Married by June. Ellen Hartman
very public one. His dad wouldn’t be calling Jorie to make a casual lunch date the way a regular father-in-law would. Instead she’d be squeezed in, reminders would be sent, and his dad’s BlackBerry would beep exactly seven minutes before the meeting. Jorie had gone from fiancée to business asset in one afternoon.
He didn’t see his mom or Bailey when he was leaving the house. Outside on the sidewalk, he thought about calling a cab. It was getting dark and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He’d had a bite of cake at Alice’s, but before that maybe coffee he’d bought on the way to the church? He decided to walk. He could grab something to eat and get his thoughts together on the way.
He pulled out the small, leather-bound notebook he carried. He got some of his best ideas while he was walking and he was going to need all of his skill tonight. Somehow, between here and Jorie’s house, he had to figure out how the hell to tell her that his brother had messed things up for all of them. He flipped the notebook open, looking for a blank page. He paused at the place where he’d tried to write his wedding vows, looking at the few words he’d managed, feeling sick about what his dad had asked him to do.
If she’d agree to postpone their breakup for a few months, he’d help her plan how to back out gracefully. At least he’d have a chance to smooth over his fumbling breakup that afternoon.
Flipping the page, he wrote 1. Bailey. 2. Senate. He hesitated, his pen resting on the notebook. What next? He scribbled 3. Me + You (for now). Which worked fine as a subject heading, but the content? What was he going to tell her exactly? That they’d have to pretend to be in love for a few more months? That was it, right?
Great. He closed the book. Now all he had to do was fill in the details that would persuade Jorie. No sweat.
CHAPTER THREE
WHEN SHE GOT home, Jorie wanted to be depressed. She would spend her days doing nothing but watching daytime TV in her rattiest sweats while eating chocolate and processed cheese products. It was something jilted brides and the recently unemployed should do. It was what she’d never done. She’d spent so many years working hard to build her business and her life, to prove that she wasn’t going to be like her mom, wouldn’t have to wait for a man to complete her, and now, here she was anyway. Jilted and left with nothing. Depression was the obvious next step. She’d bought the Cheetos on the way home, and now all she needed was the sweats.
She dropped the coffee-stained dress on her bedroom floor and stepped on it deliberately. The heels she’d abandoned by the foot of the bed and the dress were the only things out of place in the room. That was going to change. She was pretty sure she would become messy during her depression.
Deep in the bottom drawer of her cherry dresser, she found the T-shirt she’d bought at the Dirty Bird Bar when she went to Ocean City for spring break back in college. The fabric was so worn it was threadbare. That shirt, together with a pair of sweats she’d stolen from a boyfriend years ago, gave her the perfect outfit for her new lifestyle.
She sat on the bed to put the sweats on, then picked up her shoes. She stopped herself just as she was about to place them on the rack in her closet. Neatness was a habit, after all. One she could break. She let the heels fall back to the floor, and when one of them landed inside the closet accidentally, she gave it a kick to the middle of the room.
She stuck with the depression plan through one small bowl of Cheetos and three do-it-yourself shows with borderline attractive hosts. Her fingers turned orange. She missed the real butter and eggs in Alice’s cakes.
She thought about Cooper saying she was lying, and anger flared, spoiling her depression.
Maybe she should turn on her computer and order some pajama bottoms because her ratty sweats weren’t presentable enough to wear if she had to run to the corner store. But she really shouldn’t waste the money. Who knew how long she’d have to make her savings last.
She glanced across the room at the top drawer of the sideboard where she’d locked up her inheritance from her mom. Some people might think of the jewelry as a safety net, but Jorie had sworn she’d never use it, no matter how broke she was. When she’d made that promise, her business hadn’t been down the tubes, but her new circumstances didn’t change the way she felt about her mother’s jewelry. Each piece represented a failed hope, a guy who’d let her mom down in the end. She wouldn’t profit from that.
A picture of her and her mom and Cooper sat on the sideboard. Taken at their engagement party, the shot had captured her mom in a rare moment of unguarded laughter. Chelsea had been so aware of her image that most photos showed her only from her “good” side, her head tilted to erase any hint of a double chin. It was suddenly imperative that Jorie get the picture out of her living room. Cooper had put that smile on her mom’s face. She couldn’t be expected to keep a photo that reminded her of her enormous failure.
She took the picture with her into the bedroom and slid a basket off the top shelf of her closet. The stack of cotton sweaters that had been in the basket joined the dress and shoes on the floor. She put the picture in instead, along with the World War II spy novel Cooper had insisted she read. The pages were littered with his underlinings and exclamations and notes to himself and her. Despite the fact that she was devouring the story, she couldn’t read the rest of it with his presence on every page.
She set the basket on the bed and pulled the drawer of her nightstand open. Into the basket went the pair of glasses he’d left at her place to wear when he took out his contacts, followed by contact solution and an extra carrying case. The box of condoms went next, but then she removed it. She wasn’t engaged anymore, and they were her condoms. Who knew when she might need one or twelve?
She collected two of his T-shirts and a sweatshirt from her dresser and tossed them into the basket, then headed back to the living room. She was proud that she didn’t sniff any of the clothing, even though Cooper’s scent—a combination of guy deodorant, paper and ink—was one of the things she’d always liked about him. Obviously, or she wouldn’t have stolen the T-shirts in the first place.
The basket was now full of the odds and ends of her year-long relationship with Cooper Murphy. She flopped on the couch, the basket on the table in front of her. Their wedding binder was on top of the clothes. Cooper wouldn’t want it, but then neither did she. Let him deal with it. In fact…she jerked the antique diamond ring he’d given her off her hand and tossed it on top of his stuff. Screw him. She wasn’t going to start a collection of jewelry for the next generation of jilted Burke women. She didn’t want any reminders of Cooper Murphy or this whole crazy year.
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