11. Jess
Jess
I have decided that I do not like Mindy. I do not like her stupid, smug face and her stupid, perfectly straightened hair, and her stupid way of backhanded complimenting me at every opportunity she gets.
Did I mention that I don’t like Mindy?
Because she sucks.
And maybe, juuuuust maybe, because I’ve had a teeny, tiny bit too much to drink.
“Jess, your dress is, like, so cute. Precious. I love the Little House on the Prairie vibes.” Mindy, who is unfortunately seated on my left, rotates between passive aggressive “girl talk” and flirting outrageously with Luke while glancing at Conor to see if he’s noticed.
He hasn’t.
But then again, he hasn’t really paid much attention to me since we got here either, so I can’t exactly gloat. He’s been deep in conversation with a redhead—a fact that seems to be driving both Mindy and myself up the wall. So, I guess we do have one thing in common.
Earlier, I was so sure he was looking at me in a way that was… more. Now, I’m not sure of anything at all. Except the fact that I want to go home.
“Thanks,” I reply sourly, whirling my straw around my glass. “I’m sure Laura Ingalls Wilder would be proud.”
“Who?” Mindy stares at me blankly.
I shake my head. “Never mind.”
But she’s already turned away—her question was apparently rhetorical. I pull a face at her back. Because resorting to acting like I’m five is currently the only thing making me feel better.
We’re at this uber-chic bar downtown, the type of place that is just cool enough to attract a young, hipster crowd, and just expensive and pretentious enough to be frequented by those suit-wearing, vodka-soda swilling city guys who think they are God’s gift to women—but have very little to say once they’re done talking about their brand new iPhone and how much their car cost.
Either way, the bar is not my scene. The music is loud, it’s so dark in here that I keep tripping over things, and the waitress is shockingly rude for someone who’s relying on tips (of course, I tip her dutifully despite this).
Conor, however, looks to be in his element.
For the second Friday in a row, it had all been going so well until everyone else turned up. I’m sensing a pattern here.
Conor surprised me again over dinner—he’s a doting uncle to Oliver, and he clearly loves Mia more than life itself.
The way he cares for sister reminds me of how Aiden is with me.
And Conor has extended the same care and hospitality to me since I arrived in Atlanta, but that is the very reason that I can’t possibly accept his job offer.
First off, because I don’t know an iota about how staging works. It’s not just about pretty, artistic design… it’s about flow, and feng shui, and buyer psychology. Things I know nothing about. And secondly, because spending more time with Conor would be dangerous. A. Very. Bad. Idea.
The problem is that my pulse picks up every time Conor is anywhere close to me…
more than it ever did when I was with Johnny.
My break-up with Johnny was painful enough—even though our relationship hadn’t been in a good place for a while, it still hurt to be cast aside.
Imagine how much worse it would be to be hurt by a guy that makes my insides flip with a single glance.
By a guy who, after only a week of knowing each other, seems to get me in a way Johnny never did.
I don’t need my heart to break again, and that’s what would happen if I let myself fall for Conor.
Because Conor’s not serious about any girl, let alone someone like me.
Because Conor is my freaking roommate, and roommates don’t fall for each other.
I know this in my head. I know, logically, that we could never and would never be together. But, that doesn't stop the heart-stabs of jealousy and want as I watch women throw themselves at Conor. And I say women, plural, because there are a lot of them.
If this bar is a jungle, Conor’s a roaring lion.
My irrational brain, however, is addled with two mojitos, and wants Conor all to itself. Which is crazy.
I suck on my mojito loudly. He’s leaning casually against the bar as he waits for his drink, and the woman next to him is tossing her hair so hard I’m worried she’ll get whiplash.
Is this the same redhead Courtney was talking about?
I hope not. This girl is stunning. She’s wearing a tight, pink dress that shows off her— ahem —assets to perfection.
I can literally feel my own butt expand as I stare at her pert, gym-toned derriere.
