Fix Her Up Page 7

  “Ugh. I knew you were going to say that.” Bethany tapped her fingers on her knees. “Really, though. He shouldn’t be sniffing around you in any capacity. Stephen would shit a Cadillac.”

  “Everyone seems to think so.”

  “Is this . . . Zumba?” asked a soft, hesitant voice from the doorway.

  There stood Rosie, Dominic’s wife, thus sealing Georgie’s utter embarrassment. Especially in the face of Rosie’s quiet but stunning beauty. In this garish light, Georgie was a paste monster, whereas the department store perfume girl glowed golden brown. She didn’t even have to wear a sports bra, just one of those spaghetti-strap tanks with a built-in panel that Georgie had always been too self-conscious to try out. Rosie pulled off the abbreviated attire with ease, but as usual, she seemed a little uncomfortable in their company. Possibly because her husband was an employee of their family business. At the annual Brick & Morty picnic, Georgie had exchanged small talk with her—and God knows, rumors of her marriage being on the rocks had reached everyone—but they’d never really had an in-depth conversation. She’d always regretted that. Especially since Rosie seemed to lack confidantes, just like her.

  “I could just . . .” Rosie tucked her loose black hair behind her ear and backed into the hallway, shoulders hunched. “No big. I can wait out here.”

  “No,” Georgie called, desperately trying to dry her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie. “Come in, Rosie. How much did you hear?”

  Every line of her body uncomfortable, Rosie came in and perched slowly on the stack of mats. “Oh. A little.”

  “All of it, huh?”

  It took Georgie, distracted by their newcomer, a moment to realize Bethany had gone dead silent. She returned her attention to her sister to find Bethany frowning. “Is this why you wanted help picking clothes? Sounds like you might be hoping for a little more than friendship.” Bethany shifted. “You should have told me the truth.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call us confidantes.”

  In a million years, Georgie never expected her sister to seem so devastated. Bethany swept through life without a hair out of place. Her role at Brick & Morty was to stage houses, and the final product never failed to elicit gasps from potential buyers. Books stacked according to color. Tasteful pendant lighting. A bowl of buttered croissants and a vase of fresh flowers on the table to make people feel at home. Georgie’s sister never missed a beat, except when it came to choosing men. Right now, though, under the hellish glow of aerobics lighting, Bethany looked like she’d been struck dumb.

  “You make a joke out of everything, Georgie. It’s hard to tell sometimes whether you’re genuinely upset or being sarcastic. But I’m your big sister.” Her voice was just a touch uneven. “You’re supposed to come to me with this shit, especially—but not limited to—unrequited love.”

  A wrench dropped in Georgie’s stomach. “I’m sorry. But it’s not like you talk to me about your male-related fiascoes, either. I have to hear it from Mom.”

  Bethany stared. “I’m embarrassed by them. Every man I date either cheats or can’t commit. Or is already way too committed to his mother. Or PlayStation. I might break up with them, but I’m still being rejected. It’s not exactly something I want to talk about.”

  “I would love to hear about your embarrassment.” She waved a hand when Bethany arched a blond brow. “You know what I mean.”

  Her older sister chewed her lip, appearing thoughtful. She laid a hand on Georgie’s arm, leaned to the side, and nodded at Rosie. “If you’re finished trying to sink into the exercise mats, you’re welcome to join us, Rosie. Georgie only bites if you take the last strip of bacon.”

  “I was four years old,” Georgie complained. “Let it go, already.”

  Rosie moved so quietly Georgie didn’t know she’d decided to come closer until she dropped gracefully into a cross-legged position, putting the women in a triangle facing one another. “This seems like a private moment . . .” Rosie hedged.

  Bethany waved her off. “Oh, stop. All three of us have man trouble. It’s not a secret.”

  The rich brown of Rosie’s skin deepened with red. “It’s not?”

  “No,” Georgie muttered, shooting her sister a look. “No, it’s not, but no one is going to force you into admitting it. We came to do Zumba, not group therapy.”

