More Like Her Page 5

  Sam continues. “And then went to Cal for my master’s and London for a few years. At that time, Europe was far and away . . . never mind. This is not interesting at all. I have a tenden—ugh, never mind again . . . needless to say, I fell in love with California a while ago. Knew I wanted to end up here.” Sam gives me a sheepish grin and takes another sip of his beer.

  “I’m from the Bay Area originally,” I say, shocked by how easily I followed every hairpin turn of that last monologue.

  “Really?” Sam says, sipping his beer.

  “Mill Valley,” I say.

  “Gorgeous town.”

  “I know,” I say, leaning back into the booth as the waitress puts my plate of fish and chips in front of me. Sam thanks the waitress and flips his paper napkin onto his lap.

  “You were born in Memphis?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m from Shelby Forest, Tennessee.” Ma’am. I catch myself. So stupid. I’m getting too comfortable with him. I’m not Daisy Buchanan. Never forget that, Frannie. I straighten up and remember who I am.

  “It sounds lovely.” I take a long, deep breath as Sam scans the filling bar.

  “Justin Timberlake is from there,” Sam says, clearing his throat.

  “Hm?”

  “Justin Timberlake is from there,” Sam repeats, shifting in his chair.

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Shelby Forest.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hm.”

  “That’s usually a big piece of trivia for most people.”

  Quiet.

  “I’m bringing sexy back,” I sing.

  “I’m sorry?” Sam asks.

  “A little J. T. for you,” I say, popping a French fry in my mouth. A French fry that, from the temperature of it, was apparently fried in oil plumbed from hellfire. I exhale, trying to cool down my mouth. Anything. Am I . . . am I going to have to spit this out?

  “J. T.? We’re calling him J. T. now?” Sam asks.

  I mumble through the cinders of my mouth, “J. T. is short for—”

  “Justin Timberlake,” Sam says, cutting in. “Yes. I got that.” I swallow. Hard. My eyes are watering. Great. Now Sam thinks talk of Justin Timberlake has brought me to tears.

  “It’s what the kids call him. The cool kids.”

  “Do they?”

  “Clearly,” I say, motioning to myself. As if I would know. As if I am a cool kid.

  “I’ll have to make a note of that,” Sam says. His accent is relaxing.

  “So you don’t embarrass yourself in the future.”

  “Yes, because to use his full name would be—”

  “Social suicide,” I say, finishing his sentence.

  “Ha!” Sam laughs. Wrinkled eyes, open mouth, head tilted back. I want . . . him. This. Us. Already, Frannie? How . . . how am I being so possessive of him so quickly? I haven’t the right to be this enchanted. I barely know the man. This is clearly a rebound thing. Choose the least-available man to safely take my mind off Ryan. But. . .

  I can’t help myself.

  My mind flashes forward to one year down the line. Sam and I are sitting in front of the television; he’s resting his hand on my knee and wearing his pajama bottoms and a University of Tennessee T-shirt (one that I’ll soon sleep in). I’m drinking a cup of tea and wearing my glasses. Maybe someone just farted. We think it’s hilarious. I sexily reach for my dental night guard just as he suggests we turn in for the evening.

  And like an excited little kid, I decide I have to go to the bathroom. And trust me, I’ve learned my lesson on this one.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  “Oh, sure . . . sure,” Sam says. He stands as I slide out of the booth.

  “Bathroom?” Lisa asks, looking up from her prey, I mean Grady.

  “Uh, yeah,” I answer, my face reddening as I take a quick glance at Sam.

  “I’ll go with you,” Lisa says, standing.

  Lisa and I wind through the bar with excuse-me’s, hands on backs and apologetic smiles—trying to politely move the clusters of people talking and drinking.

  We push open the door to the bathroom. There’s a line, as usual.

  “It’s fun, right?” Lisa says. I smile at the girl coming out of the stall and scoot forward in line. Another girl peels off the line and goes into one of the two stalls.

  “Fun . . . hm,” I say, laughing.

