Chronicles of a Lincoln Park Fashionista (10 page)

His words—and tone—infuriate me. And all the hurt and anger I’m feeling inside come raging out.

“You’re still judging me,” I spit out. “I have never, not once, stereotyped you or your lifestyle. I don’t try to put you into a one-size-fits-all shirt. So quit doing it to me!”

Then I turn on my heel and march out of the park, leaving him behind. I draw a deep breath of the sticky June air as I storm off, thinking this is by far the worst idea I’ve ever had. Why did I want to know more about Deke, anyway? He’s nothing to me.
Nothing
. Just a guy invading my life with a camera and nothing more.

But even as I scream the words in my head, I know they aren’t true. Deke does mean something to me, even if I’m nothing but a subject to him.

And I have no idea of how I’m going to deal with it.

Chapter 10

Once again, I’ve managed to reduce one of life’s situations to a simple mathematical equation.

Sullivan’s Party = Another Dimension of Hell

I warily glance around Sullivan’s apartment. Of course, it’s hard to think because the speakers are cranked so loud that it literally feels like a band is screaming in my ears. There’s a keg in the kitchen, and tons of guys in backwards baseball hats are congregating around it as if it were a Buddha statue that needs to be worshipped. I can hear the shrieking laughter of drunken girls and the word “dude” over and over.

Oh, and the only thing offered to guests—besides beer in red plastic cups, of course—is a big bag of Tostitos chips that has unceremoniously been thrown on the coffee table.

And my botched eyebrow wax has resulted in numerous conversations ranging from “What the fuck happened to you?” from guys to “
OhmiGod
that’s so hideous!” comments from girls.

Blah.

It seriously can’t get much worse than this.

“You have the Playboy Channel?” a guy named Tate screams.

Okay, I totally take that last comment back.

I sigh heavily as a bunch of Sullivan’s stupid friends burst out laughing. One of them turns to the channel as the others drunkenly encourage him. Seconds later, a blond appears on the screen and whips off her top, which leads to mass euphoria among the male guests in the room.

And just like that, I’ve taken a giant leap back to my old life at the University of Illinois.

I take a sip of my lukewarm beer and grimace. This is so not how I envisioned my first post-college party to be. Aren’t we supposed to be
adults
now? Bree was really smart to bail on tonight. All I know is that I had a totally different vision of what an adult party would be.

I think about it for a moment. A real adult party would be sophisticated. There would be appetizers on cute Crate & Barrel cocktail plates and wine to drink. There would be interesting people and good conversation . . .

Obviously, I was completely delusional.

“So, as you can see, I’m going to get rich off that stock purchase,” Sullivan arrogantly proclaims, interrupting my thoughts. “I’m telling you, Logan, that move was brilliant on my part.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes as Sullivan drones on and on about his financial genius. I’m sitting next to him on the couch, and his arm is draped across the back of it, just grazing my shoulders.

Yet in my newfound opinion of Sullivan, all I want to do is bolt off the sofa and get away from him. I look around again and realize if the guys aren’t shitfaced, they are busy talking about what masterminds they are. It’s highly annoying.

And the few who are sober don’t have anything interesting to say. Sullivan can only talk about things that relate to himself—and hasn’t asked me a single question other than, “Hey, do you need another beer?”

This isn’t what I want. I want to be involved in an actual conversation. I want to hear new opinions and ideas and learn things I don’t know. I want someone who is interested in what I have to say, who wants to hear my thoughts and viewpoints and wants to know what my goals and dreams are . . .

I want what I had with Deke this afternoon,
a tiny voice inside me whispers.

No, no, no. I will
not
think about Deke. He’s nothing but a judgmental jerk.

So I wonder what he’s doing on his date tonight
.

No! I don’t care. I
don’t
. I reach across the coffee table and snag some tortilla chips, hoping that eating can provide a distraction from these thoughts.

“Avery,” Sasha yells over the music. “I need to talk to you for a second.”

I move to get up, but Sullivan puts a hand on my arm.

“No, Little Avery, stay here,” Sullivan says. “I’ll miss you, baby, if you go away.”

Oh my God. He did not just say something that cheesy to me, did he? I seriously think I’m going to throw up my Tostitos in disgust. I furrow my brow at him in annoyance. Then I defy his orders and stand up, wanting nothing more than to get out of this apartment, if only for a few minutes.