  “It’s true.” Rosie kept her attention on the ground, but her fingers were trembling where she kept them laced in her lap. “I’m married to a man I don’t even know anymore. We sleep in the same bed—when he doesn’t fall asleep on the couch—and he’s a complete stranger.”

  Bethany and Georgie traded a look of surprise. Rosie usually kept herself detached when they were in a group setting together. To be fair, the Castles never shut the hell up long enough for someone new to speak. But this admission from Rosie was unusual to say the least.

  “I’m sorry you’re dealing with that,” Bethany said. “Do you guys fight?”

  Rosie barked a laugh, then slapped a hand over her mouth to cage the sound. “He’s barely talked to me since he came back from Afghanistan,” Rosie murmured, dropping her hand. “It’s hard to find things to argue about in all that silence. We mostly avoid each other. It’s easier.”

  “Easier than what?” Georgie asked.

  “Finding out it’s over, I guess.” As if becoming aware of her surroundings, Rosie shifted on the floor. “I didn’t mean to make this about me.”

  “It’s about all of us,” Bethany said slowly. During Rosie’s admissions, Georgie had sensed her sister growing more and more fidgety. Now she seemed antsy enough to break-dance. “Look at us, ladies.” Bethany jumped to her feet, jabbing a finger at Rosie and Georgie. “Three smart, hardworking women, moping on the floor all for the same reason. Men. They’ve failed us. But I’m willing to bet we’re shouldering all the blame. God knows Travis and Dominic and my collection of shit sticks aren’t sitting around, wondering where they went wrong. No, they’re out having beers and consoling themselves with YouPorn.”

  Georgie raised a hand. “To be fair, that is also my preferred method of consolation.”

  Rosie snort-laughed into her wrist.

  “What is your point, wise elder?”

  “My point is . . .” Bethany dropped to her knees, taking each of them by the shoulder. “Fuck. Them. We should be out having beers and shrugging off their feelings. We should be the ones deciding what we want in our relationships, friendship or otherwise. Not waiting around for these bitch-asses to get over themselves and see what’s in front of them.”

  When Bethany started this passionate tirade, Georgie had been all prepared to laugh. She couldn’t deny a winded sensation in her chest now, though. Like she’d run far and fast and landed on this floor. The wry smile on her face had fled. Bethany was right. While Georgie had been crying into herbal tea and angrily sorting clown makeup earlier this evening, Travis hadn’t been thinking about her at all. What was the freaking point of all this sadness? It didn’t change the course of history or make a dent in Travis’s man brain. It had no point.

  Travis didn’t owe her anything. Deep down, she knew that. But him blowing off their appointment was just another disappointment in a long line of them she’d learned to live with. From her family. Her friends who’d moved away and started calling less and less. The drop in business. She’d allowed everything to happen because she was afraid of proving that she was nothing more than the inconsequential last in line to the throne.

  “Let’s end this now,” Bethany continued. “Right here, right now. Let’s fucking liberate ourselves. Not only from brother-mandated Zumba, but from the dudes bringing us down. Let’s start making decisions that don’t land us in this state of mourning.” She waggled her eyebrows through a dramatic pause. “It’s time to fix ourselves up, ladies. Because look around. We’re alone here. We’re more alone with them in our lives than actually being alone.”

  “And since we’re alone anyway, we might as well be alone and moving forward. Ma
king ourselves happy.” Georgie nodded. “No one else is going to do it.”

  “Yes.” Bethany let out a slow breath and squeezed Georgie’s forearm, reaching for Rosie’s as well. “A club. I’m proposing a club for women, of which we’re the founding fucking members. We all want things. Let’s go get them together.”

  “I can’t . . .” Rosie blurted out, shaking her head. “I agree with everything you’re saying, but I’m not in the same position. He’s my husband.”

  “You’re right. You have a different situation.” Bethany ducked into Rosie’s line of sight and smiled. “But you can still be in the damn club. There must be something you want, Ro.”

  Rosie took a moment to answer, but her chest began rising and falling faster. “I’ve wanted my own restaurant. Argentinian. For my mother’s side.” She shook out a laugh. “I’ve never told anyone but Dominic and we haven’t spoken about it in years. It’s like he forgot.”

