Can I See You Again? (20 page)

“What the hell are these?” Jo asks, the following morning, dressed in a lavender-colored velour suit and sitting at her kitchen table.

“Roasted kale chips.”

“Where are my Swiss Rolls?”

“You don't need that processed stuff.”

“I'm an old woman. I've earned the right to eat whatever I want.”

“Kale is good for you.”

“I think she's trying to kill us,” she says to Martin, who's nestled on her lap, and feeds him a chip.

He spits it out.

“See.”

I laugh and remove the pineapple and pepperoni pizza from the oven, sliding a slice onto her plate. “Eat this. It's full of grease and artery-clogging cheese.”

“Now, this is what I'm talking about.”

I chew on a slice while unloading the remaining groceries.

“Did you know? You and Nick are winning the ‘Who Is
Cuter?' poll by eleven points.” She sits at the table, pointing at the
Close-Up
feature opened in front of her. She's grabbed a yellow highlighter, poised to mark her favorite sentences. Just like we used to do with the bestsellers.

I've decided not to read the articles ahead of time. I'd rather listen to the write-up through her words. See the story through her eyes.

“And that score difference sure says something, considering we've never seen Nick's face. I mean, look here, you're both wearing helmets, for Pete's sake.”

“He's camera shy.” I head toward the fridge for milk, passing Martin.

He growls.

I growl back.

“When do I get to meet your boyfriend?”

Which one?
“Um . . . soon.” Obviously, I'm eager to tell Jo about Sean's proposal even though she'll be puzzled. I'll need to explain why Nixon posed as Nick and as my boyfriend. And that technically Sean's my boyfriend and he dated Sara who's also dating Nick . . . er, Nixon, but now he's my fiancé, Sean that is, and . . . geez. Maybe I should draw a diagram because I'm a little confused myself.

I'm glad I left my engagement ring at home. Just seems easier.

“This Sean is a handsome fellow, too. Don't you think?”

“I do.”

“It says he and Sara spent an afternoon . . .”

At the San Diego Zoo.
Sean told me about it. He thought it'd be a good, more platonic environment than, say, a sunset harbor cruise or a romantic movie in the park. Next week he plans to meet Sara at the Del Mar beach cleanup. Which I think is genius. What girl wants to make out or get cozy while picking up stinky beer cans and soiled diapers?

Yes, tricking Sara is a crappy thing to do. But Sean promised
to keep himself at arm's length emotionally—and physically—these next couple of weeks so when he says they're not connecting and breaks things off, it won't come as a complete surprise. And I find comfort knowing that the practiced lawyer that Sean is will lace his words with sugar and accountability, shielding her feelings so that Sara walks away feeling victorious and better off without the likes of
him
.

Plus, she's dating Nixon, too. Isn't one charming guy enough?

Speaking of Nixon, he and I haven't seen or spoken to one another since he dropped me at my curb. Yes, it's been less than twenty-four hours, but still. I haven't thought about him. Once or twice is all.

God, I'm so grateful Nixon cut me off and I didn't end up blabbing like a hormonal teenager that afternoon. Imagine how embarrassing it would've been had I said—
out loud
—what I felt. Correction. What I
thought
I felt.

I fold Jo's empty grocery bags and stack them in her pantry. Maybe I suffered from altitude sickness? That's a thing, right? I know Idyllwild is no Mt. Everest, but still, spending day and night outside in the thin air, hiking to an even higher elevation in the morning, eating two nitrate-filled hot dogs. It's no wonder I became delusional.

Well, that's that. What does it matter now, anyway? Sean's shiny ring, tucked safely in my nightstand at home, illuminates in my mind.
I'm getting married.
One thing is for sure. My emotions are jumbled no more.

“Look here, they're feeding a giraffe.” Jo grabs my attention.

I sneak a peek over her shoulder. Sara's hair is gathered into a low ponytail and her half-smiling, half-cringing face is turned away from the giraffe's foot-long tongue as he nibbles a carrot off her extended hand.

Sean stands beside her, and though he's laughing, his arms
are crossed against his chest. His body is closed. Means his mind is closed, too.
Good boy.

“What poll are you talking about, anyway? I don't remember Candace saying anything like that.”

