The Absolutely True Story of Us (6 page)

"No." Bea shakes her head. "It's not personal, because you don't just marry a
person
. You marry a family. It would've been more ideal to do this during one of the holidays when everybody's already together, but we missed our chance. The good news is, I've talked to some of the kids. Most of them will be able to make it down here within the next few weeks. I'll just tell Felicity we're doing an impromptu family reunion of sorts, because there was a sale on airfare or something. Meanwhile, you and I can plan the big moment." Her eyes are shining as she practically bounces out of her seat with excitement. "Oh, this is going to be so beautiful. She'll be thrilled."

Fuck.

"Uh, I guess I could start looking at rings," I say, slowly. I have a bad feeling I'm going to regret this, but what the hell else can I do?
 

"Excellent!" she beams. "Get the ring, plan the speech. Just leave the rest up to me. When the time is right, I'll let you know."

Lissy is
definitely
going to murder me.

***

"Do you know something about this?"

Lissy is waving her phone in my face accusatorially. What the fuck, did she already find out? Is she just toying with me? I blink a few times and try to focus on the screen, like I don't already know what she's talking about.

"Know something about
what
?" I think I sound suitably irritated, and therefore innocent.

She sighs sharply. "Mom is bringing the whole fam-damily into town. I am
so
not equipped to deal with this right now. My brothers are going to be here on the same weekend we're supposed to go to that writers and readers fetish ball. How am I supposed to explain that?"

I shrug. "Just tell them you've got a prior work commitment. You're not obligated to show them your corset and heels."

Lissy rolls her eyes, and I hope it's not because she'd never dream of wearing a corset and heels. Because I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to see that.

"Relax. It'll be fine," I tell her. "By the way, what am I supposed to wear to that thing?"

"Same thing all guys wear to these parties. Leather pants, leather gloves, leather everything." She's got her head buried in the fridge as she searches for something, so I can't read her expression to see if she's fantasizing about anything in particular.

"Sounds sticky," I observe.

"You'll want some baby powder," she agrees. "Leather pants at minimum. The kind with the lace-up fly."

"
That
sounds like a pain in the ass." I shake my head. "I'm going with a zipper."

Her head pops up. "Trust me," she says. "Laces. Otherwise you might as well be wearing jeans."

"Yes ma'am." I grin, getting up from the sofa. "How was the meeting?"

"Just a lot of contract stuff." She straightens, holding two beers. "These are both for me, by the way."

"Thanks," I tell her, reaching past her for another one. "Any other fetish ball tips? Is it a faux pas to wear underwear?"

"You'll probably regret it if you don't," she smirks. "But you won't be able to stuff a pair of boxers under leather pants - not if they fit right. Get some decent briefs."

"Define decent."

"Not in a three-pack from a big box store," she says, going to the cupboard.
 

"I'm kind of offended that you feel the need to say that," I inform her. "I'm a boss now. I dress for success."

"Yeah, well your employees aren't seeing your underwear, I hope." She examines a can of soup. "Although, of course someone else might..."

She's referring to Jessica, of course.

I'm not dignifying that with a response. She can think whatever she wants to think, it doesn't make a difference to me. We're done. I gave her five years of my life, and she couldn't learn to trust me.

Never again.

Lissy

"Hey, hey, the gang's all here!" my mom cries out, and she runs to my older sister Tabby for a hug. We're all crowded around baggage claim at LaGuardia, wishing for the floor to open up and swallow us whole. Or maybe that's just me.

Tabby comes to me next, squeezing me tight before she pulls back to look me up and down. "I'm so happy for you," she enthuses. "Finally found the one!"

"Guess there's hope for all of us," says little sister Stephanie, continuing the grand family tradition of the back-handed compliment.
 

My brothers all hug me, then slap Dean on the back in quick succession. He looks slightly off-balance by the end of it, which affords me a little private smile.
 

Dean's an only child, and over the years he and his parents have grown distant. He never seemed to adjust to the dynamics of a big, loud family when he spent holidays with us, and I can't believe he took the news of their visit so well. It almost seemed like he was prepared for it, which doesn't make any sense. Why would my parents have told him about it before me?

