Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (39 page)

11/23

Was in the car, picking up Alison at airport, when Grant sent me a text.

Look, that was weird Friday night. Sorry. Just worried about job. I don’t want you to think . . . Anyway, so have a good Thanksgiving. Don’t run off the road again.

I didn’t! Argh! When is everyone going to forget about that?!?!

And what does Grant mean, “Have a good Thanksgiving?” Isn’t he here in Denver and couldn’t I talk to him before then? Or see him at Jane’s party tomorrow night? Or is he still mad at me, or did he go somewhere else for Thanksgiving without telling me, but why would he do that?

All this was swirling in my head and I was trying to reply but I couldn’t decide what to say. Then Wittenauer chimed, and then I was driving and texting and nearly smashed into a nice family of 4 standing outside baggage claim.

11/24

Went to a party tonight at Jane’s house. So happy to see her.

She had a party for the old bunch home from college for Thanksgiving break. Seemed like I should be safe from paparazzi and annoying questions there. Everyone knew me, really knew me, and also knew Gerry, and knew nothing would ever, ever happen between us.

Jane and I found a couple minutes where we could talk in private, and I told her about the fight with Grant and how he was furious at me again.

I thought Grant might show up, and I could apologize again for misquoting him, even though I didn’t, and possibly getting him in trouble at work, but he wasn’t there. Still hating me, apparently. Fair enough.

“There’s something I don’t get. Why doesn’t he just ignore you?” Jane asked.

“Gee, thanks.”

She laughed. “No, I mean—if someone really got under my skin as badly as you apparently get under his, wouldn’t you just walk away from the whole thing? Leave the situation? Instead he lives next door, visits your dog daily, and comes over to talk to you—like, more than once.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him. But that’s—that doesn’t sound like Grant.”

We were talking about her life in Madison when we were interrupted.

“Courtney.” The Tom (last name Delaney, nicknamed after a tomcat) gave me a big hug.

Seeing him again, I was feeling glad that we’d run student council together senior year, but that it had been the extent of our relationship. “What’s the deal with you and ice cream smoothie dude?”

“Nothing.
Nothing
. There’s no deal,” I said. “It’s just—a long story. But we’re definitely not involved in any way at all, except that I used to work there. Used to!”

“Tone it down, Court,” Jane said. “You sound a little too defensive.”

“OK. So he’s not your sugar daddy. Then you’re still single?” he asked, stepping back to give me a once-over. Or, more likely, knowing the Tom, a twice-over.

“What do you mean, still single? I have a boyfriend. Why, was I supposed to be married?” I joked.

“Some people settle down by now,” he said, looking proud of himself.

I raised an eyebrow and looked at him. “You’re not telling me
you’re
married.”

“No, but I’m engaged.”

“Really.” This I found hard to believe. From the person in our senior class voted “Most Likely to Cheat”?

“Yeah. Great girl. Great, great girl.”

I smiled. Also, invisible girl, it seemed. Imaginary, maybe?

We briefly exchanged stories—why was I home, what happened to being in Wisconsin, some details about my boyfriend, that the Tom was thinking about majoring in Econ (which is hilarious considering he once stole all the student council money)—and I was wondering if he’d actually kind of sort of reformed into not being a total player when he stepped closer to me again and said, “Courtney? Why did you and I . . . why did we never . . .” He sort of pointed to himself and then to me and then back again.

So much for being “engaged.”

“The timing was off,” I said.
As in, you weren’t the last man on earth. When you are, get back to me . . . or not.
I looked around for a different, not-so-friendly face, and headed back over to Jane, my safety square. Was so wonderful to see her and hang out.

But it felt weird to be at a high school reunion thing without Beth there, or Grant there.

Of course, despite friendly text, Grant hates me now. He really does.

You know those “three strikes and you’re out” programs for criminals? Well, I’m out.

Which is OK, I guess, because I’m going to be seeing Wittenauer in two days, and did I mention I can’t wait to get out of town?

11/25

On the road to Ogallala in Sterling’s silver SUV. Me, Bryan, and Alison crammed into backseat. Sterling and Suzanne plus three.

Just your average family of five, with one very neurotic dog.

Oscar can’t settle down in the back. Keeps doing that turning around three times, lying down, then gets up right away and turns around three times again.

