Your Big Break (9 page)

“Tomorrow?”

“I guess.” He sounds annoyed. “What's this about, Dani?”

I let out a sigh. “It's a long, complicated story.”

“Great,” he says sarcastically. “My favorite kind.”

We make plans to meet at Chili's at Copley Place at one o'clock.

Sean and I don't always see eye to eye on things, but he's my brother and I love him. And I know he'll want to do whatever he can to keep our family together. Telling him about Gretchen is going to be tough, but we'll talk it over, we'll cry, and then we'll figure out what to do. Together.

Now I just have to make it through tonight.

 
 
The Barnes & Noble poetry workshop is packed—who knew there were so many wayward poets in Boston? I pull out the wallet-sized photo that Erin gave me and scan the crowd for Brady Simms. I feel like a hitman, zeroing in on my target. Or should I say hit
woman
? Either way, Brady's a marked man. Breaking up with strangers is a cumbersome task. We've never met, yet I know this giant secret about Brady's life—and all the ways it's about to crumble. And he has no idea. I search the sea of faces but don't spot anyone who resembles Brady.
Oh, well
. I hope I'll be able to locate him once the workshop starts. I slip into a seat near the back as the crowd continues to swell.

At eight o'clock on the dot, a short, stocky woman walks up to the front of the room and introduces herself. “I'm Sal, and I'll be your moderator for tonight.” She scans the room and smiles. “Welcome back, returning poets and poetesses! And a big hello to all our fresh-faced pen-pushers.”

“As usual, we'll begin with a few short readings, then we'll open up the floor for comments,” Sal says. “I'd like to encourage those of you who haven't joined us before to read your work first. Any volunteers?”

No one responds, and I'm scared that she's going to start drafting people. I'm not about to get up there and wing it. I glance around the room, but there's still no sign of Brady Simms. He had better show.

“No newcomers? All right, then, let's start with the old standbys. . . .”

I sit through a rambling piece on unicorns and a haiku about the Irish potato famine. Then a burly, bearded man ambles up to the front of the room. “I'm Walter,” he says, as though it's spelled
Walt-ah
. “I'm gonna read ya a poem called
Colors You Can't See
. It's about my mother, who is colorblind.”

 
Walter ends the poem with a flourish, dropping down to one knee and thrusting his arms skyward. I look around the room to see if I'm the only one who finds this amusing. Apparently, I am. A guy in the back claps and says, “Good job, Walter. That took a lot of courage.” I turn around to see who spoke and my eyes lock on an attractive, dark-haired man in a pair of black slacks and a gray button-down shirt.

I glance down at the picture in my hand for confirmation. Yep, it's him. He must have snuck in late.

“Would you like to go next?” Sal asks Brady.

“Sure.” Brady makes his way to the front of the room. “Hi, everyone. I'm Brady.” He smiles brightly.

My heart starts to race. I feel as though he's looking directly at me, as though he knows what's about to happen.

“I appreciate your listening. Ever since my father died two weeks ago,” Brady begins, blinking rapidly to hold off tears, “I've had a really hard time dealing with things.”

I jerk upright in my chair.
What? His father died two weeks ago? Did I hear that right?

Obviously, this is some sort of mistake! Erin can't possibly want me to ditch Brady. She must be confused. Maybe she thinks I'm some sort of a relationship counselor, hired to patch things up? Deep down, I know that's bullshit, but I can't think of a better explanation.

I start to panic.
What should I do? Should I talk to Brady? Should I bolt?

I decide to confront the situation head-on. As soon as the readings are over, I jump up and make my way to the back of the room. Brady's sitting by himself, leafing through a notebook.

“Hi, Brady, my name's Dani!” I say brightly. My face turns red. I'm talking too loudly, being too enthusiastic. I'm thrown off my game. I can't seem to focus. “I'm a friend of Erin's,” I finally manage.

He looks up, surprised. “Erin Foster-Ellis?”

“The very same.”

“Nice to meet you, Dani.” Brady shakes my hand. “Any friend of Erin's is a friend of mine.”

Now that I'm face-to-face with Brady, I can't think of what to do. I realize that I'm staring at him, and my mind races desperately for something to say.

He eyes me quizzically. “Is everything okay?”

Not even close!
“Of course! I was just hoping you and I could catch up on a few things tonight.”

“Catch up on what? We've never met before,” Brady points out.

“True.” I'm really digging myself a hole here. “But now's a great time to get to know each other!” I sound like an idiot. “Like you said, any friend of Erin's—”

Brady opens his mouth, and I think he's about to question me when Walter yells, “Hurry up, Simms! Time's a-wasting.”

“I've gotta go,” he apologizes. “We have to do critiques.”

“No sweat. So I'll catch you after the critique?”

“Okay, see you then,” he says, walking off to join his group. He throws a confused glance over his shoulder as he goes.

I kill time browsing through Barnes & Noble's magazine aisle. I cast periodic glances at the meeting-room door, waiting to catch Brady the minute he emerges. I made such a fool of myself, I want to remedy it. More important, I need to find out if what Brady said is true—if his father really
did
die two weeks ago. Maybe he meant to say two
years
ago. Or maybe he was using poetic license? The poem he read wasn't that good, but the fact that it was about his dad
who had just died
gave it added effect. . . .

I need confirmation of the facts to figure out how to proceed.

I'm halfway through a magazine article when someone taps me on the shoulder. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Yaaaa!” I shriek, dropping the magazine. I didn't hear him come up behind me.

“You seem flustered,” he says.

“I'm fine,” I chirp, red-faced. I can't believe I've lost sight of my own target. “Is your critique finished already?” I ask. It's only been about ten minutes.

“I ducked out early.”

