Chapter 26
JASON
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks holding my face with her soft hands. “You don’t look sick.”
“It’s fine, just an upset stomach,” I lie.
No way I’m going to explain to her that I had to talk myself out of a boner in a public bathroom, like a teenager.
“You sure?” She moves my face closer to hers, and I stop breathing as I feel her breath across my face, and she’s so close to me, I can smell her sweet perfume.
God, why are you torturing me?
I can feel my pants shrinking in the groin area one more time. I have to go home. She should call an Uber. There’s no way I can spend one more day with her.
“Would you mind if we go to an antique shop?” she asks. “It’s just a few blocks from here.”
“Antique shopping?” I frown.
“Yeah,” she says, releasing my face and pulling her journal. “Charlie said she wants some ‘rustic’ decorations... which we probably can’t afford, but if I get some reference photos, we can make a few things.”
So, if it wasn’t weird enough that she knows a tailor named Seamus, she just happens to have a regular antique shop she frequents, owned by a woman named Maria.
“Ay, amor,” Maria says. “What are you looking for today? Another watering can for your sculpture?”
Another watering can? And a sculpture?
“Not today, Maria,” Eileen answers looking around. “I had to put that project on the back burner. But if you have any old copper wire—”
“Say no more,” Maria exclaims. “I’ve been saving some for you. I’ll have Reginald get it out of the back.”
Okay, this brings up a lot of questions. Mainly what is the copper wire for? How often does Eileen come here? Who the fuck has a favorite antique shop? And when the fuck does she have time to breathe if she’s been doing school and work and elaborate art projects for years?
And when was the last time she went on vacation? Or a date?
Then again, it’s not really my place to ask. Talking about places, this isn’t my place to be at—an antique shop with a woman.
Just as I’m thinking about how to get out of this place, I receive a text from Jack.
Jack: We’re back in Denver. Emmeline wants to know if you need any help?
Thank you for nothing, I think.
Jason: We got everything under control.
Jack: We?
Jason: Eileen, the sister of the bride, and me.
Jack: Em wants to know what you’re doing at an antique shop?
I look around, what the hell?
Jason: I missed her so much, I had to go somewhere that reminds me how much I don’t like her.
Jason: Seriously, how does she know?
Jack: Jossie told her. She’s working at the office.
I run a hand through my hair. These women are driving me fucking insane. After this wedding, I am leaving for some tropical island and I’m not coming back until I exorcize… Eileen comes to stand right next to me and shows me an old crate.
“We’re here for that old thing?” I scrunch up my nose. “We can get them at Michaels.”
“No, this is for me,” she says. “Maria, do you have any more of these?”
“Maria,” I sing under my breath. “I just met a girl named Maria.”
Eileen hip-checks me. “Knock it off.”
“Oh, come on, Eileen,” I say. “Don’t go lame on me. You’re the only fun person in this crazy mixed-up world of ours.”
She blushes. Shit, what did I—
Huh, maybe she thought I was flirting with her.
It’s true, though. She’s the only person I’ve ever met that’s worth a damn, comedically at least. Which, granted, is probably far more important to me than the average guy.
We wander around the shop for a while. She stops every so often to take a picture, say a few things about some object she’s found. I’ve been writing notes down on my phone for later.
“What I’m wondering,” I say once we’re further into the store. “Is if you’re an artist—”
“Was an artist,” she corrects.
“—How did you end up in physical therapy of all things? Isn’t there, I don’t know, art therapy or something?”
“That was the plan,” she says, placing an old hat on top of my head and snapping a picture. “Or at least the back up to being a muralist. But you can’t get a Master’s in Art Therapy if you don’t have a BFA in art.”
“And your parents—fuck, that’s shitty,” I say.
“It was,” she surprisingly agrees. “But physical therapy still does a lot of good. And sometimes I can get away with art related activities depending on the patient’s needs and interests.”
I nod impressed by her make lemonade out of all the lemons her family has been throwing her.
“Theatre doesn’t have to be your career to make you happy, right?” she says suddenly.
“That was random.” I rub the back of my neck. She’s right though.
Eileen shrugs. “I was just thinking, you can act for fun. You don’t have to give it up.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” I say. “That’s who I was, not who I am now.”
“And you reciting lyrics from West Side Story is what exactly?” she says as she walks backwards through an aisle of lamps.
Fuck, she knows this place too well.
“I’m not totally heartless,” I say.
“So you admit you’re depriving yourself of your greatest joy in life,” she says. “Singing, dancing, and acting on a stage.”
“Words in my mouth much?”
She’s so invested in this. Why? Why does it matter if I go after my childhood dream? Who cares?
Eileen stops walking. She looks at me intently.
“You deserve to be happy too, you know,” she says softly.
Which— “I know,” I say.
“Do you?”
“I am,” I counteract.
“Are you?”
She says it so patiently and with this fucking kindness—what is her deal?
Eileen’s out here plucking at my heartstrings, trying to get me to care about, what, exactly? My self-fulfillment? My happiness?
Who gave her any right to barge into my life like that?
“Why do you even care?” I say quietly.
The conversation fucking dies right then and there. Eventually she shrugs and we move on with our lives, but I still don’t get it.
Why does she have to be so considerate and caring? Why does everything she does have to be delightfully odd? Why does she have to be so fucking smart and funny and perfect—
It hits me like a ton of bricks.
Fuck. She’s perfect.
Eileen McBean is my fucking dream girl.
I guess I don’t have a wedding fetish.