“It's on your blog.”

“You're following my blog?”

“Of course, I am. It's not every day my granddaughter becomes a bestselling author.” She winks.

“Eleven points, you say?” I pour us each a glass of milk.

“Yep.” She returns to the article, following along with her index finger as she reads.
“We can only wonder how the lovebirds spent their weekend in the mountains.”

He brushed his hand against mine.

“Did they watch for shooting stars under the crisp night air?”

I wrapped his sweatshirt close around my skin.

“Snuggle close in a tent made for two?”

The sunrise. Just us.

“Hello?” Jo waves the paper in my face. “Anyone home?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry.”
What is your problem, Bree?
I shake my mind clear.
And who does Nixon think he is, anyway? Milling around in my head as if he owns the place.

“My, my, by the color of your cheeks, I'd say a lot more
nature
happened in that tent.”

“Nonsense, Jo.”

She pats her thigh and Martin jumps into her lap again. “He understands, don't you, Martin? He has a crush on the Pomeranian two doors down.”

Anxious to change the subject, I say, “Did I tell you a squirrel attacked me?”

“You hate squirrels.”

“I know. There I was, um . . . taking care of business in the woods, when a squirrel with claws longer than piano keys
lunged toward me. His tail swept against my butt. It's a wonder I'm alive.”

“Oh, Bree.” She snickers. “You've never been one for the outdoors.”

We laugh together and it feels good. Damn good to see she's not worrying about the 1058 form.

I'm worried enough for the both of us.

Jo reads on.
“We've followed the pair for weeks, trying unsuccessfully to catch a clear shot of Bree's man. But, as luck would have it, he's escaped our camera. Though I'm determined to get the perfect shot, something about Nick's evasiveness makes him all that more appealing.
I agree with that.” Jo taps the paper before continuing.
“Nick doesn't want the sure-to-be-boy-band-like hysteria if his pearly whites are documented. But this reporter thinks it's more than that. It's more than self-preservation. It's not about him. This man's love is crystal clear, focusing completely on Bree, calling her simply, ‘my lovely.'”

“Wait . . . what?” I nearly choke on a pepperoni slice. “It says that?”

“Sure does. Right here.”

I peer over Jo's shoulder.

My lovely.

Jo highlights the two words. “That's my favorite line.”

Mine, too.

I've given myself a stern talking-to. Lots of finger pointing at my reflection in the bathroom mirror while saying, “No more thoughts of Nixon. Perspective, Bree. Stay on target. You have a fiancé, for Christ's sake.” And that's the thing. I
do
have a fiancé. But no one knows. Sometimes I forget myself because Sean's still in Denver and we haven't validated our engagement. It doesn't seem real and that's likely because we haven't celebrated and solidified its meaning. I know I can't tell
everyone
, but I've got to tell someone. That's what my heart and my mind need.

So, a couple of nights later, as the rain pours down and Andrew searches for an empty space in the crowded library parking lot, I tell him about Sean's proposal. It feels good to share the truth. This is one of life's most special moments. A man loves me enough to marry me. To join my name with his until death do us part.

Besides, if I reveal a bit of truth to Andrew, maybe he'll do the same. Maybe he'll divulge just what the heck he's been hiding from me.

“Sean just got a bit sideways, is all. A little scared. But we
talked and agreed not to dwell on mistakes from the past. Everyone screws up now and then. You said so yourself.” We drive along another row, packed with cars. “What's going on? Why is the library so busy tonight? Oh, there's a spot.” I point toward the right. “Besides, Sean's been a constant in my life, we have
history
.”

“You don't—”

“And I know better than most what it feels like to lose a part of your past. It sucks. Plain and simple. It sucks.” Through my shirt, I rub my scar.

He parks the car and we dash across the wet asphalt lot into the library toward my Q&A session.

“You don't have to convince me,” he says. “If you're happy, then I'm happy.”

I recognize the fake approval in his voice but decide to let it go. “Thank you, Andrew. I
am
happy. We wiped the slate clean and gave our relationship a fresh start. He's taking me to La Valencia for a romantic weekend. You know, between Sean and work, my life's been a web of lies these past few weeks and I've had enough. That's why the next time I see Randi, I'm gonna tell her the truth.”

