Only, she just doesn’t get it. Becca’s going to scrutinize whatever I wear. You don’t just show up anywhere, even home, looking less than “put together.” And, she’ll size me up. Inspecting how much weight I’ve gained or lost. Whether my curves are too curvy...or not curvaceous enough. Judging if I’ve been working out too much or too little.
I’m exhausted just thinking about the first five minutes with her…never mind the whole evening.
With a resigned sigh, I slip out of my clothes and into Vee’s form-fitting dress, deciding I can wear my Dolce & Gabbana cardigan over it. So Becca has less unconcealed areas to evaluate me.
And oh, I think, getting my head through the tight neck, I completely forgot to text Ryder.
I quickly type out a message to him, explaining that I have a party to attend with my parents. It’s the lamest excuse in the history of excuses, but it’s also the truth. So there’s that.
He replies right away: You could’ve just said you can’t make it. The book wasn’t necessary, although I appreciate the thought you put into your standing me up excuse.
I shake my head. You’d think a guy being stood up—if that was the case—would be a bit less cocky. Not Ryder. His conceit in the face of rejection is astounding. And absolutely infuriating. I can almost envision the night we would’ve had, the attention centered on him, my embarrassment at his witty remarks. I’m almost relieved I have to cancel. Almost.
Me: It’s the truth. I simply forgot
Ryder: Subconsciously? Should I be hopeful?
I laugh. Me: Absolutely. Believe it or not, I’d rather go to your conspicuously anonymous event with you. As soon as I hit send, I realize it’s true. There are worse things than spending a night affecting a fake smile and listening to boring people talk money, but not many. At least with Ryder, there’s no expectation—only the anxiety-inducing hours of being near him. Unlike my father, who insists I flatter and stroke the egos of all the “right” men.
I cringe, and look at my screen when my phone beeps.
Ryder: I’ll blow off my thing if you blow off yours…
A full-on laugh flies from my mouth, unguarded.
Ryder: Please do NOT take that the wrong way. I swear, was meant totally innocent
He has to do this on purpose. No one stumbles over this many innuendoes all of the time. But even if I’m willing to trust that, and maybe even him…a little…I can’t back out of my father’s banquet.
Me: I feel you say these things on purpose to get a rise out of me. But no, sorry. Not doable. Rain check?
My breath stilled in my chest, I wait for his next message. Not sure why, other than possible hope his next words will alleviate some of the stress gathering inside me.
Ryder: You do realize I will now be even more persistent. You said yes once…
The air in the room ceases to stir, as if time halts, my gaze hard on the phone in my hand. A tingling sensation prickles my stomach, the air in my lungs finally escaping with a long, careful exhale. Who talks like this? Who makes you feel this significant with just words?
Right. Shaking off the unsettling chill, I remind myself he’s the school “it” guy. He’s well versed at saying the right things to set my heart aflutter. But still, that doesn’t quite fit the stereotypical jock. Stephan tried hard at playing the romantic angle, but it always felt forced. He wasn’t the least bit suave or smooth. And Ryder’s attempts don’t feel practiced.
Me: Laters
Ryder: Xx
Hmm.
Placing my phone on my bed, I only consider his last text long enough to roll my eyes at myself, then I find my cardigan, my anxiety quickly catching up with where it should be at this point. I’m now only minutes away from being in Becca’s presence.
I’m out the door when I receive the text from her that she’s waiting out front in the town car.
* * *
“I wish you’d have been honest with me, Ari.” Becca swirls the drink in her hand, her French manicured nails polished to a high gloss and glinting more than the crystal. A classic French twist leaves her shoulders bare, so that her long layers aren’t in competition for attention over the black Armani dress.
Simple. Elegant. What I was supposed to aspire to tonight.
Setting my sparkling water on the table, I say, “I didn’t realize—” I stop. Compose. Then, “I was a size two just a month ago,” I whisper, refraining from tugging on the pins Becca stuck in my dress to keep it from slipping. “Maybe it’s stress from school. Life changes, and all that.” I force my shoulders stiff, stopping myself from shrugging. I’m already getting reprimanded on my weight, I don’t want her to start in on my shrugging and how it’s a weak gesture.
Becca takes a sip of her red wine. Her eyes dart around the room above the rim. She’s dismissing the conversation—or rather, interrogation—completely. I failed her, so there’s no reason to hear my input on the matte