Читать книгу Dater's Handbook - Cara Lockwood - Страница 9

Five

I threw myself into work on Monday, hoping to avoid thinking about what Nadia and Mom had been trying to tell me, which was that I had horrible taste in men and was single-handedly sabotaging any chance I had at happiness. The harder I tried not to think about it, the more I thought about it. I’d always figured that going for the fun guys, the no-label guys, made me fun and spontaneous. I prided myself on not being one of those plan-everything women, the ones who dated strategically only to snag a husband and obsessively clip bridal magazines (ahem, like Nadia at twenty-five). I wanted to have fun, to enjoy life, because, after all, a single car crash could change everything—like it had for my dad.

Anyway, all married people wanted to spawn more married people. I had a suspicion that married people were largely miserable and wanted everyone to be the same. Look at Michael and Nadia. The last time they’d been on a serious romantic date was… Well, nearly a year ago on their anniversary when I babysat for them. Still, the fact that both Mom and Nadia agreed I might be messing up my life gave me pause. Was I?

I wondered about this, even as I remembered Robert, the only other grown-up at Table Five. He’d said everyone wanted a happily-ever-aaaaaaah-fter. Did I? That was the million-dollar question. Did I want the happily-ever-after? It seemed like I was fighting it. Hard.

Soon, I’d have no time at all to think about this because I got a frantic email from one of my staff. An order for one of our most loyal clients, Peak Insurance, failed to arrive as scheduled. Worse, the owner of the company, George Kazminski, called to tell us he’d be stopping by the office to figure out what had happened. I’d barely gotten through the email when Phil, the new guy, a just-out-of-college hire that had started last week, burst into my office.

“George is here,” he declared, a little out of breath.

“Where?” I asked, poking my head around the doorframe.

“I…I told him to wait outside.”

I glared at Phil. “Outside the office?”

“I panicked,” he admitted. I inwardly smacked my forehead.

“Go get him and bring him in,” I admonished. If his dad hadn’t been one of my most important clients when I was just starting out, I might never have hired Phil. His dad owned one of the largest grocery chains in the area, and he’d made me the single supplier of all their grocery bags, both disposable and recyclable. That account had launched my business.

I met George outside my office with a quick handshake and an apology. “I am so very sorry about this, George,” I said, my face flaming with embarrassment as I felt my blood pressure rise. I hated disappointing clients, and George was as steady and loyal as they came. He wore one of his trademark three-piece suits. I’d never seen the man not wear a vest. Thankfully, his blue eyes showed no hint of anger.

“Don’t worry, Cassandra,” he said, shaking my hand warmly. “You and your staff have always come through for me.”

“Just give me a second to find out what happened to your order.”

Dana had put it in weeks before she’d left on her honeymoon. Or at least, I thought she had. What if all her dreaming about getting married had somehow distracted her from her job?

I scrubbed the unkind thought from my mind. Dana wouldn’t let her work responsibilities slide, wedding or no. Since I hadn’t been able to find the confirmation email in my inbox, I went to Dana’s desk and began searching for a paper receipt. George stood nearby, admiring the view out the glass wall of the offices, the majestic Rocky Mountains behind us.

Hurriedly, I pawed through Dana’s messy desk. Honestly, how could she find anything in there? I hoped I could block the cubical disaster from George. The last thing he needed was to see how things really were done around here—sometimes by the seat of our pants. I quickly searched, trying not to be distracted by the gleaming picture of her new groom, Jim Schmointz, staring out of a large 8x10 frame. I pulled open a drawer only to see two old copies of Bridal Magazine and a hard copy of The Dater’s Handbook by Dr. Susie.

What? Did Dana believe in this, too? Maybe Dr. Susie helped her find the man of her dreams. Maybe Dr. Susie could take the credit for their blissful happiness. I shelved the thought for the time being so I could focus on finding the lost invoice.

“I remember we placed the order,” I told George as I tried to make sense of Dana’s lack of a filing system. “It was a thousand umbrellas and a thousand stress balls, all with your logo.”

Just when I was about to give up, I found the file tucked beneath the latest edition of Blushing Bride magazine. I held up the folder, triumphant, and swung around in Dana’s swivel chair.

“Well, you know how stressed-out insurance adjusters get,” George said.

“And, apparently, you get wet, too,” I murmured as I pored over the receipts. Dana put through the orders, so where were the products?

“That’s funny,” George said as he watched me, though he didn’t laugh at my joke, treating me instead like a specimen under a microscope. “No, the umbrellas symbolize the coverage…”

“I don’t know why the order didn’t arrive at your office yet,” I said, still studying the invoice in problem-solving mode. “It said it shipped. How about this? I’ll double-check with the manufacturer, and I promise I will make this up to you.”

“I know you will, Cassandra. You’ve always done a great job, and I have complete confidence in your company.” He tucked his hands into his pockets and smiled at me, an earnest smile, almost too earnest. George always seemed so very serious, but then again, what else would someone expect from the president and owner of an insurance company?

“Thank you very much,” I said, suddenly grateful that he was being so understanding. “That really means a lot to me.”

George’s gaze lingered a bit longer on mine, but then he nodded as he headed out.