  “But you didn’t forget,” Georgie said.

  “No. No, I think about it every day.”

  Close friends or not, Georgie couldn’t stop herself from reaching over and taking Rosie’s hand, relieved when the other woman didn’t hesitate to cling. She didn’t know a lot about Rosie’s past, but she remembered the small Argentinian woman Rosie used to squire around town, along with her father—an African American man named Maurice who’d owned a local auto body shop. He’d since passed, too. Bethany took Rosie’s free hand, linking the three women where they sat on the floor. “What about you, Bethany?” Rosie asked. “What do you want?”

  “Me? I’m giving up on men. Full stop. I’ve been shafted for the last time.” She wiggled her blond eyebrows. “I want to swing a sledgehammer.”

  That shocked a laugh out of Georgie. “What?”

  Bethany sighed. “I’m tired of just making things pretty. Been sick of it for a while, actually, but our brother won’t let me set foot into a project until it’s ready to be staged.” She snapped her teeth at an invisible Stephen. “We took over the business from Dad together. I’ve been doing this just as long. I want my own projects. If Stephen won’t give them to me . . . I’ll figure out another way to get them.”

  Georgie shook her head. “I had no idea. I thought you loved staging.”

  “There are a lot of things we don’t know about each other. Let’s fix that,” Bethany told her softly. “Can you forgive me for having my head up my ass?”

  “Yeah,” Georgie managed, hope fluttering in her chest. “If I can forgive you for the tie-dye hand-me-downs, I can forgive anything.”

  Bethany laughed. “Good.” They traded a smile. “And I do love staging. But I want more. I want to look at a house and know its bones. If I’m ever going to do that, I have to build them myself.” She nudged Georgie with her knee. “And you, little sis? What’s your big dream?”

  Moment of truth. “I like being a clown.” Georgie shrugged, allowing her ideas to transform into actual words. Possibilities. Something she’d never done before, except for scribbles and drawings in a spiral notebook, never to be voiced aloud in case someone told her she was too young or too naive. Or just ignored her altogether. “But I turn away half my business. I’m either already booked or they want a balloon maker, too. Pony rides. If I want to stay viable . . . or work anywhere outside Port Jeff . . . I have to expand. Turn my one-woman show into a full-time entertainment company.”

  Bethany squeezed her hand. “What’s stopping you?”

  No one takes me seriously. I was afraid everyone would laugh. “Nothing, I guess,” Georgie said instead, having made more progress tonight already than she thought possible. “So, when is our first meeting?”

  “Let’s not lose momentum.” Bethany appeared to flip through a calendar in her head. “How about Friday night? Seven o’clock at my place. I’ll have tequila on hand and we’ll come up with a name, you know, just to make it official. But most importantly, we’ll figure out a way to reach our goals. Together alone.”

  “Together alone,” Georgie and Rosie echoed in a whisper.

  They let go of their linked hands, stacking them like pancakes in the center of the triangle.

  “I could save this until Friday night, but I’m very clever and I’ve already thought of a name,” Georgie said, beaming at the other two women. “Just Us League on three. And let’s hope DC Comics doesn’t come after us for copyright infringement.”

  Rosie and Bethany laughed and they threw up their hands. “Just Us League.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Kristin squealed, rushing into the room. Georgie and Bethany’s sister-in-law floated like an early Disney princess, humming to herself and catching the light with her diamond earrings. She was a ball of sunlight and southern gentility. Until you pissed her off or she didn’t get her way. Hence Georgie attending her Zumba class even though she’d like to be sitting in front of the television with a nice cheese plate. If Georgie skipped the class, Stephen would suffer the consequences, and it was only a matter of time before the fallout trickled down. Once, Georgie declined a fresh-baked muffin from Kristin because it contained lemon zest. Which was gross.

  Kristin put those little yellow rinds in everything for six months.

  “Your brother is very handsy after a few beers,” said Kristin. “I didn’t make it through the kitchen before—”

  Georgie groaned. “We don’t need to know.”

  “Very well,” Kristin said primly, hooking her iPod up to an adapter. She swiped across the screen and a Latin beat pumped into the room. “Who’s ready to Zumba?”

