Sweet Girl (28 page)

Chapter Twenty

Taylor pulls a drop cloth back with flair to reveal the smooth expanse of wood underneath.

“It’s gorgeous, Taylor,” I tell him as he folds the material back up.

“You’ve seen it at least a dozen times.” He grins at me. “You’re the one who helped me stain it.”

Over the last few months I’ve spent almost every minute of my waking hours at the bakery trying to get everything ready. From the construction to the ordering to the minutiae of uniforms and learning a new POS system, it is unbelievable how much work it’s taken to get to opening day. But whenever I’ve had a chance, I’ve sneaked away to Taylor’s. Sometimes I test recipes, sometimes we go for a run, and lately, more often than not, I watch him work in his shop on new orders, including the one for this dining table, which matches the industrial, rustic vibe of the bakery’s design. He finished several smaller tables weeks ago, but I was dead set on a long communal table in the center of the dining area, and he found a gorgeous piece of reclaimed hickory to build it for me.

“I know I’ve seen it”—I smile back at him—“but I haven’t seen it here, in the space. It looks wonderful,” I say wistfully.

And it does; the space has turned out so much better than I could have imagined. Everything is bright and airy with high, pristine-white walls, which despite Liam’s grumbling, I didn’t have to paint at all. The floor has a glossy finish over the existing cement. The clear varnish means that you can see every crack and discoloration, but it adds to the overall charm. The entire design has become a homage to celebrating and even highlighting the imperfections rather than covering them up. Taylor made all of the tables around us in the seating area from reclaimed wood. The countertop is a marriage of modern glass display case and French country kitchen. A large framed blackboard menu hangs on the exposed brick wall behind the register, announcing the day’s specials, and below it is an espresso machine so spectacular we’ve dubbed it Magic Mike, because as far as Landon and I are concerned, access to Italian-grade caffeine at any time of day is right on par with Channing Tatum without his clothes on.

Coffee will be served in one of the mismatched vintage teacups my mom and I have collected over the last month or in a logo-emblazoned paper cup for customers on the fly. That logo is everywhere, from the napkins to the menu to the T-shirts and aprons the staff will wear. It is the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen Miko design, and her attention to detail and the seamless way she managed to weave it into the bakery makes me emotional every time I think about it.

“Are you going soft on me, Jennings?” Taylor asks, breaking my train of thought.

I straighten myself up quickly.

“No, never that,” I tell him facetiously.

I grab a rag to wipe off the table simply to have somewhere else to look. I see him so rarely, and when we aren’t together, I am so busy that I can convince myself I don’t have time to think about him. But when we are together I have a hard time thinking about anything else. Like right now, for instance. I want to hug him so badly that I feel sick with it. But we don’t hug anymore. We don’t touch at all. We are
just friends
. I am fine with being friends, and I am fine hanging out with him without getting any weird ideas, as long as he doesn’t smile or laugh or look at me for too long.

Ugh!

OK, so I am
mostly fine
hanging out with him without getting weird ideas.

“I heard we’re hitting up bingo this week,” Taylor says, putting away the drop cloth.

“Yes.” I look back at him. “I’ve been told I work too much and that I need to lighten up.” I smile at the memory of the mock intervention Landon and Miko staged last week. “Against my will, I have agreed to bingo, which should buy me a couple more months before they harass me again. So you’re joining us?”

“I am,” he says, but I can’t read the expression on his face. “I have someone in town this week visiting. I thought I’d bring her along.”

I look back down to rub at phantom dust with the rag in my hand.

“That sounds . . .”
I will not choke to death on this word.
I will not.
“Fun,” I say finally.

Taylor’s response is enigmatic. “I thought so too.”

He knocks once on the table. “I told Big Pretty I’d have his truck back by eight, so I better run. I’ll see you Thursday, OK?”

It takes all six years of practice I had at schooling my emotions to look up at him with a smile.

“See you Thursday,” I say as he walks out the door.

“What are you going to do?” Miko asks me.

Her eyes are as big as saucers and full of concern, but she still manages to reach over and add a stamp of color to I-19 on my forgotten bingo card.

“What can I do?” I nearly whimper.

My emotions are all over the place. I can’t decide if I want to rage or cry or be sick or fight someone. I mean, really, the options are endless. Across the table Brody whispers something into Landon’s ear and then kisses her neck when she giggles in response.

On second thought, maybe fighting someone is exactly what I should do.

“Don’t take your ire out on them,” Miko says, following my line of sight. “It’s not their fault they’re adorable together.”

“I guess,” I mumble into my drink.

“So he told you, point blank, he just wants to be friends?” Miko asks.

“Yes,” I hiss.

“And you want to be . . .”—she purposely trails off, and when I don’t pick up the sentence, she continues it for me—“more than friends?”

“What difference does it make now?” I say, folding my arms petulantly. It only serves to perk my chest up further in this ridiculous bra. I glare at Miko for assuring me that boobs would help this situation and insisting I wear this dress.

Nothing good ever came from wearing a dress when you were already feeling desperate!

“Have you told him how you feel?” Miko asks calmly before marking three of her four cards.

“No,” I whisper-yell to her over the drag-queen bingo announcer calling out numbers. This time he’s dressed as Kate Middleton, which is almost as upsetting as Miley had been. “He told me it was better this way. Then he found someone else.”

“You don’t know that,” she says calmly.

“He called her sweetheart”—I count the points off on my fingers—“she’s staying with him, and he’s bringing her tonight to introduce her around to everyone.”

The last one hurts the most. I know it isn’t fair to wish he hadn’t moved on, but I don’t want to have to see her and pretend I am fine about it. But as far as he is concerned, we are just friends. And it has been months. I know it makes sense that he’d want his girlfriend to meet us, but that doesn’t make it suck any less.

