How to Look Happy (9 page)

I try to push work completely from my mind and enjoy the afternoon with my family.

*  *  *

Monday afternoon, after presenting Mrs. Kennedy’s sitting room, which, thankfully, she loved, I’m on my way to a project installation—an office for a clinical psychologist who’s in the process of moving her practice from an outside space to her own home. I did the rest of the house early last year, and I designed her downtown condo more than five years ago—it was one of my first big solo projects after Candace hired me.

I love repeat clients, not only because they now make up at least half of my commissions but also because when a client comes back to me with a new project, I know they’re happy with the spaces I’ve already designed for them. There’s no better feeling than that as a designer. It’s one reason I’ve always worked so hard, asking a million questions, spending more time than I could ever possibly be paid for making sure the space plan, lighting specifications, paint colors, and a million other tiny details are exactly right. I want the rooms I design to be beautiful and functional but also to reflect the personalities and tastes of their owners—not my personality or taste. It’s a hard line to walk sometimes.

I’ve learned of one problem already with today’s installation—the desk, which was supposed to arrive by freight last week but didn’t because of a manufacturer delay, was delayed
again
this week by an interstate closure. The rep promised the truck would arrive this morning, but alas, my beautiful, custom desk that forms the centerpiece of the room is currently rambling along in a tractor-trailer somewhere this side of Knoxville. That means I can’t complete my favorite part of the project today, that magical moment of watching a previously empty space spring to life from my 2-D renderings and transform into the picture in my head.

Instead, there’ll be a stately leather desk chair floating at the center of the room and two perfectly adorable guest chairs facing it, with a gaping hole in between. Along with the desk, I’m waiting for the custom hutch and bookshelves, which means I can’t accessorize either. Basically all I can do is place the rug, arrange the furniture we have, oversee the drapery installation, and put together the waiting area. At least I have what I need to complete that space.

Such is a day in the life of a designer. Between products getting discontinued, clients changing their minds, and freight delays, installations almost never run a hundred percent as planned.

I pull up at the client’s house, on the phone with Carson to get the latest update on my items in transport. As I ease my car to the curb, I notice that a slightly banged-up truck is parked in the driveway, with a man’s head bent down in the driver’s seat, probably looking at a phone.
Must be the art hanger
, I think, because it’s not the drapery installation guys. I’m very familiar with their white van with blue lettering on the side—I’ve been working with them for years. But I’m using a new art installer today because my old subcontractor, a one-man operation, just retired with his wife to Colorado.

I feel a twinge of guilt and wish I’d remembered to call and cancel the new guy because without the desk, there’s really only one item we can hang today—an abstract painting that’s going above a console table in the waiting room. It’s big-ish and maybe a bit heavy, but it’s a box canvas, unframed, and honestly, I could hang it myself. I typically only use a professional installation team for heirloom pieces or super-heavy items like mirrors or large, framed paintings.

I end my call with Carson disappointed—the desk definitely won’t make it to Memphis until after hours, which means it’ll be taken to our off-site warehouse. My carefully orchestrated installation process has officially fallen apart.

“Hi there,” calls the art guy before I’ve even stepped outside my car. “Are you Jennifer?”

“Jen,” I say, looking down into my bag to make sure I didn’t leave my tape measure at the office. It’s always embarrassing to show up at an installation without a measuring tool. I’m still scrounging around in my bag as I walk up my client’s driveway. Art guy meets me halfway down the drive.

When I look up and take the hand he’s extended, my breath catches in my throat. My, but he’s a cutie. He’s tall, probably six-two or six-three, with light brown hair that’s a little unkempt—it’s hard to tell if it’s on purpose or not because in general he looks as if he might have rolled right out of bed and into his truck. His clothes are messy in a workman’s kind of way, paint streaks on his jeans and a plaid, button-down shirt that’s fitted enough to display his muscular arms and chest—necessary physical traits for an art installer, I remind myself.

“Todd Birnham,” he introduces himself as our hands meet. His are rough and calloused, and to my utter dismay, I find myself
blushing
. I clear my throat.

“It’s Jen,” I say again, my voice catching in a way that’s embarrassing. “Jen Dawson.”

I’m not sure what’s come over me. I’m not usually the type to go all giddy over a cute guy. But then again, I haven’t been single for the last seven years. I don’t know
how
I react to cute guys as a single person.

Todd follows me up to the front porch. The client isn’t actually here—she’s back at her old office, clearing out and packing up her files—so I let myself in with the key she’s entrusted to me. Generally, I love the idea of the client arriving after the bulk of the work is done. It takes off some of the pressure, plus I get that awesome TV moment of witnessing my client see the “after” space for the first time. Truly, it’s one of the best parts of the job.

“Um, I hate to say this, but you don’t have a lot to do today.” As I’m explaining the deal with the case pieces to Todd, the blue-and-white Munroe’s van pulls up with my window treatments. For the next couple of hours, the bulk of my communications with my subcontractors consist of short, imperative sentences punctuated by grunts and groans as we all lug around the pieces of furniture that actually made it onto the truck today.

Once I have the furniture and rug placed in the waiting room, Todd does his thing while I stand back and watch, chewing a fingernail and thinking that I never micromanaged Carl, our previous art hanger, quite so studiously. But then again, Carl’s in his mid-sixties, with a beer paunch, a comb-over, and two grown daughters.

“That looks great,” I say. “Perfect.”

Todd steps back and eyes the painting critically, then backs up a little more so he’s standing right beside me. I swear my arm hairs raise a little on the side closest to him, as if they’re straining to touch him, or as if he has some sort of static pull. “Yep, spot on,” he agrees. He looks proud of himself and maybe a little…relieved?

