Dear George,
I caught my boyfriend flirting with my cousin at our grandmother’s funeral. What should I do?
Love and stuff,
Confused
Dear Oblivious,
First, my condolences on the loss of your grandmother. Second, dump his ass.
Platonic smooches,
George
Dear George,
I hav a ? 4 U. I rly liek this gurl and I think she lieks me sum, but Im not shure. How can I find out? I want 2 ask her 2 a dance soon.
<3,
Worried
Dear LOLcat or Prince, but probably LOLcat,
I have no idea what you’re saying. If I read you right, then my advice is to go ahead and ask her out. But don’t be surprised if she dumps your ass. Oh, wait. I should respond in your native tongue:
Dear LOLcat,
WTF? Srsly? Yr ded.
Kthxbai,
George
“Case? Casey? Yo.”
Casey jumped. Elliot was in the doorway of his office, watching him with concern.
“You all right, boss?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You look a little funny.”
“Yeah, well, you always look a little funny. You don’t hear me pointing it out all the time, do you? What do you need, El?”
“Nothing. Jill’s going to make a run to the hardware store, then get some takeout for everybody. Just wondering if you wanted anything from Nora’s.”
Casey glanced at the clock at the top of the screen. Okay, now this was getting ridiculous; it was late morning, and he was still sitting there reading. He passed on lunch and, when Elliot left, fully intended to follow him out the door and do some work. But before he forced himself out of his chair, he did a little more hunting on the blog. He was still trying to figure out what had Ray’s boxers in a bunch.
Then he saw a post from yesterday, right at the top of the main page:
So okay. Everybody who reads DoL regularly knows I have been spending the summer with my sister and her family, back in my hometown in New York State. (If you don’t know the details, check the archives.) That’s why my entries have been fewer and farther between—my niece’s diapers wait for no blogger.
Anyway, it’s been . . . um . . . fun? And challenging. And definitely interesting, in a lot of different ways. I’ve been reconnecting with people I haven’t seen in a long time and dealing with memories I’ve kept buried for ages. Nothing bad or anything. Just weird.
And there’s one memory I’ve been grappling with that I’m pretty sure would be of interest to you. Hey, if not, off you go to Gawker, okay? Okay. For those of you who are sticking around, here ’tis.
I was in love once. No, not Lucifer. I mean really, truly, properly in love, without talking myself into it, like with Lucifer. But I was so young, I thought it was just a crush. Well, not at the time. At the time I knew I was in love. But then age, and maturity, and insecurity, and all those things that make you second-guess yourself (and make you doubt your feelings) took over, and I convinced myself that what I felt for this guy—let’s call him The One—was “just” a crush.
(Is this making any sense? I should probably mention it’s really late, I haven’t gotten any sleep in forever, and I’ve been out drinking tonight. But I’m fine! I swear!)
When I was young, I admired this guy, Mr. One, more than anyone else I knew. He was poised, he was confident, he was gorgeous. Plus he was giving. And kind. And thoughtful. Of course, he never noticed me. No, that’s not quite true. He saw me as a little kid. Even when I grew up, sprouted boobs, and finally left the jailbait age range, he didn’t see me any differently.
Until one day. (Don’t all great, tragic stories take a turn like this?) So what happened? Thought you’d never ask.
I graduated from high school. There were parties. He was home from college. He happened to stop by my party. (Hey, it’s a small town. People do that.) We ended up alone for a minute and . . . he kissed me. Really kissed me. Not a “congratulations” peck on the cheek, but a real, honest to goodness, knock my drawers off, mindblower of a kiss. The like of which I hadn’t experienced before and haven’t since. (Take that, Lucifer, you cold fish. I mean really, my ex was the world’s worst kisser. But I digress.)
So. Happily ever after—that’s what happens next, right? Not exactly.
There we were, alone in the dark. Nobody around. Nothing stopping him. I certainly wasn’t, that’s for sure. And what happens? Dude backs off. Freaks out. He’s horrified at his behavior, apologizes, and won’t touch me again. I even threw myself at him—made it quite clear I was his for the taking. Nothing doing. He was done with me.
Why? He said it was because I was his friend’s sister. Because I was too young. (I was eighteen, thank you very much—I knew what I wanted. Nobody was forcing anybody.) Because he was wrong for me. Because . . . all sorts of things. You can guess.