Sterling keeps sneezing and wondering out loud if Oscar wouldn’t do better in a kennel for the long weekend, and Mom keeps saying, no, Oscar wouldn’t, and he should just be patient and wait for his Zyrtec to kick in.

Meanwhile,
I
can’t quit making comments about the low gas mileage.

“If I could afford a hybrid, I’d get one,” said Sterling. Then he sneezed.

“This is a very useful family car,” Mom said. “And it has four-wheel drive so we won’t get stuck if it snows. Remember two years ago?”

How could I forget? Stranded on the side of the road, and Oscar trying to run away.

“Courtney swerved into a snowbank,” Mom told Sterling.

There goes my chance of ever driving this car. “It was a blizzard!” I called up to the front.

Beside me, Alison is composing music on her computer. Bryan has iPod on and is working on his college application essay. Me, I should be studying, but have middle seat and can’t concentrate.

Isn’t that always the way? The middle child gets the worst seat?

“Would anyone like some cheese?” Mom held up her infamous Ziploc bag of cubed Monterey Jack.

How. Many. Times. Do I have to tell her that I do not eat cheese anymore???

Ooh, text from Wittenauer.

Wittenauer: Did u leave yet?

Me: Oh yes. On 1-76. Windy. Bored.

Wittenauer: Lucky u.

Me: It’s a nightmare. When do I see u.

Wittenauer: 2nite.

11/26 THANKSGIVING—5:00 A.M.

Just woke up with a start.

Where is Wittenauer? Why isn’t he here yet? He was supposed to be here.

Ran down to the kitchen. Grandma was putting the turkey in the oven. At 5
A.M.

I was tiptoeing out when she saw me and asked me about my “beau,” whether he really was coming or not, and complaining about men and their broken promises.

Found my cell on kitchen counter and there was a message from Wittenauer that his parents were forcing him to stay overnight but he’d be here by noon.

Went back to bed. Can’t sleep though.

11/26 THANKSGIVING—8:00 A.M.

Mom, Sterling, and Bryan are dressed for the annual Ogallala Turkey Trot.

The turkeys don’t trot. The people do.

They are making me get dressed so I can go along and cheer. “Dress for the fun run,” Sterling urged me. “You can always jump in at the last minute.”

Well, it sounds better than making gravy.

11/27

This Thanksgiving . . . it’s going to go down in history. And not just because it started raining 24 hours ago, mid–turkey trot, and hasn’t stopped since.

We had an awkward meal. Grandma and Grandpa only talking through other people, like “Would you please tell your grandmother to pass the sweet potatoes?” and “Would you please tell your grandfather to stop being such a conceited ass?”

Wittenauer came in right when we were all sitting down to dinner. We gave each other giant hugs and he sat down next to me.

“You’re just in time for the toast,” Mom told him.

“Funny. I thought we’d be having turkey,” Wittenauer said.

I squeezed his hand under the table. He squeezed my leg back.

Mom continued, “I’m thankful for my healthy parents, my wonderful children, and for Sterling.”

“And I’m so thankful for all of you coming into my life,” said Sterling. “Even Oscar.” He laughed.

I swear, Oscar was glaring at him. He was resting his head on his paws and just looking up, like, “Dude. You made me move to Fort Collins and live with a killer cat. Not thankful. Unless you pass me some of that turkey under the table.”

“We have an announcement to make,” said Sterling. “One that makes us very happy, and we hope will make you happy as well.”

I coughed on a sip of cranberry juice that went down the wrong way.

“Courtney? You OK?” asked Wittenauer.

“Sure, sure.”

He rubbed my back and I looked up at him, eyes watering. An announcement? That could only mean one thing. I cleared my throat and looked up expectantly, trying to smile even though my lungs were failing me and I wasn’t breathing correctly.

“I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that I’ve asked Suzanne to marry me,” Sterling went on, “but the
big
surprise is that she’s graciously accepted.”

“M-marry?” asked Alison, looking as stunned as I felt.

Mom held out her hand, displaying a sapphire-and-diamond engagement ring. It looked beautiful.
She
looked amazing, so radiantly happy that she was almost glowing. Or else it was that the house was
really
hot from having the oven on all day.