  “Grady asked if I wanted to go to dinner tomorrow night.” A toilet flushes and another girl appears from the stall with a polite smile. The line moves.

  “You guys seem to be hitting it off,” I say, deflating. See? It happens. People get asked out on dates. Unbelievable.

  “It’s that southern accent. Drives me crazy,” Lisa says, bending over and pulling her boob up in her black, lacy bra. Same with the other side. Her now-lifted breasts accost me as she stands up straight once more. The entire bathroom stands in awe.

  “Definitely a plus,” I say.

  “Sam seems nice. Super cute,” Lisa says, swiping her lipstick and looking at herself in the mirror on the far wall.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I just don’t think we have a lot in common.” Distancing from him just a bit.

  “I see what you’re getting at. But, straight up—these are men, at the very least, worth getting to know,” Lisa says, her voice booming through the small echo chamber of a bathroom. The girl next to me smiles, indicating she thinks I should give Sam a shot, too.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You do what you want, but you guys seem to be having a good time. Why not see where it goes?” Lisa asks, looking away. Do I let her in on the crazy now? Is it too early in our budding friendship?

  “It might be the whole Ryan thing, as well,” I say, deciding to save face a bit.

  “I get that. But the best way to get over a man—”

  “Is to get under another one, I know. I actually don’t think that works.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Because the rebound guy then becomes some kind of Penthouse Forum anecdote you share with your girlfriends over cosmopolitans. When, in actuality, you’ve done one of two things: sabotaged a relationship by sleeping with a man too quickly or slept with someone you don’t even like, and you feel even shittier about yourself.”

  “You think too much.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “Why don’t you just let this shit ride?” Lisa finally suggests.

  Hm.

  “You mean not—”

  “Throw it over a cliff just yet,” Lisa says, cutting in.

  “Do you know me well enough to say such things?” I ask, my face reddening as I look to the girl behind me in line. Another toilet flush. Another girl scuttles out. Lisa walks toward the now open stall.

  “Am I right though?” Lisa says, turning around.

  I am quiet. Ahem.

  Lisa closes the door behind her. “Then it seems I know you well enough.” Her words echo. An apologetic smile from the girl behind me. The stall door is locked. Quiet.

  Lisa and I make our way back through the crowded bar, acquiring two more pitchers of beer in the process, Lisa with her boobs aloft and me hopped up on super-cool theories about “letting shit ride.”

  I slide back into the booth next to Sam. The table is more convivial during the second half of the night. It’s one of those nights. I’d like to believe it isn’t just my imagination, but I think I catch Sam staring at me a few times. It’s clear that we get along. We actually get along great. I’m happy and glad I came. I doubt there will be a classic rock mix in the offing any time soon.

  “We’d better be heading out,” Jill says.

  “It is a school night,” Lisa says, standing. Grady immediately stands and pulls her chair out just that much more. She smiles at him, grabbing his belt buckle and pulling him toward her. It’s freeing, however creepy it is to think of one’s friends in that context, to see someone so in touch wit
h her own sexuality. Of course, I’m looking at this from a completely sociological standpoint, because I can’t fathom ever being comfortable pulling some dude closer via his belt buckle. It’s not that I’m a prude, I just couldn’t keep a straight face. The good-byes drag on as I watch Sam move through the crowd, shaking hands and patting backs. His southern drawl is now heavy with the late hour.

  “It was nice meeting you, Frannie,” Sam says, finally making his way over to me. Is he going home to someone right now? Is there someone he’s going to call on his way home just so he can talk about his day? Is he in love with someone else?

  “You too,” I say.

  Sam gives another quick wave and a crooked little smile and is gone.

  Gone.

  The civil war inside my head starts as the night retracts into a blur around me.

  You said yourself that maybe you weren’t ready for Sam.

  Right. But that shouldn’t have stopped him from asking.

  You barely met the man.

  Is it too much to ask that someone make the effort to see me again?

  You’re a beautiful woman and he could tell you weren’t quite sure.

