Chapter 16 Beck #4
She looked good. Really good. Had she had a nose job?
There was something different about her face.
Her hair was blonder. Her clothes were not cheap, though not anything special.
Brooks Brothers, maybe. Her shoes, however, were expensive.
Four-inch heels. Manolo Blahniks, maybe.
The kind Beck’s female clients wore to openings, the kind she could never wear without her leg screaming in pain after fifteen steps.
A tidal wave of feelings surged from Beck’s feet to the top of her head.
Love. Anger. Shock. Joy. Betrayal. She was already on her feet, heading toward her, trying not to limp.
Would they hug? Would it be more awkward not to hug?
The guy at the counter held out a bag of food, and Jasmine took it, neutralizing the hug question.
Beck lurched to a stop. “Wow. Hello. How . . . how have you been?” she asked.
Jasmine shifted, a forced smile on her face. “Good. Really good! How about you? You look wonderful. Do you live in the city? It’s been a long time.” Jasmine’s eyes scanned her, stopping at her ring. “Wait. Are you engaged?”
Why was her voice so shocked? Beck could get engaged, couldn’t she?
“Yeah. I mean, well . . .” She took a breath. “Come sit with us for a minute.” She led the way to their table, her leg burning. Oscar looked up from his phone and stood politely.
“Jasmine, this is Oscar Hahn. Oscar, this is Jasmine, a friend from high school.”
“So lovely to meet you,” Oscar said, instantly all charm. “Please, sit down.”
Jasmine did, and Beck practically fell back into her chair.
She studied Jasmine’s face. Yes to the nose job.
The original nose had been a bit long and bony.
A pity, Beck thought with a stab of pettiness.
The Jennifer Grey curse . . . get a conventional nose, become forgettable.
Did Meryl Streep teach us nothing? But Jasmine’s eyes were still beautiful.
Greener than Beck remembered. Colored contacts, maybe?
“Beck, I didn’t know you lived in New York,” Jasmine said. Her eyes flicked between Beck and Oscar.
“I ended up going to NYU and never left.” I turned out fine. Better than fine, no matter how badly I was hurt, no matter the year of agony, no matter that none of you came to see me.
“Good for you!” I’ll pretend that was the plan all along, because I’m certainly not taking the blame for killing Dr. Kate and ruining your leg. “So, when’s the wedding?” Again, her eyes fell to Beck’s ring, then returned to Oscar.
“She hasn’t given me a firm answer yet,” Oscar said, looking at Beck. His voice was warm but his eyes chilly, clearly still irked about their child-rearing conversation. “Apparently, she likes to keep me guessing.”
“I see,” Jasmine said. “Well, Beck, don’t keep him guessing too long.” She smiled, more at Oscar than her.
“And you, Jasmine? Are you with someone?” Beck asked, wondering about the last name. Tate, was it?
“No, I’m afraid. No one special enough for commitment just yet.” She turned her apple-green gaze on Oscar. “What do you do for work, Oscar?”
“I’m a private equity manager. I’ll understand if you grimace.”
“No, not at all! I work in finance, too.”
“Really? Where?”
“Goldman Sachs. I’m in strategic finance.”
They began gabbling away in the language of their field—trusts, securities, assets, derivatives. It really was incomprehensible if you didn’t move in those circles.
“I’m a casting director,” Beck announced, since it didn’t seem like either of them was about to stop talking. “Film, television. I have my own agency.” She sounded defensive (probably because she was).
“Really? Wow, I wouldn’t have expected you in that line of work,” Jasmine said.
“Why not?”
She flushed. “Only because I don’t remember you being all that interested in movies and TV.”
“No,” Beck said. “Basketball was my life.”
Jasmine’s face reddened. “Well. It was lovely to see you again, Beck. And, Oscar, so nice to meet you. Maybe we’ll run into each other through work someday.”
“I hope so,” Oscar said, standing and forcing Beck to stand, too. Her leg was on fire. “Very nice to meet you, too, Jasmine. Tate, was it?”
