LoveLines Read online

  Bitch.

  “You asked our mom?” I directed the question to Brad. And yes, it came out a mixture of accusation and disgust.

  Nicki glared at me. “How about a congratulations, sis?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Oh my God, I’m sorry. Congratulations, you two.”

  Nicki clicked her tongue. And then she turned to our father, who hadn’t uttered a word. He just stared across the table at Brad who avoided his gaze.

  “Daddy, you’re always at the lake!” she laughed. “Brad called to talk to you, but Mom said she didn’t know where you were, and he just couldn’t wait. He had the whole evening planned out for me. And it was such a beautiful proposal.”

  So naturally, we had to hear about it. Mom cried. Brad smiled triumphantly, like he just slayed the dragon. Dad listened carefully. And I stared at the salad bowl feeling my stomach rumble beneath my floral dress.

  “This calls for a celebration!” Mom cried. She popped up, and so did Dad.

  “I’ll get it,” he said gruffly, and Mom sank back into her seat. She smiled and nodded.

  “I’ll help!” I said, plastering an I’m-not-jealous-right-now-that-my-younger-sister-is-beating-me-to-the-altar smile.

  I followed Dad into the kitchen and searched the cabinets for the champagne flutes.

  “That’s what we’re having, right? Champagne?” I asked, holding up a glass.

  He grunted.

  “Dad!” I hissed.

  He peeked his head around the refrigerator door. “Yes?”

  “Be nicer!” I whispered.

  “That man didn’t even bother to ask me!” he argued. “I’m her father!”

  “Mom did it on purpose, okay? We all know it. Well, except for maybe Brad who’s oblivious. Who cares? Nicki’s marrying the guy, and we need to be supportive,” I said.

  “Supportive? They’ve been dating for eight months,” Dad replied.

  “That’s long enough to warrant a proposal,” I explained. “And anyway, Brad’s a nice guy. It’s not like he hasn’t tried with you. Stop being a crotchety old man.”

  Dad pulled out two bottles of champagne. “I wondered why these had been chilling in here.”

  “For how long?” I asked.

  “About a week. Give or take.” And then his eyes went wide. “What the hell, Bailey? Your mother couldn’t tell me Brad had proposed! A week! I looked like a fool in there!”

  I sighed. “Well, if you’d have known, then the whole dinner and announcement would have been exclusively for me, and I suppose that’s no fun.”

  Dad popped the cork and poured himself a glass.

  “Shouldn’t we do that in the dining room?” I asked.

  He gulped down the drink and poured himself another. “Give me a second.”

  I smirked and waited.

  “This night is nothing but wedding plans. I need a few in me to make it through,” he explained.

  I giggled, thinking how furious Mom would be to know Dad was sneaking drinks. Sure, it was a special occasion, but I’m sure she only allotted him one. And then I had a thought and strode quickly to the fridge. I opened the door and searched the shelves until I found it. I grabbed the bottle and turned to Dad.

  “Umm, Dad? I think this is for you,” I said, holding up the sparkling grape juice.

  He stared at the bottle, then me, then at the bottle once more. I put it back in the fridge without a word, and we walked together to the dining room.

  Mom was perturbed that Dad already opened one bottle, but she didn’t want to spoil the moment by chastising him in front of the happy couple. After all, tonight was about them, and after the initial shock of who Brad asked permission waned, we settled into a fabulous dinner and decent conversation.

  “B?” Nicki said halfway through her roast.

  “Hmm?”

  “I want you to be my maid of honor,” she replied.

  Remember me telling you that I basically have no relationship with my sister? Yeah. So this was weird.

  I looked at her and frowned “Me?”

  She nodded and smiled.

  “Why?”

  “Bailey, for heaven’s sake!” Mom snapped. “What is wrong with you? It’s your sister we’re talking about! Your sister’s wedding!”

  “I know that,” I said patiently. I didn’t take my eyes off of Nicki. “But what about Tess? I mean, she’s your best friend. Wouldn’t you rather have Tess as your maid of honor?”

