Your Big Break (21 page)

 
Hmm . . . first the long response time, then he completely ignores my “date” question. And now he's back to signing his e-mails Brady instead of B. Well. If he's signing his e-mails
“Brady,” then I'm signing mine “Dani.” Wait, screw that. “Danielle.”
Maybe he thinks I'm really hard up, suggesting we go out tomorrow. Of course, he's free, too, which says something about
him. Am I overanalyzing this?
I type out a response but decide to hold off on sending it. I wait ten minutes, then press send.

 
I log out of my Yahoo account and shut down my computer. I was online for an hour and I managed to ignore Sean's e-mails the whole time. My lying, cheating father can wait until tomorrow. I'm going to grab a few hours of sleep before work. As I crawl into bed and snuggle down beneath the covers, I can't help smiling. I have a Sort-of Date tomorrow with Brady Simms.

Maybe things aren't so bad after all.

22

SODS, SOBS, and SOS

Sort-of Dates—SODs for short—have their advantages. Unlike an Actual Date, which generally includes some kind of ceremonial activity—dinner and movie, dinner and a play, etc.—SODs are easy to get out of. The guy doesn't pick you up; you meet him there. There's no time limit to how long the date should last, so you can duck out if things get hairy. SODs never take place during the weekend, and the guy is under no obligation to pay. The two most typical SODs are quickie lunches and casual coffees.

The downside to Sort-of Dates is that they tend to produce Sort-of Boyfriends—guys who sometimes call, sometimes don't; who take you out on a Friday night, then wait three weeks before asking you out again; who are happy to hang out with you, sleep with you if you'll let them, but who don't feel the need to give you gifts on Valentine's Day or introduce you to their parents. It's no coincidence that the abbreviation for Sort-of Boyfriend is SOB.

I hope that my SOD with Brady won't lead to SOS—Sort-of Sex. The more I think about it, the more worried I become. If he really liked me, he'd ask me out on an Actual Date, wouldn't he? What if Brady really wants to get together so he can pump me for info on Erin Foster-Ellis? What if he's backsliding, trying to get with her again?

I'm careful not to let news of my SOD leak to Craig; he'd flip.

He'd also kill me if he found out about Krista and Jason Dutwiler.

However, I rationalize, the particular rule he cautioned me to start following was rule #5: Do
not
get personally involved. This is the cardinal rule and must be followed above all others! That rule doesn't really cover my situation, does it? I mean, it isn't like the rule reads:
Do not give your e-mail address out to a hot ex in the hopes that he'll ask you out for a Sort-of Date.

 
 
I make it through the first part of the morning without succumbing to temptation. Except for a quick check to see if Brady had written—he hadn't—I've stayed out of my Yahoo account. Work keeps me pretty busy. Work, and thinking about my SOD. Even though it's not an Actual Date, I'm still pretty excited. I'm wearing a pair of black pants and a brand-new pink sleeveless top with a pretty pale pink scarf. I hope Brady doesn't think I dressed up for this occasion. Even though I did.

By the time twelve-forty-five rolls around, I'm starting to get antsy. I need to leave the office at one to meet Brady. But there's no way I can concentrate between now and then. I'm like a kid counting down the last fifteen minutes until Christmas vacation. I could go chat with Trey or Craig. Or I could take a peek at Sean's e-mails. I decide to go for it. I call up the Yahoo homepage and type in my e-mail addy and password. Then, with a nauseous feeling settling in my stomach, I open the first of Sean's messages.

 
Attached is an e-mail message from Gretchen Monaghan to my father. It's dated two days ago.

 
Gretch? Who the hell goes by a stupid nickname like Gretch? She might as well go ahead and drop the G and be honest.

Gretchen came to Your Big Break Inc.—not once but twice—in an attempt to dump my father. Now she's back together with him, anticipating the day he'll divorce my mom?
Not gonna happen, sweetie.
Married men always say they'll leave their wives; they never do. Something else is bothering me. She mentions waiting until six o'clock at night to be together. My dad has always been a major workaholic. How is it that he's suddenly getting off work at six o'clock like a normal person?

I pick up the phone and dial Sean's cell.

“Have you read them?” he asks.

“One of them. This is bad.”

“I know. I'm starting to think we're fighting a losing battle.”

I pop a piece of gum into my mouth and chomp down on it angrily. “I just want our family to be normal again.”

“That prick Jude dropped by last night.”

My heartbeat quickens.
Jude dropped by?
“You mean you've met him?”

“I spied on them from the landing. Look, Dani, I've gotta run. I'm in the middle of my shift.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“I'll call you later,” he promises. “Read the rest of the e-mails.”

“I will.”

We say good-bye and get off the phone. I glance at two more e-mails from Gretchen and, while they aren't easy to take, I manage to keep my composure.
So far, so good
.

Then I open the last one.

The last sentence of the e-mail hits me like a punch in the gut.

