Another Shot At Love (13 page)

“He’s cute,” Lexie said then gazed back at me with question in her eyes. She seemed hurt I hadn’t told her about him.

“Bring him to dinner Saturday. I want to meet him,” Mom said.

I shook my head and grasped the front door handle. “No. It’s too early for that. Love you guys.”

I escaped before they could ask me anything else. Outside the sun was low on the horizon, the sky a shadow of orange and red. Normally, I would have stopped to take in the sunset, breathe in the colors and smells of a May evening, but I was too deep in the load of crap I’d just made up.

And why the hell had I used Matt’s name?

What is wrong with you?!?

I threw my car into reverse and backed out of my parents’ driveway with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Catherine could sniff out a lie from a mile away, and I was no good at telling them. Obviously—I’d just made up a boyfriend in a moment of panic. How pathetic was I? And if they found out my story was a load of bull, they’d all be pissed.

This is all Catherine’s fault
, I reasoned and flipped on the stereo. And Lexie hadn’t been any help in the matter.

They’d forced my hand!

I never would have made up such a stupid story if it weren’t for them butting in the way they had. They were ruthless, really.

“They’re crazy!” I said to my empty car. I stopped at the stop sign and looked both ways before turning onto the street. “I mean, they’re really bat-shit crazy right now.
I had no choice
.”

My fib had been a matter of survival. Drastic situations called for drastic measures. It was the only way…

How hard could it be to maintain a fabricated relationship with a guy who would never find out?

“I’ll have a fake break up after engagement party,” I muttered and turned the corner. “Piece of cake.”

Chapter Seven

My passion had always been art. When I was little, I’d been content brandishing a pack of crayons and doodling on any surface available—walls, sidewalks, the refrigerator door, but mostly on paper. Especially after my parents had threatened to take away my art supplies. As I grew older and learned a bit of self-control, I focused my creativity on surfaces that wouldn’t be scrubbed or repainted. I’d fallen in love with color and it was a part of me, like breathing.

Art was an outlet for my every emotion, and a fundamental aspect of my life that I never once questioned. I painted whatever moved me, mostly visions from dreams so vivid that I spent days, sometimes weeks getting an image out of my head before I lost them forever. Color made me happy and creativity through art was the only thing that kept me sane through the teenage drama that had plagued high school. Some kids penned angsty poetry; I had always preferred sharing my emotion through pencils or paints. That would never change.

Despite my family considering it just an expensive hobby, I knew it for what it was—my soul. Without it in my life, I wouldn’t be the same person. I missed the gallery I used to work at, the smell of the paintings, the thrill of a show, being around others who enjoyed it as much as I did. I’d gone to the other three galleries in town, but none of them were hiring.

I needed a new plan and I was ready to make one.

Peering at the canvas in front of me, I dabbed more blue onto the painting. The sunlight streamed through the double windows right onto the canvas. The oceanscape shimmered with vivid colors, just as I remembered from a trip I’d taken over spring break a few years ago.

My eyes drifted over to the corner of the room where last week I’d stacked pieces of barn wood on a blue tarp. I’d been browsing the classifieds when I came across an ad for free wood from a nearby farm; they’d torn down their barn to erect a new one. Reading the ad, I suddenly had a vision: I would paint farm scenes on them and maybe take them to the gift shop downtown. Lexie and I had taken our parents’ SUV out to the farm and loaded up as much as we could into the back.

Living alone meant I had a lot more time to bask in creativity. I could sit for hours in my studio, no interruptions, and I loved it. I was lost in thought, lost in color, when my land-line rang from the kitchen, startling me. It rang again and I hopped off the stool, carrying the paintbrush with me as I hurried to the kitchen. I swept the phone up and clicked to answer. “Hello?”

“Hey, Gennie-bear.”

The sound of Brent’s voice was like a slap in the face and I flinched. I set the paintbrush down on the edge of the sink with a glare. “What the hell do you want?”

And he’d used a nickname reserved for people who cared about me, not for someone who’d betrayed me.

“Hey now, I was just calling to check up on you. See how you’re doing.”

I could hear the smile in his voice and wanted to shake it from his face until his teeth chattered. Wrenching open the refrigerator door, I said, “Brent, I changed my number for a reason. Obviously, I don’t want to talk to you.”

I eyed the beers on the shelf. They were leftovers from a night with Roxanna and Ghost Adventures and throwing popcorn at the screen every time something almost happened, but never did. It was too early to hit the bottle, though, so I grabbed an iced tea instead.

“Gennie, it’s not fair how you just up and left.”

“It’s not fair that you slept with a hooker, either.” I shut the refrigerator door a little harder than necessary.

“She’s not a hooker.”

“Stripper, whatever.” Before he could protest, I said, “And I don’t really care if she’s a neurosurgeon or cleans toilets for a living. Also, I don’t care that you think I
should
care what Stripper Barbie does for a living.”

There, it felt good to get that out. I wasn’t sure why I didn’t just hang up, but I’d always been the curious sort.

“Come on, Gen. After you threw all of my stuff out on the sidewalk the way you did, I think you owe me this talk.”

I sputtered, literally at a loss of words. Or maybe sputtering had more to do with the sudden spike of rage. I snapped my mouth open and shut as I searched for words that eluded me—the only thing crossing through my mind was swear words, in bold lettering.

“I owe you a talk, huh?”

“You never even gave me a chance to explain!”

“Explain why you didn’t show up at the art show to spend the evening with me? Explain why you were in bed with your ex instead?”

“I made a mistake. I wanted to be there, I did!”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, you weren’t. You were doing your ex on our bed. And really, it’s not as if you could have shown up without your pants on and a relationship-wrecking whore in your lap. I gave that bed to the Goodwill, by the way.”

