Every Version of You

Chapter 1

I only have to stay for two hours, then I can leave.

Two hours.

No big deal.

It’s ironic that I find this thought reassuring, considering I drove nearly an hour to get here. There’s something about the cost-benefit analysis of driving an hour for a two-hour social interaction that doesn’t quite add up. Like paying five dollars for shipping on a ten-dollar item.

At least I’m late enough that I missed peak rush hour.

My phone vibrates with a call. When I see the name on the screen, I glance around the small Studio City wine shop in which I’ve taken refuge, tempted to hit Ignore. I know I’m running late, but in my defense, choosing a bottle of wine is hard.

“I’m five minutes away,” I say in lieu of a greeting to Ellie, tonight’s host. It’s not a lie. I am five minutes away. Five minutes, plus however long it takes me to choose a bottle.

“You’re coming,” he says, but it sounds like a question.

“I said I would.”

“Right. I know you did, but Cat pointed out how you always cancel, and she’s worried the table will be unbalanced if you don’t show.”

I fight back a laugh. I can’t imagine Ellie’s wife, Cat, cares if I come to her dinner party, but I do believe she cares about the table being balanced. Cat hates me, but who can blame her?

What wife wouldn’t hate a woman who’s in love with her husband?

“I can’t stay too late.” I recite the excuse I’ve spent all day silently rehearsing. “I didn’t have time to stop home and feed Ruthie, so I might have to leave early so she doesn’t starve.”

It’s only a half-lie, I tell myself. Ruthie does need to eat—and if my geriatric cat buys me an easy out from a situation I’m eager to exit, well, all the better.

There’s a beat of silence, and I wonder if Ellie will call me on my bullshit.

“I’m really excited to see you, Joey,” he says softly instead. His sincerity hurts.

I had been about to cancel on Tuesday when he texted to make sure I could make it.

“Me too.” This one is a lie. Or maybe it isn’t. Can dread and excitement coexist?

I say goodbye and return to the racks of wine. How much is appropriate to spend on a bottle brought to a dinner party? I asked Ellie on Tuesday what I should bring, and he said, “Just yourself.” Yeah, right. I can just imagine Cat’s judgment.

Arriving empty-handed is not an option.

I should be past caring. Usually, I am past it. On most days, I can divide my life into two periods: the person I was before I stopped agreeing to do things I didn’t want to do, and the person I became after.

The first person went to law school to appease her mother and then immediately settled down to work in corporate law.

That woman—that much younger, more naive woman—did shit like date men who convinced her to read Jonathan Franzen even though, if she were honest, she’d never really liked reading.

She went to college sports games because all her friends went, even though she hated sports. She drank beer and pretended it didn’t taste like piss. She stayed at parties later than she would have preferred, and she gave underwhelming men too many chances.

Then, in my late twenties—and only after years of therapy—I stopped.

I started saying no.

No, I won’t go to work drinks on a Thursday when my bed is calling me.

No, I actually hate hiking, but thank you for the invite.

No, I won’t go home with you or on a second date, and actually, let’s cut this one short.

And, most of the time:

No, I most certainly will not attend a dinner party hosted by the man I’ve been secretly in love with for years.

It’s not a perfect recipe for happiness—but it certainly doesn’t hurt.

Fifteen minutes after talking to Ellie, I drive through the picturesque suburban oasis that is his neighborhood. Lush green lawns, Christmas lights already up even though it’s early November, security system signs in easy-to-spot places.

I park by the curb, grateful to find a spot that doesn’t test my parallel-parking skills, and walk up the path to Ellie and Cat’s front door.

It’s a large, farmhouse-style home, white with black trim.

The type of house that says We have money, but we don’t feel the need to get all modern and weird with it.

I knock on the door and glance at the pricey bottle of pinot noir clutched in my left hand, embarrassed by the splurge, like I’m trying too hard to impress.

The door opens, and I have an answer to my question: Dread and excitement can coexist, and for me they’ve grown so intertwined as to become completely indistinguishable.

Standing just shy of six feet, Elijah Aarons—Ellie to his friends, and, trust me, he considers just about everyone a friend—has aged nicely from the nerdy boy who was once my closest confidant into this man with tanned skin and wavy brown hair just starting to gray at the temples.

His face lights up, and a pang hits me straight in the chest.

I am in love with this man, but I would give anything not to be.

“You came.” He wraps me in a hug, and I melt into the warm, spicy scent of his cologne.

Is it just me, or does he hold me a touch too close, linger a little long on the embrace?