I follow Sasha out to the balcony. We step outside in the summer air, shutting the noise of the party behind us.

“Did you meet James?” Sasha asks, staring intently at me. “The real estate developer?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” I say, thinking of how all of Sullivan’s friends are like cut out cookies—different shapes and sizes but all made of the same dough. “Why?”

“Did he happen to tell you what firm he works at?”

“Uh,” I pause, trying to remember.

“Come on, Avery. It’s important. Concentrate.”

“Why?” I ask, confused.

Sasha sighs dramatically. “James just asked for my phone number. He’s going to call and ask me out, but before he does, I need to Google his firm and verify his position before I accept. If he’s not a real up and coming developer, then I’m not interested.”

Good lord. Even though I always think Sasha can never top herself, she does. She’s actually kind of gifted when it comes to shocking me as to how shallow she can be.

“Sorry. Why don’t you just ask him?”

“I can’t do that!” Sasha shrieks.

“Why not?”

“Because the more interested you act, the more the guy doesn’t want to pursue you. It’s Dating 101. So I’ll just have to figure out some other way to find out.”

Then Sasha spins on her heel and flings open the door, going back inside the party.

I frown as I turn around and gaze down below, at the little patch of grass in our courtyard. Why does it have to be like this? With all these games?

There were no games when I was talking to Deke this afternoon.

The back door opens again, and I turn and see Sullivan coming toward me. Of course, I would have known it was him without turning around, as his toxic cologne cloud gives him away every time.

“Little Avery, why are you out here by yourself?” he asks, sliding up next to me.

I draw a breath of air. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be with Sullivan, and I don’t want to be at this stupid party. I just want to go home.

“Sullivan, thank you for inviting me tonight, but I’m going to head out now. I’m really tired,” I say.

“What’s wrong, gorgeous?” Sullivan asks, lightly brushing his index finger down my nose. “Don’t you know the only reason I threw this party was so I had an excuse to invite you over?”

I bite down hard on my lower lip. He’s so full of shit. And a
real
man would ask me to dinner.

Not a kegger.

“I’m really tired,” I say, ignoring his idiotic remark. “Goodnight, Sullivan.”

I step past him to leave, but Sullivan instantly puts his hand on my arm and pulls me close.

“Hey,” he says, sliding his arms around my waist, “don’t I at least get to kiss you goodnight?”

I cringe the second he touches me. Shit. I know I’m supposed to want this. I’ve been waiting for this one single moment to happen, and now that it has, I realize this isn’t what I want. Not even close.

“What’s the matter?” Sullivan asks. “Do you have that cameraman on the brain?”

I instantly stiffen in his arms. I feel my face flaming with embarrassment.

“Why do you say that?” I snap. And as I hear my tone, I realize it’s defensive. Way too defensive.

“Settle down, Little Avery. Maybe I misread how cozy you two appeared in the park this afternoon.”

“Of course you did,” I say, feeling all the hurt of this afternoon wash over me again. And despite myself, I picture Deke laughing at me behind my back with his date tonight. About the poor little fashionista who stupidly thought he might be interested in getting to know her, too—

“I’m not interested in my videographer,” I blurt out. But I’m not sure if I’m saying the words to Sullivan or myself.

Sullivan gives me a smirk. “Good. I didn’t think that could be the case. Not when I’m interested in you.”

Then he leans down and closes his eyes. I watch in horror as he opens his mouth like an O. Like a goldfish going to the top of the tank to suck up fish food. What the hell is he doing?

Suddenly his mouth is all over mine. And I mean all over. Sullivan is sucking my face off! His tongue is trying to go down my throat. Slobber is everywhere. I feel bile rise in my throat, and I’m quite sure if I don’t get away now, odds are favorable that I’ll throw up in less than five seconds.

I quickly step back from him, breaking the kiss. I see my lip-gloss all over his mouth, and the bile makes another surge in my throat.

That was The Worst Kiss
Ever
.

“What’s wrong?” Sullivan asks, oblivious.

“Uh,” I stammer, unsure of how to handle this incredibly awkward situation, “I . . . I need to go.”

Then I rush past him and flee back into the apartment.

I wipe my hand over my mouth, nauseated. And then I feel bad about how I just handled that. I had the emotional maturity of a thirteen-year-old. Then again, Sullivan kisses like a thirteen-year-old, so maybe we’re even.

