Never the Bride (8 page)

My gloating fades as I find myself alone in my living room. It’s been a Valentine’s Day repeat, except for the weird God thing, but I’m halfway certain I’m going to wake up tomorrow to find myself remembering this dream.

Usually on a disastrous Valentine’s Day, I would fill up at least five pages of my journal, but I don’t feel like journaling at all. I fall into the cushions of my couch, adjust the pillows, and stare at my purple pen. Maybe, with the night I’ve had, it will start writing all on its own.

“What are you doing?”

I whirl around in my desk chair like I’m not expecting anyone to show up. The truth of the matter is that I keep expecting
him
to step right out of the wallpaper. But it’s not him. It’s Brooklyn, rubbing her tired eyes.

“It’s three-thirty in the morning.”

“I know,” I say. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

“No.” She leans over me and snatches up the pill bottle that is on the desk. “What’s this?”

“Give me that!” I claw at her arms, but she backs away and holds it up, squinting to read it.

“St. John’s wort?” She raises a curious eyebrow and tosses it back to me.

“It’s not what you think.”

“You have a wart?”

Obviously it’s not what she thinks. “It’s an herb.” I swivel back around and continue typing.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Why are you awake?”

“I can’t sleep. I’m having life crisises, you know.”

“Crises.”

“Whatever. So what are you doing?”

“I’m just looking up drug interactions.”

“For the wart stuff?”

I swivel to face her again. I look into her tired-yet-remarkably-taut-and-bright eyes. I don’t think she has the ability to look disheveled. Her pajamas include a tight-fitting cami with matching figure-flattering pants. I look down at myself. I’m wearing running shorts and a T-shirt that would fit a gorilla.

“I had a bad night,” I say. “A bad Valentine’s.”

She grabs a cushion off the sofa and sits on the floor. I try not to be bothered by it, but why not grab a chair or nearby stool? Why remove a cushion? “Me too.” She smiles a little and explains the whole night to me. I hurt for her. As immature as she is, I don’t like to see her hurting.

I lean in to hug her. “Maybe we should’ve spent Valentine’s together, watching romance movies.”

“Or,” she says, holding up a finger, “action flicks. Kind of sticking it to the idea of romance.” She tilts her head to the side. “Except you can’t let go of romance.”

“I’m getting close.”

“No, Jess. You’re the very definition of hopeless when it comes to romantic.”

“It’s funny.” I sigh. “You’re independent and always have a guy. I’m codependent and can’t find an eligible man to save my life.” I lean into my chair and stare at my cuticles. “Brooklyn, do you remember when I was nine? I don’t know, maybe you were too young to remember what happened.”

“I was one, but I figured it out later,” Brooklyn said.

“You did?”

“I knew something was wrong when I was playing tea with my dolls and Mom totally freaked out on me. I was just doing voices for all the girls, and she’s asking me if I’m seeing people.”

I laugh. “I had no idea that happened.”

Brooklyn stands and moves to the kitchen. She puts the kettle on. “Well, Mom was very diplomatic about the whole thing, I guess. She told me you had a ‘sunny’ imagination but that sometimes it went a little too far and that if I started having more than dolls show up at my tea parties, I should talk to her about it.”

“Wow.” I join her in the kitchen, pulling up a bar stool to the breakfast bar. I open the St. John’s wort bottle. “Well, it wasn’t a good experience. It was the first time in my life that I started feeling like I was different.”

“Different is good, Jess.”

“Except in speed dating.” I dump a couple of pills in my hand.

“You didn’t.” She hands me a glass of water.

“I did. It was awful.” I throw my head back and down the pills. “And now look at me. I’ve become a pill popper.”

“Jess, you’re not a pill popper.”

“I am! You can pill pop herbs too.”

“Pill poppers don’t stop to determine if there will be drug interactions.”

“I just thought…” I set down the pills. How do I explain that I’m hoping an herb will keep God away from my purple pen?

“So you okay?” Brooklyn asks as she retrieves two tea mugs. “I hear women mostly have nervous breakdowns in their thirties.” All right, that was as deep as she is capable of going. Sometimes you just have to accept people for who they are.

“I’m fine.” I smile and nod.

