Chapter 19
M
Y OLDEST SISTER,
C
ALLIE, LIKES
to brag that she can count on one hand the number of guys she kissed before she married her husband, Gary. Now, I’m not exactly a kissing bandit, but I’ve been going on dates for almost ten years, and I’d have to at least take my socks off to count and get the number right.
But it didn’t matter because Ben’s kiss jumped to the top of the list. I’d been kissed under a full moon, in a rowboat on a lake, at the peak of a mountain, and next to a waterfall, but nothing compared to that kiss on my living room sofa. Ben’s kiss made my previous best kiss, a sunset-by-the-ocean smooch, seem like a clumsy peck.
Ben’s kiss . . . it was in a league of its own. My toes curled, I think. A zing of electricity snapped through me the second he touched me, and when he drew back an eternity later, he stared at me for a few seconds, like he couldn’t figure out what had happened. He reached up and brushed my hair off my forehead, tucking it behind my ear with a feather-light touch that sizzled anyway.
He leaned forward, so close our lips nearly touched again. “I want your weekend, Jessie. All of it,” he whispered and brushed his mouth over mine.
I don’t do well with orders—usually. It’s probably from being bossed to death by my sisters as a kid. But from Ben, it sounded like a challenge, and I don’t back down from those, ever. Especially not when it means getting exactly what I want. So I kissed him back, hard, and then I leaned away and quirked an eyebrow at him. “Make it worth my time.”
“Name your bribe.”
I kissed him again, drawing back enough to say, “Those, whenever I want them.”
“Done.”
“And chocolate.”
He laughed. “And chocolate.”
“Then you’ve got my weekend.”
“Good. What time are you done at work tomorrow?”
I tensed. “Friday’s not the weekend, Ben. I won’t be free until Saturday.”
He sat back. “You’re working tomorrow night?”
“Yeah. I should have been working tonight too, so tomorrow I’m going to have to play catch up if I’m taking the whole weekend off.”
“Taking it off? Macrosystems has accounting shifts on the weekend?” he asked.
“Not exactly. I just don’t seem to finish stuff during regular office hours.”
“Stuff you have to do, or stuff you think you have to do?”
“Same thing,” I said.
“Is it?” His expression shifted to watchful. “They’re asking an awful lot from you.”
I shrugged. “I choose to give it.” Tension grew between us, creeping into my neck and shoulders.
Another moment slipped past, and he smiled and tapped the back of my hand. “It’s your prerogative, right? I love what I do. I respect that you love what you do.”
I sighed. “It’s not even that. My boss has learned to expect miracles from me, and I feel like I have to keep delivering. So I work a lot.” It sounded pretty lame when I said it out loud.
He picked up my hand and clasped it then raised it until our elbows touched. “I’ll arm wrestle you for your Friday.”
I laughed. “I can’t. I’d let you win so I could get out of work.”
“You’d
let
me win? I’ve got six inches and fifty pounds on you. How are you going to do that?”
“Remember Master Po?”
“Oh yeah. You’re a kung fu expert.” He put my hand down, and I was bummed.
“I’ve watched hours of the stuff. Osmosis has to count for something.”
“I surrender. No arm wrestling. Maybe we should do sumo wrestling. That involves lots of hugging,” he mused.
“And you would get to wear that cool loincloth,” I reminded him.
“Right, no sumo wrestling. So you’re working tomorrow.”
“I am,” I agreed with some regret.
“Then I call Saturday, twelve to twelve.”
“Deal. And I call Sunday evening again.” I felt bold, playing his game.
“All right, you get Sunday.” He stretched and climbed to his feet. “You better come walk me out before I think of another reason to stay.”
When we reached the door, he turned and pulled me into a hug. “One of my Young Men leaders once told us that hugging a girl longer than ten seconds is inappropriate, and I try to live by that.” He squeezed tighter, and I listened to his chest rumble as he counted, “One Mississippi, one-and-a-half Mississippi, one-and-three-quarters Mississippi, two Mississippi . . .”
I pushed gently at his chest and smiled up at him. “Accountants are experts at reinterpreting the numbers, but I think I could learn a few things from you.”
He pressed one last kiss to my lips and left, closing the door behind him.
Sandy came in a moment later, toothbrush in hand.
“Ben left? How’d it go?” she asked.
“I thought you were tired,” I said.
“I am. I was getting ready for bed when I heard the door close.” She waved her toothbrush at me.