  Nicki continued to force a smile. “Why would I choose my best friend over my own sister?”

  I’d had three glasses of champagne, so my mind was a little hazy. I couldn’t think quickly enough. I knew something was up. I knew Mom and Nicki were passing each other conspiratorial glances. But I couldn’t piece it together. Why me?

  “So will you?” Nicki asked. “I’d be honored.”

  “You would?”

  “Jesus Christ, Bailey! Will you be my maid of honor or not?!” Nicki barked.

  I thought for a moment. “Yes?”

  “I don’t know what that means,” she said.

  I repeated the word, making sure it didn’t sound like a question this time, and Mom and Nicki seemed relieved.

  “You won’t pick out ugly bridesmaids dresses, will you?” I asked Nicki.

  “Bailey, look who you’re talking to.”

  I fell face first onto my bed that night. I told Dad I couldn’t stay to help him with his model boat, and you’d have thought I told him we needed to put down his favorite dog. I promised I’d spend a weekend with him very soon, but he told me the wedding planning would eat up all my time. And right there, in that moment, with my face smashed into my comforter, realization finally dawned. I shot up from my bed and addressed the far wall.

  “You little bitch!”

  It all made sense. Nicki didn’t want me to be her maid of honor because she loved me so much more than Tess. Nicki and Tess were inseparable. Hell, it crossed my mind at the dinner table that it may be the two of them marrying Brad. No, this wasn’t about familial devotion. This was about my fucking OCD! She wanted me maid of honor because she knew I’d pull off the most picture-perfect, clean lines wedding she could ever have! My mother and sister planned to use me—to take advantage of my condition by encouraging my tics! All so Nicki could have the perfect day.

  I was livid and called Erica. I roared into the phone for half an hour before she talked me out of the kitchen. I was in there reorganizing my cupboards. Yes, I did say that anxiety encourages my tics. So do any other heightened emotions. This time it was anger, and it drove me to the cabinet where I keep all my Tupperware.

  “Put the Tupperware bowl down, Bailey,” Erica demanded. “You’re in control.”

  “How could they do this to me?” I asked, gripping the bowl tighter.

  “You don’t know they’re doing that. Maybe Nicki wants to get closer to you, and she sees her wedding as the perfect opportunity,” Erica said.

  “Bullshit,” I spat. “She just wants her flowers delivered on time.”

  Erica sighed. “Bailey, I don’t know what to say except put that bowl down. I know you haven’t.”

  I dropped the bowl and sank to the kitchen floor.

  “She’s getting married, Erica. Married before me,” I whispered.

  “Who cares who gets married first?”

  “I do.”

  “Honey, it doesn’t mean anything that she’s getting married first, okay? You just focus on trying to be happy for her and living your life.”

  “What life?”

  “Stop it. Your life is amazing, Bailey. You have a great, stable job. You own your own house. You’re creative and always sew me the cutest things for my kids. I don’t need Etsy. I’ve got you.”

  I smiled through my tears, watching the drops dot my dress.

  “You have this great new guy, and I just have a feeling that he’s the one.”

  “You can’t know that,” I cried.

  “Yes, I can.”


  “We just kissed,” I said.

  “And that’s where it all starts.”

  I thought about what Marjorie said when I asked her what made her have sex so soon with Rob: “Three martinis and a kiss.” We didn’t have martinis, but we did share one hell of a kiss. Maybe that kiss was just the beginning of something extraordinary. Maybe I needed to start trusting what Erica told me. She was pretty smart, after all.

  I knew I could count on her encouragement and good sense to squash my sour mood. My heart started to feel better. I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and watched a huge palmetto bug scurry across my kitchen floor.

  “Motherfucker!” I screamed into the phone. I jumped up, ripped off my shoe, and beat the shit out of it.

  “You don’t have to be a bitch about it!” Erica shouted back.

  “A bug, Erica! Gaw!”

  “Did you just say ‘Gaw,’ like a hillbilly?”

