Always the Last to Know (Always the Bridesmaid) (18 page)

        “I think you’re reading what you want to read, Jess.”

        “What?”  I ask, exasperated.

        “You’re seeing yourself, and others, in my characters.  And it’s great that you’re relating to them, that’s what I want, but I think you’re digging too deeply into it.”

        “But it all rhymes!”  So that may not be the best argument, but it’s all I can think of.  I mean, rhyming is a pretty powerful literary device.  And, okay, so it’s a powerful literary device in
poetry,
and this is clearly a smut novel, but still… it counts for something, right? 

        “You’re grasping at straws, dear.”  Annie adds calmly while patting my shoulder in a sad “oh, you poor delusional girl” kind of way.

       I shake her hand off of me, “And just for the record, I would never let a man, how did you put it, ‘take me roughly in the barn while a farmhand watches from a nearby stall.’”

       Annie lets out a sad laugh, “It’s such a shame that you reject the unfamiliar.  You have no idea what you are missing, honey child, especially the standing ovations from the audiences.”

        “Audiences?”

       Well, that confirms it:  Annie films porn in front of a live studio audience.  I mean, I’ve always figured that she was in a porno or two, and this just confirms that belief.  And I’m not even going to look for any hidden meanings in the term ‘standing ovations’ from said audiences.  Eww.               

       I turn back to her story, “This is my life, Annie.  I mean, Bess is totally me.  She’s sarcastic and clumsy and overweight and studies languages and her best friend is getting married and she thinks that the Italian Best Man is a sexy man beast but it doesn’t matter because she is so obviously head over heels in love with her best friend’s brother and she doesn’t even realize it...”

       Oh my God.

        “Jess, you okay?”

        “Not at all.”

***

       Well, that’s it.  I’ve gone off the deep end.  I always knew that I would probably be declared clinically insane, what with a mostly absent dad, an overbearing mother, and the sad realization that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.  I knew that this day was going to come.

       I just didn’t think it would be this soon.  I thought I would at least be in my forties before I was hauled off to some asylum and restricted to a straightjacket for the remainder of my life.

       But no, I’m only twenty-two and completely crazy.

        “You’ve been quiet for a while, Jess.  Are you okay?”

       I sort of nod at Annie.  Thankfully, the bank has been mostly quiet and I’ve been able to just sit and think about all that has just transpired.

       I love Riley.

       
I
love
Riley
.

       I
love
Riley?

       Surely not.  I mean, he’s Carla’s brother.  He’s been my enemy since I’ve understood the concept.

       And, okay, over the past few years, we’ve become close.  Riley has really turned into my best friend.  Which is weird in itself.  I can’t even grasp what level of strange me loving him is.

       Snap out of it Reynolds, you don’t love Riley.  Come on, you can’t love him.  It’s Riley.  Riley Callahan.  The same Riley that once pushed you out of his tree house and broke your arm.

       And, okay, so he was eight and didn’t mean to push me out of the tree house.  Even as a child, I had no sense of balance and was accident-prone, something my mother was sure I would grow out of.  The bruise on my knee where I collided with the kitchen cabinet this morning dashes what little, if any, hope she had left for me.

       That brings up a good point…  What in the hell is my mom going to say when she finds out that I love Riley?

       What am I thinking?  I can’t tell my mom that I love Riley.  I can’t tell
anyone
that I love Riley.  Because I don’t.  Love him, that is.  I’m just going through a lot right now, and all the stress has got to me and weakened my rationality.  Maybe I should just go home and take some Tylenol and sleep until this ridiculous idea leaves my mind.

        “Here, drink this.”  Annie thrusts a Styrofoam cup into my hand.  I take a sip of the hot liquid and nearly spit it out on the counter.

        “What the hell is this?”

        “It’s just coffee.”  Annie leans in, “And a touch of bourbon.”

        “Annie!”

        “I’m just trying to bring some color back in your cheeks.  You’re white as a ghost.”

       Who is she kidding?  I’m always white as a ghost.  This newest development has nothing to do with the fact that I can’t keep a tan.

