The Opposite of Me (31 page)

I smiled, vindicated. Well, sort of.

“Something in the way she moves,” Alex told Dad.

“Who?” Dad asked.

“It’s the answer to the puzzle,” Alex said.

I looked at the screen. Only four letters were showing, but it fit.

“You’ve been watching this show way too often,” I said. “You’re scaring me.”

“Oh, Lindsey, before I forget,” Mom said. She rummaged through a pile of papers on the coffee table and unearthed a
crumpled envelope. “We got this in the mail today. Something about our house assessment. It went way up and our taxes are going up now, if you can believe it.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I said. “You can usually appeal these things and get a reduction if you know how to navigate through the bureaucracy.”

“Thanks, honey,” Mom said as I took the envelope from her. I stood up at the next commercial and went to my bedroom to change for what seemed like the umpteenth time today, this time into my sweats. Alex followed me and flopped on my bed.

“I was going to ask you if you remembered to bring along a condom tonight,” she said. “But that blouse is protection enough.”

I picked up a pillow and threw it at her, but I couldn’t hide my smile. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off the blue flats I’d just put on ten minutes ago and making a show of massaging my toes.

“Remember when our biggest worry was what to wear to school?” Alex asked. Her eyes were closed, and she had faint purplish smudges underneath them. I frowned; was something keeping Alex up at night? I didn’t want to think about what it could be.

“Calvin Klein or Jordache jeans,” Alex mumbled. “I agonized for hours.”

“That was never my biggest worry,” I said.

“It should’ve been,” Alex said. She’d tried for a teasing tone, but her voice was so weary that it fell flat.

I glanced at her. Her eyes were still closed. And did she look even thinner?

I got off the bed and hung up my clothes, then neatly lined up the black cowboy boots Alex had kicked off when she came into the room. I kept my back to her as I finally asked the question that was begging to be asked.

“Is everything okay? I mean, with Gary?”

She didn’t answer, and when I turned around, I saw that she was curled up into a ball, sound asleep. Her hands were clasped under her chin, and for a moment, I was struck by the thought that she looked like a little child making a wish. A blond, angelic child with perfectly waxed eyebrows and a lavender thong you could practically floss your teeth with.

I watched her sleep as a complicated, familiar mix of feelings fell over me like a densely woven tapestry: rivalry, loyalty, jealousy, love—all the threads mixed so tightly together it was impossible to tell where one ended and the others began. Then I turned off the light, pulled my comforter over her, and left the room, moving quietly across the floor.

The next morning when I awoke on the couch, with a crick in my neck and the unfamiliar taste of a mild hangover in my mouth, I found a message in Alex’s handwriting on the pillow next to me: “Jacob called.”

My heart skipped a beat until I saw the next line: “He wants to know if you can help him reseed his lawn on your second date.”

I laughed and crumpled up the note in my hand. When I went into my bedroom, Alex was already gone. She must’ve awoken early, which was odd, because Alex never woke up early. Odder still, she’d actually made my bed.

Eighteen
 

 

“I’VE GOT THE PERFECT girl for you,” I told Jacob when I phoned him three days later.

“So you’re going to go out with me?” he asked.

I smiled, feeling more pleased than was professionally appropriate.

I’d picked the manager of a women’s clothing boutique for him—a pretty, half-Spanish, thirty-one-year-old named Jimena who loved to go bike riding on weekends. When I’d been combing through our files, her picture had jumped out at me. She looked fit and happy and together, and after the crier, I suspected Jacob might be ready for someone with positive karma.

“Don’t drink too much coffee before your date,” I warned Jacob, remembering how anxious he’d been when I’d first met him. A few jolts of caffeine, and he’d levitate through the roof. “And wear a blue shirt again. It looks great with your eyes.”

“I just feel so out of the dating world.” He sighed. “I mean, Sue and I were together for almost two years.”

“Can I give you a little tip?” I said, skimming over the fact
that I’d already given him two unsolicited ones. “Don’t bring up Sue. Not until the third date. Keep the focus on your date, not on your ex.”

“You’re right,” Jacob said. “What else?”

“Other than that, you’re perfect,” I teased. “Definitely mention what a good cook you are. Women can’t resist that.”

“You know, you could save me a lot of time if you’d just go out with me,” he said.

