Say Never (13 page)

“Danny?” I call to him before he can escape. “What the fu—heck?”

He turns to me, his face a guilty mask. “Look, I’m really sorry, but we went off coffee when Caroline got pregnant. I didn’t think to get you some.” He puts his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. “But I promise. I will pick some up on the way home tonight.”

My jaw drops. “Wait. You went off coffee because
your wife
is pregnant? What kind of an a-hole are you?”

“Yeah, Daddy. What kind of a-hole are you?” McKenna asks around a mouthful of fruity o’s. “What’s an a-hole?”

Danny slaps his forehead. “Help!”

“You can say that again!” I say. “No coffee? This is bullsh—crap.”

“Crap is not acceptable in this house,” Danny proclaims.

“Your son’s diaper is evidence to the contrary,” I tell him.

He shakes his head and does an eye roll. “There’s green tea in the cupboard, Meg.”

“Oh, no. Huh uh.” There’s no way he’s leaving me with two little kids and a slobbering, overly amorous Labrador without my ingesting the one beverage I need above all others, including vodka. “Where’s the nearest Starbucks?”

“Third and Clover,” he replies, then glances at his watch and shakes his head. “But you don’t have time. I have to be out the door in a half hour.”

“Thirty minutes is plenty of time.”

I hurry to the guest room and grab my Louboutins from the bathtub. I yank them on, my bare feet squishing against the wet leather, the massive amounts of fabric from the over-sized sweatpants spilling out over the tops. I don’t bother to look in the mirror because if I do, I know what I’ll see—the no-hair-product, no-makeup look which worked for me back in my twenties, but recently, not so much. If I see the frizzy curls and the splotchy freckled skin, I won’t dare step one foot outside this house. And I really need my coffee.

Purse in hand, I head for the foyer where my brother stands. His expression is plaintive.

“I can’t be late, Meg. Seriously. My boss’s boss is coming in this morning.”

“Yeah, yeah. I need a coat or a sweater or something.” He doesn’t move. “Tick tock, Danny.”

He crosses to the hall closet and rummages through it, then tosses me a huge well-worn zip-up sweatshirt with the UCLA logo on it. I scramble into it, then rush out the front door.

The morning is chilly, with a cool breeze coming off the ocean. I zip up the sweatshirt, then remind myself that the temperature is downright balmy compared to New York. Still, I shiver.

I reach the Camaro, then call to my brother on the porch. “You want anything? House drip? Espresso. Cappuccino?” He looks pained, and I can’t help but laugh. “I won’t tell Caroline if you don’t.”

Danny grins sheepishly. “Venti latte with a triple shot and no foam.”

“You got it bro.”

I climb behind the wheel and start the engine, then crank up the defroster. As the heat blasts, I have the sudden urge to put the pedal to the medal and not slow down until I hit Tijuana. Leave my brother and his two little cretins in the dust. Instead of changing diapers and burning pizzas and dealing with tantrums, I could be drinking an authentic margarita by noon.

It’s a nice thought. But I’d still need my caffeine before I could make the journey. I step on the gas and head for Third and Clover.

Eight

Caller:
I don’t agree with you Meg. I think it’s what’s on the inside that counts.

Meg:
Which means you’re probably unattractive. Unattractive people always say that. But they’re wrong. No one gives a crap about your insides. It’s how you represent that matters. Image is everything, people. And don’t you forget it.

* * *

The Starbucks is hopping on this Tuesday morning, the tiny parking lot unable to handle the massive amount of patrons clamoring for their morning caffeine fix. As luck would have it, a silver Honda is just pulling out when I turn into the lot, and although I see a Nissan waiting for the space with its turn signal blinking, I veer the Camaro into the slot without slowing down.

The driver of the Nissan honks angrily at me, but I ignore him, shut off the Camaro, and hit the pavement. The Nissan doesn’t move, as if the driver thinks I’ll change my mind, get back in my car and relinquish the space if he keeps honking at me. In my peripheral vision, I see him—a balding middle-aged man in a suit and tie—waving a meaty fist in the air out the driver’s side window while continuing to jab at his horn. I consider explaining to him that I’m having a caffeine crisis, but he’d probably just run me over. I avert my eyes and hunch my head down in my hoodie, then make for the Starbucks entrance.

When I reach the glass doors, I glance at my reflection. Oh, boy. I really shouldn’t have looked at myself. I try to erase the horrific image from my brain, but the phrase
lunatic bag lady
comes to mind.

Well, at least
my
bag is Louis Vuitton
.

As I pull open the door, I remind myself that no one in Vista View knows me or will recognize me. I’m incognito. I’m in disguise. I’m anonymous. I’m…I’m…I’m bumping into a customer who’s trying to exit the coffeehouse.
Shit!

The carrier in his hands tips dangerously toward me and the lid of one of his beverages pops open. In slow motion, I see the entire chartreuse contents of the venti cup spill out onto my brother’s UCLA sweatshirt. The liquid looks like something from
The Exorcist,
but it smells a hell of a lot better than demon-possessed kid-puke.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I didn’t—Meg?”

Oh. Holy. Crap.

I drag my focus from my sweatshirt to the person standing in front of me. Matt Ryan. My brother’s next-door-neighbor. The one person in this whole godforsaken town that knows me.

Of-freaking-course!

The aroma of roasted beans and freshly brewed French Roast assaults my nasal passages, but I’m too mortified to appreciate it. Matt seems equally distressed, but I’m not sure whether his mortification is from spilling an entire venti green tea latte on my person or because of how I look (i.e.
lunatic bag lady
). He pulls a stack of napkins from the beverage carrier and starts swiping at my sweatshirt, which would be fine if it weren’t for the fact that my boobs are right beneath the main area of the spill. Funny how much action my chest is getting this morning, albeit the
wrong
kind of action. I put my hands up to stop him and take a step back.

