfit. Anyone who worked for the magazine could sign out clothes, down to shoes and a belt, in case of a wardrobe emergency, but Renee never had before; even though it was an open policy, she was too low on the totem pole and it would’ve raised eyebrows if she’d taken advantage of it too frequently. She’d timed it strategically: She borrowed the outfit late on Friday afternoon, which meant she could wear it during the weekend, to Trey’s party.

She’d had to wander past the racks and racks of size 2s and 4s—reluctantly sliding her hand along a slim cranberry-colored skirt made out of fine leather and a creamy silk halter-necked dress—before hitting the meager collection of 12s. She’d finally settled on a V-neck shirt with bell sleeves in a deep ruby color, worn by Renée Zellweger for a cover shoot after she’d put on weight for her last movie. The material was forgiving, and it highlighted her cleavage. The black skirt that went with the top was simple and well-constructed, with a little fishtail swirl.

Now Renee finished brushing her teeth and stared in the mirror as she reminded herself of her priorities for the party: Don’t eat or drink too much. Make Trey want to date her again. And don’t stain Renée Zellweger’s outfit.

There was one other thing she really needed to tackle today. She’d delayed it far too long. Renee walked back into her bedroom and reached into her purse, her fingers closing around the blue letter with Becca’s e-mail address. She opened her laptop and stared at the blank screen.
I’m so excited to meet you!
she typed into a new e-mail. She looked down at the words and slowly backspaced over them.

Renee had been an only child. Was she still one, since Becca had grown up in a different household and her father hadn’t known of her existence? It was so strange to think they’d be tied together for the rest of their lives—had been all along, really, even though neither woman was aware of the bond. They might meet and realize they had nothing in common—or worse, they might not even like each other.

Becca was also a reminder that her parents’ marriage wasn’t ideal, that it had facets and hidden nooks Renee knew nothing about. Of course, that wasn’t Becca’s fault, Renee thought, suddenly wondering if Becca had a stepfather. She imagined her half sister wondering about her father, missing him at holidays and birthdays, and suddenly the words flowed out easily onto the screen:
Thanks so much for your note. I’m really glad you reached out, and I’d like to meet you, too. A visit to New York sounds good. But only if you let me pay for half the cost of the trip!

She sent a silent apology to her beleaguered bank account, wrote a few more lines, then added her cell phone number at the bottom. She hit Send before she lost her nerve, then went into the kitchen to eat an apple before her walk. As she leaned against the counter to stretch her calves, she noticed a piece of paper propped against the fruit bowl. It looked like someone had crumpled it up, then smoothed it back out. It was from Naomi, who, at the age of twenty-three, still dotted her
i
’s with little hearts.

Renee read the two-sentence note, grateful that Cate had broken the news in person. A third roommate who was actually around all the time would make the apartment feel so much more crowded. But they’d have to get someone else, or the rent would demolish Renee’s already strained budget. Although Cate’s big promotion meant the end of her financial worries. Naomi’s move was just a minor inconvenience for Cate, not a potential financial catastrophe, like it was for Renee.

“Damn,” Renee said, her voice sounding too loud in the small space, as she reached into the cabinet for—for what? Something like cookies or graham crackers. Soft carbs that would slip down her throat and soothe her tummy with a comforting fullness.

Renee forced herself to shut the cabinet and walked out the door, her head hanging low. It seemed as though every time she tried to get a handle on her life, it slipped out of her grasp.

 

 

CATE LEANED UP
against the wall in Trey’s apartment, nursing a bottle of Sam Adams and taking in the scene: Men and women clustered into small groups, then split apart and recoupled, while others wandered through the crowd, holding glasses of wine or bottles of beer high to avoid being bumped. Thelonious Monk’s music soared from the speakers, but it was almost drowned out by the sounds of laughter and the buzz of a dozen conversations. The lighting was low but good, and Trey’s place wasn’t the stereotypical bachelor pad that Cate had expected.

Trey favored oversize chairs, rugs that looked so soft Cate was tempted to kick off her shoes and sink her toes into them, and bold, textured pieces of art that probably came from the countries he’d visited. He also had a balcony, window seats with red cushions, and an open kitchen–dining room combination with cement countertops that held nothing but a top-of-the-line espresso maker. Chunky candles filled the room with little glows of amber that made Cate think of fireflies. Few writers could afford to live like this in the city, but Trey’s last several articles had been optioned for film, and Ryan Gosling was attached to one of the projects. Trey was currently under contract to write a book about extreme sports addicts—the kinds of guys who ran three-day ultramarathons, or sailed solo around the world in tiny boats.

At the age of thirty-two, Trey’s professional star was soaring. “The next Sebastian Junger,” trumped the headline in a
Sports Illustrated
article. When magazines featured articles about journalists, you knew those writers were heading for the big time.

Cate felt someone watching her, and she turned to meet the eyes of Jane,
Gloss
’s art director. Cate raised her beer in a silent greeting. Jane gave a quick smile, then turned to the woman next to her, leaning over so that her lips were close to the other woman’s ear.

Were they talking about her? Cate wondered as her hand tightened around the cold Sam Adams bottle.

Images of what had happened earlier that day at work filled her mind: She’d walked by Nigel’s office, and he’d motioned for her to come in. She’d tried to stand a healthy distance away from his desk, but he’d waved her to a chair and pulled his own up next to it.

Being alone with Nigel in the quiet room had made her heartbeat quicken for all the wrong reasons. He was the picture of rumpled ease in his old jeans and a gray sweatshirt, with his head full of pure white hair, classic Roman nose, and electric blue eyes. He wasn’t her type—he wouldn’t have been, even twenty years earlier—but the vibe he emitted made it clear he found himself irresistible. Apparently lots of women agreed; he’d been married twice, both times to women young enough to be his daughters, and he dated voraciously.