Authors: Robin Palmer
Little Miss Red (17 page)
He seemed to relax a little. “That’s good, Red. That’s good.”
“My mom always tells us that expectations are
resentments just waiting to happen,” I announced. I went to tickle his arm again.
He pulled it away. I understood. When I wasn’t feeling well I didn’t like anyone touching me either. “Your mom sounds really smart,” he said.
“Yeah, she kind of is,” I agreed. “It’s the shrink thing.” The only dumb thing she had said was that love at first sight didn’t exist and that you had to know someone for at least three months before you really knew who they were.
I settled back in my chair and pulled my Chunnels back down.
Who knew life could be so good?
And who knew it could get so bad so quickly?
The next afternoon, after Jack and I worked on darkening our tans (or, in my case, worked on turning my SPF 55–protected skin from white to pink), we hung out in Grandma Roz’s living room watching
Mystery Falls
, her favorite soap opera that she TiVo’d every day, while she and Art “rested their eyes” over at Art’s place.
“The acting is pretty good on this show,” Jack announced as he chomped away on the TV tray full of snacks that Grandma Roz had prepared for him. I couldn’t believe how, after a lifetime of rationing out potato chips, she was now throwing around bags of cookies and microwave popcorn like they were free samples that had just arrived in the mail.
“And who’s that guy again?” I asked, shifting on the plastic-covered couch to unstick my legs.
“That’s Reynaldo,” Jack replied, as the guy began to play tonsil hockey with a blonde dressed in a sexy nightgown even though it was the middle of the day. “Your grandma told me that before he was Reynaldo, he was Diego, Savannah’s ex-husband. He was in a bad car accident and had to have major facial reconstructive surgery, so now Savannah doesn’t recognize him anymore. She thinks he’s the cable guy.”
Over the last few days, Jack had gotten hooked on soap operas faster than I had gotten addicted to Lulu’s books.
“The same thing happened to Devon in
Titillated by Trouble
, but she thought he was one of those guys collecting donations to end global warming.”
“Huh. Your iPhone’s buzzing,” Jack said.
“It is?” Over the last few days with Jack, I had stopped being so attached to it. I didn’t check it every five seconds for texts. I did still e-mail Jordan and Ali at the end of the day to give them updates, but otherwise I just left it in my bag.
“Aren’t you going to see who it’s from?”
“No. It can wait,” I said.
He pointed to the TV. “But the buzz is making it hard for me to concentrate on the show.”
“Oh. Sorry,” I said, picking it up.
I clicked on my new e-mail message, and my face paled.
Dear Sophie,
It turns out that there’s not a lot to do when you’re stuck at home waiting for your scabs to fall off other than think and stuff, which is what I’ve been doing over the last few days.
I know I pushed the stop button on our relationship, but after a lot more thought, I’d like to push the play button again. Maybe I haven’t been the greatest boyfriend in the world, but you can’t deny that I’ve been pretty great in that I take you out to eat a lot, and to movies and concerts and stuff like that. (I know that you would argue that I get the concert tickets for free cuz of my dad, but I still have to go through the effort of e-mailing his assistant to get them, which can be time-consuming.) Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I know that you’re really into all that romantic stuff like flowers and love e-mails and iTunes mix playlists—stuff that I personally consider a waste of money and time, but whatever, it’s a free country and everyone’s entitled to their own opinion. And what I was thinking was that instead of making fun of it all the time, maybe I could try and do more of that, especially if it makes you happy.
The truth of the matter is this: I miss you, Sophie. A lot. It might be because of the antibiotics I’m on, but I don’t think so. And to show you how serious
I am about the fact that I really do care about you, I’m going to come to Florida and ask you in person to be my girlfriend again. In all honesty it’s not like that part was my idea. But I’m not contagious anymore and my mom says that I’m now at the point where I’m really annoying her because I’ve been cooped up inside the house too long, so she went ahead and convinced the airline to let me use my ticket at no extra cost so she can have some peace and quiet for the next few days. I figured if I’m going to be there, then asking you in person would be a nice touch.
I get in tonight, so if it’s not too late by the time I get to my grandmother’s condo, maybe we can hang out and watch TV. But knowing how slow my grandmother drives, it might be.