“You better hold off,” I said. “We’re having ice cream.”
“Hallelujah!” She tossed the toothbrush over her shoulder. “Now dish, and I’m not talking about the Häagen-Dazs.”
“There’s not much to say.” Sandy’s face fell. “Except it was kind of awesome.”
She perked up again. “That’s what I’m talking about! Are you getting married?”
Since I knew she was kidding, I rolled my eyes at her and muttered a drawn out, “
Anyway . . .
”
“I won’t interrupt again,” she promised. “Give me details. I need them now that my love life has dried up.”
I obliged her with a retelling of the action after she’d left, hitting the high points and skipping the parts about how my insides went all mushy.
“I have to say, Jess, you totally lucked out. I should hate you for stealing the only guy like that left in North America.”
“That’s not true. I think there’s a handful of them in Canada.”
“Yuck.”
“What’s wrong with Canadians? Do you have some latent anti-Canuck sentiments I don’t know about?”
“No. They’re just so . . .” she groped for the right word. “Kind,” she finished.
“Yeah. Kindness. That’s a problem, all right.”
“Never mind. Congratulations on finding such a cool guy.”
“Thanks. And what do you mean your love life is all dried up, by the way?” I’d never known anyone who dated as much as Sandy, including one college roommate who was built like Barbie and had the personality of a turnip, making her a hit with the guys.
“Blah. Everything’s blah. I’m so bored with the same old faces when I go out that I don’t even feel like going anymore. And even when it’s a new face, it’s the same old thing.”
I stared at her. How unlike Sandy.
She gave a tiny shrug. “I blame Jacob,” she said. “Ever since he ripped my heart out and stomped on it, nothing’s been the same.”
I missed a heart stomping? “Who’s Jacob?” I dared to ask.
She dropped her chin into her hand and grumbled, “Hot guy from the club who never called back.”
“Jacob is a hot guy name. Much better than that Phil guy you were so into last month.”
“I could use some moral support here. Besides, it’s not like they name themselves. You can’t hold people responsible for their parents’ bad taste.”
“I can hold Phil responsible for not calling himself Phillip. Tell me that’s not better than Phil,” I argued.
Instead of responding, she dropped her head into her arms and moaned pitifully.
“Okay, okay, I’m kidding,” I said. “Look, maybe this Jacob guy lost your number. It happens.”
She picked her head up enough to eye me for a moment. “Good try, except remember, I told you I programmed my number directly into his cell?”
“Oh yeah.” I tried again. “Then he probably lost his phone.”
She didn’t even raise her head this time, just shook it against her arms, causing her hair in front to bunch into a bright red blossom of tangled curls. No response.
“Seriously, Sandy. I bet he did lose it. He’s from out of town, right?”
“Boston, I think,” she mumbled from inside her arm cave.
“So I bet they confiscated it when he went through security on the grounds that it looked suspicious.”
She picked her head up all the way. “How is a cell phone suspicious?”
“I don’t know. Was it bedazzled in the national colors of any terrorist states?”
“You’re weird.”
“No, you are. Plenty of other guys haven’t called. Why is this Jacob character getting under your skin?”
“They don’t call because I don’t give them the right number. I wanted him to call though. He was different.”
“Different how? You only talked to him once. Maybe he’s as clueless as the rest of them.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, shaking her head. “We talked most of the night. Lots of stuff was different about him.”
“So name them,” I said.
“First of all, he’s not into clubs, but he was in town on business and he met his clients there at their request. So he didn’t do all the usual club stuff.”
“Define usual.”
“I don’t know. He didn’t stand around ogling all the girls in skimpy clothes. He didn’t drink anything harder than a Coke or bug me about why I didn’t either. He wore a business suit but not because he was trying to seem like a high roller. It’s how he came from work. And he had interesting opinions about something besides the football playoffs.”
“That does sound pretty cool. But if he’s not calling you, there’s definitely something wrong with him.” I grinned. “Maybe he doesn’t like girls.”
“That’s not it,” she said. “I can tell when a guy is into me. We were for sure connecting. I don’t get it.”