He broke my heart, crushed my dreams, trashed my self-confidence. And I cried till I thought I’d broken my tear ducts. (Can you break tear ducts? If you can, I was pretty sure I broke mine.) Didn’t matter—the end of the story is he went back to college and then moved away. I went to college—not his, a different one (I always thought Felicity Porter was a moron)—and then moved away and didn’t come back. I never told anybody what happened, and I never saw him again.
Till now.
Now we’re in the same place again for the first time in ages. We’re both way older—both adults. Now our two-year age difference is nothing. He’s different, I’m different. And yet we’re still kind of the same. How do I feel about him now? What do I think when I see him? What does my stomach do when he’s around? I’m afraid to answer those questions, but I’ll bet you can pretty much guess. Let’s just say this is messing me up, DoLlies. I thought I had it all figured out. You know me—I
did
have it all figured out. I mean, I
do
. Dammit.
Maybe I should have stopped at two beers last night.
What happens now? I have no idea. Just . . . stay tuned, kids. I’ll get back to you.
P.S.: I almost forgot to include this little tidbit. I propositioned him again tonight (
cf.
the beer thing). He turned me down. Again. Of course, this time it was because I’d had too much to drink. At least, I think that was the reason. I hope so, anyway. Because if it wasn’t, I’m gonna develop a complex.
Shiiiiit.
Casey collapsed into his chair, pushing it back as if to get as far away from the computer screen as possible. Finding out what was going on in George’s head was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.
He took a quick look at the comments. They were filled with replies from the regular readers, including a few declarations of “First to post!” (which weren’t first), comments about how George sounded very different in this entry (and not just because she had been drunk-blogging), and cries of “Dump his ass!” alternating with commands to “Jump him and get yours” and “Go for it.” Plus there were a few along the lines of “If you’re more open to the idea of a relationship now, can I have a shot at you?”
At that point Casey almost bailed out of the blog altogether, but then he read the next comment in the list. Using her real name, Jill had written, “Is this the guy you were talking about—the one with the killer moves? George, who is it? Call me. We’ll talk.” And even worse, one from Mrs. Preston: “Are you talking about Casey, dear?”
That one went off like a depth charge—Casey kept it together, barely moved a muscle, and if anyone had been with him, they’d never have noticed the massive devastation that had occurred just below the calm surface. “Good guess, Mrs. P,” he muttered under his breath. “I always knew you could have a second career as a detective. Or a psychic.”
Good grief. He was talking to himself.
Then, suddenly, Elliot was there, marching right into his office instead of hovering in the doorway the way he usually did. Casey flailed around with the mouse until he managed to make George’s blog disappear, just in case Elliot noticed it and started asking questions he didn’t want to answer.
“What?” Casey snapped, making El stop short, surprised. Casey felt himself flush, embarrassed, and was grateful Elliot didn’t stoop to making an Internet porn joke.
Instead, his employee lifted a white bag into view. “I know you said you didn’t want anything, but Nora sent you some fries anyway.” He put the bag on Casey’s desk and backed away cautiously.
Casey sighed and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, El. Thanks. Really.”
“You done working? Everybody else is breaking for lunch now.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. I’d love to eat with you guys. I’ll just be a minute.”
He smiled at his employee to reassure him and opened the paper bag. El nodded and left. When he was gone, Casey stuffed a few fries into his mouth and went back to the site. He needed to see if George had answered Jill or Mrs. P. But when the blog reloaded, the top entry was a guest post from “Rastagirl,” which George called a Tale of Woe, from three days ago:
Okay gang, this one is short but ugly. My ex could only get turned on by watching us have sex in the mirrored doors of his bedroom closet. Don’t tell me I should be turned on by this. I tried to get into it, until I realized he wasn’t watching us. He was just watching himself ...
What the . . . Where was George’s intimate confession? He clicked here and there on the blog as if he could bring it back by passing the cursor over the site like a magic wand. But no matter what he did, the missing post never reappeared.
Casey sat and stared at Down on Love for several seconds, as if that would accomplish anything. No surprise—nothing happened, even when he refreshed the page. The entry was gone.
Chapter 13
George groaned for what felt like the hundredth time since her eyes had cracked open that morning, but this time with a bit of relief. Deleted. Vaporized, vanished, disappeared. And not a second too soon. Well, several hours too late, she was sure, but at least it was gone now.
What had she been thinking? Well. She
hadn’t
been thinking, that was the problem. She’d drunk-posted on her blog in the middle of the night, announcing to the world she had been in love with Casey Bowen years ago. Okay, she’d kept it anonymous, but did it matter?