“Are you insane?” He grabs my arm and digs his nails into my skin.

Um . . . ouch.

“No way in hell can you admit you're engaged.”

“I know it's messy, but she'll understand.”

“She'll kill you. Literally.”

“Shush.”

“What's the point?”

“Honesty is the point. What she chooses to do with it is up to her. Speaking of honesty, I know what you've been keeping from me.”

“You do?”

“Yes, Andrew. The secret phone calls, the lunch at Ryoko's, the circled help-wanted ads. When were you going to tell me about the job?”

“Oh, Bree, I—”

“There you are,” Randi says, approaching in a form-fitting red dress, a knockoff version of what Kate Hudson wore to a premiere three weeks ago.

“Randi? Hi. This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”

“Let's walk.” She heads us toward the conference room.

“Actually, I'm glad you're here.” I hurry to match her quick pace. “I've something I want to tell you.”

“No, you don't,” Andrew mutters.

“What is it?” Randi turns left rather than right, the opposite direction of my usual conference room.

“Randi, I'm the other way.”

“Follow me.” She doesn't stop until we stand outside a set of closed double doors.

I didn't even know they had meeting rooms in this wing.

Two women walk up from behind. Chatter engulfs the hall as they open one of the doors.

I sneak a peek inside the meeting room, the width and length of a basketball court and more crowded than Nordstrom's on the first hour of their anniversary sale. All of the tables are full and more women pack in along the walls.

“What's going on?” I ask Randi. “There must be three hundred women in there.”

“You. You've developed quite a following.” She points overhead at a banner hanging above the doors.

F
ALL
IN
L
OVE
WITH
B
REE
C
AXTON

“They're here for me?”

“I told you. I'm a sure thing. And I planned to wait until
the morning, but I just got the latest projections. Your preorders are up forty-seven percent, leaps and bounds above your competition. That's one of the sharpest rises ever seen with a debut nonfiction. The editor increased your first run. Again. And, the
National Tribune
is considering making you a biweekly installment.”

“No way.”

“We're right on track. Don't change a goddamn thing.”

“Wow!” I raise my fists in triumph. “This is amazing.”

“And everything you've worked so hard toward,” Andrew warns.

And everything I worked so hard toward.

Wait until I share this with Jo. And Nix—I mean, Sean. Of course. I meant to say Sean's name first.

“So.” She snaps her fingers. “Quick-quick. What is it you want to tell me?”

“Should she autograph her books with blue or black ink?” Andrew jumps in.

“What the hell do I care?” Randi reaches for the door.

“No, wait.” This may be the most asinine professional move ever known to man, but I can't help it. Enough lies. Enough empty tubes of Cortizone cream. I have to be honest. “Randi, you need to know something first. Sean and I—”

Randi lifts her hand to stop me and looks over my shoulder. “Good evening, glad you could come.”

I spin around and find a middle-aged woman with heavy jowls, Ray-Ban-style reading glasses, a buttoned-up gray cardigan, and dark brown pageboy haircut marching toward us.

Lucy Hanover.

Randi's cautionary words from a few weeks ago ricochet through my mind.
Lucy can make or break a new author by mere mention of their name on her show. She falls in love with you and you're golden.

“Lucy, this is Bree Caxton. Bree, meet Lucy Hanover from
Gabbing with Gurus
.”

“Yes, I know exactly who you are. It's very nice to meet you. I'm a big fan. Well, like most everyone American with ears.”
With ears?
I shake her hand a little too hard. And too long.

“Pleasure.” She yanks her hand out from mine. “In there?” she asks Randi, gesturing toward the conference room doors. “I'm a bit pressed for time.”

“Yes, and please, go in and find a seat. We're only a minute out.”

Andrew hurries and opens the door, once again filling the corridor with chitchat.

“Thank you.” Lucy slips inside.

“I can't believe she's here. Hell, I can't believe any of those women are here.”

“Get your ass in there. This is a very important night.” Randi opens the door.

Hundreds of women are here to see me. To listen to my words of advice. To potentially buy my book.

Andrew is right.

No way I can reveal the truth now.