This was a strange state of mind for Sandy. I’d never known anyone as confident as her or as social. I’d watched guys flock to her in droves in the three years I’d known her. Her wild red hair and gorgeous face hooked them, and her personality reeled them in. But she left a wake of bewildered Romeos behind her, scratching their heads, unable to figure her out. It never surprised me when she cut them loose; it happened the second a guy asked more than she was willing to give of herself physically or emotionally, which was not much at all. But I was as clueless as anyone as to why she prowled the clubs and bars. She discarded guy after guy she found there, always frustrated when they turned out to be exactly like the guy before.
If she hadn’t quit dating LDS guys a long time ago, living vicariously through my misfires in the Seattle area would have put her off of them for good. I decided a year ago, after listening to her complain about another jerk, that she clearly knew what she didn’t want, but she had no idea what she
did
want.
I tried to come up with some reassuring girl power slogan to share with her but failed. She popped her head off her arms and pushed away from the table.
“I’m done,” she said. “I’m done with the stupid guys and the stupid clubs and obsessing over stupid Jacob.”
“Good.”
“In fact, it’s time for a makeover.”
“Right this second?” I asked.
“There’s no time like the right now.”
“True, but I don’t think anything’s open, so where . . .”
She broke into my question. “I don’t need anything from a store. This is going to be a life makeover. You’ve started yours, and now I’m going to do mine.”
“I’m not doing anything as drastic as a makeover.”
“Maybe not a total one, but rearranging things and spending time with Ben is kind of like getting new highlights or something. If you start leaving work on time every day, that’s practically like going blonde.”
“I’d look terrible as a blonde.”
“Fine. Red, green, blue, whatever. The point is, there are degrees of change. You stick a toe out there to test the water, but I’m diving in.”
All the metaphors confused me. “Okay. I don’t follow anymore. Are you diving into a vat of hair color that’s an analogy for your life?”
“What?”
“Yeah. What?”
“I’m doing a one-eighty. I’m quitting the club and party scene, refusing all dates, and finding inner peace.” She whipped around and strode down the hall.
“Inner peace is in your bedroom? It’s all the feng shui, right?”
“Ha ha. No. I’m going to sleep so I can wake up a new woman.”
“Someone you know or a total stranger?”
“Keep it coming, Jess. I’m finding my bliss, and even you can’t stop me.”
“I wouldn’t dare. I remember when I got between you and your curl enhancer that one time. I’ll never stand in your way again.”
“You couldn’t if you tried. I’m evolving. That makes me a force of nature.”
“Sandy?” I called before she shut her door.
She poked her head out. “Yeah?”
“You’re already pretty great.”
She smiled. “Wait ’til you see what’s coming.”
Chapter 20
F
RIDAY NIGHT
I
STAGGERED INTO
the condo after eight. Normally when I got home so late, I found only traces of Sandy, who liked to start her weekends as early as possible. This time, instead of a slight mist of the hairspray and expensive perfume she trailed behind when she took off for the night, the aroma of . . . something . . . cooking smacked me as soon as I opened the door.
Following my nose, I peeked into the kitchen and found my roommate standing over the stove. Flour dusted her arms to her elbows, and the steam from the pot she stirred had caused the topmost tendrils of her curls to escape her pony tail. It didn’t smell bad exactly, but I wasn’t going to beg for a taste.
I watched for another moment as she stirred, her attention completely focused on the pot. “What are you making?” I asked.
Without looking up she answered, “Broccoli soup.”
“Oh, like with cheddar or something? Sounds good.”
“No. Just broccoli. It’s not coming out right.” She tasted a spoonful and wrinkled her nose. “Maybe it needs salt. Will you check and see what you think?”
I hate broccoli, but I didn’t want to get sucked into a lecture about antioxidants and vitamins, so I stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a spoon. Scooping up a bit of the brew, I took a small taste and schooled my face into a thoughtful expression instead of choking like I wanted to.
“Is it the salt? Should I add some?” she asked.
“Yeah, I pretty much taste broccoli. What seasonings did the recipe call for?”
“Oh, I didn’t use a recipe. I wanted a healthy soup, and I figured soup is mostly cream and pureed stuff, so I blended up broccoli and skim milk and cooked it, but it’s not coming out right.”
My gag reflex nearly undid me. I cleared my throat. “Is this part of the life makeover?”
“Uh-huh. I’m going to develop new talents instead of going out all the time. I’m starting with healthy cooking.”
I had a feeling cooking wasn’t going to be her most special talent.
“So what do you think I should add to the soup?” she asked.
I couldn’t exactly say, “The garbage disposal,” so I reached for the spice rack in the cupboard. I handed her the lemon pepper, garlic, and cayenne.
