Friends & Fortune Cookies: A Sudden Falls Romance (5 page)

“Have you dated anyone since then?” Joe asked.

I shuddered at the thought. “No. And I wouldn’t be now if it weren’t for these articles. Not that I’m going to be
dating-
dating. It’s research. If the
Enquirer
picks up these columns and blogs, it will more than double my readership. And if that goes well and the column is syndicated, then...” I trailed off.

“Then you could be as successful as Katie and Inky?” Joe asked. Damn him for knowing me this well.

I shrugged. “It’s hard being the underachiever in a family of overachievers.”

“You’re hardly an underachiever.”

“Fine. Then it’s hard to be a basic achiever in a family of overachievers,” I amended.

“What are the Magnificent Mendozas up to?” Joe had given my family that nickname in high school, and it had stuck.

“Inky is working on her second doctorate. Katie just became a creative director of a major advertising agency.” I sighed.

“And the folks?” Joe asked.

“They’re currently on a cruise, taking a quick break before they go back to saving the world. Dad’s getting closer and closer to curing childhood cancer, and Mom’s superintendent of the highest-ranked school district in the state.”

At that moment, Fifi came to the table to take our order. Just as well. I didn’t begrudge my family their successes, but being the low bar for comparison was tough. In my family’s defense, they’d never done anything to deliberately make me feel bad about my career choices. Except, you know, being undeniably magnificent at every moment, which got a little annoying from time to time.

Joe ordered our usual without asking me for input, which was fine. I think we’d already established he knew me pretty well.

Fifi took our order to the kitchen, and Joe leaned back in the seat. “What do you want to be when you grow up, Gracie?”

“Excuse me? I waved at twenty-five as I passed it last year. Don’t you think I’m ‘grown-up’?”

“You’re still measuring yourself by your family’s
magnificent
yardstick. So what will it take for you to think of yourself as a Magnificent?”

As I started to ponder that, Joe made one of those perspicacious observations that floored me.

“I would argue that the only reason you don’t have a desk full of Pulitzer Prizes, have a seven-figure book deal, and aren’t a household name is that you haven’t gone after it. And I’d argue that the only reason you haven’t gone after it is that you’re happy living in the moment. There’s a lot to be said for that. Except on those rare occasions that you notice you’re standing in your family’s shadow, you are happy simply
being
. And that, my friend, is
truly
magnificent.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling my throat close up a bit. Partly because I went all Bridget Jones “He likes me just the way I am,” for a second. But also because he tapped into something that had been a secret desire that I’d never even been willing to say aloud.

Writing (and publishing) a book
would
make me truly feel like a Magnificent.

“You’re welcome,” Joe said finally. He said something else after that, but it didn’t quite register because I was mid-epiphany. I was going to do it.

I was going to write a book.

Chapter 8 — Joe

Fifi brought our drinks after what felt like hours, and I chugged back half my beer in three gulps.

Gracie raised an eyebrow. “Thirsty?”

I shrugged, feeling slightly defensive. “A little.”

She knew I rarely had more than one drink. My parents’ example had left me very aware that
one
drink could become
many
all too quickly and that many drinks rarely improved anyone’s personality. Of course, the other reason I rarely imbibed is that I have zero tolerance and can get loopy faster than a one-hundred-five-pound sorority girl on her twenty-first birthday.

But it seemed like the kind of evening to relax that restriction.

How could my day have gotten any worse after finding out that the
Rehab-a-rama
house was a death trap and could easily cost more than I had to fix?

Gracie was about to start
dating.

And as hard as it was to admit, this was pretty much my own doing. Had I not run away after we’d fought over her twerp of an ex-fiancé, then I might have helped her pick up the pieces. Eventually, I could have pushed for us to be something more. Because after imagining Gracie and our two imaginary children in the house today, it was time to admit I wanted something more.