“Good. Can you fix the tea? I have to get back to bed and meditate.” She’s about to leave the room, and then she turns back and smiles. “The good news is that I should sleep good. Gary used to suffocate me in bed, you know? Arms around me, feet next to mine. Now I have the entire bed to myself!”

And off she goes, bounding up the stairs to freedom. I wait for the kettle to whistle, make two cups of Sleepytime tea, and head upstairs. I deliver the tea to Brooklyn, but she’s fallen asleep in her yoga position, except she’s now face forward into her comforter, where she’s snoring. I take my bottle of pills to the bathroom. At this point, I decide, an herb is not going to help my delusions. I’m beyond help, I think.

I sit on the edge of my bed, my tea in hand. The sheets are cold. The room feels empty, and not in a clean, organizational sort of way. Just a few hours ago a man was here, and as weird as it was, it was at least another warm body. But now I’m alone again. I force myself to
finish my tea. Then I fold back the comforter, turn off the light, kick off my slippers, and slide under the sheets.

The darkness is suffocating.

Nicole has come with me to get coffee, desperate for caffeine. One of her kids had croup overnight, and she’s talking about how she had to hold him in front of the freezer for twenty minutes. Frankly, compared to my evening, it’s just a little boring, but I listen anyway. Or try to. I’m very distracted because as we approach Starbucks, I realize the man I saw earlier this week, staring at me by the wall of mugs, was the man in my bedroom last night. It jolts me to a stop. Nicole turns around.

“You okay?

“Yes, sorry.” I start walking again, keeping a wide eye open for him.

I order for Mr. Coston and then glance up at the menu. “I’ll have whatever drink you have that has espresso but doesn’t taste at all like coffee.”

Nicole leans in. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering.”

“For yourself?”

“Yes. I’m tired.”

“You hate coffee.”

“I’m desperate.” Oh, how I wish I could explain how desperate. Really, I am hoping that this legal form of drug will somehow get the blood flowing back to my brain. Caffeine is supposed to help migraines, so why not hallucinations?

Nicole looks very worried. “The last time you tried espresso you were shaking so badly you couldn’t type.”

“I’ve got the presentation this morning, and I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”

The barista clears her throat. “So, you want to try a mocha, extra chocolate?”

“Sure. Tall, please.”

As Nicole orders, I wait for mine and stare at the wall of mugs, waiting for him to vaporize into the room—but nothing happens. I glance around at the customers, searching for his face.

Nicole slides up beside me. “You know, I think it’s a big deal that Mr. Coston is asking you to do this. It means he believes in you.”

“Ten years later.”

“He’s not an easy man to work for, but he’s a good businessman.”

Our coffee is ready. I dump sugar into Mr. Coston’s, and we head back to the office. I sip pure putridness. The extra chocolate is barely helping.

“You haven’t mentioned how your Valentine’s event went,” Nicole says. “You were supposed to call me.”

I cough. “How do people spend this much on coffee every day? Three bucks? You could buy a sandwich!”

“You’re avoiding the topic, so I have to assume it went poorly.”

I glance behind me. I feel like I’m being followed but see no one. “It was fine. Four or five guys picked me. None of them my type.”

“Sorry, babe. Better luck next time. But you know what, I’m proud of you. I mean, you go to extremes, but at least you’re not waiting around for Prince Charming to show up on your doorstep, you know? I think a lot of women have this false expectation that the
one that is meant for them is just going to
poof!
appear out of nowhere.”

“Oh…uh, yeah. That’s, um, ridiculous.”

We arrive back at the office. I’m about to head to Mr. Coston’s to deliver his coffee when Nicole grabs my arm. She is staring at the banner. “Why is the exclamation scribbled out?”

I shrug. “It just didn’t fit.”

“Why?”

“It’s too much excitement for me in the morning.”

“Honey maybe you need to start drinking coffee if that’s how your mornings are going.”

I’m sipping as fast as one can sip a hot nasty beverage, but I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. I check the time and hurry to deliver Mr. Coston’s coffee. I place it on his desk. Normally he doesn’t even look up, but this morning he says, “I bet you had some trouble sleeping last night, didn’t you?”

“Pardon me?” I about drop my coffee.

“Nerves?”

“Huh?”

His eyebrows flatten out. “About today. The presentation.”

By “presentation,” Mr. Coston is referring to the thirty seconds I’ll stand and give a short report on listings to the senior agents. “Oh. Yes. Up all night.”