  But don’t all the books and movies out there tell you that the most desirable women are the plucky heroines who play hard to get?

  Right, but one could argue that people who aren’t fictional need a bit more encouragement.

  Encouragement?

  Letting someone know you’re interested might help him make a move.

  I’M SHY.

  Has it ever occurred to you that Sam might be shy, as well?

  Not shy enough to just walk into the night without so much as a mention of a coffee date. An e-mail address. Something.

  That’s kind of the epitome of shy.

  Is this where my subconscious tries to convince me that Sam, a perfect stranger, left because he loved me too much to ask me out?

  Fine, but you can’t say that he left because you were so repellent.

  NO, THAT IS EXACTLY WHY HE LEFT.

  Long. Weary. Sigh.

  We all walk out through the patio and into the alleyway that serves as the entrance to the pub. Grady and Lisa split off from the crowd quickly. Martin and Jill kiss good-bye and say they’ll see each other back home. I wave a warm farewell to Martin as he walks back to where his car awaits.

  “Sam was totally into you,” Jill says, her smile faltering just slightly.

  “Hm,” I say, checking my watch. Eleven thirty P.M. I’m exhausted and ready to go home.

  “He was probably in a rush to get home. It was all so courtly.”

  “A mannerly dismissal. That makes it so much better.”

  “Frannie—”

  I interrupt. “It’s cool. It really is. I don’t know how . . . It wasn’t like I was that attracted to him in the first place. That’s a lie. Total lie. He’s inconveniently remarkable. I just don’t think I can get my hopes up, you know?” I say.

  “We should plan something. The four of us.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “I just want you to be happy.” Jill is growing frustrated. I am quiet. She takes my silence as an opportunity to press her luck. “Why don’t I plan a casual dinner? Me and Martin and you and Sam?”

  “I don’t want someone to be with me because I’m handy,” I say, trying to find the words.

  “Like . . .” Jill is now miming giving someone a hand job in the middle of Old Town Pasadena. I bat her hand down.

  “No, no! Jesus. Like, around. I don’t want someone to date me because I’m convenient,” I say, waving off a curious gentleman.

  “Because handies shouldn’t even enter into the equation until the fourth, maybe fifth date,” Jill says, as if quoting gospel.

  I continue. “I don’t want to be the corner store where you can buy your loaf of bread, container of milk and a stick of butter.”

  “That’s from Sesame Street,” Jill says.

  “I couldn’t help myself,” I say, lacing my arm in hers as we walk down the alleyway to Fair Oaks Avenue. “I want to be the place you plan a whole trip around. Remember that store in Summerland we went to? That had that candle? We gassed up the car, made a playlist, got road food. Planned the whole day around it.”

  “I love that store,” Jill muses.

  “I want to be that store. A store that’s not on the way. I want to be inconvenient . . . for once,” I say. Jill’s face twitches in frustration.

  “You know, we could have just gotten that damn candle online,” Jill says, giving me an affectionate tug closer to her.

  Chapter 5

  Sprague v. Stone

  Headmistress Dunham wants to see you in her office,” Jill says as I walk in from a session.

  “What? Why?” I ask, setting down my canvas bag filled with my tools of the trade. I’m tired. It’s not even lunchtime and I’m dragging. I couldn’t sleep last night. And it’s embarrassing. I paced, fantasized and delivered a monologue—not necessarily in that order—about Sam all night. He affected me more than I’d like to admit and far more than I am comfortable with. Trying to sift through the topography of my psyche was exhausting and more than a little discouraging. What percentage of this fascination has to do with Sam versus rebounding from Ryan? (Unknown at this time.) The Frannie Peed gauntlet was ever-present with Ryan. Every word, every action, every . . . thing had to be weighed and measured by the critical jury in my head urging me to “act cool.” With Sam, words tumbled out of my mouth as my body bent close to him without a thought of crowding. I felt emancipated. But if Sam is the genuine article, what does that make Ryan? What does that make what we had together? If one of us was a fake, how can what we had be real? As the dawn broke through it came down to the simplest yet most complicated of questions: Am I real enough to have genuine feelings for Sam?

