Minted, p.12
Minted, page 12
“I’m sorry.” He swallows. “I screwed up with Kristy. I know I did.”
I blink. “I’m not upset anymore, and I’m sorry to hear things are rocky, but I hardly think I’m the right person to give you relationship advice.”
“Barbara, I still love you.”
Oh. He’s saying being with Kristy is the mistake. That I did not expect. After the last few days, after my turmoil over Bentley, after trying my hardest to break through with the girls. . .for some reason this strikes me as really, really funny. “You. . .can’t possibly be serious.” I start to laugh. I mean, I get it under control, but it’s comical.
Luckily, my phone bings, providing me a distraction.
It’s Bentley. TELL ME YOU GOT TO YOUR CAR. TELL ME THAT CREEP LEFT YOU ALONE.
My fingers fly over the keys. ACTUALLY, HE JUST PROFESSED HIS LOVE TO ME. I’m sure Bentley will find it as humorous as I do.
“Barbara.”
My head snaps up. “James, you’re drunk. Go home to Kristy and sleep it off.”
“I’m not drunk,” he says. “I’ve been drinking too much lately, because I felt guilty at first, and then because I realized I’d screwed up. Badly.”
“Well, that’s a real bummer,” I say. “Because there’s nothing here to save.” I gesture between us. “We’re already divorced, remember?”
“Get dinner with me,” he says. “Tomorrow night.”
“I can’t,” I say.
“Why not? We don’t have a holiday party. It’s a Sunday. Are you going out with him? You just like him because he’s minted. You must see that.”
“I’m sorry, because he’s—what?”
“Minted,” James says. “Filthy rich. Loaded.”
“I think ‘minted’ may be a British word, because I’ve never heard it.”
He ignores my hangup with a word that sounds like it would make a great title for an epic holiday romance about a super hot, super rich, debonaire man.
“Barbara, if Bentley was poor, you wouldn’t be paying him any attention. And don’t forget that he has always had a new girl every weekend. You’re just a temporary distraction to him.”
“I hardly think that you—”
“Just spare me one night. We were married for close to two years. You can give me one night.”
“I can’t,” I say again. “I have a party tomorrow at Seren and Dave’s.” The lie just rolls off my tongue.
“I miss them,” he says. “I’ll come to the party. We can talk there. I think if you just give me a chance to explain—”
“There you are.” Bentley jogs up, draping his coat around my shoulders, like he did with my own coat earlier. “Did you hear the temperature’s dropping ten degrees tonight?” He shakes his head. “I can’t have my girl freezing to death.” He glares at James, who finally mutters something to himself and walks off.
“It’s not that cold.” I shrug his coat off and try to pass it back.
“Please tell me you aren’t considering—”
I shove Bentley just a little, which is a huge overreaction, but I can’t have him here, warming me up in every way. The temptation to lean against him is too strong. “Of course not. Don’t be stupid. And it’s not really dropping ten degrees.”
“It is.” He points at my car. “Keep the coat.”
I almost tell him about Dave and Seren’s party that they’re apparently throwing tomorrow night, but I decide that I’m better off shutting holiday-madness James down without my bouncer’s help. Plus, with the way Bentley’s been, he might really punch him. The only thing more pathetic than the way James is acting right now would be a bleeding James who was also whining.
With my soft spot for pathetic things, who knows what I might do then? Something stupid, surely. The last thing I need this year is one more idiotic mistake.
I’ve made more than enough for the next decade already.
12
Bentley
One year, my mom found a tailor who made custom men’s dress shirts. My dad wears pajamas every day under his robes, and he hates dressing up, but when Mom had some shirts made for him, he lied and said he loved them.
Every year since, Mom has gotten him another shirt or two.
She has probably put this tailor’s kids through college, and as far as I know, Dad has never worn a single shirt. They just hang in his closet, laughing at him. He has to get up before Mom wakes up to make sure she never notices he doesn’t have them on, and then he works out on his way home, without fail, every day, so she won’t see that he wore athletic clothes into the office. And he has to tell her that his assistant picks up his dry-cleaning.
Or maybe Mom knows he never wears them, but she just keeps buying them anyway. That might be even stranger.
And this feels like that, only worse.
At that holiday party, I finally told Barbara I liked her. My hands were shaking, and I’d pitted out my shirt underneath my suit coat. Though, that may have had more to do with the massive heat waves from the portable heaters followed by cold wind gusts from being outside.
That Quintano guy’s a moron.
But in spite of what I thought was an eloquently phrased, and even rather brave disclosure. . . Barbara thought it was part of this stupid act.
Part of me thinks I should quit pretending. Let her fire me.
But then I have no reason to see her. I’m not confident enough that she likes me to be ready to give up the extra holiday party time.
Which is why, this morning, as soon as I get to the office, I text her. I STILL NEED HELP WITH DATES. I CAN’T LET YOU WIGGLE OUT OF OUR DEAL. LUCKILY, YOU SENT ME THE CALENDAR. I KNOW WHEN THE NEXT PARTY IS.
She doesn’t reply.
Which is fine.
I’m not checking my phone every five seconds in an unhealthy way or anything.