  “Leave me alone! It was really huge! I freaking hate living by the beach sometimes! I’m spraying my house every other day. Nothing can live in here, you know. Kids. Dogs. Cats.”

  “Don’t say cats. Never say cats.”

  “Stop stereotyping women with cats,” I replied, scraping up the butchered bug. I really went to town on that thing. Perhaps subconsciously I pretended it was my sister.

  “Whatever. I’m just jealous of them anyway. Cats can take care of themselves,” Erica said.

  I rolled my eyes. “You bitch about your kids all the time, but you couldn’t imagine your world without them.”

  Brief pause.

  “I know,” Erica sighed.

  “I’m going now. Thanks for making me feel better. And no, I don’t believe you about the maid of honor OCD thing, but I’ll do it because she’s my sister. It’s totally screwed up that they’re taking advantage of me, but whatever.”

  “Look at it this way,” Erica began. “If you ever want to change careers and be a wedding coordinator, you’ve already got one in your portfolio.”

  “True.”

  “Love ya, girly. Go to bed. And don’t think about Nicki. Think about Reece’s pieces.”

  I burst out laughing. “You’re a dork. I love you.”

  That night I did dream about Reece’s pieces. I’m not really a candy girl, but he made me want to finish the entire bag.

  My phone beeped some time around 6:30 A.M. the following morning.

  Reece: We need to talk about that kiss. When can I call you?

  I couldn’t read the tone. Who can ever read tones in text messages and emails anyway? My instinct, though, was to lean toward the negative. (Hey, I had a history to back it up.) I immediately thought the worst: He doesn’t like me. He doesn’t want whatever happened at the theater to go any further. I’m a bad kisser.

  I glanced at the time: 6:31 A.M. Oh, what the hell? He was obviously awake.

  “Reece?” I said hesitantly into the phone.

  “Bailey!” he replied. “Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to wake you. That’s why I texted. I thought maybe you turn your sound alerts off at night. I’m sorry if I woke you. I’ve just been up all night. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to call you yesterday, but I thought maybe I should leave you alone for a day or two. But then it just drove me crazy all day, and then I didn’t sleep last night. I think I mentioned I didn’t sleep. And I kept thinking about you and the theater and . . .”

  I grinned from ear to ear as I listened to Reece prattle on about how he couldn’t get me out of his mind. Silly Bailey. And you thought you were a bad kisser!

  “Reece?” I interrupted.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Am I talking too much? I have a problem with that. It’s something I’m working on. I talk more when I’m nervous—”

  “Reece!”

  He went silent.

  “I wanted to call you yesterday, too,” I said.

  He sighed into the phone. A happy sigh. “Really?”

  “Yes. I nearly did, but then my sister called and wanted me over at our parents’ house last night. She needed to make an announcement and whatever. It’s not important,” I said.

  “What announcement?” Reece asked.

  “Oh, about how she’s getting married,” I said dismissively.

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  I grunted. We fell silent.

  “I’ve been thinking about you nonstop,” Reece admitted.

  “Really?” I asked. I wanted to confess the same thing, but I wasn’t sure it was wise for girls to be so transparent. I’d already initiated the first kiss. That was as far as I’d go.

  “Oh, yes,” Reece replied. “I . . . I know we aren’t supposed to date.” Brief pause. “But I want to.”

  I chewed my lower lip. I knew it was unwise—getting involved with a coworker. Soooo unwise. I also knew that no one had ever knocked my socks off with a kiss like Reece had. And that had to mean something.

  Plus, it wasn’t just the kiss. It was everything that led up to the kiss. It was Reece buying me drinks from the vending machine just to be nice. Stopping by my cubicle to ask about my weekend—and really listening to me talk about it. Eating lunch with me. Telling me jokes. Walking me to my car during that storm when I’d forgotten my umbrella. Yeah, I’d forgotten my umbrella. He’d already sufficiently infiltrated my brain. I was relaxing, taking a step back. Hell, I was forgetting my steps altogether.