People in town had seen it.
And commented on it.
Stupid, stupid,
stupid
. She meant herself, not the commenters. She couldn’t blame them—of course they’d want to weigh in, guess who she was talking about. And—oh God—Mrs. Preston had figured it out.
How?
Well, it was Sherlock Preston. If anybody was going to figure it out, she would—and she had. Now anybody who read her blog between dark o’clock, when she’d clicked the “publish” button, and late this morning—oh God, okay, closer to noon—when she’d realized what she’d done and scrambled to delete it, now knew as well.
Shiiiiit.
Wiping it out on her blog didn’t mean it was going to be forgotten, but the alternative—leaving it there—was out of the question. All she could do was hope that, of the people who’d actually seen it (she couldn’t bring herself to look at the actual stats), the number of Marsden residents was a very small percentage. And they wouldn’t care enough to mention it to anybody else. It could happen, right?
. . . Oh God, she was screwed.
George shuffled into the kitchen, dumped the remnants of her now lukewarm bottle of water into the sink, and pulled a soda out of the fridge. Caffeine and sugar would fix what three bottles of water hadn’t, she was sure. At least, she desperately hoped so. She rooted around in the cupboards for some saltines as well. She emerged with her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk and nearly bumped into Jaz, who was still moving stiffly, but was recovering a little more of her usual grace every day.
“You unemployed or something?” Jaz asked, leaning against the sink.
“Mmph,” said the chipmunk. Once she’d managed to swallow, she said, in a cottony tone, “Your wife has got to stop stealing your kid.”
“Well, you weren’t exactly functional enough for nanny duty this morning, were you?”
“I could’ve handled it.”
“Sure you could.” Jaz chuckled as she started opening cupboards.
George jumped to help her. “How about some lunch?”
“I won’t say no.”
“Where are they?” she asked as she started gathering items for a sandwich. “It’s awfully quiet around here.”
“At the park. Sera swears Amelia loves the swings, but she just dangles there, looking bored.”
“She’s not creating any pottery, Jaz.”
Her sister-in-law sighed. “She will,” she said, with what sounded more like hope than certainty. “Just give her some time.”
“I’m supposed to be taking care of the baby.”
“It really helps that you’re just . . . here, you know? You don’t have to be doing anything specific. But I’m really loving the condition of the house lately. You can clean as long as you want, as often as you want.”
“My sister is a slob,” George sighed.
“Mm,” Jaz agreed. “I was the clean one; we balanced each other out. So I appreciate your neatness while I’m out of commission.”
“It doesn’t feel like it’s enough, though—just keeping the place up. I should do more. Well, you’re here and defenseless—I’ll take care of you instead.”
“But the new muscle relaxants are working really,
really
well.”
George smirked. “Sounds like you like them a little too much. You’d better hand them over to me. I’ll put them under lock and key and distribute them on a strict schedule.”
“Yes, Nurse Ratched. So,” she ventured, “what did you get up to last night?”
George froze, a slice of cheese dangling from her fingers, as though she’d forgotten it was supposed to go on the bread. “What do you mean?” she stammered. “Just went out for drinks. Nothing else. No big deal. Why?”
“Easy, baby. I just asked a simple question.”
“Oh.” George did her best to smile. “Yeah. Of course. It was fine.”
“Just ‘fine’? Then you’re not doing it right.”
“It was . . . nice. Fun. You know. Honestly, I kind of felt like Sera should have been there instead of me. So many of the folks who were there last night were her friends from high school, not mine.”
“She should, but she won’t.”
“Why not? Darryl was there. They were friends once. Is she staying away from everybody or something?”
“Well, that’s a special situation. But overall, it’s just . . .” Jaz thought a moment. “I guess she’s kind of sick of . . .”
“Everybody? Everything?”
Her sister-in-law grinned as she took the plate George handed her. “Kind of.”
“But they were a lot of fun.”
“I think it’s different for you. You’ve been away, you haven’t seen those guys in a long time—it’s new and different. But for Sera, who’s never left, it’s kind of SSDD.”
“Er . . .”
“Same shit, different day. For years upon years.”
“You’re lucky Sera isn’t here to hear you say that.”
“You think she’d disagree?”
“I think she’d ream you out for saying ‘shit.’”
“Oh
that
. Yeah, my darling can be a bit weird about that kid of ours. I like to get all my profanities out when she’s not around. Shit! Fuck! Ass!”