“Is there some problem I’m not aware of?” Oliver asks.
I drop my phone like it’s on fire. “No.”
“Did you get those documents signed?”
“I’ll do it now,” I say.
But the second he’s gone, I pick my phone back up. And it rings. I’m almost smiling. . .when I realize it’s only Dave.
“What?” I ask, perhaps with a little too terse a tone.
“Well, hello and Merry Christmas to you too,” he says. “To my oldest friend, let me just tell you how your positive attitude and generosity of spirit has lifted my heart during—”
“Shut up,” I say.
“You let me go on way longer than I expected, honestly. In another three words, I’d have run out of stuff to say. I was just calling to invite you to a party tonight.”
“How many holiday parties does the world need?” I ask. “Actually, don’t answer that. I love holiday parties.”
“So. . .you will come? Or are you busy?”
“Wait, who else is coming?”
“I have no idea,” Dave says. “And actually, Seren specifically told me not to invite you, but she said I can call and invite Bernie and her idiot friend Corey, who is definitely not getting a call, so I figured I’d pretend that I misheard.”
Wait, she specifically told him not to invite me? That doesn’t sound like Seren. But. . .if her friend told her not to invite me. . . She’s as loyal as a lion.
“Is Barbara coming?”
“How should I know?” Dave asks. “Do I sound like the ghost of Christmas future?”
“You sound like you know nothing helpful,” I say.
“Why are you such a grouch lately? Are you auditioning for Scrooge in a community theater? Geez.”
“I’m not—” I should tell someone, right? No. Yes. “I—”
“You’re suffering from cat-got-your-tongue-itis? Did that wife of Emerson convince you to adopt a cat, too? She’s a pusher, I swear. I told Seren that if she adopts another cat, I’m going to leave her.”
“You won’t.”
“But she doesn’t know that,” Dave says.
“Yes, she does.”
“You suck, Bentley. Now I know why Seren doesn’t want you here.” Dave swears under his breath. “If you do come, take a good look at our cats. Two was more than enough, and they got along fine. But when Seren heard there was this Bengal whose elderly owner couldn’t manage him—”
“I don’t want a cat.”
“I said that too, but no one listens to me,” Dave says. “So, if you happen to see one who’s really, really pretty, I would be willing to part with him. He has green eyes, and he bites your leg if you’re too slow to feed him. Not hard, but like, it’s annoying.”
“You’re doing a great job selling me on him.”
“Well, you like a dog who’s constantly knocking people over and insists on running every day when you hate to run, so who knows what might win you over?”
“I like Barbara.”
Complete silence, which I didn’t think was possible with Dave on the other end. I’ve never met a guy who talks as much as he does.
“Did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, please hold. I’m still processing.”
“Process faster.”
“Right. Sorry. So you don’t want a cat that bites your leg affectionately, but you do like Barbara, Seren’s oldest friend. The one who just got divorced and is now fostering two little girls whose mother recently died.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re definitely not supposed to know this, but Barbara’s ex is coming over tonight to try and win her back, so now I’m starting to see why Seren told me that you shouldn’t come. I’m going to have to rescind my ill-advised invite, and tell you that we’re busy tonight.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’m so screwed,” Dave says. “I didn’t realize why Seren said you can’t come, but now I get it. I really think—”
“Dave.”
“What?”
“Shut up.” Then I hang up.
Dave was utterly useless, except for telling me that I absolutely have to go to their house tonight. And that I have to bring my A-game.
That loser wants to win her back? He threw her away! Is he kidding? My hands ball up even thinking about Mr. Better-than-you Beckham. I’ll bend him like. . . Actually, I don’t even know if Barbara’s loser ex plays soccer. But he looks like a soccer wannabe. I can just see him, running around and. . .kicking things.
The rest of the work day feels like an utter slog, and around four o’clock, Oliver kicks me out. “You’ve been distracted all day. You may as well leave.”
“Oh, ho, ho, I didn’t know an assistant could kick out his boss.”
Oliver’s smiling, but he doesn’t budge. “We can when our bosses clearly aren’t able to focus.” He tosses his head. “Go.”
So I do.
And then, once I’m home, I stare at my closet for a solid twenty minutes trying to figure out what to wear. It’s bad enough that I whip out my phone.
I want to call Barbara. She’d know just what I should wear.
But I can hardly ask the person I’m marching into battle to save how to dress. That leaves me very few options. I finally dial Emerson.
“Uncle Bentley?”
“Hey, kid, sorry to bother you.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “Fine. It’s just. . .” What am I going to tell him? That I have no idea what to wear? I should’ve called Dave, but he’s worn the same khakis and blue polo shirt to every single event for fifteen years, so he’s not exactly a pinnacle of fashion. “Uh, are you going to the party tonight?”
“Are you?” Emerson asks.
“I mean, yes,” I say. “I am.”
“Oh. I thought it was just family.”
“Ouch,” I say.
“You’re family,” Emerson says, “but like, just siblings I mean.”
“Well, your dad invited me, so.” I clear my throat. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”
“Wear?” Emerson laughs. “It’s literally family. Who cares?”