If I wanted to be perfectly honest about it, I had
wanted
something more since about ten minutes after I’d
had
something more and then immediately fucked it up in high school. Unfortunately, wanting something more and being free to go after it were two different things now. I had a job that took me out of the country constantly and a contract with at least a year on it before that would change. I liked the work and felt an intense sense of loyalty to the owner.

That didn’t mean I didn’t wish things were different. Even if a couple of meals at Zen would be enough to make her fall into my arms and forget the past year, which they wouldn’t.

Fifi brought our dinner, and we dug in, though I’d lost my appetite.

I took a slightly more controlled sip of beer as Gracie, oblivious to my train of thought, started talking about her articles, which morphed pretty quickly into a rapid-fire line of questions aimed at me.

“Have you ever used a dating service?”

“Once or twice,” I confessed. And while I still had a Tinder account, I hadn’t actually signed in months. Too depressing.

“Did you meet anyone?”

“Not that I wanted to keep seeing.”

“What was it like?”

“Like a blind date, only worse.” I’ll admit to not wanting to make her look forward to this dating-for-articles thing. If that made me a bad person... well, I guess I’d have to live with that.

She nibbled at the corner of her mouth in a way that made me want to do the same. “Do you think it’s safe?” she asked finally.

It took me a second to answer, still obsessing over the pink bow of her mouth. “If you’re smart about it.”

This I would be clear on. I didn’t want her to do this at all. But if she was going to, I didn’t want her to get into a bad situation. “Always meet in a public place. Tell someone where you’re going and who you’re meeting. Have a pre-arranged check-in time. Have someone plan to call you during the date to give an out if you need one. Avoid the hookup sites in favor of ones that draw people interested in actually dating.”

“So which service do you think I should use?”

I named a couple of the bigger ones with reputations for finding relationships.
Not
that I wanted her to find a relationship. But if she landed on one of the hook-up sites, then who knew what kind of trouble she could run into? Gracie could take care of herself. She was a grown woman and had been doing a fine job of it for the better part of seven years since leaving for college.

However, somehow Gracie had managed in those seven years to stay sweetly naïve—as opposed to
stupidly
naïve. She always expected the best in people. I wondered how much her breakup had changed that. I hadn’t been around long enough to fully see how much the experience had changed her. And I wanted to again kick myself for that.

The other reason I was concerned is that it must be noted that Gracie is technologically...
challenged.

“What name do you think I should use for my handle?” she asked, and I felt an intense desire to drive a stake through my own forehead. Trying to support someone who was doing something in direct opposition to your own interests was...
excruciating
.

I took another slug of beer, realized it was empty, and set the bottle down. Fifi must have noticed my distress because another one materialized almost instantly.

Good man.

“Something innocuous which includes your name,” I said.

“Good Night Gracie?” she asked. “Kind of a call-out to other radio-show junkies...”

I nearly choked on my beer. “No. Not unless you want guys to think you’re only looking for sex.”

“Eww.
I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

The beer warmed me up from the inside, and a voice in my head told me to stop before I did or said something I’d regret.

I didn’t listen, however.

Gracie continued to share her concerns and excitement over her upcoming articles. I worked to appear engaged while secretly hatching a plot to get her to forget about Internet dating and instead start seeing me as something other than a “buddy”.

Fifi dropped the bill and two fortune cookies on the table then removed our empty dishes.

I have no recollection what our fortunes were. That second beer had been a dumb decision. We got up from the table to head for the door, and I stumbled as we stepped out onto the street. About then I remembered the cold tablets I’d popped like candy throughout the day.

“You aren’t so steady on your feet,” she remarked.

“I think you should forget the Internet and date
me.
” Two beers and a couple of cold tablets conspired to remove any filter that might have once existed between my brain and my mouth.

Gracie sighed and shook her head. “Don’t do this, Joe.” She stepped back, nibbling on her lower lip, which once again gave me all sorts of impure thoughts.

