Walk of Shame
Page 36
What are you doing, Georgie?
I ignore my subconscious, charging ahead in a futile hope that maybe the sooner I see him with someone else, the sooner I’ll banish the futile hope that he might want to be with me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I continue. “She told me you’ve already texted her, so it won’t be that hard to keep doing it.”
I hold my breath just a little, wanting him to deny it. To tell me that he hasn’t been texting Hailey while I’ve never gotten a single text or call from him.
No, you moron. No text, just flowers, and soup, and a cuddle, and lasagna, and . . .
“All right,” he says, interrupting my thoughts before my still-slow brain can put all the pieces together.
“All right what?”
He shrugs. “I’ll ask her out.”
My face feels like it cracks when I smile. Not unlike what it feels like my heart is doing.
“Awesome,” I say, shoveling another bite of lasagna into my mouth, even though I’m borderline queasy. “Want any help figuring out what to say?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve asked a woman on a date before.”
I lift my eyebrows in challenge, and his gaze goes angry. He pulls his phone out of his pocket.
Before I can regret my impulse to call his bluff, his fingers move quickly across the screen before holding it up. “There. I asked out your friend. Happy?”
No. So not happy. Not even close.
I lean forward and whisper, “Can I be your best woman at the wedding?”
He shakes his head in disgust and takes a big sip of his wine, nearly draining the glass before leaning down and picking up his briefcase. “You need anything else? I’m still behind on work—I should get back to my place and get started.”
“Wow, working on a Friday night,” I say. “You sure know how to live it up. At least take the wine with you.”
It’s the sort of dialogue that’s practically second nature to us, but the words feel false and hollow once they’re out there.
“I’m sorry I opened it,” he says. “I thought—”
Andrew clears his throat, and I jump on his hesitation. “You thought what?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll return the key downstairs,” he says, heading toward the door. “No more unexpected visits.”
I’ve got no quippy comebacks for that, so I simply nod and smile. Or at least I think I smile. Mostly I feel like a lump of nothingness.
I know. You’re frustrated with me right now. I’m frustrated with me too, because I’m usually honest to a fault, and here I am not telling this guy that I . . . like him. Really like him.
I’ve never had a problem telling a guy how I felt.
But I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before. Ever.
Georgie
SATURDAY NIGHT Some days you do all the things and still worry you’re not doing crap with your life.
Some days you manage to wash and dry your hair and put on mascara and feel like a freaking boss.
Today’s the latter.
I’m feeling a hundred times better than I did yesterday, a million times better than I did on Thursday, although I’m still not in the mood to put myself out there in the world.
I take a rain check on dinner with my mom. I’ll see her tomorrow at brunch.
And I definitely don’t feel like going out with the group for my friend Jackie’s birthday shindig tonight, and duck out of that one as well.
You sure? Marley texts when I tell her. I haven’t seen you in forever—you were being a hermit even before you got sick. You okay?
What I want to say is, No, not okay. Not okay because the stupid lawyer in my building is asking out our friend. And because I was stupid enough to tell him to do it.
But what I really text back is, Totally. I’ll be better next week, just in a homebody mood lately.
She replies, I can stop by for drinks before I meet up with the group, if you want.
I’m tempted to take her up on it. Maybe I’ll feel better if I have a shoulder to cry on.
Then again, sometimes talking about things only makes them worse. You know how when you want to cry but you hold it together right up until the second some kind soul asks if you’re okay, and it’s like those simple words are all it takes to summon the tears?
I’m good. Go have fun. I’ve got a hot date with HBO.
Fine, be a turd. We’ll miss you anyway, Marley texts.
I have to set my phone aside to keep from asking who we includes—if Hailey’s going with the group tonight.
Jackie and Hailey are pretty close, right? Surely Hailey wouldn’t ditch her friend on her birthday just because a guy asked her out.
I glance at the clock. It’s a few minutes after six. I’m annoyed with myself for not snatching Andrew’s stupid phone out of his stupid hand and finding out exactly what he texted Hailey—if he’d asked her out for tonight or for next week. I thought I didn’t want to know, but not knowing is way more hideous.
I plow my fingers into my hair before dropping my arms, shaking my hands, and taking a deep breath. Get it together, Georgie. You are not the girl who turns into a hot mess because of a guy.
I go to the cabinet, pull out a wineglass, and pour a small glass of the wine Andrew opened last night, refusing to think about how right it felt to share a spontaneous meal with the jerk.
I take my wine into the living room and turn on the TV, flipping around blindly for something to watch. Nothing catches my interest, and I wonder if I shouldn’t take Marley up on her offer after all.
I’ve just turned off the TV and taken a sip of wine when there’s a knock at the door.
My head swings toward the door as my heart begins to pound in, well . . . yeah, hope.
I set my wine on the counter and look through the peephole. The hope blooms from seed to flower at the irritated scowl on the other side of the door.
I carefully wipe the smile from my face and swing the door open. “Good evening, Andy.”
His hands are on his hips, and it takes me a second to register that I’ve never seen this version of him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
I’ve seen Sick Andrew, Work Andrew, and Gym Andrew, but this is new. This is Date Andrew. He looks amazing, but it’s hard to get too excited about this, knowing that his reason for looking both casual and delicious is that he’s about to take some other woman out to dinner.
