So I do the only thing I can: I paste on a smile and pretend like I have everything under control.
Where is Jeff?
My boyfriend said he was coming but hasn’t shown up yet. His flight should’ve landed hours ago. I should’ve asked him to make the trip with me, but some work deadline prevented that.
Except I’m not sure if I really believe his excuse about the deadline. He’s been working late a lot, and I’ve seen him with a woman…or it could have been a lot of women. I can always tell it’s him, no matter what he wears or how he styles his hair. He has a unique laugh, a breathless burst of sound that gets interrupted by his breath hitching every few seconds.
Tasha says it’s more like a bray than a laugh, but I sort of like that it’s unusual, especially because it makes it easier for me to spot him.
The problem is that I can’t always trust what I see with my own eyes. The women could’ve been somebody from work he introduced me to at an office party. They could be merely wearing a professionally friendly expression rather than an “I want to lick you all over like candy” expression.
Since I didn’t know for sure, I couldn’t confront him about them or demand that he explain what was going on. It would be awkward if I accused him of cheating when he hadn’t done anything wrong.
Tasha said to trust my instincts. Nice, supportive advice from my best friend, but it isn’t easy. My instincts don’t really work with people.
I wish she could be here with me, but that didn’t work out. She’s launching her brand-new all-organic and vegan cosmetics this weekend, and can’t get away, no matter how much she wants to. Just bad timing.
“This is truly an amazing show. And for such a beautiful talent.” Flattery flows into my ears like oil down a dipstick. A large, soft hand reaches over and wraps around my arm.
I shudder. Isaac Grubman, easily identifiable by the red ascot tie he’s wearing. He’s a trust fund art collector, and has been sticking close by since the show started. Another reason I wish Jeff were here.
Isaac leans over, his breath fanning my ear. Goosebumps rise at the lack of personal space, so I pull away. “Thank you.” I don’t want to create a scene here, but I’ll find a way to deal with him later.
“Come now. Don’t be cold when a man is complimenting you.” He reaches over and runs a hand down my back. “That isn’t how a good girl like you should be.”
“I said thank you.” Would it be bad if I accidentally puked on him? Everything about him—from his cologne to closeness—is making me nauseated.
“Yes, but you should say it with more sincerity.”
I take two steps back, putting some distance between us. “I couldn’t be more sincere.”
“But—”
“Hi, Bean!”
Max! I turn toward the happy, booming voice of my older brother. I would’ve never realized it was him, though. He’s in a suit, and I can’t remember a time I’ve seen him this dressed up.
I beam, thrilled to see him and also happy to have an excuse to tell Isaac to get lost. “That’s my
brother. Would you like to say hello?”
“You know, I just saw someone I’ve been dying to talk to,” Isaac says. “Later, perhaps.” He moves off.
Guess he doesn’t have the guts to put his hands on me in front of my brother. But then, Max can be imposing—all that height and breadth. I also hear that he has the meanest scowl ever. And it probably doesn’t help that he doesn’t talk much.
His band Axelrod just wrapped up their final concert in New York yesterday. I didn’t think he’d be able to come, even though I sent him a note about the reception.
He gives me a tight hug. “So proud of you,” he says.
“Thank you.” I tighten my arms around him, grateful for his support, since I know how busy he is. And four whole words. Nothing from him could show his love and support more clearly.
Max is the strong, silent type. His preferred style of communication is grunting or snorting, depending on his mood. He only makes the effort to speak when something’s really important or when he’s with me. He knows I struggle with deciphering his grunts, and I’m terrible at reading facial expressions. Prosopagnosia, otherwise known as face blindness, is a bitch to live with at times. My brain can register eye color and distinguish various shapes, but when it comes to putting everything together to recognize who’s who, I…just can’t. It’s nearly impossible for me to link names to faces, and to discern the changes in people’s faces that signal their feelings. It’s better not to even try, rather than mess up and offend somebody.
Max finally pulls back.
“That looks great on you,” I say, eyeing the silver guitar pinned to his lapel. I bought it for him last Christmas. He can make a guitar sound so wonderful, it makes your soul weep. “Wonder who got that for you. Obviously someone with excellent taste.”
He laughs. “Sorry I don’t wear it much, Bean. It’s a little…dressy.”