“Gennie, please. Meet me for dinner. Or let me come see you. We can talk about this.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, I’m not. And some of those clothes you threw out were really expensive. A homeless guy got to them before I did.”

I laughed and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Damn, I’m sorry I didn’t stick around to see that.”

“It’s not funny. I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“I saw him wearing my suit jacket at the gas station. It was all stained up and ripped,” he said and I pictured him shuddering. What a baby. “A homeless guy, Gennie—
in my suit
.”

“You’re such a snob.” I twisted the cap off the tea bottle and took a drink then wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand. “Did he get all of the clothes?”

“No, most of them, though.”

“Damn, that’s too bad.” I smiled.

“Very funny,” he pouted.

“I’m not trying to be funny, Brent.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “This isn’t going the way I planned.”

“Shocker,” I said.

“Gen, that’s not fair.” He sounded hurt and I narrowed my eyes. He had no right to be hurt.

The guy was definitely from Mars. Maybe in my five-year plan I needed to pencil in: Write a book entitled
I Dated a Gray Alien
. The kind that did unspeakable things, like human torture.
Of the cheating sort.

“I hate those damn grays,” I muttered.

“What?”

I straightened and began pacing my small kitchen. “I said I hate aliens. Anyway, that’s not the point right now. The point is that I’m being fair—I haven’t hung up, have I? You’re lucky I’m not adding some choice, well-deserved words to this conversation. I’m being much nicer than I should be.”

During our relationship I’d never doubted Brent was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I now recognized how naïve I’d been in thinking I could tame the womanizing jerk. I’d fallen for the wrong guy and I would never make that mistake again. After all this time away from him, I couldn’t remember being as in love with him as I should have been. Maybe I’d been more in love with the idea of it, of my twin and me marrying best friends and doing everything together like we’d always done.

I couldn’t even clearly picture his face anymore. All I could see was Brent’s big, pearly white teeth and spray tanned face. I giggled and switched direction to the living room.

“What’s so funny now?”

His irritation only made my grin widen.

“You wouldn’t get it.” And he wouldn’t because he was too full of himself to laugh about his big white teeth and fake tan. “Why don’t you just tell me why you’re really calling, Brent. How’d you get my number?”

“Jeremy gave it to me. I wanted—”

“That little weasel,” I muttered. Jeremy would definitely get an earful as soon as I hung up on Brent.

“Damn it, Gen, why are you making this so difficult?” Frustration dripped from his words and I collapsed in satisfaction on the couch.

“Well,” I said after making him wait a few seconds and sweat a little, “because, number one, you are a cheater.”

“Gen, you didn’t let me explain—”

“And number two, you never tried calling me after I moved.”

“You changed your number!”

“And number three,” I continued, “Lexie said you’re actually dating that fake breasted bimbo, so I have no clue why you’d even think calling me would be okay. I’m sure your girlfriend wouldn’t be impressed if she knew.”

“Who told you she has fake boobs?”

Of course that would be his first concern. I rolled my eyes. “Apparently, you can smash cans with her jugs so I’m guessing it’s not too hard to surmise they’re fake on first glance. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about the messenger and I don’t want to talk about your girlfriend’s bad boob job.”

“It was Lexie, wasn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. “She’s been really hard on me since we broke up; it’s getting old.”

“Whining doesn’t become you, Brent,” I said. “Now spit it out. Why are you calling me?”

He gave another sigh. “Okay, fine. Jeremy was concerned that you and I being in the same room would be an issue and I told him it wouldn’t be. It’s not going to be an issue, is it?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I can ignore you just fine. I have a boyfriend, you know.” And there it went, falling out of my mouth again. A cheating ex-boyfriend counted as a drastic situation, didn’t it? Damage control, that’s what this was. I couldn’t let Brent in, not even an inch. This lie was a necessary evil in the face of an even bigger evil.

I thought of Matt’s business card sitting on the counter near a pad of pink paper. I’d been struggling over whether to throw it way or not. I should—it wasn’t like I could call him now after dragging his name into the biggest lie of the century—but I couldn’t bring myself to toss it in the trash. I couldn’t stop thinking about him or the amazing kiss.

“Oh. I didn’t know you were dating someone.” He sounded disappointed. Probably, he’d expected me to pine away for him for the rest of my life. What an ass.

“Yeah, well I am.” I flipped on the TV.

“I asked Lexie a couple of weeks ago; she said you haven’t dated anyone since we broke up.”

“Lexie said that?”

“Yeah.”

“No, she didn’t,” I insisted.

“Yes, she did.”

Normally, I understood Lexie’s careless comments; she didn’t often think about how her words would affect those around her, especially now that she’d morphed into bridezilla. And she didn’t do it because she meant any harm; speaking her mind was Lexie’s thing.

What I wanted to know, though, was why Lexie had thought it necessary to discuss my relationship status—or lack thereof—with my jerk of an ex-boyfriend. I set the iced tea on the coffee table.

“Well, I
am
dating someone. He makes me happy. Life is perfect.”

He had no right to act jealous about my moving on. Just another reminder of what an ass he was. He’d wanted his freedom, obviously, so what the hell was his problem? Second thoughts after playing house with Stripper Barbie?

“Perfect,” Brent repeated as if I’d just introduced a new word into his vocabulary.

“Brent, I’m with Matt now.” The idea of a relationship with a guy like Matt made me smile. If I was interested in dating, and if Matt was interested in dating, I’d probably want to take a ride on the Matt-mobile. Since I’d ruined any chance with that, it was okay to let my imagination have a good time with it. I added, “We’re serious. He’s my, uh, Love Muffin.”