So That Happened: A Romantic Comedy, page 13
Even if it is much-detested small talk.
She blinks, tilts her head. “What about Legs?”
What does Legs have to do with my dating life (or lack thereof)?
Maybe Luke told Annie that I’m babysitting our niece for a couple of weeks, and she assumed that I’d be with her this afternoon. Which is a correct assumption. Legs has her dance class, and I’ll be helping her get ready and driving her to the studio.
“Yeah, I’ll be with Legs,” I say with a shrug. “Playing chauffeur.”
Annie gives me a strange look. “Is that a euphemism?”
“For driving?”
“No, for…” She stops, reddens. “Uh, never mind. Ignore me.”
I have no idea what’s going on, but for some reason, I find myself asking, “How about you?”
She frowns at me in confusion.
“I mean, do you have any weekend plans?” I clarify, feeling awkward. Serves me right for indulging myself. There’s a special place in hell for small talk. Right next to people who drive below the speed limit in the fast lane, and door-to-door salespeople.
Bothering people in their homes—the nerve.
And yet… I genuinely want to know the answer to my question.
“Probably going to catch up on a few things, then be accidentally-on-purpose late for a forced trip to the Farmer’s Market tomorrow morning.” Annie’s lips pucker, like she has a bad taste in her mouth. What’s wrong with the Farmer’s Market?
Yeah, I’m a secret Market Man. Legs loves to go, too. We always find the best avocados.
“What’s happening at the Farmer’s Market?” I ask, genuinely curious what could elicit such a negative reaction to great coffee, reusable canvas bags, and homemade peach jam.
“Long story.” Annie shakes her head, then scoots backwards and scrambles up off of the floor. “Speaking of late, I am currently three minutes late for lunch with Vanessa.”
“It’s 3pm.”
“Lunch doesn’t have to be chicken, rice and spinach from the same restaurant at precisely 12:30pm every day, you know.”
“I get steak sometimes,” I say, defensive. Then, I remember the meal I had at Maria’s last night.
Fine. She got me.
Annie gives a light chuckle and shakes her head. Her auburn hair brushes over her shoulders. “Wild one, aren’t you?”
“When I want to be.”
Annie’s mouth pops open, and two spots of pink appear on her cheeks. I can understand why—I didn’t mean for that to sound so flirty.
Or maybe I did. It’s like someone poured water on my carefully painted lines, and the spill is blurring all the edges. Making things murky.
She recovers quickly. “You may be gone by the time I’m back, but have a good weekend. And while you’re at it, why don’t you test out SITL’s upcoming new feature and be a little flexible with your weekend schedule.”
Her confidence is amusing.
“And how do you propose I go about doing that?”
Her eyes flash, and my stomach drops. “Do something spontaneous. I dare you.”
16
ANNIE
Liam: Spontaneously letting you know that I was two minutes late for my first taxi service.
I stare at my phone, reading the text again. I still have no idea what he means by “taxi service,” but I’ve spent enough time with Liam Donovan this week to garner two things: one, he does not enjoy talking for the sake of talking. And two, he hates being late.
A smile stretches over my face as I walk along the sunny city sidewalk. If this text is anything to go by, Liam has actually taken me up on my challenge, and I’m hoping this means that we’re finally on the right foot after a shaky start.
I mean, things were already going better last night—he listened so intently to all my thoughts on how to improve SITL’s features. Plus, the guy did give up half his office space for me (fine, maybe more than half. What can I say? I’m a spreader). He seems to genuinely care what his employees have to say—surprising given his cool, standoffish demeanor—and it just makes me more curious about him. Eager to know what else lies behind those dark eyes.
What makes Liam… Liam.
Because I guess we’re on a first name basis now. And, yanno, texting.
My fingers hover over the screen before I type out a reply.
Annie: Wow! Letting your hair down this weekend, aren’t you?
Liam: Actually, it’s pretty firmly held in place right now with a whole bottle of hairspray.