“Stop tempting me.” I was glad he couldn’t see me blushing.

“Lindsey?” he asked. “Did you mean that? About looking good in a blue shirt?”

I thought about Jacob’s strong arms, and his endearing shyness.

“You’d look good in anything,” I said. “But blue is definitely your color.”

Was flirting really this easy?

May winked at me when I hung up.

“Ego boost?” she asked. It took me a second to realize she was talking about
Jacob’s
ego.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s a good guy, but his confidence is a little low. It seems to be recovering nicely, though.”

As was mine, I thought, feeling my cheeks grow warm again as I remembered the way Jacob’s eyes had widened when he saw me walking into the martini bar to first meet him.

For the rest of the week, I buried myself in work, studying May’s files and phoning her clients to introduce myself and get to know them. Of course, burying myself in work had a slightly different definition these days. Instead of staying at my desk and gnawing on cold pizza crusts at 3:00
A.M.
, I was routinely kicked out the door by May at six o’clock sharp.

“Go have fun!” she’d admonish me. “It’s a beautiful night.”

“I live with my parents,” I’d remind her. “A big night for us is leftovers and a Lifetime move. Last night we saw one called
My Lover, My Hostage.
It was about a woman who tied up her boyfriend when he tried to break up with her. I can’t believe I didn’t learn that trick long ago.”

“Shoo!” May said, snatching away the files I was trying to sneak out and making sweeping motions with her arms. “You’re too young and pretty to work your life away. Go to a bookstore or a movie.”

Sometimes I did, and sometimes I went shopping. My old wardrobe wasn’t much use to me these days because there wasn’t any comfortable way to curl up on May’s couch while wearing an eight-hundred-dollar suit, plus there was always the chance I’d have to race out and meet a client on a moment’s notice, and I didn’t want them to think they were about to be audited. So my suits got pushed to the back of my closet, and the front began filling up with my new jeans and skirts and tops. But my parents never saw those clothes. I made sure I was covered up in a jacket or wrap whenever I left the house. Maybe it was because I was gearing up to tell my parents I’d lost my job at the advertising agency, and there was only so much shock they could take. Or maybe it was because, in front of my family, I knew I’d feel like the emperor in
his
new clothes. Just like that little boy in the crowd, they’d be able to see right through me. Alex was the one who brought home bags of sexy clothes; I brought home glass jars from the Container Store to organize the dry goods in my parents’ pantry. So I kept my makeup case hidden away in my parents’ spare car, and I applied mascara and lipstick at stoplights, and I ignored the little voice that told me this had gone on way too long.

Maybe I felt that, by not telling my parents, I was still playing at this new life, dipping in my toes without making a real
commitment to it. Telling them would make it real—make it irrevocable—and I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready to give up my identity as the overachieving, successful daughter.

But little by little, I was settling into my split life and learning how to straddle the distance between my two worlds. At my parents’ house, I knocked out their taxes in an hour and reminded Mom to have the oil changed in her car. At work, I woke up from a catnap with files scattered all around me and a scruffy little mutt snoring on my chest. At home, I balanced my parents’ checkbook and helped them set up a reverse mortgage before I changed into a sky-blue slip dress and sky-high heels and headed out to a singles’ bar to sign up potential clients (and, somehow, ended up getting pulled onto the stage and singing background during karaoke night).

Sometimes I couldn’t believe I was getting paid to work for May. One morning I signed up two clients at once—a pair of lifelong best friends in their early seventies. One was recently separated, one never married, and they’d dared each other to join Blind Dates. I’d interviewed them at a hole-in-the-wall-diner over perfectly cooked omelets and fresh biscuits that practically melted in my mouth. When I’d asked them what they wanted in a man, they’d looked at each other and giggled like teenagers.

“One with all his own teeth?” the never-married one suggested.

“I’d settle for consciousness,” the newly separated one said.

“You’ve got pretty high standards,” I said, mock sternly. I wanted to be these women when I grew up.

“Maybe we should save the money and hire us a Chippendales dancer for a few hours,” the never-married one said, a gleam coming into her eyes. “One of those young, nubile ones who can do the splits and peel an orange with his tongue.”

This is my
job
, I reminded myself as I cracked up. Somehow, that thought was feeling less scary these days.

Nineteen