  “Emma didn’t say why she wanted to see you,” Jill says, gathering up her stuff and heading out. Is this about the head of department position? Ugh. While I know I want the position, it would make things a lot easier knowing Jill doesn’t want it. But why would someone not want a promotion? I bite the bullet.

  “Do we need to talk about the head of department position before the mixer tonight? You and I?”

  “I know, right?”

  “It’s going to suck. We both want it, one of us is going to get it and one of us is going to have to be the boss of the other.”

  “Well, when you put it like that . . .”

  “Look, we’ve both done the footwork. We turned in our applications and now we’ll just have to wait and see how the chips fall,” I say.

  “I like that.”

  “Because it won’t matter who the boss is, we’re still us. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “You’re thinking about Tony Danza right now, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Jill pauses, then continues. “I need to be . . . I think you’re going to get it.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask, trying to act like I don’t know for sure that I should get the promotion.

  “I’ve got other stuff going on, so . . .”

  My eyes narrow.

  Jill continues. “You know, so . . .”

  “It’s villainously ingenious how you can say so much while saying so little,” I say, stepping closer.

  “What?”

  “You’re trying to insinuate that all I have is this job.”

  “I am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Am not.”

  “Cut it out.”

  “Well, maybe I’m . . .” Jill deflates in her chair.

  “You better start talking. And this time with actual words, not just silent unfinished statements.”

  “Fine.”

  I wait. She starts and stops a million sentences. Jill is the queen of the trail-off. She begins innumerable offensive sentences and trails off just as she’s about to really hurt someone’s feelings. She always makes sure it’s the listener who fills in the blanks. Therefore the listener is the c
atty bitch . . . and never Jill.

  “Jill?” I urge her on.

  “Why doesn’t she like me? You know? There’s no way I’m getting this job and we both know it. Everyone likes you better,” Jill says.

  “Oh, so I’m getting the job because Emma likes me more than you?”

  “Well, that’s part of it.”

  “So I’m the gutsy spinster who dolefully climbs the corporate ladder because she has no other options?”

  “Of course not,” Jill says, looking up at me.

  I am quiet . . . and growing angry. Hurt.

  “I’m having a hard time not being jealous,” Jill finally says in a whisper.

  “Is that the right word?” I ask.

  “Jealous?”

  “No, being. Yes, jealous.”

  “Really? Now? You’re going to do that now?”

  “What word did you think I meant?”

  “Well, how is that not the right word?”

  “I think it’s more complicated than just jealousy. Not for nothing, but this is a terrible situation. We’re best friends. You feel badly that you want the job because you think you should sacrifice your own ambitions and want your best friend to get it. And you’d actually be happy if she did. But you want it yourself. And on and on in a vicious cycle. Is that jealousy? Or is this just a really complicated set of circumstances?” I say.

  Jill makes a face. Like she’s trying to figure out a crossword puzzle.

  I continue. “Am I right?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “So, it’s actually not about jealousy at all. It’s just complex,” I say.

  Jill pulls me in for a big hug and says, “I like that. Love you, smarty.” She squeezes tighter.

  “I love you, too, weirdo.”

  “Let’s make out.” And she breaks out into hysterics.

  “Unbelievable. And now I only have like ten minutes before I have to pull Harry Sprague. Hopefully this little meeting with Emma won’t take too long.”

  “It’s about Harry,” Jill says, taking a sip of her coffee.

  “You said she didn’t say what it was about.”

  “Right, but she did say who it’s about.”

  “Why does she want to see me about this?”

  “Probably because you’re the Harry Sprague expert.” Although Harry has had several different teachers over the years, as his speech therapist, I’m the one constant in his school life. I like that Emma has recognized this and is calling me in for my opinion. It’s a good sign. Jill closes the office door behind us and continues down the hall with me.