“Don’t be nervous.” He smiles. “You’ve been with me a long time, Jessie. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I didn’t think you were ready.”

I try to play the role. “It’s an honor, sir.” Yes, occasionally, I have been known to suck up to the boss.

Twenty minutes later we are filing into the conference room. Three senior agents from the other offices, all in white shirts and gray ties, sit on one side of the table, looking as if they’d rather be somewhere else. I never can remember their names because they only come in once or twice a year. Usually I’m there taking meeting notes, and I just call them Larry, Moe, and Curly in shorthand. But that small detail of their names might be helpful today.

I lean in to Nicole, who is sitting up straight with arms on the table and hands connected at the fingertips. She is smiling and nodding to everyone. If she starts to wave, this may become her Miss America moment.

“What are their names?” I whisper.

“Who?”

“The suits.”

“From left to right, Mr. Wallace, Mr. Keegan, Mr. Brown. You should shake hands and introduce yourself.”

“Why? They’ve seen me at other meetings.”

“Yes, but usually in a corner and looking very bored. They need to know you’re part of the bigger picture.”

I try to sit up straight like Nicole and smile. “You know I hate this kind of thing.”

Nicole smiles. “I think Mr. Keegan is single.”

I glance over. No ring. And no way. He’s a decade older and looks like an expression might kill him. But I decide to take Nicole’s advice. She is savvy in these things. I stand and lean over the table. “Hi, I’m Jessie Stone.”

They look at me. Blink. Blink. I hold out my hand. They each
shake it. I sit down. Awkward. Nicole shoots me a look. I whisper out the side of my mouth, “It’s them, not me. I smiled.”

Mr. Coston flies in, carrying folders, juggling his coffee, trying to button his jacket. “Good morning, gentlemen. Coffee, anyone? Soda?”

Thankfully everyone says no, because that’s my job. Mr. Coston stands at the end of the table near the whiteboard, and I get comfortable, sipping my coffee carefully and trying to swallow without tasting much. I want to close my eyes, think hard about what happened last night. I can only wonder if insane people know they’re insane. I don’t think I’m insane because I’m rationally thinking that I
am
insane, and insane people think they’re sane. Of course it can be argued that sane people don’t see God or have visits from God. Insane people may claim to have visits from God, but I’m willing to bet these visitors don’t look like the God who showed up on my doorstep. All Prince Charming—ish. So I’m not sane or insane. What does that make me?

Jessie Stone, ladies and gentlemen: the first woman to discover there’s actually a third option.

“Jessie?”

I glance up. “I’m sorry…yes? Um…?”

“You have the report to pass out?”

“Yes, of course.” I quickly stand and start passing out stapled stacks of paper.

Mr. Coston continues. “Despite the typical slump for this time of year, not to mention the current housing market, we’ve had a better-than-average showing count. Nicole, outshining us all. Congratulations.”

Nicole smiles and nods. I give her a congratulatory wink.

“And I’d like to introduce Jessie Stone to you. She’s been with us for ten years. She is reliable and passionate for what we do here.”

Grin. Sell it.
Sell it.

“Jessie, can you update us on listings?”

“Sure.” I move back to my chair and pick up my notes. I decide to remain standing because that seems more professional. And I am, after all, passionate about real estate. “We have ten new properties—”

And then
he
appears, walking straight through the door like it’s made of air. He is dressed in slacks and a polo, and has his hands in his pockets. He smiles at me. I don’t smile back.

“—um, that came in from the God Development Project.”

“God?” Mr. Coston’s voice shoots through the room.

“Gabe. Sorry! Yes, Gabe. Not God. How ridiculous of me to—”

He
speaks. “Jessie, I have to tell you something. Before you give me that pen, you should know a bit of what you’re in for.”

Suddenly someone kicks my shaking leg. It’s Nicole, staring so wide eyed at me that for a moment I think maybe my pants have dropped. But no, I’m simply making a fool of myself. I try to refocus, though I can’t help watching him move to the other side of the room.

“Um. And the condo renovations in Montecito—”

“I said you’d be busy. And I am compulsively true to my word.”

“Be quiet!
Quite
, I mean. Be quite…lovely The Montecito con-dos, that is. They’ll be ready for showings.”