I ignore my subconscious, charging ahead in a futile hope that maybe the sooner I see him with someone else, the sooner I’ll banish the futile hope that he might want to be with me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I continue. “She told me you’ve already texted her, so it won’t be that hard to keep doing it.”
I hold my breath just a little, wanting him to deny it. To tell me that he hasn’t been texting Hailey while I’ve never gotten a single text or call from him.
No, you moron. No text, just flowers, and soup, and a cuddle, and lasagna, and . . .
“All right,” he says, interrupting my thoughts before my still-slow brain can put all the pieces together.
“All right what?”
He shrugs. “I’ll ask her out.”
My face feels like it cracks when I smile. Not unlike what it feels like my heart is doing.
“Awesome,” I say, shoveling another bite of lasagna into my mouth, even though I’m borderline queasy. “Want any help figuring out what to say?”
“Believe it or not, I’ve asked a woman on a date before.”
I lift my eyebrows in challenge, and his gaze goes angry. He pulls his phone out of his pocket.
Before I can regret my impulse to call his bluff, his fingers move quickly across the screen before holding it up. “There. I asked out your friend. Happy?”
No. So not happy. Not even close.
I lean forward and whisper, “Can I be your best woman at the wedding?”
He shakes his head in disgust and takes a big sip of his wine, nearly draining the glass before leaning down and picking up his briefcase. “You need anything else? I’m still behind on work—I should get back to my place and get started.”
“Wow, working on a Friday night,” I say. “You sure know how to live it up. At least take the wine with you.”
It’s the sort of dialogue that’s practically second nature to us, but the words feel false and hollow once they’re out there.
“I’m sorry I opened it,” he says. “I thought—”
Andrew clears his throat, and I jump on his hesitation. “You thought what?”
“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll return the key downstairs,” he says, heading toward the door. “No more unexpected visits.”
I’ve got no quippy comebacks for that, so I simply nod and smile. Or at least I think I smile. Mostly I feel like a lump of nothingness.
I know. You’re frustrated with me right now. I’m frustrated with me too, because I’m usually honest to a fault, and here I am not telling this guy that I . . . like him. Really like him.
I’ve never had a problem telling a guy how I felt.
But I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before. Ever.
Georgie
SATURDAY NIGHT Some days you do all the things and still worry you’re not doing crap with your life.
Some days you manage to wash and dry your hair and put on mascara and feel like a freaking boss.
Today’s the latter.
I’m feeling a hundred times better than I did yesterday, a million times better than I did on Thursday, although I’m still not in the mood to put myself out there in the world.
I take a rain check on dinner with my mom. I’ll see her tomorrow at brunch.
And I definitely don’t feel like going out with the group for my friend Jackie’s birthday shindig tonight, and duck out of that one as well.
You sure? Marley texts when I tell her. I haven’t seen you in forever—you were being a hermit even before you got sick. You okay?
What I want to say is, No, not okay. Not okay because the stupid lawyer in my building is asking out our friend. And because I was stupid enough to tell him to do it.
But what I really text back is, Totally. I’ll be better next week, just in a homebody mood lately.
She replies, I can stop by for drinks before I meet up with the group, if you want.
I’m tempted to take her up on it. Maybe I’ll feel better if I have a shoulder to cry on.
Then again, sometimes talking about things only makes them worse. You know how when you want to cry but you hold it together right up until the second some kind soul asks if you’re okay, and it’s like those simple words are all it takes to summon the tears?
I’m good. Go have fun. I’ve got a hot date with HBO.
Fine, be a turd. We’ll miss you anyway, Marley texts.
I have to set my phone aside to keep from asking who we includes—if Hailey’s going with the group tonight.
Jackie and Hailey are pretty close, right? Surely Hailey wouldn’t ditch her friend on her birthday just because a guy asked her out.
I glance at the clock. It’s a few minutes after six. I’m annoyed with myself for not snatching Andrew’s stupid phone out of his stupid hand and finding out exactly what he texted Hailey—if he’d asked her out for tonight or for next week. I thought I didn’t want to know, but not knowing is way more hideous.
I plow my fingers into my hair before dropping my arms, shaking my hands, and taking a deep breath. Get it together, Georgie. You are not the girl who turns into a hot mess because of a guy.
I go to the cabinet, pull out a wineglass, and pour a small glass of the wine Andrew opened last night, refusing to think about how right it felt to share a spontaneous meal with the jerk.
I take my wine into the living room and turn on the TV, flipping around blindly for something to watch. Nothing catches my interest, and I wonder if I shouldn’t take Marley up on her offer after all.
I’ve just turned off the TV and taken a sip of wine when there’s a knock at the door.
My head swings toward the door as my heart begins to pound in, well . . . yeah, hope.
I set my wine on the counter and look through the peephole. The hope blooms from seed to flower at the irritated scowl on the other side of the door.
I carefully wipe the smile from my face and swing the door open. “Good evening, Andy.”
His hands are on his hips, and it takes me a second to register that I’ve never seen this version of him. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows.
I’ve seen Sick Andrew, Work Andrew, and Gym Andrew, but this is new. This is Date Andrew. He looks amazing, but it’s hard to get too excited about this, knowing that his reason for looking both casual and delicious is that he’s about to take some other woman out to dinner.