I guess that’s it.
Love,
Michael
I couldn’t believe it. “Red?” It sounded like Jack was talking underwater. “Red? You okay?”
I just kept staring at the e-mail—mostly at the “Love, Michael” part. The entire time we dated, I could count the number of e-mails I had received from Michael on one hand. Usually, they were always texts, and they were always signed, “Peace, M.” But this—this was
like…a novel. And it was signed, “Love”!
“You look all clammy and stuff,” Jack said, reaching for a handful of Doritos. “Here,” he said, trying to shove them into my mouth. “Maybe you need some protein.”
What was I going to do? I had one guy who had just sent me the longest e-mail he had ever written in his entire life about how in love with me he was (okay, maybe it didn’t say it in the actual
e-mail
), and I was sitting next to another guy who—although the
L
word hadn’t come up yet there either—basically had made his feelings clear the night he told me I was like a hearty stew.
This was
official
drama. But it didn’t feel anything like I thought it would. In books or movies, there’s only a certain amount of drama at a time. But this was my life, and I couldn’t control how much was rushing at me, like the spigot that controlled it was broken. I pushed his hand away. “No, it’s okay. But thanks, that’s very sweet.”
“What’s the matter then?” he asked.
“Uh, nothing,” I replied, trying as nonchalantly as possible to close out the e-mail. “I just…got an e-mail from…my friend Jordan,” I said. Or rather,
lied
.
“Oh,” he said. Not only was I a woman torn between two lovers; I was a
liar
torn between two lovers. Not exactly something to put on the “special talents” part of my college applications.
“The guy she’s seeing…he just told her that…he really misses her,” I went on nervously, lying some more. Funny how it just got easier and easier with each lie. “Well,
he said he misses her, but that was just code for ‘I’m madly in love with you and have been for the last three years and can’t live without you now that you’re gone.’” I had no idea where that came from.
Jack had already gone back to watching Reynaldo and Savannah go at it on top of the dining room table, so he didn’t answer.
“I’ll be right back,” I announced, peeling myself off the plastic couch. Again, he didn’t notice. That was one of the things I really loved about Jack: his ability to stay so
focused
on things.
As nonchalantly as I could, I walked—then ran—to the bathroom and locked the door.
Omigod, omigod, omigod
, I chanted mentally, scrolling down my phonebook until I hit Jordan’s number. When it immediately went to voice mail, I tried her landline.
It was ringing. I tried to take deep breaths, but they were coming out more like combination gulp/hiccups. Was my throat closing up? Could stress send you into anaphylactic shock? Why wasn’t she answering the phone? I hadn’t factored in the idea that Michael would actually fight for me. Sure, maybe I did in the movies I played on the screen of my mind as I fell asleep at night, but not, you know, in
real life
.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Lulu? This is Sophie,” I said, rubbing at my suddenly itchy eyes. Wait a minute—was I having an allergic reaction to the drama?
“Sophie! Lovebug, how
are
you?!” she squealed. “I so enjoyed our chat a few weeks ago. I find it very helpful to spend quality time with my fans—”
I didn’t have time for small talk. “Yeah, well, is Jordan around?”
“No, honey. She’s out with that vegan boy. You don’t know how relieved I am. I was starting to think she might be a lesbian,” she confided. “Wait a minute—maybe Devon should fall for a
woman
in the next book—”
“Okay, well, if you could just tell her I called,” I said quickly, about to hang up.
“Wait, wait—she told me you met a boy on the plane. Tell me
everything
!” she begged.
I was still feeling betrayed about the fact that she was a hypocrite and didn’t believe in romance, but I was so desperate that I was at the point where I was ready to ask my grandmother for advice. Plus, even if Lulu didn’t believe in true love, she did
write
about it for a living and made enough money off it so that she could shop at Neiman Marcus all she wanted. That had to count for something.
“Look at that—you’re being
fought
over!” she exclaimed after I told her the story. “It’s like when the Afghani soldier turned performance artist and the hedge fund manager from Connecticut came to blows over Devon at that Manhattan nightclub in my book
Flummoxed by Frisson
.”