We both stand there silently for another minute, staring at the art—or at least, he’s staring at the art. I’m kind of staring at the wall without seeing it because all I can think about is how close his right arm is to my left one.

“It kind of looks like two squirrels fighting over a bowling ball,” he says, throwing me totally off guard. I glance over at him, and his head is cocked to one side, his very blue eyes still trained on the canvas. I’d almost forgotten it was there.

I look up at it and laugh. He’s right, actually, though I feel a little guilty for agreeing with him. I love this artist. Her paintings are full of vibrancy and color, and this one creates a perfect focal point for this space—it’s a spot of bright, happy color in a room that’s otherwise designed in soothing tones and subdued fabrics to reflect the nature of my client’s work. But the scene in this painting
does
look like two squirrels fighting over a bowling ball.

“I’m never going to be able to look at it again without seeing that,” I say, still chuckling. “Thanks a lot.”

“Well, lucky you don’t live here,” he says back, smiling with one half of his mouth in a way I find unnerving, if not outright sexy.
Holy hell, Dawson. Get a grip!

“Just please don’t mention the squirrel thing to Sandra tomorrow,” I say, referring to the fact that I’ve already asked Todd to come back in the morning to help me finish the installation. The main office has one large, framed print and several smaller pieces to hang—awards and degrees, mainly. Honestly I probably
could
have placed the large piece without the furniture in the room, and I could certainly hang the smaller items myself.

But then I wouldn’t be seeing Todd again tomorrow.

*  *  *

Later that night, I’m scrolling down Instagram on my phone screen, getting mindless glimpses into other people’s lives. Most of my feed these days is occupied by my friends’ growing numbers of kids. Even Amelia, my writer friend who’s looking for a house in Memphis, is pregnant now, and so is her childhood friend Reese. That’s half of my crew from my twenties, all settled down and knocked up. When did life get so serious? When did we get so
old
? And most of all, how did all of it seem to pass me by?

I’m supposed to be the one posting engagement photos
, I think as I flick through an album of engagement pictures posted earlier today by one of my college friends.
Mine were better than this.
I feel a wrenching twist of emotion—shame for the ugly thought, heartache for what I’ve lost, and a sort of sick gratification over the fact that I’m right. My photos really
were
nicer than these, mainly because we’d hired the city’s most sought-after photographer and done the shoot at Memphis’s premier wedding venue. We’d also scheduled it at the ideal time of year, when the city had just launched into full bloom and the gardens overflowed with azaleas, the sun casting its perfect springtime light over our less-than-perfect love.

Nobody cares more about image than my ex-fiancé, so of course something as public-facing as engagement pictures had to be flawless. That thought makes me glad to be rid of him, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

After all, isn’t that why we post things on social media at all…to show off? I mean, honestly, in a “me” culture like ours, nothing is more me-centric than an ever-changing yearbook of life’s Kodak moments, with every person we’ve ever known as our rapt, captive audience. “Likes” are the new yearbook signatures. Who has the most? Who’s the coolest kid in school?

When did I get so damn bitter?

I scroll through more of my feed and see the photos Christine has posted from Jake’s party, and they make me smile.
See now, social media isn’t all bad.
I love keeping up with my family on Facebook and Instagram, especially with Adam and Braxton so far away. But even as I smile over the pictures from Sunday’s party, I find myself thinking that Christine has done just what I was obsessing about—she’s posted all the smiling, happy moments from the day. But what about the sibling fights? What about the meltdowns? What about Jake falling off the play gym halfway through the party, which gave rise to a panicky half hour when Christine fretted over whether or not they should take him to the emergency room? Or what about when Sadie knocked Ethan’s soda out of his hand in the middle of the kitchen, and it ricocheted off the table, floor, and cabinets and all over Eleanor’s shoes? That took another twenty minutes to clean up.

Nope, Facebook and Instagram aren’t about recording life’s messes. They’re revisionist history. And that’s probably OK.

But it’s just one more memo I guess I never received.

*  *  *

Twenty minutes later I’m still scrolling, lost down the rabbit hole of my news feed. I’m in Facebook now, and I’ve just finished a BuzzFeed quiz—
Who’s your ’80s sitcom doppelgänger?
(It’s D.J. Tanner, by the way)—and my second glass of prosecco when a notification pops up at the top of my phone screen. It’s a friend request.

I click, and then I sputter a little as a bit of my bubbly drink finds its way down the wrong pipe.
Are you freaking kidding me?

Immediately I text not Carrie, but Allison Swearingen, my high school best friend. Allison and I don’t talk a whole lot these days, but of everybody I know, she’s the one who’ll be most interested in this news.

OMG. U will never guess who just friended me on FB.

She texts back within five minutes, and while waiting, I skim my prospective new friend’s profile, which, it turns out, is public.

OK, I’ll bite. Cole Harmon??

At this I chortle so loud I startle myself—the sound is loud in my house, which is so quiet I can hear myself breathing. I lean forward on the couch to grab the TV remote, and in the process my foot slips off the coffee table and I almost drop the computer from my lap. I catch it just in time and flick on the TV, which goes automatically to HGTV—a channel I have a love-hate relationship with. I’m obsessed with it, honestly, but it’s also infuriating as a designer because it gives people unrealistic expectations. In the real world, you can’t produce a finished family room from scratch in one weekend on a shoestring budget, at least not unless you have a crew of woodworkers, seamstresses, and artisans working for free in the garage the way home improvement TV shows do. But I digress.

After righting myself and turning down the volume low enough to be background noise, I text back,
As if. Try someone from our species.