“Try these,” I told her. “Use a lot of cayenne.” Maybe it would be so hot it would temporarily disable her ability to taste the concoction. It was the least I could do.
I rummaged through the fridge while she shook stuff haphazardly into the soup. When I sat down to eat a turkey sandwich, the oven buzzer went off. Sandy leaned in and pulled out a loaf pan. I couldn’t see the contents, but I watched with interest as she stabbed it repeatedly with a fork.
“Whatever it did to you, I’m sure it’s sorry,” I said after a particularly vicious poke.
“It’s bread, but it doesn’t look like the recipe picture. How come it didn’t puff up?”
“Maybe you didn’t let it rise long enough before you put it in,” I suggested.
She looked at me blankly.
“You know how you’re supposed to cover it and let it sit for a while after you add the yeast?”
This time I got a brow furrow.
“Did you follow the recipe exactly?” I asked.
“Mostly. But I didn’t have any of the yeast packets it asked for, so I did baking soda. That’s a rising agent, right?”
Oh boy. “It is for cookies and stuff but not so much for bread.”
“Oh.” She plopped into a chair across from me, looking disgruntled. “Cooking is hard.”
“Only at first.” I smiled. “It’s like everything else. It takes practice.”
“How long did it take you to get good at it?” she asked.
“I don’t know. My mom’s been teaching me since I was a kid. I learned a little at a time, and now I can handle myself in the kitchen. It took me a long time, I guess.”
Disgruntlement morphed into discouragement on Sandy’s face, so I hurried to reassure her. “I wasn’t trying to learn to cook when my mom taught me. I just did what she said, and eventually it stuck. I bet it’ll go faster since you’re really trying.”
“Maybe.” She got up and peered into the soup again. “I think I’m rocking a salad tonight though.”
I didn’t need another whiff to tell me to encourage plan B.
“Sounds like a good idea. What’s next on the life makeover list?” I asked.
“I’m getting to know the great outdoors,” she announced.
“You mean, like, nature walks and stuff?”
“Nope. I’m going to do hiking and camping and rock climbing. All that stuff. It’s stupid to live in Seattle and not take advantage of it.”
I refrained from pointing out that she had ignored those activities for the last three years with perfect contentment. Sandy was the girliest girl I knew. She worked hard to keep herself in fantastic shape and could probably handle the exertion easily, but her muscles came courtesy of an expensive Pilates studio and her devotion to yoga. Those two things didn’t usually lead to encounters with stuff like bugs and rain. And dirt. Struggling between wanting to encourage her and wanting to warn her, I asked, “You’re aware that outside isn’t climate controlled, right?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Jessie. I’m aware of that. I know it might rain and stuff—”
“It’s Seattle.”
“Okay, I know it
will
rain and not always be perfect, but I think it’s important for me to change my perspective and explore something new.”
“I think it’s great. But it’s more challenging out there than you probably think,” I said.
“Quit worrying. I can run three miles in under twenty minutes. I’m in pretty good shape, Jess.”
“Those are treadmill miles.”
“I’m not a delicate flower,” she said, sounding impatient.
“I know, I know,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll love it. What are you starting with?”
“Rock climbing. It looks cool. It’ll be a metaphor for overcoming personal difficulties.”
It was hard to believe one unreturned phone call had turned her inside out. I mean, her life seemed pretty sweet. She had a good job with a great salary. I knew for a fact she had an awesome roommate. But she wanted to trade her active social life for a daunting list of activities and projects I couldn’t fathom. I watched her shred the lettuce for her salad with more force than necessary.
Considering she had all those things going for her, I wondered if the void she needed to fill was a spiritual one. But she clearly wasn’t quite ready to tackle her faith, and it was none of my business. She was a smart girl, and she’d eventually get there.
I stifled a sigh at the thought of change. It wouldn’t be easy for her. It’s human nature to hold on to what’s familiar because that’s what I had been doing: I was clinging to work instead of opening up to Ben because he wasn’t a known quantity. I watched the stress etched in every line of Sandy’s tense figure as she hovered over her salad bowl, and I resolved to be more open to change too. At least I knew what changes I needed to make.
I looked at my gorgeous, unhappy roommate and considered the upheaval she would face when she finally figured out what she had to do. Spending more time with a hot guy I liked was a downright fantastic alternative.