Not My Type (24 page)

It was a stark contrast to the headlong rush I found myself in with Tanner. Denny hadn’t overstated the amount of time I was spending talking to Tanner . . . or hanging out with Tanner . . . or thinking about Tanner.

“Pepper? Saturday?”

I stared down at my fettuccine, not wanting to give my answer and mess up dinner.

He sighed. “You have a date.”

“Yes,” I said, hating that my voice already sounded defensive, but I sensed an argument developing. “But maybe I can fit in Park City. I’ll check my phone.”

Annoyance crossed Tanner’s face. “I don’t really want to be squeezed in around another date.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’d much rather go out with you.”

“Then cancel the other date.”

A reasonable request—if my job weren’t on the line. “I can’t. It’s complicated,” I said. “But I want to do the Park City thing. Let me check my phone. It may work.”

He grumbled a less-than-encouraging, “Fine.”

I dug through my handbag until I realized I’d left my cell on the car charger.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “You finish your dinner.”

I handed him my keys and dug back into my chicken alfredo. A yell from Tyler startled me, but he seemed happy about something in the game, so I ignored him and went back to my food. It was half gone when Tanner walked in a few minutes later and dropped my keys next to me. He took his seat again and pulled out his phone, holding it next to mine. He messed with his for half a minute before handing mine to me.

“Can you call my phone?” he asked.

“Uh, why?”

“I needed to reprogram mine. I had your name spelled wrong. Can you just call it?”

“You’re acting weird,” I said, but I pressed his speed-dial number. He was six, up from number nine two weeks before. Part of me wanted to put him in the one spot, but that felt so . . . serious.

After a short pause, his phone rang and a song I didn’t recognize played instead of his usual ring tone. “What song is that?” I asked. “It sounds like the Beastie Boys.”

“It is,” he said. “It’s called ‘She’s Crafty.’” He turned his phone around, and the caller ID, lit up brighter than Edwards Stadium on the Fourth of July, screamed “Indie Girl.”

I dropped my phone. He let “She’s Crafty” play a few seconds longer before he hit Ignore. “Anything you want to tell me?” he asked.

“I’m Indie Girl,” I mumbled.

The sound on the TV suddenly died. Tyler’s head popped up over the sofa. “
You’re
Indie Girl? No way!” he said and laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d heard in days. “I can’t believe I know Indie Girl!” He whipped out his cell phone. “I have to tell my sister. She’ll flip.”

I hopped up and ran over to snatch his phone away, dancing out of reach when he lunged to get it back. “You can’t tell anyone, Tyler. It’s a secret identity for a reason!”

He eyed his phone, which I dangled out of reach then groaned. “Dude, I totally feel for Jimmy Olson now. It’s lame knowing someone’s alter ego if you can’t tell anyone.”

I handed his phone back. “I don’t even get superpowers,” I said. “It makes for a boring story. Seriously, don’t tell. Promise me.”

He sighed. “I promise.” He shoved his phone back in his pocket and unmuted the TV.

I reclaimed my stool next to Tanner and picked at a noodle on my plate.

“Um, so . . . surprise,” I said, unsure of what he thought. He didn’t look angry. More like frustrated. “I meant to bake you a cake when I announced it, and maybe have Rosemary pop out of it with a sign saying, ‘Don’t dump Pepper!’ or something.”

“I read that column every week. Why is it suddenly so obvious to me now?” he said.

I couldn’t read anything from his tone. Stupid reporter impassivity.

“Because you saw the climbing gear in my backseat?” I joked. I knew that’s how he’d made the connection. He didn’t laugh. I sighed and tried again. “I started writing those columns because I was the only sucker Ellie could convince to do it, but I forced her to make me full time when the column took off. I have to do it, or I lose the chance to do other stuff. You know, like exciting fluff bits about chefs named Tom.”

He didn’t say anything. He took another bite of his food. He wasn’t freaking out, but he wasn’t looking at me either.