“That’s not going to help,” I say, choking on the words.

“Oh, God! I’m sorry!” He holds the wad of soiled napkins out to me. I accept them, then clutch them to my chest. Matt bends over to retrieve the empty cup and plastic lid just as a Starbucks minion hurries over with a mop.

“Sorry about that,” Matt tells him.

“No problemo, Mr. Ryan,” the kid assures him through a mouth full of metal. “I’ll take care of it.”

The driver of the Nissan pushes past us and snickers. “That’s karma for you,” he snipes. Matt glances at me questioningly, but I just shrug.

Other customers are trying to get in and out of the Starbucks, so I step away from the entrance and make my way to the sugar and creamer station. I carefully remove the sweatshirt, turn it inside out and tie it around my waist. Matt follows, much to my dismay. He tosses the empty cup in the trash, then turns to me and takes in my appearance with an unapologetic sweeping gaze.

“AC/DC, huh?” he says, fighting a smile.

“It’s Danny’s.” I point to my outfit. “It’s all Danny’s, okay?”

“Even the boots?” he asks, his delivery deadpan.

“That’s cute. The airline lost my luggage and I’m still waiting for it.”

Ignoring his shit-eating grin, I brush past him and head for the line of patrons waiting to order. Matt moves in behind me, still holding the cardboard tray with the two remaining beverages. I glance at him, trying to ignore how handsome he is. I remind myself that he’s probably married to a hot babe and has six perfect little blue-eyed children. This possibility doesn’t make the situation any less humiliating, but at least I don’t have to worry about him finding me attractive. Which, obviously, he does not.

“I have to replace the green tea latte,” he explains, even though I didn’t ask. “Jenny can’t start the day without it.”

I nod my understanding. “Your wife?”

“Oh, no. I’m not married.”

Gulp.
“Really?” Maybe I heard wrong. Or better yet, I heard right, he’s not married because he’s gay
.
I glance down at my ensemble.
Gay would be good.

“No, Jenny’s my assistant,” he clarifies.

I nod stupidly. “They’re great, aren’t they? Assistants? I have one too.”

Shut up, Meg. You sound as idiotic as you look.
I turn away from him and count to ten, then contemplate the idea of running to the restroom and hiding there until he leaves.

What the hell? I don’t run from anything. I’m Meg Monroe. My motto is “Bring it on!”
Although, ordinarily, when I’m using that expression, I’m dressed in actual clothing.

Matt Ryan is still talking. I roll my eyes and reluctantly tune back in.

“…what I’d do without her. My organizational skills are a little lacking.”

We move forward with the herd, slowly making our way to the front of the line. I try to keep my back to Matt in order to thwart further conversation, but he refuses to take the hint.

“You survived last night, huh?”

“Yes,” I say without turning around. “Thanks for your help.”

“My pleasure,” he returns. “I grew up in a big family, and I was the oldest, so I’m used to the chaos. I kind of miss it.”

“Hhhm.” I don’t want to be dismissive, but I just want to get my coffee and get the hell out of here.

“You said last night you have a radio show? That’s great. And probably just the thing for you.” I turn to find him openly staring at me again. “I mean, in radio you don’t have to worry about your appearance, right?”

My mouth drops open, but no words come out. Behind Matt, a perfectly coiffed red-head wearing a Donna Karen dress (I hate her so much) clears her throat loudly and jabs an acrylic-nailed finger at the counter. Apparently, it’s my turn to order.

I step over to the counter, my thoughts reeling. Did Matt just diss me? I mean, yes, I look totally ridiculous. And last night, I looked totally ridiculous, what with the wet t-shirt and all. But still. Didn’t he get a gander at me in my first ensemble, the Donna Karan and Roberto Cavalli?

“Can I help you?” asks the harried barista, drumming her fingers impatiently against the cash register. Instead of answering her, I silently seethe about Matt’s comment. How rude can a person be? It’s no wonder he’s not married.
That’s what I should have said
, I berate myself. That’s what I
would
have said if Matt were a guest on my show. I’m always lightning-quick with a retort. But then, I never go on the air before I’m properly caffeinated.

“What can I get for you?” the barista presses me.

Ignoring her, I whirl around to face Matt, having formulated a proper response to his insult. I’m about to unload a shit-storm of ire at him, but before I have the chance, I see that he is laughing unabashedly at me. I suddenly realize he was yanking my chain.

“Ma’am?” The barista doesn’t try to mask her annoyance. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

I glare at Matt for a few seconds, but his laughter is deep and hearty and completely contagious and I can’t help but surrender and join in.

“Ma’am!”

I turn back to the girl in the green apron. The apples of her cheeks have gone rosy-red and she looks as angry as I was a moment ago. “Just relax,” I tell her, then give her my order.

Matt steps up beside me and puts his hands on the counter. “And a venti green tea latte, please. It’s all on me.”

I shake my head adamantly. “No, really. I’ve got this.”

“Are you kidding? I dumped an entire latte on you. On your brother’s sweatshirt. It’s the least I can do.” I start to protest further, but Matt stops me. “Plus, you need to save your money for some new clothes.”

“Is that supposed to be funny?” I ask. He says nothing, merely grins at me, revealing a couple of dimples on either side of his mouth.

I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s all on you, huh? Fine.” I grab a bag of ground Breakfast Blend, which probably costs a zillion dollars, and slam it on the counter. “This too,” I tell the girl. Then I stomp over to the receiving counter where a couple of green-smocked teenagers dance around each other while making complicated beverages for a glassy-eyed, salivating crowd.

“Do you know her?” the girl at the register asks Matt, loudly enough that I can hear her.

He glances over at me, then smiles at the girl. “Yes. She’s my patient. She missed her morning meds.”