This woman, along with every other female who’s hit on Conor tonight, is an exotic bird of paradise.
Together, they’re a flock of long, lean legs and bright, colorful feathers.
I’m not exactly sure what creature I am…. Possibly a warthog.
Why did I even come here? I hate going out.
All I want is to be at home, in my giraffe onesie, eating popcorn and watching trash TV.
Preferably that reality dating show where a grown-ass man always ends up crying over the fact that he has too many beautiful women around him and it's so HARD for him to choose.
Pete and Mia had the good sense to bow out of this bar hopping excursion. I don’t blame them. I’d way rather hang out with Oliver than Mindy, too. He has much better conversational skills.
I glance around the room, squinting into the dimness. Conor is looking behind him, and catches my eye. He holds up a finger, signalling to give him one minute.
Yeah, roomie, nice try. I’m not going to sit here and wait for you to be done flirting. Luke, Mindy and I are the only ones left at this table and, as Mindy is practically in Luke’s lap, I have my cue to leave.
I grab my purse and slide out of the smooth leather booth.
Nobody notices me go. Not even when I trip over a stray purse and fly towards the ground.
I manage to put a hand out in time to hit the disgusting, sticky floor before my body does, which is fortunate.
But, it also kind of makes me look like I’m playing a game of Twister with myself, which is decidedly less fortunate.
“Jess?” The incredulous voice speaks from somewhere above me. I stagger to my feet, cursing my utterly un-catlike reflexes, and come face-to-face with…
Mark Cuthbert. Johnny’s best friend and college roommate, in all his abundantly hair-gelled, liberally cologne-spritzed glory. Of course, this would happen now.
“Hi!” I squeak, sticking out my hand awkwardly to... shake his? Why, oh why would I shake his hand?
Mark blinks, and then takes my outstretched hand. Yup, the same hand that was just on the gross, dirty floor.
As his warm, smooth palm slides into my sugary-drink-and-dirt covered one, regret flashes all over his features like a neon pawn shop sign.
He recoils in horror, then looks at his Jess-soiled hand like it’s on fire.
He waves it in the air for a second, then lets it hang limply in front of him, obviously not prepared to wipe it on his thousand-dollar suit.
“Sorry,” I mutter, not feeling sorry at all.
“What are you doing here, Jess? Is your main man here, too?” Mark does a weird little twirl, complete with finger guns and tapping feet, as he scans the room for his long lost bro.
Good gracious.
“Johnny and I broke up last month,” I tell him.
At my words, his face morphs into a peculiar grimace, twisting and turning in all directions before finally settling into a flimsy smile coupled with eyes full of sympathy. No, not sympathy.
Pity.
It’s an expression that tells me he knew all along that this would happen.
An expression that says he’s not at all shocked that it’s over, but what he can’t believe is how long it went on for in the first place.
It’s an expression that holds me in such low esteem, that reinforces what I should have known about Johnny all along but stupidly chose to ignore. I can’t take it.
“I’m sorry, Jess,” he murmurs, shaking his head. Like I’m some sort of grieving widow.
“I broke up with him,” I blurt out of nowhere.
Mark’s eyes widen with undisguised shock. He takes a big gulp of his (surprise, surprise) vodka-soda.
Propelled by the force with which the lie shot out of my mouth, I nod vigorously and keep on going. “You know how it goes. Gotta break a few hearts along the way to get to where you’re going.”
What am I doing? I have no idea what I’m saying right now.
Mark studies me for a few seconds, obviously confused. "So you broke up because you were... coming back to Atlanta?"
“That’s right. Packed up and left him. Poor guy. Got a job offer I couldn’t turn down.”
“Oh yeah?” Mark says. A bit disinterestedly. Disinterestedly enough that I could have just replied with “yes” and left it at that.
But oh, no. Mojito-fueled, jilted-by-her-ex, desperate-to-prove-she’s-fine Jess just doesn’t know when to shut up.
“Yes. I’m a… house flipper.”