“I’ll take care of this,” I called after him. He turned and looked at me over his shoulder, as if he knew I would. I exhaled a sigh of relief as I watched George head out the door.

I glanced down at Dana’s open office drawer, Dr. Susie’s book, The Dater’s Handbook, staring up at me. Curiosity won and I picked up the hardcover, randomly flipping it open.

“When you are together, you should be the only person he is focused on,” I read aloud to Dana’s empty cubicle. “You’ve agreed to spend your valuable time with him. You deserve his full attention. No distractions.”

Huh.

I shut the book, hard. That seemed like obvious advice, didn’t it? I mean, wouldn’t everybody agree that you don’t get together to ignore one another?

Just then, I got a text from Peter.

Wanna get together tonight?

Well, then. Why not test out the first bit of advice from Dr. Susie on Peter? He’d pass with flying colors, and then I could tell Nadia and Mom they were wrong. I wasn’t single-handedly sabotaging my love life.

Peter asked me to meet him at the batting cages, which I figured meant he didn’t want to wait around at his place for me to get off work. Despite not having played for the Rockies in two years, he still loved baseball. A knee injury had sidelined him from the game permanently, but not from practice, and he enjoyed swinging the bat most afternoons. When I arrived, I expected him to stop batting and maybe go change for dinner. I figured the “getting together” part included dinner.

I’d figured wrong.

Peter kept hitting ball after ball, in no hurry to change out of his sweats, Rockies shirt, and batting helmet. He cracked another ball into the netting.

“When you said we’d have plans tonight,” I began as tactfully as I could as I sat on a bench behind the protective net, legs crossed and wearing a brand-new pair of heels, “I don’t know…I thought we’d be doing something together.”

“We are together,” Peter said, keeping his eye on the automatic pitching machine. “We’re at the batting cages.”

He hit another ball with a crack that sounded as loud as a gunshot and made me flinch.

“Booyah! Did you see that?” He turned to me, excited, a boyish grin on his face.

“Uh…yeah, I did see that.” I cleared my throat and glanced down at my new sleek pumps. Had they been a wasted purchase? “I don’t know if this batting cage thing is really my idea of being together.”

“Why? We are…” But he focused on the ball that had just been spit out from the machine. He swung his bat and connected, hard. I realized he’d barely even looked in my direction since I’d sat down, and his focus was entirely on the incoming baseballs. “We’re totally together.”

“Okay, if by ‘together’ you mean I’m on this side of the fence and you’re on that side…” And, by the way, not paying me any attention. At all.

Peter turned, frowning slightly and appearing a bit annoyed. “Okay, well, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I thought maybe we could go somewhere, face each other. Talk. Maybe have dinner?”

He’d already turned away from me and was getting ready to connect with another ball. He smacked it and shook his head. “Wow,” he murmured, clearly enamored with the bat. “Why can’t I connect like this all the time?”

I realized he’d only been half listening to me—the farthest thing from forming a meaningful connection.

“Peter! I need you to focus.”

But Peter kept his attention on the ball machine. “You need…” He hit another ball. “What?”

He readied for the next pitch.

“Peter!” I shouted, growing annoyed. He turned then, missed the pitch, and let out a groan. He glanced at me.

“What is going on?” he asked, frowning slightly.

How many times had I sat right here in these very batting cages? How many times had I waited for Peter to…engage…to do something? To really see me. To really listen to what I was saying. More times than I could remember.

“I’m on this side and you’re on that side and we’re not together, and I don’t just mean tonight.” My words spurted out in a rush. “We’re at the restaurant and I’m with Nadia and Michael, and we go to a party and it’s like you forget that I’m even there, or I go to a wedding of one of my closest friends, and you don’t even come with me, you know? What’s going on?”

And I meant that in a bigger sense—not just about our lack of real dates, but what’s going on with…us. What was this? A relationship? I was dangerously close to asking him to put a label on it because without a label, I realized I had no idea why I should be with Peter.

“I don’t know, Cass.” Peter shook his head. My questions made him think, and he didn’t like to think. Didn’t I know that? He liked things simple and uncomplicated. He liked not to label anything for this reason. He didn’t have to think about it and he didn’t have to feel. “I’m not really sure what you want me to say.”

I want you to tell me you love me, that I’m your girlfriend, that we could be something more… I want you to tell me that you’re in this with me, this relationship…this life!

It hit me like a fastball then. I’d never hear those words from Peter. He wasn’t into anything but himself. He didn’t want a real partnership—or frankly, a real anything—except finding a new sauce for chicken wings.

I sighed then, because I knew it was over. I’d been avoiding this conversation for two years because in my heart of hearts, I’d always suspected that we weren’t good together.

“Nothing,” I told Peter, tears springing to my eyes as I realized this—whatever it was—had just died. Nothing could bring it back to life. “I don’t want you to say anything.”

Peter turned his back on me, not much caring I was upset. But then again, when did he ever care about my feelings? I sniffed, fighting back a tear and stood, grabbing my bag. I heard the crack of his bat as he exclaimed, “See ya! That one had a flight attendant on it. Did you see that?”

But I’d already made it to the door, and I didn’t look back. We were done.