       The feeling that I might be sick is an entirely different story though.

        “Coffee and bourbon isn’t going to fix this.”  But vodka and cranberry juice might.  I offer her a weak smile, “Thank you though.”

       She smiles back at me before moving to her own window to greet a customer, leaving me to further contemplate my discovery.

       It’s not that Riley is a bad guy or anything.  He’s really great, actually.  We torture each other but, in all honesty, he’s incredibly nice.  I mean, he’s letting me live with him for Pete’s sake.  Living with me is no picnic and he’s fully aware of that, but he’s still sharing his house with me.  He really loves his family too, and that’s admirable.  I have to respect him for that.

       Great, I respect him too.  What’s next?

       I groan and lay my head on the counter.  This isn’t happening.

       But it so is.

       I guess it could be worse; I could love some dull guy who has no intelligence or a half-smile that gives the butterflies in my stomach jackhammers.

        Because, really, Riley is smart, and he always makes me laugh, whether I want to or not.  And, okay, he’s not hideously unattractive. He’s tall with those bright green eyes, and he has that unruly hair that I’ve always wanted to run my hands through to smooth it out.

       Only now, instead of running my hands through his hair to smooth it out, I just want to run my hands through his hair, period.

       I lift up my head and smack myself lightly across the face, just enough to feel a bit of a sting.  Okay, that proves that I’m definitely not dreaming.  I really am thinking all these things in my waking life.

       And what does it even matter if I love him?  I mean, it’s Riley.  He’s not going to love me.  He’s not bad looking; he could get a girl way more attractive than me, and that’s not a difficult feat to accomplish.  He could get a pretty girl who is able to maintain a single digit jean size who understands his process of making mixed CDs and doesn’t argue with him during board games or while trying to figure out the seven degrees of Kevin Bacon, starting with Sandra Bullock – Riley doesn’t think that I should be able to use
Beauty Shop
as a degree since he doesn’t consider it a movie, but 105 minutes of his life that he’ll never get back.  I personally thought the movie was kind of funny.  It’s no
Ace Ventura
(which he uses in the process of getting to Kevin Bacon from Sandra Bullock)
,
but it is still a little humorous. 

       That’s what is going to happen, though.  Riley is going to meet some fabulous woman who is thin and hates
Beauty Shop
as much as he does and he will fall madly in love with her.  Then he’ll marry her, and Jackson will sleep at the foot of their bed every night.  They’ll have a son and a daughter and maybe even a white picket fence and annual trips to Disney World.

       I, on the other hand, will become some crazy cat lady.  I’ll live out my days all alone with, like, thirty-six cats.  And then I’ll die and no one will care, except for my cats.  And they’ll only care because no one is feeding them.

       That sounds about right.

       What am I going to do?   I love Riley.  Stupid Riley “Smartass-Comment-for-Everything” Callahan.  And I know that I just realized this, but it’s been there for a while.  What else can explain the goosebumps?  Riley has been giving me goosebumps for years, and they’re getting more frequent all the time.  Not just anyone will give me goosebumps, and no one has, except for Riley, in a long, long time.

       And what about last night when he tackled me to the ground in our play wrestling match?  I was perfectly content lying there under him and looking into those eyes of his and thinking how comfortable and right it all felt.

       Then I realized that it was Riley lying on top of me and that I must have hit my head really hard on the floor or something when I fell.

       I can’t blame a bump on the head for the way I’m feeling now.

       No, I blame Annie and her stupid book.  I was just fine until I read her story about Bess and Mr. Tiley and the love breaking through the ‘confines of her heart’ and then all the smut that followed.

       Annie doesn’t know why I’m freaking out.  Oh, she knows that something is up, but she hasn’t caught on to the fact that my entire life is scrambled around like a Rubik’s cube… and those things ain’t easy to put back in order, you know.  But Annie just thinks that I have PMS or something, and I’m not about to tell her otherwise.