Children of their own? Gretchen wants to have children with my father? What if they've already started trying to get pregnant?
I read the letter again, and my insides turn over. I slowly rise from my desk, put one foot in front of the other, and stumble down the hall. I make it to the bathroom without a second to spare. I fall into the stall, lean forward, and once again toss the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

 
 
I should have gotten Brady's cell number.

I'm twenty minutes late meeting him. I had to stop by CVS and pick up a few emergency items: Crest, a toothbrush, breath mints, and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. I'm beginning to think I should carry a bottle in my purse at all times. I ran back to the office and cleaned myself up. Physically, I feel brand-new. My stomach has settled, and my mouth is minty-fresh. I even fixed my makeup and applied some lip gloss.

But all of this has put me behind schedule.

I dash into Au Bon Pain at ten till two. I spy Brady sitting down at the window counter with a cup of coffee. “Hi Dani,” he calls, standing to greet me. “What can I get you to eat?”

“I'm not very hungry. A warm herbal tea would be nice, though.”

He looks surprised. “Is everything all right?”

“My stomach's been a bit off today. Tea might settle it.”

Brady eyes me curiously. “You look kind of pale. Are you sure you're up for this?”

“Definitely. I'm feeling much better now.” It's the truth. Just seeing him has perked me up. For the next little while, I will avoid thinking about my bastard jackass father and his biological clock- obsessed mistress. I will focus on enjoying a soothing drink with a new friend. I get up and move to a table so we can face each other.

Brady returns with my drink and two small turkey sandwiches. “In case you change your mind about eating.” He also sets down a few sugar packets on the table. He sits across from me.

I empty a few packets of sugar into my drink.

“You're not from Boston, are you?” he asks.

I stir the sugar in my drink. “How'd you guess?”

“Your accent. You don't sound like a native Bostonian.”

“My family moved here from New Orleans about ten years ago. It was kind of a rough time, actually. We moved right at the start of my senior year of high school.”

“That must have been hard.” Brady takes a sip of his coffee and a quick bite of his sandwich. “The culture shock of coming to Boston's pretty alarming, isn't it?”

“I think the strangest thing was getting used to the weather,” I admit. “The only time you see snow in New Orleans is on TV. I'm used to warm winters, and summers that boil with heat. The second you step outside, you're drenched with sweat. My dad and I used to joke about it all the time, how wimpy everyone up here is. How they start running their ceiling fans the second it hits seventy degrees.”

Brady laughs. “Bostonians don't know how good they have it. They should try dealing with some real heat.”

“I'm guessing you're not from around here either,” I venture.

“Nope, I grew up in Arizona. Came out to Boston six years ago for law school. My plan was to move back west once I graduated, but I wound up with a great job offer here. And then I met Erin, which changed everything.”

“You guys were together for two years?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“Two years last March.” Brady gets quiet for a minute, then says, “But enough about Erin. I didn't come here to rehash my old relationship.” Brady runs his fingers through his short, dark hair. He really is cute in a sweet, college professor kind of way. He looks as though he should be hanging around Boston University, teaching an introductory lit class. We sit there in silence for a few. “So,” I begin, and Brady nods encouragingly. “What does the K in your name stand for?”

“No way.” He laughs. “Too embarrassing.”

I take a drink of tea and pick at my sandwich. “It can't be that bad.”

“Guess.”

“Kevin? Keith?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Kyle? Kurt?”

“Not even close.”

“Is it a girl's name, like Karen or Katie?”

“Nope, it's not a girl's name.” He takes a small bite of his sandwich into his mouth. “It's nothing traditional, nothing you've heard of.”

“Kilimanjaro?” I joke.

Brady laughs. “I'm guessing you've heard of Mount Kilimanjaro.”

“That I have.” I take a quick sip of tea.

“Kryptonite?”

“You're not going to give up, are you?” He grins.

“Not a chance.”

He thinks about it for a minute. “I guess it wouldn't hurt anything,” he says, scooting his chair closer. “But this stays between you and me. Got that?”

“Got it.”

He lowers his voice. “My middle name's Koogan.”

“What?” I struggle not to laugh. “Brady
Koogan
Simms?”

“It's my mother's maiden name.” He's smiling now—a really sweet, flirty grin. “So, since I told you my secret, now you've got to tell me one.”

“What do you wanna know?” I ask coyly.

“Since we're on the topic of names, how about you tell me the most embarrassing nickname you've ever been given?”

I think about it. “Pumpkin Legs.”

“
Pumpkin
Legs?” Brady raises an eyebrow. “There's bound to be a good story behind that one.”

“When I was growing up in New Orleans, the hot thing was to be really tanned. Since I'm only capable of burning”—I run a finger along my pale skin for emphasis—“I tried to use one of those fake-bake tanners the day before the junior class prom. I put on too much, and my skin turned orange. For the rest of the school year, everybody called me Pumpkin Legs.”