“That’s great, Mom. I’m really happy for you guys.” Bryan went over to hug her, and Sterling hugged him, too, giving him the man-friend’s manly clap on the back.

“Well, how long is the engagement?” asked my grandmother.

“Not long at all. We’re having a Christmas Eve wedding,” said Mom, beaming, beside herself. “Can you believe it? We’re getting married!”

“That soon? I have nothing to wear!” cried Grandma Von Dragen. “And my hair—”

“Nobody cares about your hair,” said Grandpa, busily carving the turkey.

Grandma smiled, then looked down a bit sadly and took a bite of cranberry jelly.

Alison and I each hugged Mom, then Sterling. Then I hugged Grandma, for good measure. Seemed like she could use it.

* * *

After dinner, while others were cleaning up, watching football, Wittenauer and I were sprawled on the sofa together.

“So I’ve been thinking,” said Wittenauer.

“So have I. I’ve been thinking how I shouldn’t have had any stuffing. At all.”

“No, seriously.”

“I am being serious,” I said.

“I think we should move in together, in June,” he said.

“What?”

I’d been so overwhelmed by Mom and Sterling’s news that I hadn’t even had a chance to put my own thoughts and feelings together. Where was I on all this? How did I really feel about Wittenauer?

“It only makes sense. Let’s definitely find a place of our own,” he said. “I’ll go to law school, you’ll be a junior—”

“But, Wittenauer.”

“But what?”

We really weren’t “on the same page,” as the saying goes. We weren’t even in the same chapter. I felt my pulse kind of speeding up. “Have you really, um, thought this through?”

“Yes. It’s perfectly logical,” he said. “It’s the only logical solution.”

But you don’t live together to be logical, I thought. You live together, maybe, possibly, because you’re in love. And because you’re going to make a commitment and be, like, a married couple someday.

Was it because I was a so-called child of divorce? Was it because I was at heart really against my mother getting remarried? Was it because I didn’t actually respect Snow White for just getting off that glass coffin table and riding off with the prince, no questions asked? I mean, she totally ditched her friends, Grumpy, Dopey, etc., which was not cool.

“Um, OK. Let’s not do anything rash. Let’s talk about this,” I said.

Then I passed out.

I knew I’d had too much stuffing.

Woke up to grandparents, rest of family, Wittenauer hovering over me.

Grandpa was waving a little sack of balsam fir under my nose, so all I smelled was Christmas-tree scent, which was confusing, because wasn’t this Thanksgiving holiday?

Not that he usually waits more than 24 hours after T-giving to chop down a Christmas tree and haul it in.

“Courtney? What’s going on? Are you pregnant?” asked Grandma.

Wittenauer’s eyes widened. “Are you?”

“WHAT? No!” I said. “I just . . . it’s hot in here.”

“Oh. Well, I could let the fire go out, I suppose.” Grandpa started fiddling with the fireplace.

“You always put too many logs on,” Grandma said. “You have no impulse control.”

They started bickering again, just like they had all during dinner. They clearly weren’t getting along the way they had been these last couple of years.

“She’s fine. She’s just got stuffing in her veins.” Wittenauer scooped me up in his arms and carried me over to the front door so I could get some fresh air. “You OK?” he whispered. “For real?”

I told him that it was just a lot to take in—the idea of Mom getting married and maybe us living together.

“What do you mean, ‘maybe us’?” he said, sounding a little disappointed.

“Maybe you what?” asked my mom, craning at me, putting her palm to my forehead. “Courtney, you feel cold and clammy. Are you sure you’re all right? You can tell me, you know. You can tell me anything.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I just got . . .” Overwhelmed. Freaked out. Scared. “A bit hot,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Was it my news—our news?” Mom asked. “It was our news, wasn’t it? Oh, I knew you kids weren’t ready.”

“No, Mom—it’s—that’s fine. And we’re not kids anymore, right?”

I found that I was dying for a minute by myself so I could call Beth and Jane about it, and even Grant. I couldn’t wait to tell them. They’d never believe Mom was getting remarried. And they had to come to the wedding—all of them.

Wait a second. That could be awkward.

We all settled down at the table for a game of Von Dragen Boggle (you make words using the letters in bad family names) and leftover pie.

Should not have had that second piece of apple. I will never sleep again.