At the sound of the front door opening, George flapped her hands frantically. “Hush! She’ll kill you.”
But then the sound of footsteps was followed up by a male voice. “Hello?”
George’s breath caught. She knew that voice, and it made her excited and dismayed and terrified, all at the same time.
“In here. Casey?” Jaz called.
“Yeah.” He swung into the doorway, his toolbox dangling from his hand. “Sorry—I knocked, but I don’t think you guys heard it over all the swearing—? Anyway, I had some free time, thought I’d put up some new blinds in your living room.”
“Aw, that’s so nice of you. You didn’t have to do that,” Jaz said, while George stood frozen beside her.
“Well, George’s pie was so good, I figured I had to do more than just fix a faucet to deserve it.”
“Or you’re angling for another pie entirely.”
“Ah, you’ve figured me out. I’m hoping this turns out to be a never-ending tradeoff cycle. You know, chores for pie for chores for pie for . . . well, you get the idea. Although my official story is I couldn’t sleep knowing you had broken blinds in your house.”
Jaz laughed, then winced. “Ow. Stop.”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Is it still really bad?”
“No,” she reassured him. “It’s getting better. Honest.”
“God, I hope so. Hey, Goose.”
“Hi.” It came out as a squeak.
Jaz looked over at her curiously but didn’t comment. She just asked Casey, “Did you have lunch? We could—”
“I’ve eaten, thanks. So I’ll just get started. Hey, Goose? Could you give me a hand?”
“Oh. Uh. Actually, I’ve got to . . . that is, um . . .”
But Jaz gave her as mighty a shove as she could manage, and she stumbled after Casey, who was saying, “I wanted to talk to you. About the Web.”
Crap.
He went into the living room, expecting George to follow. George did, in a kind of dazed death march. Time to face the music, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. She started trying to come up with explanations for why she’d bared her soul online. She couldn’t start with the “but I was drunk” excuse, because that didn’t
deny
it. And flat-out refutation was her best option at this point. Maybe she could Obi-Wan Kenobi him: “Blog entry? There was no blog entry. Move along.” Yeah, she could try that. But even if she maintained eye contact and kept her blinking-as-evidence-of-lying to a minimum, he still might not buy it. He was really smart, after all. And insightful. When it came to most things, anyway.
And then she was alone with him. She tried not to stare when he bent over to put the toolbox on the floor. She almost managed it but realized she’d failed when she caught herself zoning out so much that whatever he’d just said didn’t register as English in her cranium.
She scrambled to recover. “Sorry . . . what?”
He straightened up and did that irresistible, room-filling, I’min-charge thing, putting his hands on his hips. “I said, do you think you have time to help me?”
“Help you?”
A smile twitched on his lips. He probably thought she was just brain-fogged with a hangover, not panicking about her True Confessions blog entry. Only she knew it was a little of both. Okay, a lot of both.
“With the online stuff,” he said patiently. “I never thought about it much, but I should. I had a bunch of brochures printed up, but I can only use those locally—put them in the library, at Nora’s, in the chamber of commerce’s rack of tourist information. I need to cast a wider net, I guess you’d say. But I’m not all that Internet savvy, so I thought maybe . . .”
“Oh!”
A wave of relief washed over her. He wasn’t going to ask her about the blog entry. He probably hadn’t seen it, and she’d bet nobody told him about it, either. Maybe, she thought with a surge of hope that addled her already unstable stomach, he’d never hear about it. Hah, sure. Not in Marsden. It was only a matter of time. Actually, she was surprised he hadn’t gotten a phone call from Mrs. Preston yet. It had been twelve hours already. There should be a plane circling the valley, dragging a “George and Casey / Sitting in a tree . . .” banner behind it by now, shouldn’t there? But instead there was blessed, if temporary, silence. And until word got back to him, she could be nice, act normal, help him out, and if (oh, come on—
when
) he ever found out about her drunken confession, he’d be thinking more highly of her because of it, the news would go down a lot easier, and she could push her “but I was a stupid teenager/that was in the Paleozoic era” angle. Damn, that was an excellent plan, if she did say so herself.
He gave her a calm, measured look that turned her knees to jelly. “I need your help, Goose. Now tell me you’ll do it.”
She heard herself say, faintly, “Okay.”
“Good, then.” And with the flash of a brief, satisfied smile, he was back to work, pulling out a cordless power screwdriver and taking down the mangled blinds.