I hurry toward the front door. Out of the corner of my eye I spy Sasha flirting with James. I don’t bother to say goodbye, as she hates to be disturbed when she’s “closing the deal,” as Sasha likes to say. Honestly, I don’t know why some advertising agency hasn’t scooped her up yet. She’s a shark, and I have no doubts Sasha can close any deal that she puts her mind to.

I go out the door and run down the stairs, to my apartment. As soon as I’m inside, I head into my bathroom to wash my face. After scrubbing for several minutes with a washcloth—to make sure it’s really clean—I pat my face dry and brush my teeth. For, like, three times as long as I usually do. Finally I change into my floral cotton pajama bottoms and men’s Hanes tank top and collapse into bed, hugging a pillow to me as I lay on my side.

A sense of confusion rushes through me, swirling around like the ceiling fan whirling overhead. Nothing since graduation day is turning out like it is supposed to.

I want to work on my spa basket idea, but I’m not supposed to care about my career. Sullivan was supposed to be the perfect guy, but he’s not. Sasha was supposed to be a good roommate, but she’s shallow and difficult. Bree was supposed to be engaged to Alex, but she’s trying to put her broken heart back together again.

And Deke is not supposed to be on my mind.

I swallow hard as I picture Deke in my head. I wonder who he’s with right now. Is she pretty? Intelligent? Is he telling her all the same things he told me this afternoon?

Is he kissing her?

I close my eyes as a heavy feeling settles over my heart. I will myself to fall asleep, so I won’t have to think about Deke anymore.  

But one last thought keeps rushing through my head and refuses to shut off. I just can’t help but wonder what it would be like to be kissed by Deke Ryan.

And even though I’ll never kiss him, I somehow know with certainty he doesn’t kiss like a goldfish.

By Sunday night, I’m in a total funk. I don’t even want to think about going to work tomorrow, because that means seeing Deke.

I listlessly dip my spoon back into my Cool Whip container and take another bite. Of course, I’m handling Deke’s making a fool of me by staying in my pajamas all day. I’m watching
The E! True Hollywood Story: Saved By The Bell
of my own free will, and I’m eating a family-sized tub of Cool Whip for dinner.

I glance down at the Cool Whip container and pause for a moment. How do they make those perfect dollops anyway? I saw it on Food Network once, on an
Unwrapped
special, but I still haven’t been able to duplicate the trick at home. I always end up with a big, unglamorous plop.

Anyway, I digress. But the bottom line is that I wouldn’t be driven to eat a big tub of Cool Whip by myself if Deke Ryan weren’t such a jerk.

A key turns in the lock and Sasha enters. She’s dressed head to toe in black, as she just got off from Saks. She pauses and frowns at me.

“I hope that’s fat-free Cool Whip,” she says, sauntering into the kitchen.

I almost burst out laughing. Of course Sasha is more worried about me getting fat than being depressed.

“Nope,” I say, eating another spoonful.

“Avery, that’s disgusting,” Sasha declares, opening up the fridge. A few minutes later she emerges with a takeout container of salad and a Diet Coke. “I’m going to prepare for my interview tomorrow,” she says, a determined glint in her eyes. But then she hesitates for a moment before speaking. “I want them to like me. I really want this advertising job.”

For the first time, I totally understand her wanting her career. Like I wanted the spa basket project.

“You’ll blow them away, Sasha,” I say honestly.

She smiles at me. “Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

Sasha then disappears to her room. I think about how hard she’s working to create an opportunity for herself, and despite my vow to not think of Deke, his words about the spa basket come back to me. About me creating an opportunity for myself. About me taking a chance and working on something to show Craig Potanski.

I see my copy of
FLIRTY!
on the coffee table. I put the Cool Whip down—my stomach is starting to hurt, anyway—and flip through it for ideas. Then I go to my room and boot up my laptop, surfing spa sites around the country in search of different products and packaging.

Suddenly I feel an adrenaline rush I’ve never known before. My brain is working fast and furious, and I’m rapidly typing notes into my computer. I go to airline competitors’ websites to see their amenities kits, and I quickly realize what I want to do—with morning/evening scented products—has never really been done in the industry.

Before I know it, I’ve got pages of notes. As I’m going back and reviewing them, the phone rings, jarring me from my research.