“Maybe”—I take another swig of my drink—“maybe she’ll be hideous-looking.”

“Dude,” Miko says, looking over my shoulder, “no such luck.”

I turn around because I don’t want to have to face it when they are right in front of me. Better to see them from afar and prepare myself for it. At the entrance Taylor is following his date through the crowd. I might have wished for someone hideous, but I knew there wasn’t a chance of Taylor dating anyone who isn’t as gorgeous as he is. She is tall and thin with dark brown eyes and hair that falls in loose waves all the way down her back. She looks like a model, and that isn’t just my self-loathing talking; she is stunning, and as she floats across the room nearly every man turns to watch her pass.

I wonder if this is what massive heart failure feels like, because I am sure I am dying.

They arrive at our table, and Taylor smiles and begins to make introductions. Before he can get two words out, I mumble something and head for the restroom as fast as my legs can carry me. I am not going to get sick in this godforsaken Hollywood bar, but I need a few minutes to get myself under control. I look in the dingy mirror and force myself to pull it together. I am going to handle this like a mature adult. I am going to smile and be civil and not do anything to hurt my friend or let him know how much his actions are hurting me. I square my shoulders and walk back down the hallway and over to the table.

As I come back up to the table, I notice that Taylor and the girl have left to go get drinks at the bar together. Miko spastically flags me down.

“Dude,” she says.

“Hold on, Miko,” I say.

I feel as if I am in a trance.

Across the bar Taylor points out something to the girl, and she laughs along with him at whatever the joke was. She looks so happy to be with him, so perfectly suited to go on dates and say sweet things and laugh at the jokes he makes for her. I am never going to be that girl.

Something in me breaks. Just splits apart into shards of glass and falls to the floor along with whatever pride I have left. It doesn’t make me weak, though, doesn’t make me want to cry or run away and hide. Screw that. He is mine, and she, with the perfect hair and the giraffe legs, can’t have him!

I am in motion before I can talk myself out of it.

Behind me I hear Miko curse and call after me, but it is too late; I am at the bar next to him. I tap the giraffe on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” I say. She turns to me with a smile, and I barely succeed in not punching it off her face.

“What’s your name?” I ask the girl, and she tells me the answer.

I snort with response.

“OK.” I spit out the word. “Is that Cassidy with an
i
or a
y
?”

“Two
e
’s, actually,” she responds, beginning to look confused.

I snort again. “God,
of course
it’s with two
e
’s!”

Taylor steps closer to me, concern all over his face.

“Hey, are you OK?” he asks me.

Miko and Landon run up behind me. Miko pulls on my arm.

“Dude, Max, can I steal you for one quick word?” she asks.

I know they are trying to save me from making a fool of myself, but it is too late. I have had a lifetime’s worth of keeping everything inside me, and I can’t do it now. I shake off Miko’s hand and look back into Taylor’s eyes.

“No, I’m not OK.” I bite my tongue, some part of my body trying to stop my heart from ruining everything. “I’m not OK,” I say, louder still.

People are starting to look at us.

Taylor reaches out a hand towards me. Maybe he’s worried I’m ill. Miko tugs on my arm again. Landon grabs for my hand.

I don’t know how the giraffe reacts. I’m not looking at her.

“I’m not OK,” I say, each sentence louder than the last. “I’m not perfect or sweet. I’m not like her.” I nod towards the giraffe at his side. “But I am in love with you.”

Landon and Miko both gasp behind me. They stop trying to pull me away. Taylor goes totally still, and I swear no one in the bar makes a sound. Even the drag-queen bingo announcer has stopped turning the balls in the brass cage and is looking in our direction.

“I have . . . never said that to anyone before,” I tell him earnestly, “and I don’t know if you’re even allowed to say that to someone you’re not dating. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’m doing this all wrong, but I can’t
not
tell you the truth.”

Taylor opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Look, I know I’m not perfect,” I say desperately, “but I’ve got to be better than Casidee with two
e
’s.”

Behind me I hear Landon call my name sternly. I know what she means with the rebuke. I look over at the giraffe, who seems surprisingly amused by all of this. Maybe she is a little slow on the uptake.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her quickly. “I’m sure you’re a lovely person and . . . and your hair is really shiny. But you can’t have him.”

“Oh no she didn’t!” I hear from somewhere in the DJ’s direction.

I know I’m making a fool of myself, but it is too late to stop. I look over at Taylor and fight back the tears in my eyes.

“I’m not perfect,” I admit to him again. “I can actually be pretty rude sometimes, but there was a time . . . there was a time when you liked me back. And if there’s even the smallest chance that you’d consider me again, then I had to try. If there isn’t”—I shake my head—“that will suck. It’ll crush me, actually, but it can’t be worse than not trying at all.”

No one moves or says anything, and Taylor just continues to look at me in shock. I guess when I imagined this all playing out in my head, I thought it would come to some huge crescendo, but the truth is that Taylor looks totally blindsided, as if he doesn’t know what to do or say.

I blow out a breath.

“Hey”—I shrug my shoulders—“can’t blame a girl for trying, right?” I say lamely.

I hurry away, grabbing my bag off the table as I walk by. More than one person calls after me, but God bless the gender-ambiguous DJ, who chooses that moment to turn the music back up, drowning them out.

I am halfway to my car before Taylor gets close enough that I can’t ignore his voice anymore. The giraffe is with him.

“Great,” I tell the empty street.

Because her witnessing my humiliation just makes this whole thing perfect.

Taylor has the gall to smile. I try to turn around again, but he catches my arm.