“You did?”

“I wanted to talk to you. Did Erin send you here to look for me?” he asks.

Oh my God, he's onto me! He knows I'm here to dump him!
“Why do you ask?” My voice comes out in a squeak.

“It seems odd that we'd both end up at the same poetry workshop, and that you'd approach me the way you did. I don't recall ever meeting you before tonight.”

“Well, we haven't met before—”

“Then how did you recognize me?”

“Well . . .” He's staring at me. I think furiously, and then I say, “Erin told me her boyfriend took this great poetry workshop and suggested I check it out, because she knows I'm interested in poetry. I knew what you looked like because she showed me your picture.” I feel a warm glow of professional pride. My lies are coming out smoothly. “If I'd known it would freak you out so much, I wouldn't have come,” I throw in, with what I hope is an inviting smile.

Brady smiles back, relaxing. “Sorry about the third degree. It's the lawyer in me talking.”

“I thought you gave up law.” I say before I can stop myself.

“I did,” he admits. “But legalese has a nasty habit of sticking with you. I overanalyze everything.”

“Was it weird changing careers? High-priced attorney to high-school teacher seems like a pretty big leap.”

“Erin told you?”

“She did. Why the drastic move?”

Brady stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Do you know much about the legal profession, Dani?”

“Only what I've seen on
Law & Order
.”

He laughs. “Trust me, it's far less glamorous in real life. Extraordinarily long hours. Endless piles of paperwork.”

I picture Evan Hirschbaum's desk, with its mile-high stack of manila folders.

“It's a brutal, brutal profession,” he continues. “Lawyers square off in court, play every dirty, backstabbing trick in the book on each other. Then they walk out, shake hands, and make a date to play golf.” Brady sighs. “I left work every night feeling like I'd been beaten up. It got to the point where it just didn't make sense to put myself through that anymore.”

“Then why did you go into it in the first place?” I ask.

“The short version of the story is I did it to make my parents happy. My teaching career”—his eyes light up—“I'm doing that to make
myself
happy.”

“That sounds fascinating; I'd love to hear more about your new job sometime.”

He flashes me a grin. “How about we grab a cappuccino? My treat.”

Cappuccino
. At the mention of coffee, my mind flashes back to Your Big Break Inc. I have to find out the facts about his father before I drop Erin's bomb on him. “I'd better not,” I say. “I've already had nine cups of coffee today.” This is actually true. Given my job and rule #1, I drink enough caffeine for a small army.

“You want to help me find a book, then?” he offers. “Since I started coming to this workshop, I buy at least one new novel every week, always on someone's recommendation. Tonight, you can pick something out for me.”

“Sure, sounds fun.” We stroll over to the fiction section. “What are you in the mood for?” I ask him.

“Anything,” he says, and it makes my heart flutter a little to meet his eyes. “I'm at the mercy of your decision.”

“Are you, now?” I say coyly.

“Yep. Whatever you tell me to buy, that's what I'm getting.”

“Hmm . . . what if I purposely choose something really strange? You know, like
Smart Women Finish Rich
. Would you read it?”

“It's not a novel.” Brady chuckles. “But, yeah, I'd read it. Trust me, you can't top Walter. I let him pick one week and he chose a kids' picture book.
Baby Duck Goes to the Circus,
I think it was called.”

I laugh.

“Oh, it may seem funny now. But I accidentally left the thing in my briefcase and it fell out in the middle of a pretrial meeting. The guys at the office never let me live it down.”

“All right, no baby ducks,” I promise, patting him lightly on the arm.

He winks. “I knew I could trust you.” He pauses and then asks, “What's your favorite novel?” His light blue eyes are still studying my face.

“High Fidelity,”
I say.

He brightens. “I loved the movie; never got around to reading the book.”

“The book's better,” I chide.

“High Fidelity,”
Brady repeats. “So that's your favorite novel?”

“I don't know if it's my
all-time
favorite, but it's really good.”

“I'll buy it tonight, and I'll let you know what I think.” We find a copy, then walk over toward the register. “Did you enjoy the poetry reading?” Brady asks as we get in line.

“It was an interesting experience,” I say honestly.

“I'll let you in on a secret.” He leans close. “I love reading poetry. I detest writing it.”

“You do?” I ask incredulously.

“Erin's the one who encouraged me to join the workshop. When I first started coming, I hated it. But I fell in love with the people and the atmosphere here. Now I really enjoy myself.”

I'm speechless. “It was
Erin's
idea that you take this workshop?” I finally ask.

He nods. “Her last boyfriend used to write her love poems. She wanted me to do the same.” Brady groans. “Everything I write sounds stiff and unnatural.”

“I thought your poem was sweet,” I tell him, semi-honestly. We move forward in the line.

“How did you and Erin meet?” Brady asks.

This is it, the moment of truth. This is where I'm supposed to tell him. I hesitate.
How can I do this? How can I break his heart?
It's never bothered me so much before. But I think about his father—about
my
father—and all the pain that comes from being betrayed.

“We met at Starbucks,” I lie.
That's a safe bet, isn't it? Everybody goes to Starbucks, right?

“How long have you known each other? I don't remember her mentioning you.”

“Oh, we've known each other for a while now. We weren't that close at first. But we're starting to become better friends, practically best friends.” Even to my own ears, this sounds made up. Fortunately, Brady doesn't seem to notice.

“So I guess she told you about my father, that he passed away two weeks ago.”

So it is true
. “No, I only found out tonight when you said something. I'm so sorry, Brady. That's awful.”

“Erin's been acting kind of weird since it happened.” His face clouds over. “She's been distant, for lack of a better word. To be perfectly honest, I've been sort of worried.”