“I know, but what am I supposed to do?!” I cried. “I’ve never had this happen to me before.”
I heard her light a cigarette. “Oh, honey, that’s
easy
. Just call your psychic. That’s what I always do when I’m having trouble deciding between two men. If you don’t have one, I’ll give you the number for mine.” She exhaled. “Her name is Lasha and she’s
phe-nom-e-nal
. Except don’t let her talk you into paying extra to remove any spells. That part’s just made up.”
“But…what about searching my heart? Isn’t that what Devon always does when it comes to this stuff?” I asked. I examined my arm. Were those
hives
?
Lulu snorted. “Oh, sweetie. You’re such a romantic. I just
love
that. It’s so
darling
. I guess you could spend the time doing that, but it sounds like time’s of the essence with this one, so you probably want to choose a method that’s a little more scientifically proven, don’t you agree?”
Since when had psychics become scientifically proven?
“Why do you think my books are so successful?” Lulu continued. “It’s in my contract that my publisher has to consult with Lasha first before deciding on a final publication date, so that the book isn’t released when Mercury’s in retrograde or during a full moon lunar eclipse or anything like that.”
That was it. I decided that Lulu was officially nuts. “Um, thanks for the advice, but I think my grandmother’s calling me,” I said.
“Okay. Well, I hope I was helpful.”
“Oh, totally,” I said. Maybe not with advice about guys,
but definitely in making it clear that she was completely insane. “If you could tell Jordan I called, that would be great.”
“Will do, honey. Have fun. Ta-ta now.”
After I hung up, I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were red and swollen. My arm was covered in hives. I was a woman torn between two men. I was being fought over. I was barely recognizable to myself.
My iPhone buzzed.
Dear Sophie,
So have you decided what you want to do yet? Knowing how addicted you are to your iPhone, I’m sure you already read my other e-mail, and frankly, I’m kind of surprised you haven’t written back yet. I’d really like to hear back from you as soon as possible, because if you’re not interested in getting back together, I’m going to text Warren Bernstein and see if he wants to hang out because he’s down there visiting his grandmother too.
Love,
Michael
Oh. My. God. Two “loves” in fifteen minutes? And no “Yo, what up’s”? He really
had
changed!
I knew I owed him an answer, but I was completely blanking on what to say.
I heard the front door open. “Kids, we’re back!” Grandma Roz boomed.
“If it isn’t my favorite senior citizen,” I heard Jack drawl.
“Oh, Jack,” she giggled. “Are you hungry,
bubelah
?”
“Is a frog green?” I heard Jack drawl, setting her off into another round of giggles.
How could I give up a guy who was able to make an old woman giggle like that? The guilt I felt about even
considering
taking Michael back brought on another round of itching.
I splashed some cold water on my face and patted it dry on one of the two-doves-kissing hand towels. When I walked out, I found Grandma Roz fixing Jack an onion bagel with lox and whitefish. “I was just telling Jack that Art suggested we split up so us girls can go to the beauty parlor while they do something manly like go to the track,” she said. “How does that sound, Sophie?”
“
I
think it sounds great,” said Jack. “Because I’ve been hanging around here like white on rice this whole week, you two haven’t really had any alone time to bond.”
“That’s okay,” I said, maybe a little too quickly.
“No, really—you came all the way down here to see your grandma, and I’ve been taking up all your time,” he said in between bites of his bagel. After he was done, he shook his head and patted his stomach. “Roz, I swear, you’re the best cook this side of the Mississippi. Between
your brisket and the way you put just the exact amount of cream cheese on the bagel?” He shook his head. “That English dude on the food channel has nothing on you!”
“Oh, go on,” she said, swatting him on the arm and turning red like she always did when he complimented her.
He stood up and brought his plate to the sink. “A day at the beauty parlor sounds like it’d be perfect for you two. Not that either of you need any help in that department.”
Grandma Roz patted her head. There was so much hair spray in her hair, it didn’t even move. “I
am
due for a wash and set,” she said. She turned to me. “What do you say, Sophie? Do you want to come to Arturo’s Chateau of Beauty with me? You could get a manicure while I get my hair done.”