WHAT FRESH HELL?
“Oh!” Mark looks as startled as I feel. Mojito-mouth has a mind of its own. I need to get out of here before I make things worse. “Where at?”
“Just finishing a flip in Decatur. I do the staging.” WHAT? NO.
“Oh yeah?” Mark cocks a smug, well-groomed eyebrow. Does he get them done professionally? If so, I’d love to get the name of his brow technician.
No. The answer is no, I was just joking. “Yup.”
“That sounds like a blast,” Mark says. The finger guns make another unfortunate appearance to accompany the word “blast.”
Bury me now. “Oh, it is.”
“Jess.” Mark sets down his drink and places a hand on each of my arms. The unwanted contact feels icky, and I have to resist squirming right out of his grip.
“I know that you didn’t break up with Johnny.
You don’t think my best friend talks to me once in a while?
I know he’s with Sarah, and that it’s serious.
You don’t need to lie about breaking up with him. Or about house flipping.”
“I am a house flipper,” I insist. I suddenly feel a bit teary. “Wait, did you just say it was serious?”
Mark grimaces, then sucks in an inhale that whistles through his teeth. He releases me from his grip and pats me on the shoulder. Like I’m a little dog. “I heard he bought a ring.”
I must have misheard him. It’s loud in here. Dark, too. Which can also interfere with your hearing, I’m told.
“Ring?”
Mark nods. “He’s planning on taking her to the Bahamas next month to propose.”
He never took me to the Bahamas. Or anywhere, for that matter.
I take a step back foggily, eyes blurring.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
Instead, I will become the founding member of the I Hate Mark Club (#ihatemarkclub).
I will plan to hold weekly meetings to talk about his stupid hair and make fun of his finger guns.
Every year, I will host I Hate Mark Con in Vegas for the most enthusiastic club members.
I’ll make t-shirts and commemorative memorabilia and… okay, you get the picture.
Point is, I cannot believe he commandeered me like that with his “your main man here, too?” He knew all along what had happened.
What a dirty little hobknocker.
Why, oh why, did I not stay in the safety of Aiden’s living room tonight? I could’ve been deep into two pints of ice cream and a romantic comedy where the weird, quirky girl gets the guy and lives happily ever after.
But, this isn’t a rom com. It’s real life. And, in real life, the girl gets cast aside for a newer, shinier, more successful model.
“Have a good night, Jess. Take care of yourself, okay?” I hear Mark speaking, but his voice sounds far away.
A tear threatens to slip out of my eye, and I don’t hesitate a moment longer. Forget Mark. Forget Johnny, and Sarah, and Mindy, Luke and Conor. Forget everyone. I’m so, so done.
I spring into action and make a beeline towards the exit, only bumping into one table full of people on my way. I step into the street like a maniac, trying to hail a taxi.
And, only once I’m safely in a cab do I let the tears spill freely down my face.
My driver, who’s about a hundred years old and has a face wrinkled like a raisin, shoots me a kind smile in the rearview mirror. Like I’m the first drunk girl who’s cried in his cab all night. Which I know I’m not. It’s almost midnight. There must’ve been many before me.
“Awh darlin’, dry them pretty brown eyes,” the cabbie drawls softly, his Southern accent thicker than molasses. “Whoever he is, he ain’t worth them big ol’ elephant tears.”
He offers me a Kleenex. But, the old man’s kindness has the opposite of its intended effect because I just bawl harder as I take the Kleenex from him.
I’m not crying over Johnny, per se. I know I’m not in love with Johnny anymore, and I know that breaking up was for the best. But, getting replaced so easily after six long years stings.
Especially when those six years meant giving up all of my dreams in favor of his.
Just so he could find someone else and drop me when he was done.
And a ring? Come on. Johnny wouldn’t even entertain the idea of moving in with me.
I know, deep down, that he’s the worst. I’m glad it’s over, I really am.
I just wish that I didn’t feel like a pathetic idiot left picking up a million pieces.