“Tanner? Your thoughts?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say here, Pepper. In hindsight, you warned me. Good job.” He pushed his plate away and turned to face me completely. “For every single argument I want to make, I can hear the counterargument in my head, and it seems pointless to bring it up.” I noticed the volume drop even more on the game and suspected if I could see through the sofa, I would catch Tyler straining to eavesdrop.

“I understand. I think. But my dad says the first place you have to start is by talking. So maybe I’ll be surprised by what you say, or maybe I’ll react exactly like you expect, but I’d really appreciate knowing what you’re thinking. Only maybe on a walk.” I jerked my head toward the sofa.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

We dropped our dishes in the sink and then headed outside to the manicured path that wound through his apartment complex. He kept his hands shoved in his pockets, and I wondered if it was because he didn’t want to hold mine.

We passed two more buildings before he spoke. “I don’t have any claim on you. I get it. I don’t have the right to tell you that you can’t date anyone else. But I’m not okay with it. So I don’t know what to say, and I’ve already thought myself into sixteen different circles over this in ten minutes flat. That’s where I’m at.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

“Would it help if I said I don’t like any of these guys?” I asked.

“I would have guessed that from the column,” he said. He picked up one of the smooth landscaping pebbles lining the path and chucked it through the rails of the nearby fence. “I still can’t believe I didn’t put this all together faster. I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. You’re the smartest guy I know.”

“It’s not like there were a ton of choices,” he continued, unappeased. “I assumed it was Ellie, but those columns are way more your voice.” He dropped onto a bench that lined the path. I sat next to him, silent, trying to let him work it through and not rush in, trying to be the good listener my dad had taught me to be. I heard crickets and concentrated on the smell of the freshly cut grass that lingered in the mild June air. I tried not to fidget, but it was hard not to when all I wanted to do was yell, “I hate the stupid column! I’ll give it up!”

But I needed it, and there wasn’t any getting around that yet. How would I feel if Tanner asked me to drop it? It would be a huge step in our relationship if I did that for him. But it might be a step backward because, once again, I would be torpedoing my own career for the sake of a relationship. I wasn’t willing to lose myself in Tanner like I had in Landon. If I lost myself, I had finally figured out, then I had none of me to offer anyway.

“The column is good,” he said. “Really good. That should have been my second clue.”

“Thanks,” I said, but I really wanted to scream,
“Quit talking about the writing! What does this mean for us?”

“Do you like writing it?” he asked.

“I hate it. I hate the dates. I hate writing about the guys. I spend the whole date trying to think of how I can make myself look like an idiot so I don’t have to make fun of them. It’s exhausting.”

I could see in his face that he still felt conflicted.

“Just tell me how you’re feeling,” I said. “Don’t worry about logic and fairness. Just say it.”

He gave a short, pained laugh. “You’re asking me to do something you never do.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, stung.

“I mean, we spend all this time together. Do you know that I spend every spare minute I have with you? All of my single friends have been teasing me for weeks, wondering when they’re going to meet you and if the announcements are in the mail. They think I’ve dropped off the end of the earth.”

“You should Facebook more,” I joked. It fell flat. Again.

“My point is, I’ve made you my priority over everything for every single second I’m not at work. That should say something. And even if my actions didn’t speak loudly enough, I’ve said things here and there over the last week so my renegotiation next week wouldn’t come as a shock. And you’ve shut me down every time. I have to guess how you feel about me and hope I’m right.”

“Renegotiation?” I asked. “What does that mean?” I’d caught all his hints, but I usually ignored them or changed the subject. Two days before, he had invited me on a camping trip to Lake Powell in August with a big group of people, but I told him I couldn’t predict my workload and that I would have to wait and see. The truth was that it thrilled me that he was thinking two months ahead, but it scared me too. At Ginger’s graduation the previous week, she had introduced Tanner to her friends as my boyfriend, and neither of us had corrected her.

“
Renegotiation
means that I don’t need another month or even another week to know what I want out of this relationship. And just when I’m about to bring up exclusivity, I find out that dating other guys is part of your job.”

“It sounds awful when you put it that way,” I said. I tried not to focus on the “exclusivity” thing.