I had always wondered if the chemistry between us was a figment of my imagination until one night a year before his wedding when he drunkenly admitted that he once harbored the tiniest of crushes on me, only briefly, and ha-ha, wasn’t that funny? I mean, can you imagine?

Could I imagine?

“I said I would.” My words might sound snarky, but he takes my attitude in stride.

Sometimes I think life would be so much easier if, just once, Ellie could be an asshole.

He guides me into the foyer, and I am immediately confronted by…

myself. Well, a photo of myself plus eleven other members of Cat and Ellie’s wedding party, all of us gathered around the bride and groom, overenthusiastic smiles plastered on our faces like we just know that through this picture, we will serve as an eternal welcoming committee ushering guests into their home.

Seven years later, I still can’t believe Cat made me a bridesmaid. I know Ellie pushed for it, but… still.

That’s the genius of Cat—she’s fake, but she’s convincing.

I’ve always wished I were better at keeping up pretenses, but I’m too transparent. I’ve had not one but two one-night stands call me out on faking orgasms, but I stuck to my guns and denied it—that’s the kind of secret I’ll take to my grave.

My transparency is on full display in the photo.

No smile could hide the misery in my eyes.

It’s like I knew that for the rest of our lives, Ellie and Cat would have a picture on their mantel where I look like complete shit, olive skin washed out, every imperfection on my body highlighted by the lavender satin bridesmaid dress Cat chose.

“Alex will be relieved to have you here. The guys love to hound him for financial advice. I swear, if I have to hear him utter the words ‘Buy on the dip’ one more time…”

He shakes his head, amused. I manage a hollow laugh even as the life drains out of me.

Alex is here.

Alex Aquino is here.

I’m about to see Alex—and Ellie thinks this is good news.

I didn’t expect this. All my dread leading up to tonight, and I didn’t even think to expect this. Ellie and Alex were always closer to acquaintances than friends.

More to the point, last I knew, Alex kind of hated him.

“Alex is here?” For days, I’ve been angsting about tonight, and it turns out I was angsting for entirely the wrong reason. “Great. I haven’t seen him in—” I refuse to think about the last time I saw Alex. “That’s so great.”

Ellie must be distracted because my weirdness doesn’t seem to register.

“He always comes. Gives me hell for it, reminds me how much his time is worth—but he never misses.”

Wait—did Ellie just say that Alex never misses their dinner parties? Seriously? I was there when Ellie and Cat debated whether to invite Alex to their wedding. I had been pro-invite. To be fair, my logic had been Why not? He’ll buy you the nicest gift on your registry.

“Since when are you and Alex so close?”

Ellie frowns. “We’ve always been close.”

I level him with a flat look, and he amends, “He invited me to a Dodgers game last season. We go to games together now. I told you all this.”

“You didn’t.”

“Pretty sure I did.”

I’d remember if he’d mentioned Alex—but I can’t tell him why I’d remember, so I drop it. “And Ingrid?”

Ingrid Aquino, Alex’s wife.

“No-show. I think she has her book club?”

Small mercies.

“Right. Book club. I’ve been meaning to join one of those,” I say, a needless lie.

Ellie leads me to the immaculate living room, where I see a group of five men, four I don’t know and one I do. It’s been years since I saw Alex in person, and I hate to admit that age has somehow made him hotter. Well, age plus nearly a billion dollars.

Alex turns slightly, and we lock eyes across the room. For a second, I think he’ll have the decency to turn back, to ignore me, to let me stay in this moment with Ellie.

I should have known better.

“Josephina Vasquez. God, how long has it been? Ten years?”

He always insisted on using my full name, no matter how often I told him I hated it.

Once, I even thought I liked it.

I plaster on a smile and watch Alex approach.

He’s even more impressive up close. Olive-brown skin, inky-black hair, plush lips, and whiskey eyes, Alex Aquino presents an appealing picture.

Combine that with the fact that he’s a low-key genius and rich as Satan, and he’s pretty hard to resist. Until you actually get to know him—then it gets easier.

“You saw each other at my wedding.” Ellie frowns. We both freeze. Alex recovers first.

“You’re right, we did. So not ten years, then…” Alex trails off, eyeing me expectantly.

“It’s been seven years, Alex,” I say flatly.

“Seven years,” he repeats as if it’s news. As if he forgot. “You haven’t aged a day.”

Before I can respond, Catherine Aarons walks in, followed by four other women, forming a nearly identical pack of blond hair and perfectly golden spray-tanned skin.