I leaned in and brushed my lips across hers. And, for a full two seconds, she responded before she pushed me away.

The look she gave me from under her lashes was two-parts vulnerable, one-part furious, with a pinch of betrayal thrown in for good measure.

My stomach dropped as she pulled my keys out of my hands and disappeared back inside the restaurant.

I was left staring after her with what I’m sure was a stupid expression on my face.

A moment later, she came back. “Fifi has your keys. I called Alex to come get you.”

“Gracie—”

“I’ll talk to you after you sober up.” She turned around and left before I could say anything to stop her.

At that point, I realized how badly I’d fucked up.

Again.

Chapter 9 — Grace

“Makeovers give you the advantage of being yourself… only
better.
”
~ Luddite in Love: A Cautionary Tale of Dating in the Modern Age,
Grace Mendoza

I woke up the next morning with two thoughts that had kept me up for half the night.
OMG! I’m going to write a book!
and
How could Joe have made a pass at me?!

I’ll admit the former kept getting eclipsed by the latter.

We’ve always had some chemistry. But other than a very brief blip senior year, we never acted on it. That was through dedicated effort on both of our parts.

Why did he have to go and screw that up? I couldn’t even blame the alcohol. Yes, he was kind of a lightweight. But he’d only had two drinks for crying out loud.

But then, I’d only had one and—I had to admit—lost my own good sense because I kissed him back. Maybe not for a long time, but I definitely succumbed for several seconds to the latent feelings I’d always had for him. And I think that was what was bothering me the most. I knew in my heart of hearts if I gave in and acted on my feelings for Joe that he would mangle my heart beyond all recognition.

Joe was an excellent friend, but he was leaving in less than two months. If we were to casually date, my heart would definitely be broken, and we would no longer be friends, of that I was certain. And I wanted to keep his friendship. The last very lonely year had taught me how much I needed that. This was the longest we’d ever gone without speaking, and I’d hated it. Enough to call him? No, but I hadn’t been able to face him. Now, the only way I could keep his friendship (without fighting weird more-than-friends feelings) was to date someone else.

And that got me to thinking about what I was about to embark upon. What if I were to start dating
for real?

What would I do differently?

Still contemplating that question, I pulled myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. A look in the mirror assured me my sleepless night was completely visible on my face. I leaned in closer to the mirror — the only way to get an accurate reflection without my glasses or contacts. My hair needed a trim as well. I had some pretty bad split ends.

Bad hair and bad skin. That’s exactly what I wanted to put out there for my new foray into dating.

I needed a makeover. I went back into the bedroom, picked up my cell phone, and called my own personal style guru, my sister Katie.

Katie called Inky, and two hours later, all three of us were wrapped in black nylon capes in a spa waiting for our makeover specialists.

“You guys are going to love this place,” Katie said. “I worked on a marketing campaign for them last year, and it was super successful — mostly because this place is so amazing.”

“How did you guys both manage to get off work at the last minute?” I asked. “I had to claim I was doing story prep and research.” Which wasn’t entirely a lie, but I definitely hadn’t given Dave any specifics, though I suspect he wouldn’t have cared. Barkett would likely birth kittens at the idea that I was getting my hair done on company time, so I figured not telling Dave the details gave him plausible deniability.

“I’m meeting with a client,” Katie said with a wink.

“I only have one class on Tuesdays, and it’s at eight in the morning,” Inky said with a shrug. “I’m done for the day.”

During college, I would have sold my own kidney to avoid an eight-o’clock class, so to take one in graduate school seemed criminal. But Inky had always been an early bird. And a night owl. Frankly, I think she simply doesn’t sleep, which is how she’s accomplished more by age twenty-two than most people do during their entire lifetimes.

“I can’t believe you’re going to start Internet dating,” Inky said. “That’s so...”

“Desperate?” I said.

“Brave,” she corrected. “I’d be terrified to meet a stranger in public. What if he was a serial killer?”