“I don’t mean it like that, but . . . it’s not great.” He sighed and jammed his fingers through his hair again. It was hopelessly mussed now. “Here’s another thing I can’t wrap my head around. Even before we started dating, was it fair to these guys for you to date them just for the column?”

It was the same question I’d been asked a dozen times by my family. My usual defense of picking guys who weren’t looking for anything serious sounded weak now. Serious just happens sometimes, like it had with Tanner.

Yeah, I was admitting it. At least to myself. But since I couldn’t quit the Indie Girl column, what did it say about me that I recognized my feelings for Tanner and knew I’d still be going on dates once a week with other guys for the foreseeable future anyway?

Not much, that’s what.

When I didn’t answer, Tanner sighed again. “You want to know how I feel? Completely frustrated. I figured you might go for being exclusive because it seemed like things were going so well between us. I hoped the dates were symbolic of your independence or something, and you wouldn’t care about giving them up if you felt the same way I do.” He kicked at a spot in the grass with the toe of his shoe. “Knowing it’s for your job makes it worse, not better, because it means there’s no end in sight.”

“You’re right,” I said, my voice low as a couple walked by, their beagle straining on his leash in front of them. “I don’t know how long it’s going to be before Ellie lets me off the hook. The fact that the column brings in so much advertising is the only reason I got her to hire me full time. If I don’t write the column, she has no reason to keep me on. And I
hate
making sandwiches.”

“Do you hate making them more than you like me?” he asked, still studying the ground.

I stared at him, disappointed. I expected Tanner to be less than happy about the situation. That was fair. But did he understand that he was indirectly asking me if I would give up my job for him? It would be a lot to ask any guy to put up with me dating other people while in a relationship with him. But Tanner was never supposed to be a relationship. I’d been clear about that, and it had happened anyway, against my better sense and judgment. And when it became inevitable that I would have to tell him about Indie Girl, I guess I hoped that some magic solution would fall from the sky, like my feature articles would blow up so huge that Ellie would let me quit “Single in the City,” and it would all be a moot point anyway.

“I don’t know how I feel about you,” I said. “This is all new. I’m still figuring this out.”

He didn’t say anything, instead focusing on the grass with the intensity he usually reserved for working out a story angle.

I slumped down on the bench and rested my head against the back of it, staring up at the cloudless sky. Dusk was still at least an hour away. “I know I want to move forward with my life and not backward. I know that I like this thing between us, but I don’t know what it is or what I want it to be. Do you?” I heard the frustration in my voice, but I didn’t try to mitigate it.

“Yes,” he said. “I do.”

I sat up and stared at him until he looked back at me. “You do.” I phrased it as a statement—testing out how it sounded—and not as a question. I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer yet.

“I want us to keep building a relationship, Pepper. I want to be with you all the time, and I think about you all the time when I’m not with you. I want to be enough for you.”

“And you want me to quit going out on the Indie Girl dates. I do too. But I can’t, or I’ll lose my job.”

That was just a plain fact. Ellie had made it the major sticking point in hiring me full time.

“A few minutes ago I might have asked if it was worth it to you. But it’s obviously not. I hate the way that feels,” he said. “And I can see by your face that you’re upset I even brought it up, which is why I didn’t want to do it.” He shoved a hand through his hair again and then left it there, dropping his elbow to his knee and resuming his study of the grass framed by his feet.

“I have a question, then.” My voice was soft because I knew I was about to ask a hard thing. “What if you accept my job for what it is, and us for what we are right now, and leave it at that for a while? I’m not asking you to be okay with it but maybe to let it ride. Why can’t we just do that?”

He straightened and when he locked eyes with me, I could feel him searching inside me for something. An answer, a clue? I don’t know. And then instead of speaking, he leaned over and kissed me. Like the first time he’d done it that night by his car three weeks before, I felt the electricity of it hum along every nerve ending, and I shivered despite the warmth of the early evening air. Tanner broke away and sat back.

“That’s why I can’t let it ride,” he said, as if it were answer enough.

And it was.

But I had no idea what to do.

Dear Chantelle,