Who cares. Right. Because in all the time I’ve known him, I can’t think of a single time that I recall even noticing what Emerson was wearing. But now I’m calling him to ask what clothes I should put on. To see family.
I’ve lost my mind.
I need to fix this somehow, or everyone will know I’m unhinged.
“What I mean is, while I’m standing here trying to decide what to wear, I wanted to see if you had ideas for holiday gifts for your family.” I cringe a little. I need to get off the phone without making this even weirder.
“Wow, the great Uncle Bentley, the greatest holiday shopper of all time, is asking me for help. This day can’t get stranger.”
I hang up.
It was the only way out.
When Emerson calls me back, I text and say I have bad reception. I’m not sure whether he believes me, but I can hope. And finally, defeated, I call Dave.
“Hey, champ. You getting ready?”
“I have no idea what to wear,” I say.
“You know, years and years ago, you made fun of me when I couldn’t figure out that I liked Seren.”
“I did?”
“You did. You threatened me, and you said you’d take her if I didn’t man up.”
“Well, sounds like I gave you good advice.”
Dave harrumphs. “I was getting all prepped to give you a hard time, but now that I’m thinking about it, I guess you did.”
“I did.”
“So, I’ll tell you this instead. I’m wearing a terribly ugly sweater that Seren found at a thrift store. It’s covered with slubs of all different colors. I look like a clown.”
“A well-loved clown,” I say.
“A well-loved clown with the single ugliest reindeer head you have ever seen emblazoned on the front of an already ugly sweater. That means that, no matter what you wear, it can’t be worse than what I’m wearing,” Dave says. “Come in foot pajamas, and you should still look pretty stylish.”
It’s not really advice, but it actually helps. “Thanks.” I hang up, feeling a little better. I pull out a dark green polo shirt, which looks at least a little festive, and then I grab some dress slacks and shoes. It might be a little too dressy, but after years of doing my most important work in a boardroom surrounded by hostile businesspeople, I feel safer when I’m dressed up.
Of course, by the time I leave, Lucky has both slobbered on and covered my pants with black and white hair, both colors of which show extremely well on grey slacks. Once I finally calm her down, I change to tan slacks. And then I have to change my shoes.
And finally, I’m ready.
At least, I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be. “Okay girl.” I crouch down. “Tonight, Dad’s going to war.” Lucky licks my face. “I need some luck, okay?” She licks me again. “This really bad villain who made Barbara cry, but who she clearly used to like, is going to show up and attack again.” She licks me all over, including the inside of my nose. I stand up, rinse off my face, and towel it down. “I’m going to make sure he can’t hurt her.”
Lucky whines like she understands, and she’s on my side.
“And hopefully, I’m going to convince her to date me instead.”
Lucky follows me to the door and cries when I leave. It feels like an auspicious send off. Sort of.
On the drive over, I listen to “Eye of the Tiger,” because it’s always been inspiring to me. I’m going to need to channel all of my best moxie for this moment, because the last time I tried to convince Barbara that I wanted to date her, she blew me off.
Seren clearly went all out at the cottage house for this last-minute party. The inn, as usual, looks amazing. It’s equal parts Christmas light and house. The holly bush hedges are covered in bright red berries. Large, festive wreaths are hung in every window.
But Seren didn’t stop there.
This year, there are smaller but even more festive wreaths hanging in the windows of their cottage house. They have bright plaid bows and little golden stars dangling from them. There’s a huge tree on the front lawn that’s covered in big, bright, blown-glass-looking ornaments that are probably plastic. They’re swaying in the wind.
I check my phone. Is it supposed to snow? It still says no, but the weather feels. . .frosty. I shiver just a bit as I step up to the front porch. The large bears holding presents are standing guard, as usual, with big smiles on their faces. And I can hear the swelling of human chatter mixed with Christmas music coming from just on the other side of the door.
I wonder whether James is already here.
I hope Barbara is.
It would be amazing if I could talk to her before he arrives, and then maybe we’d actually be dating when that idiot shows up.
It hits me then how upset I really should be. James doesn’t know it’s fake—me and Barbara. He thinks we’re really together, and he’s still coming tonight to try and win her back?
I should sock him on the nose.
But would Barbara tell him the truth? Would she get upset with me?
I feel a little like Lucky, pulling on the leash, but worried that my pulling will make my walking buddy mad. It gives me a little more empathy for her. Men really are the eager dogs of the dating world. If we didn’t have to think about what the person holding our leash would think, what kinds of crazy things would we do?
Who knows?
I just need to get Barbara to hold my leash.
When I reach for the doorknob, it’s already turning. It’s Barbara, and I freeze.
“Oh,” she says. “I didn’t know you—I mean. Come on in.” She swallows. She’s been wearing fabulous dresses for every holiday party we’ve attended. Tall heels, sparkles, tight fitted. But tonight, she’s wearing dark pants and a red sweater with a reindeer on it, and I kind of love it even more.
“You look great,” I say. “Really comfortable. And happy.”
She blushes.
Did I say something dumb? Before I can ask, someone else walks up behind me. “Bentley?” It’s James. I’ve come to hate his stupid British accent more than I hate people asking me to take a five-minute research survey.
I turn around slowly. “What are you doing here?”