I frown at the screen, uncomprehending. Is this a joke…?
My phone dings again.
Liam: Long story.
What the freaky-deak is happening? Liam never has any stories at all, never mind long ones.
Annie: I have many questions.
Liam: I’ll answer one.
I smirk as I type out my question.
Annie: Do you moonlight as a Dolly Parton impersonator?
I wait. Patiently. With bated breath (can you blame me?)
But there’s no reply.
Probably took that a step too far. It’s not every day that I ask my boss if he does a cross-gender country tribute for fun on a Friday night. But I guess that’s small-fry compared to what we’ve already been through.
After a few moments, I stash my phone away, cursing my stupid foot-in-mouth syndrome. There were literally a thousand less ridiculous things I could’ve texted him.
I sigh as I wander into Trader Joe’s and pick up a shopping basket. Lonely Friday nights call for hipster junk food. At least I can feel young and cool while inhaling copious amounts of calories.
I reach for a package of Everything But The Bagel kettle chips, and then head to the dip aisle. I check my phone again. Still no reply.
Oh, well. It was fun while it lasted. And maybe it’s a good thing that he didn’t text back.
Because I know there’s more to Liam Donovan than what I’m seeing. But I also know that digging is dangerous. I’m already intrigued by him—the last thing I need is to dig so far that I catch feelings. For my freaking boss. With the rock hard biceps.
And yes, I know this for a fact because I felt them that fateful morning.
My skin heats at the memory.
I remind myself that, even if I did like him like that—which I don’t—it could never be reciprocated. I’m a totem pole of all that he despises: flightiness, lateness, spontaneity.
And even if I wasn’t, he’s still my boss. Who appears to be very interested in (but not dating) a woman known for her shapely calves.
Goodness knows, after what happened with Justin, developing anything other than professional interest in someone I work with is out of the question. I’m going to need a bucket of ice cream and a reread of Rising Strong tonight to get myself in order.
I stand in front of the freezer for way too long, staring at the flavors before selecting a black tea and boba non-dairy dessert. I want to try something I’ve never had before. New experiences, that’s what my second chance in Atlanta’s all about.
Not repeating mistakes.
Which means that I will have no more thoughts of Liam. Just me, my calories, and my good friend Brené.
Pleased with my decision, I head for the checkout.
Ding!
I balance my phone precariously on my basket as I open the text. My heart leaps a little when I see the name at the top of the screen.
Liam: Grease-era John Travolta, actually.
Dammit.
17
LIAM
“Ready to go, Leggsy?” I ask as I buckle into the driver’s seat.
Getting Legs ready for her dance class was an experience. For one thing, I learned the hard way that you can spray a bottle of hairspray the wrong way.
My eyes will hopefully make a full recovery someday.
“Yes!” Legs chirps happily.
I start the car, but before I can pull out of the driveway, my phone dings. I almost leave it, almost let it rest in the console, taunting me…
I can’t take it.
I stop the car and open the text.
Annie: Screw knitting. I’ll be front row at tonight’s show.
A smile tugs at my lips, and I start typing: “It’s a date.”
No. Don’t send that, you idiot.
Definitely not that.
I try again. “What did you decide to do tonight in the end?”
No! Not that either.
Texting is stressful.
I stare at my screen for another moment, unable to formulate a single coherent thought.
“Can you please turn on my song?” Legs asks, kicking my seat lightly as she does so.
“Don’t kick, Legs,” I say with as much authority as I can muster. It’s crazy—at work, I have people tripping over themselves to do exactly what I say, when I say it. But at home, I’m at the constant beck and call and mercy of a precocious eight-year-old. “We have a volume agreement in the car, remember?”
“Sorry,” she says with a sweet smile. “But I can’t hear the song.”
The child clearly does not care about honoring our carefully negotiated pact regarding how loud we play her music while I’m playing taxi driver.