"I heard there's this amazing undiscovered seafood place uptown," my middle brother Scott says. "Hey Dean, do you think you can leverage some of those business connections to get us in?"

"I promise you, Scott, if you've heard of it, it's not undiscovered." I smile at him. "Also, don't you think it's a little too early to be asking for favors?"

"Hey, he's part of the family now!" Big brother Nick slaps Dean on the back. "Seriously though, don't listen to anything Scott says."

"Boys," my dad says, sounding bored. "Please."

"I can get you into any restaurant you like," says Dean with a dazzling smile.

Right. I forgot he could charm people. Even my sister Tabby, who is several magnitudes more gorgeous than I am and is married to a pilot with steel-blue eyes, can't stop staring at him.

Not that I can really blame her. When he first walked up to me in that park, I thought it was some kind of prank. He looks like he should be on the cover of GQ, or at the very least, a Lexus ad. His deep brown hair is close-cropped and well-styled; he obviously goes to a more expensive barber now that he's managing a whole team at the ad agency. He's only mentioned that fact about ten times since he moved in.

His eyes are this sort of inexplicable silver-gray, which I suppose I didn't fully appreciate after years of being with him. They really are pretty striking.

Well, nobody's questioning how handsome he is. Doesn't change what he did. But I have to pretend like we're in love, so I focus on his eyes.

Uh oh. This could get dangerous.
 

Damn it. Jack was right. I've moved on, I'm over it. I want nothing more to do with Dean romantically. He's helping me out as a friend - admittedly a friend I don't trust as far as I can throw - but I can't stop staring at those
eyes
.

"So, Dean." Stephanie has managed to worm her way between us. "You're like Don Draper, huh?"

He laughs, way too cheerfully for the situation. "Sadly, no. I deserve neither such praise, nor such censure."

"Oh my God." Tabby elbows her way in. "Did you just quote Jane Austen? Felicity, I can't believe you kept him quiet for so long."

"Well, I did bring him to three Christmases," I point out. "But, you know..."

"...I've been busy the last few years," Dean cuts in. "So I've had to miss almost everything, unfortunately. But things should change, now that I'm..."

"The head of your own team!" my mom interrupts him. "Felicity mentioned it the other day. Congratulations! You must be so excited."

"Well, it's a lot of responsibility," he says. "But it is pretty exciting. I've got twenty accounts now, but that's all boring work stuff." He waves his hand dismissively. "What about you, Tabby - Lissy said you just went to Syria for Doctors Without Borders?"

Damn it, how did he get so good at talking to people? Was he born like that, or did he somehow teach himself to be so engaging and captivating? It seems simple, the way things always do when you watch an expert do them. But when I'm in the middle of a conversation, especially with one of my family members, it's like the part of my brain in charge of reacting to things just shuts down. And I know you're supposed to ask questions to demonstrate your interest in somebody's life, but it always feels so awkward. Like I'm quizzing them.
 

For Dean, it's just easy. Effortless. He has no anxiety about it, because he never thinks anything's going to go wrong.
 

And why would he? Nothing ever does, for him. I'm pretty sure I'm the only bad thing that's ever happened to him, and that was certainly only a hiccup.

***

Lunch is...loud. I somehow manage to actually sit next to my supposed boyfriend, and while Tabby sits on his left, she soon gets pulled into an argument involving Nick, Arthur, and something about cavemen and astronauts.
 

"Man, are you serious with that
Pride and Prejudice
shit?" I mutter, staring at my salad. "You know my sister has a thing for Mr. Darcy."

"All bookish women do," says Dean, glancing at me. "Are you trying to claim you
don't
?"

"Yeah, well, I'm immune to you now. How on earth does it still work on everyone else, though?"

"Second rule of marketing," he says, gesturing to the server. "Play to your market."

"What's the first rule?" I have a feeling I'm going to regret asking.

He grins. "Don't make them think."

