Chapter 8
PJ was used to being a mistake.
Well, maybe not always an on-the-surface mistake, but at least a less-preferred choice. A last resort. A decision that lingered with the sweet scent of missed opportunity, of regret.
PJ knew he was attractive. He had the long hair, the muscular arms. His mom had made sure he knew how to act like a gentleman, to ask about a woman’s day, to listen to her answers. His dad had made sure he knew how to cover the bill, to open the door, to take proper care of a date. PJ read the news, he mastered the drinking games, he watched all the latest television shows (even the ones with roses and contestants all living in one mansion). He was primed and prepped and prolific with conversation. PJ was, by all textbook definitions, a catch.
But even PJ knew that he’d always pale in comparison to the Peters twins.
His curse was that he genuinely loved hanging out with them.
Who didn’t? Mac and Cam had a spark to them that couldn’t be taught by caring parents or studied on the web. It was inherent, genetic. And both twins had it in spades—allegedly since birth. Mrs. Peters would fill Parents’ Weekend conversations with tales of how, since infancy, her twin boys had been telling jokes. Giggling at punch lines that the other told in their secret twin language. Natural-born centers of any given crowd.
PJ wasn’t immune to their pull. He’d met Mac and Cam during freshman orientation and was ecstatic when all three of them had been admitted into the same fraternity that next semester. They had a gregarious generosity to them, always making plans but making sure everyone was included. Their years at UVA were spent with PJ, Cam, and Mac sharing dorm rooms and homework assignments, whiskey handles and bow ties for football tailgates—a UVA tradition—and leftover Marco Luca dumplings, a UVA specialty.
And for PJ, they were also spent with Mac’s and Cam’s leftover romantic pursuers.
Each weekend brought a new cycle of women who’d arrive at their house parties, eyes always eager with the same budding look as they’d scan the room for a Peters face. Cam was loyal, always, to the illustrious Liz at NYU. She was the envy and the scorn of many UVA coeds doomed to be selfishly disappointed in Cam’s fidelity. Mac had started the term with claims of a long-distance girlfriend, but by the end of the year, it seemed the high school sweetheart he’d left at home had ended things for good. But even if and when one fortuitous prospect managed to connect with Mac, that always left at least a handful of partygoers hoping for a Peters romance and now looking for a consolation prize.
PJ could do the math.
The women who shrugged and made their way to him were perhaps inherently disappointed, but he always tried to treat them the very best he could. He was gentle and generous, refilling drinks and heating up pizza bagels and spinning them to any song choice, singing along. Sometimes they’d briefly fall for something in PJ, date him for a few weeks. But usually, they would stop the dance early or wake up the next morning with apologies and rushed goodbyes. A number saved but never called again.
Maggie let PJ kiss her, but then she pushed him away. He felt slightly embarrassed for an instant, but then it was over. Because he was used to it. By now, PJ was immune to the pain of rejection.
There was a sliver of surprise, though, for PJ hadn’t pegged Maggie as a current Peters hopeful. Cam was newly engaged and permanently off the market, and PJ had barely seen Mac and Maggie in overlapping moments this weekend.
He’d only just met Maggie, but she seemed so independent, so tough. PJ had moved to Charlottesville from Columbus, Ohio, to pursue business at UVA, and now he was working in consulting at Deloitte, one of the Big Four. He knew what it felt like to walk away, to have to build a new ground control, far away, from scratch.
Maggie’s skin had to be so thick, PJ knew. Not just from working in the entertainment industry and taking orders from hotheads, but more so from having to tell your loved ones that you needed something bigger, something they couldn’t give you. That their proximity wasn’t going to be enough. It hadn’t been enough for PJ or Maggie, for anyone who transplanted for a dream.
PJ had been thinking about this as he kissed her. How hard it must have been for her to walk away from her high school friend group all those years ago. He had spent so much time with them since he moved to the city after college, Mac and Cam taking him under their wing, introducing him to their eccentric and bighearted East Meadow circle.
Introducing him to Maggie, their old friend, now home.
It was silly, but he’d wanted to kiss her from the moment he saw her at Penn Station. She was so effortless, so different. There was an electricity to her, and PJ liked it immediately.
Yet when he did kiss her, on that Ocean Beach dock, he knew something was off. Maggie pulled away and glanced back toward the bar almost immediately, disappointed and frowning, toward their friends dancing inside.
Toward Mac.
If life were a cartoon, PJ would have had a light bulb above his head. How could he have missed this? It was so obvious. This was Maggie. Mac’s Maggie. Of course. Cam and Liz were gentler, the sensitive pairing, but Maggie and Mac were bold. They were force fields. No wonder they circled each other even still. Two stars in orbit.
“I’m so sorry,” Maggie said, wincing. “You’re a really great guy.”
“Don’t be sorry,” PJ said with practiced nonchalance. He was used to not taking this part personally. “Pretend it never happened. Let’s go back to the party.” He was used to it all.
As they tossed the pizza box in the trash can and opened the Sandbar’s doors, PJ knew he’d be okay. After all, he had thick skin, too.