She blinks her big, dark eyes in the rearview mirror. “Pleaseeeeeeeeee Uncle Liam?”
My kryptonite. Seriously, how can you say no to a child who looks so forlorn, so eager for something you’re depriving her?
I don’t know how parents do it. I feel like I’d be constantly spoiling my kids, doing anything to see them smile.
But as Lana Mae always points out, there’s a difference between making your child happy and doing what’s right. So I leave the volume as it is and click my phone screen off, deciding that the text will have to wait. We have a Junior ballet class to get to.
As I pull onto the highway, I glance at Legs in the rearview mirror. She’s pouting, big-time, her little arms crossed over her glittery-leotard-clad body.
Gah. She knows how to get me.
And so, because I’m in a very good mood—and absolutely not because I’m being manipulated by a pint-sized person—I give in and crank up the volume. It’s synced to my phone and playing Legs’s special playlist from my Spotify, as per usual.
I know immediately that the song is by One Direction. I don’t love the fact that I know this.
Legs begins to sing along. Loudly.
Who knew so much volume could come from such tiny lungs?
An involuntary smile creeps over my face, and I turn up the music a little more.
Legs cheers, and I tap my index fingers on the steering wheel to the music. It’s actually a pretty catchy tune, something about making the most of living while you’re still young.
Immediately, I think of Annie.
Annie, with her wide smile and fiery eyes and thirst for squeezing every last drop out of every day. Annie, who’s late for everything and makes a fool out of herself by speaking before she thinks. Annie, who manages to laugh it all off and move on because life’s short, and if you get tripped up, the only way to keep going is to get right back up.
“Uncle Liam?” Legs yells over the noise.
I turn the music down, reach for my coffee in the cupholder. “Yes, sweetie?”
“What does ‘get some’ mean?”
I choke on my coffee.
And I’m caught so off guard that I don’t brake early enough for a red light.
I slam my foot down to stop the car. The action jerks Legs forward in her booster seat and sends a gush of coffee all over my white button-down shirt. “Shi—!”
The vehicle comes to an abrupt, jerky halt.
I twist around in my seat, heart pounding. “Legs! You okay?”
“Fine.” Legs giggles, totally unperturbed. Then again, her mother drives like she’s the only person on the road, and everyone else can get out of her way. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so terrifying. “The song says that tonight, they’re going to get some. Get some what?”
Blood pumps in my ears and I press my head back against the seat. I don’t know if I’m more rocked by my ill attention to the road or by Legs’s question.
I turn the radio off.
Good grief. I blame Lana Mae for this. Letting her child listen to inappropriate music about casual sex sung by delinquent youth. Aren’t these boys, like, fifteen? Where are their mothers? I have a good mind to write to the record company and…
“Uncle Liammmm, what are they getting?” Legs asks again.
“Probably chlamydia,” I mutter darkly under my breath.
“What did you say?”
No! I’m not prepared to field this type of question. I’m only the driver!
“Um… clams from… India.” I cringe the second the words are out of my mouth.
Good one, Liam.
Will have to make a very awkward phone call to my sister later to explain that one.
“Clams? Eww, that’s gross.” To my intense relief, Legs seems placated by my absolute nonsense of an explanation. “Turn the song back up?”
“Absolutely not.”
Thankfully, we’re pulling into her dance studio, and Legs forgets the lack of music as her little face lights up.
“You ready?” I smile at her in the rearview mirror.
“Ready, Freddie!”
I turn off the ignition and grab her sparkly unicorn backpack from the passenger seat. “Come on then, princess.”
I hold Legs’s backpack over my coffee-stained shirt like a shield as we make our way into the packed dance studio. Girls in tulle and glitter hug and twirl and squeal while their moms gather in groups, jangling their car keys and sipping their Starbucks lattes.
Lana Mae hates it here. Says she doesn’t fit in, and asks me to take Allegra most Fridays. Which means that I’m a Razzle Dazzle Dance Studio regular.