       Because what am I going to say?  ‘Oh, I just realized that I’m in love with my best friend, housemate, and pseudo-landlord and now I’m going to have to go live with thirty-six cats until I die.’  Yeah, that’ll go over well.

       I’m not going to be able to live at Riley’s now.  I mean, I can’t live with my landlord who I’m in love with.  What if he brings home a date?  What if he gets a girlfriend?  I won’t be able to take it.  I really will go off my rocker then.

       Oh no.  I’m going to have to move back home.  At least until I can get a few paychecks saved up to afford putting down a deposit and first month’s rent on an apartment somewhere.  There’s no way that I can move back home and keep my sanity in check.  Maybe I can stay at Carla’s until I get some money saved up?

       Or, maybe, I’ll find out that I’m suffering from a chemical imbalance which makes me think that I love Riley when I really don’t.

       Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen.

       I am so screwed.

***

        “Place cards.”

       You know, I’m glad that Carla and I have reached that point in our friendship where we don’t have to say ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ to each other.  Instead of any niceties, it’s totally okay to say ‘place cards’, shove a calligraphy pen in my hand and make me sit at the table to write out 200 names on parchment as soon as I walk in the door.

       At least when she shoved the calligraphy pen in my right hand, she shoved a fresh strawberry smoothie in my left hand.  It’s hard to be mad at anyone who gives you a strawberry smoothie as soon as you walk in the door.  Especially after you’ve spent the morning in despair over the fact that you’re in love with a smartass like Riley Callahan and totally unable to talk to anyone about it because your coworker will start rattling off sex advice, your current roommate will get angry because you’re in love with her brother, your best friend is the one you’re in love with, and your mother will kill you dead.

       But, hey, I have a strawberry smoothie; at least my glass isn’t totally empty.

        “I can’t believe I almost forgot the place cards.”  Carla is still shaking her head as she punches in a number on her phone.

       Yeah, she almost forgets about the place cards, something that nearly caused her to have a nervous breakdown, but has no trouble remembering that I’m good with a calligraphy pen, a talent I haven’t used since I was in eighth grade art class.  And, believe me, it’s showing on these place setting cards.

       Carla ends her phone conversation with Evan’s tailor and looks over my work.  If she’s displeased, she doesn’t say so.  She just nods and starts dialing another number.  Evidently she’s been calling people all day to make sure everything for the wedding is still lined up correctly.  So far, everything is on schedule and, according to the meteorologist that she cornered at the news station she works at, the weather will cooperate.  I hope he’s right because, if it rains, I have a very strong feeling that Carla will beat the poor weatherman to a pulp.

       I honestly cannot believe I’m even thinking this, but I wish that Carla had given me a more challenging task than writing out place cards.  Writing out names on place cards that will be completely ignored at the reception doesn’t take too much thought, which means that I have plenty of time to sit here and contemplate about Riley and the fact that I’m in love with him.

       And, you know, I should be totally repulsed by that fact. But I’m not.  You have no idea how much I hate myself for not becoming nauseated at the thought of loving Riley.  Well, I do feel a little sick but it’s not repulsion, just pure unadulterated fear.  Because, now, I love Riley.  It’s out there in the universe and there’s no way of reeling it back in.

       What’s even worse is that I keep thinking about what it’s going to be like to be around Riley and be in love with him.  There’s no way that Riley feels this way, and Satan will be ice skating in Hell before I tell him anything.  My mind keeps going over scenarios of Riley and I together: hanging out on the sofa watching TV with Jackson between us, attempting to grocery shop together and the arguments over low-fat milk versus Riley’s much loved 2% milk and whole wheat versus white bread, what it would be like to kiss him. . .

       Oh crap.  I cannot think about kissing Riley, no matter how great it might be, because if I think about kissing Riley and running my hands through his hair then my next thought will be about sleeping with Riley and I cannot allow that thought to enter my mind. . .

       Nevermind, now I’m thinking about having sex with Riley.  That’s it, I’m a dead woman.  I will never ever recover from this.

        “Are you all right?”

       I look up at Carla who is staring at me concerned.