“Yes,” Jasmine said, glancing at Beck. Please don’t mention my real name. “Jasmine Tate. Glad to see you’re doing well, Beck.”
“Same,” Beck said. “Take care.”
Beck googled her as soon as she got home, opting not to stay at Oscar’s.
Mr. Littlejeans hopped up on her lap, purring loudly as Beck scrolled through the internet.
Seemed Jasmine had legally changed her name to Tate before she went to Princeton.
Beck understood. Half her clients changed their names, too, and Jasmine Tate had a very different ring than Jasmine Malinowski.
On her social media accounts, there were photos of Jasmine in various places—Princeton, Manhattan, somewhere in Italy.
Usually, she was alone, though there were some pictures of her with friends, having martinis or posing in bathing suits.
No one Beck knew. Jasmine Tate, associate, strategic marketing, Goldman Sachs.
Probably saving up for that private island, Beck thought.
The encounter left a bad taste in her mouth.
Maybe if they’d hugged when Beck first went up.
Maybe if she’d been alone and not with Oscar, who shared Jasmine’s world of finance.
Maybe, Beck thought, if Jasmine’s eyes hadn’t gotten quite so wide when she’d seen the ginormous rock on Beck’s finger.
Maybe running into each other would’ve been at least tolerable.
Instead, Beck had felt judged, dull, awkward and gigantic. Jasmine was five foot two, a full twelve inches shorter than Beck. When Oscar had stood up, he towered over Jasmine, even though she was wearing those high, impractical, beautiful heels.
Also, that last line . . . glad to see you’re doing well, Beck.
How did Jasmine know she was doing well?
She sure hadn’t paid much attention to her.
Didn’t ask about her leg. Didn’t ask about her job, her life, if she had pets.
(At this, Beck dropped a kiss on Mr. Littlejeans’s perfect head.) “Doing well” must mean with a rich guy, wearing a big diamond.
She looked at her hand, then took off the ring.
Her coming week was jammed, including an overnight in Los Angeles, which meant hours in transit, which she never liked.
(Leg. Airplane seats. Long walks in airports.) She and Oscar talked and texted superficially and briefly.
He was also slammed at work with dinner meetings and a trip to Chicago for two days.
They’d had plans to go to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden on Saturday, but he canceled, saying he’d caught a cold and felt miserable.
Turned down her offer to come over with soup from Katz’s Deli.
When they finally saw each other on Sunday night, she sensed the change immediately, and wondered if he did, too. “Good to see you,” he said, then gestured that she should sit at the vast dining room table, the city glittering around them, cardboard cartons of takeout between them.
No point in dragging it out. After a minute of small talk, she spoke.
“About us getting married,” she said. “I’m not sure we’re as good a fit as you think, Oscar.
” He tilted his head and blinked. “We get along, and we don’t fight, but that’s not the basis of a marriage.
I’d like my future spouse to be in love with me, and I’m sure you feel the same way.
” She put the ring on the table in between them, back in its original box.
His expression was neutral. “I think you’re right,” he said. “I appreciate your candor, as always.”
“Well. I’ve . . . I’ve enjoyed our time together.” She had, but it felt so hollow at this moment.
“The feeling is completely mutual. Would you like to stay for dinner?” he asked, indicating the cartons.
“I don’t think so, but thank you.” Both of them were so civil.
He walked her to the door. “Take good care, Beck. I wish you the best.” It was the same warm, rich voice he’d used on the client he despised.
“Same to you.”
Three months later, Beck got a handwritten note at her office.
Dear Beck,
It really was good to run into you a few months ago.
I was glad to see you looking so wonderful.
So . . . this is a little awkward, but I wanted to let you know that after you broke up, Oscar and I ran into each other.
We started dating, and we just got engaged.
I hope you’ll be happy for us, and maybe even come to our wedding, as our friend.
Best wishes,
Jasmine
“Well, that didn’t take long,” Beck said out loud, then wadded up the note and, in a skilled overhand shot, tossed it into the trash. Swish. Nothing but net.