I don’t buy her excuse. I think, deep down, she’s trying to set me up with one of the single moms here. Clearly, my little sister thinks I need to get a life.
Speaking of single moms, there’s (thankfully) no sign of Cassandra, but I do spot Debs—a bottle-blond lady with an overeager voice and a penchant for putting her hand on my arm and trapping me in one-sided conversations.
She pushes her sunglasses up and smiles. “Liam, hi!”
I give her a nod, then turn away to sign Legs in. I sit on the vacant chair furthest away from Debs and her posse, then unzip my niece’s backpack to get her water bottle and dance shoes.
Once she’s ready, I give her a hug. “You’re the brightest star in the room, my girl.”
“I know!” she chirps with all the wonderful confidence only an unjaded eight-year-old can have. She untangles her arms from around my neck and spots her friend Ruby across the room. She gives her a big, enthusiastic wave, then turns to me seriously. “You can go now.”
“You don’t want me to stay and watch?” I chuckle. I’m not hurt or offended.
Well, maybe a tiny bit.
She shakes her head. “Nope.” She pops the “p” and puts her hands on her hips sassily. “You can go do something else.”
Obviously there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Legs—including participation in the studio’s annual daddy-daughter dance (an archaic tradition that’s non-inclusive of many modern family set-ups, in my humble opinion). But I’ve had a long day, and am vaguely relieved that I don't have to sit here for the next sixty minutes watching thirty children stand on their tiptoes and twirl off-beat.
Plus, I need to get out of this coffee-soaked shirt.
Plus plus, Debs looks like she’s making her way over.
I give Legs another hug and watch her skip over to Ruby, crossing my arms in a vain attempt to disguise the fact that I’m wearing my coffee.
“Coo-eee!” I hear Debs behind me. I make for the door at breakneck speed, almost tripping over my feet.
Once back in the vehicle, I slump in my seat and assess the damage.
Shirt status—ruined. Also, cold and sticking to my skin in the worst way.
Agitated, I slip it off and throw it on the passenger seat in a crumpled heap.
What now? I can’t very well sit outside a dance studio full of children while I’m half-naked. I am most certain there are laws against that. And if there aren’t, there should be.
I have fifty-five minutes to kill and I don’t feel like going all the way home, so I decide to stop by the office. I have a clean shirt there—a whole clean suit, in fact—and everyone should be long gone for the evening.
I turn the key in the ignition and pull onto the main road. It’s one of those glorious evenings where the sun is golden and warm, and the air is ripe with the promise of summer. The traffic is even moving smoothly, for once.
I roll the windows down and enjoy the breeze circulating in the vehicle, cool against my bare skin. I may have my careful, precision-based routine that runs like clockwork, holds no surprises, and provides the people I love with everything they need. But there’s something strangely liberating about this unplanned moment.
Maybe there is some kind of method to Annie’s madness…
On a whim, I take a left. It’s not the way to the office, but I have time to kill. Driving aimlessly is spontaneous, right?
I bet she often drives with no destination, the windows cranked down.
I smile at the thought of her riding alongside me in place of my stained shirt, laughing as her hair blows in the wind.
She’d have the radio on, I’m sure.
I flip the car stereo back on. One Direction blares at top volume, right where they left off earlier. I stifle a laugh at the memory of my faux pas while explaining the lyrics to Legs. That girl is going to keep me on my toes these next few years, that’s for sure.
But now that she’s not in the vehicle and I’m no longer worried about her hearing anything her sweet little ears shouldn’t, I find that I don’t want to turn the song off.
In fact, I turn it up.
Tap my fingers on the steering wheel.
Fingers turn into whole hands. Hands turn into head nods.
The track ends and flips to the next on the playlist, and it’s another one I recognize. One I even know the words to. It’s the song about the girl not knowing how beautiful she is. Not knowing how much the guy wants her.