"Of course." I roll my eyes.

"Hey, I'm not saying people are stupid." Dean shrugs. "I'm just saying, there's a million things vying for their time and attention. We've all been conditioned to respond to certain triggers, certain signals, and that's the most important thing to keep in mind when you're trying to reach people. Anything they have to analyze for too long, you risk your message getting lost in translation." He picks up his drink. "Also, a
lot
of people are stupid."

"There it is. That's the man I fell in love with." I pick up my fork and examine a slice of radish. I'm pretty sure I specifically asked for no radishes, but if I bring it up, Nick's going to make a big deal out of it, and we'll probably all get free meals. Free desserts, at least. I can't handle sitting through another meal where I know the entire restaurant management hates us.
 

"You hate salad," Dean observes. "I remember that about you."

"I don't...hate it," I insist. "It's just that a lot of the common salad ingredients are not exactly my favorite."

"You know you have to eat like that more than once a month for it to make an actual difference," he says. "And I'm only bringing this up because I know you're torturing yourself for appearance's sake. Trust me. Nobody here would judge you if you ordered the steak that you really wanted."

I give him an irritated look. "Was it that obvious?"

"You kept flipping back to it," he says. "And then you went for the Greek salad after all. It was quite the emotional roller coaster."

Really, there's nothing left to do but laugh. "Not much gets past you, does it?"

"Absolutely not," he says. "For instance, what's the deal with Arthur?"

Eyes widening, I glance around the table, but everyone is so absorbed in their conversations that I'm pretty sure they've forgotten I'm here.

"What do you mean?" I ask, a little too quickly.

"I mean, he hardly talks," says Dean. "I understand why you're the way you are. Middle children always have trouble finding their place."

"Thanks a lot."

"But the youngest kids..." he goes on, ignoring me. "Usually they're good at getting attention. Stephanie's got it. Arthur doesn't. So what is it about him that's different?"

I fold my arms across my chest, giving up on the salad. "You know he's right over there. He'll hear you."

"
I
can barely hear me," Dean points out. "Sorry, I figured the two misfit kids would've bonded at some point."

The truth is, I don't know what the deal is with Arthur. I've never known, and neither does anybody else. Maybe I should've made more of an effort. But these days, everyone is so scattered, and our get-togethers are, well...loud. The dominant personalities in this group, of which there is a majority, always steer the conversation and the activities.

"Try talking to him sometime," says Dean. "I know it's not your
forte
, but you're a successful author now. You should be able to talk to people. If you ever start to feel nervous, just remind yourself of your own superiority."

"That actually does not make me feel any better," I inform him. "But you're actually kind of right about Arthur, probably. And for the record, being successful hasn't helped all that much. I'm still inept at social interactions, although I have found that throwing money at people works pretty well as a social lubricant. Just not as applicable to family. Not mine, at least."

"Or cops," says Dean. "In this country. Most of the time."

***

Dean

I'm going for a run.

These days, I run alone. It's actually better this way. The noise of the city fades away as I do it, and I forget everything.

Usually.

But today, I can't stop thinking about Lissy. I'd almost forgotten what her family was like, how much their behavior explains almost everything about her.

Everything, that is, except her lack of trust.

That was what killed us. Not that I was perfect. I started getting lost in my work, something I never imagined I'd do - not when we were first together, and all I wanted was to see her smile.

But things started to change. Years passed, and we got comfortable with each other. Maybe too comfortable. She'd never say it out loud - she was too grateful for my paycheck - but I could tell it was starting to eat at her. I was never home. And yes, most of the time I actually
was
working. The rest of the time I was blowing off steam, meditating, the only way I know how. Pounding pavement. I know it's not good for my feet, my knees, and I know the carbon monoxide I'm inhaling is probably eating holes into my brain. Whatever. I need this. I need something, and this does it.

Lissy's family likes me, and respects me. It's not difficult for me to cultivate that. That's one of life's dirty secrets: your character doesn't matter, so long as you can fake it. Look at how many people still
voluntarily
give Jordan Belfort their money.