  “Reece?” I said carefully.

  “Oh no. You sound unsure,” he said.

  “No no. Not unsure,” I replied. “I just have to tell you something.”

  “You’re already dating someone,” he said.

  “Ha! No. Not that.” The words were right there—right on the tip of my tongue—but I couldn’t say them. I had suddenly grown embarrassed—ashamed of myself for lacking. That’s how I constantly felt, that I lacked the abilities others had to function normally.

  “Yes?” he encouraged.

  “I have a condition!” I blurted.

  Silence.

  “Like an STD?” he asked.

  “God no! No! Oh my God.” I blushed profusely and turned my face, burying it in my pillow.

  “Okay. So, no STD,” Reece said. “By the way, it would have been okay if you had. We’d figure out how to work with it.”

  “Oh. My. God. Stop talking about STDs,” I demanded.

  “You got it.”

  And another bout of silence. (That’s the thing about first phone calls: they’re herky-jerky. Conversation may flow perfectly one minute, and then the next minute the air is filled with silent discomfort.)

  “Bailey?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Wanna tell me about your condition?”

  “Not really.”

  “You brought it up,” Reece pointed out.

  “I’m aware.”

  “Sooo . . .”

  “You’ll run away,” I said softly.

  “I’m a man. I don’t run,” Reece replied.

  I smiled. “It’s made all the others run away.”

  “Because they weren’t men.”

  I liked this guy. A lot.

  “Now tell me,” Reece demanded gently.

  I took a deep breath. “I have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  I shook my head. “Wait. That’s it? Did you just hear what I said? I have OCD. Like major OCD. Not fake OCD. Not, ‘Oh my God, I just can’t drive my car if it’s not vacuumed out. I’m so OCD.’ Not like that.”

  He chuckled. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I know. I’ve always known.”

  “What?”

  “I know,” he repeated.

  “How do you know?”

  “Stuff you do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, you arrive at work every day at exactly 7:58 A.M.”

  I gasped. “Have you been watching me?!”

  “Umm, a little. Not in a stalkerish way, though. I thought you were cute.
So I watched you when I could.”

  I said nothing. I needed more time to process this.

  “You arrange your pens in the same order all the time. By color. I noticed that first. Remember the first time I visited you at your cubicle to discuss the phablet campaign?”

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “I scattered your pens, and you arranged them?”

  I wanted to die. The longer he talked, the worse I sounded. Like a total nut job.

  “Bailey?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Do you think I’m a stalker?” Reece asked.

  I smiled. “No. But I think I’m a freak.”

  “Why? Because you arrange your pens? Because you eat lunch at exactly noon every day? Because you sanitize—”

  “Okay, stop!” I cried. “That’s a little stalkerish.”

  He laughed. “I like those things about you.”

  I thought about that. No one I’d ever dated liked those things about me. In fact, those were precisely the things that made them run.

  This was weird. How could my tics possibly be attractive? Although, I had to remember that he was describing the tame ones. He’d yet to witness the out-of-control tics. And I never wanted him to see them. They were bad enough when I was having a normal day. They were downright scary when my anxiety kicked into high gear.

  “Bailey?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I don’t mind that you have OCD. Do you believe me?”

  “Not yet,” I admitted.

  “Well, that’s fair. But maybe we could hang out more—outside of the office—and then I can show you how much I don’t care.”

  I flushed a deep red. Didn’t see it, but I could feel it all over my face, neck, and chest.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Do you have plans today?” he asked.

  “Not really,” I replied.

  Sundays were usually my “project” days. I actually wrote out a to-do list last night before going to bed. But he didn’t need to know that. And right now I didn’t care about it anymore. Well, that’s a slight lie. I cared about it a little. I was in the process of knitting fall hats for Erica’s kids. I wanted to finish them today. Get them to her by next week. I also had a sewing project . . . Oh my God, Bailey! A hot guy wants to hang out with you today! Priorities. For the love of God, priorities!