  The three of them rose to their feet like cranky zombies, but managed to get through the hour without taking a flying leap through the plateglass window onto the street to escape. Georgie couldn’t help but feel . . . energized after class ended, though, and it had nothing to do with suggestive hip movements. Starting tomorrow, things were going to change.

  First order of business? Fix her own damn fireplace.

  And maybe get a new haircut in the name of symbolism.

  Chapter Seven

  Travis stared into his empty refrigerator and listened to his stomach growl.

  He’d eat a muddy fucking boot about now, but none of the takeout menus in his drawer appealed to him. It pained him to admit it, but what he wanted was more of Georgie’s leftovers. The chipotle meatloaf had ended up being his favorite, because Georgie had hidden peas underneath the mashed potatoes, so the little green balls ended up in every bite even though he couldn’t see them. Like a sneaky way of making him eat vegetables.

  Travis closed the refrigerator with a frown and leaned back against it. It had been two days since he’d missed their appointment and she hadn’t shown up again. He’d half expected her to barge into the apartment by now and launch more lo mein at his head. Actually, with every day that passed, he kind of wanted her to arrive in a snit and bean him with noodles. It was worse wondering if he’d hurt her feelings. And Jesus, this was why he’d wanted her to leave him alone in the first place. Now he was staring at the blank wall in his goddamn kitchen, concerning himself with someone he shouldn’t have been associating with in the first place.

  An image of her opening the door with a messy apron, trying not to get emotional because no one had shown up for brunch, bombarded Travis’s brain. He fell into that category now, didn’t he?

  His stomach gave an uncomfortable twist. The kitchen seemed really small and dark all of a sudden. “Shit,” he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair.

  The kicker of it all? He kind of wanted to tell Georgie about the possible commentator job. More than he wanted to tell Stephen or Dominic. What the fuck was up with that?

  She would tell him the truth with none of the bullshit. That’s what was up. He would get her honest reaction or nothing at all. Right now when nothing in his life made sense, that truthfulness was valuable. He’d had team managers smile to his face while preparing to blindside him with a trade. Had teammates clap him on the shoulder and tell him another opportunity wo
uld come, when they both knew damn well it wouldn’t. To know with 100 percent certainty that Georgie would shoot straight with him . . . it made him itch to have her in front of him. Just for a little while.

  If he had her phone number, he would have given her a call to reschedule the appointment. But he didn’t have it. And he was not about to ask Stephen to slide him those little-sister digits. There was no doubt in Travis’s mind that Stephen would get the wrong idea. Travis didn’t have any interest in Georgie beyond redoing the fireplace no one else seemed to have time for . . . and maybe confiding in her about things he didn’t plan on telling another soul. Not a big deal.

  “Christ. You need your head examined.” He turned and threw open an overhead cabinet, looking for anything that resembled food. He wasn’t totally useless in the kitchen. As a kid, he’d spent a lot of days and nights fending for himself. When his father was too depressed and drunk to cook, Travis scrambled his own eggs and made his own school lunches. Fried his own burgers. His meal choices had been made on the fly until he’d read an article in Sports Illustrated that outlined the daily protein intake of Sammy Sosa. Steaks, vegetables, fish, brown rice. All things he’d been missing.

  Convinced he’d never make it to the pros without the proper diet, Travis started a paper route, just so he could buy the right groceries. His route was done on foot, since his parents couldn’t afford a bike, but he’d gotten up earlier than the other paper route kids and made it work. After school, he’d go to the store himself and walk the half mile home, arms wrapped around two paper bags. Travis could still feel his father sneering at him from the kitchen archway while he tested the temperature of his first steak.

  Someday you’ll realize it was all a waste of time.

  Swallowing the fist in his throat, Travis circled the kitchen table. Yeah. It wasn’t so much that he couldn’t make his own meals. Apart from his lost month after being cut from his last team—when he’d gone on a takeout-and-booze bender—he’d been pretty handy in the kitchen. He didn’t necessarily need Georgie to fill his fridge with tasty goodness.