I will murder him.
I will just murder him.
Seriously, this is unforgivable. Yes, the man’s a workaholic. I knew that going into this relationship. And I’ve been very understanding—until now.
Like that time he left me at the table in the middle of dinner to take a call, forgot I was there, and drove halfway home to Salt Lake for a briefing before remembering; I was angelic about it. He did, after all, buy me double dessert as an apology. Or that time we were shoe shopping and he suddenly tackled the store manager and started a general panic that ended in screaming and cop cars and my favorite shoe store getting shut down. I uttered not a single word of complaint. He recognized the manager from a wanted bulletin and inadvertently uncovered a drug front, so who was I to whine about those half-price stilettos?
But this goes beyond understanding. He promised he would come to shield me from the calculated evil ensuing here.
My high school reunion.
I vowed I would never come to one of these torturous things. When my five-year invite came, I snorted out loud and promptly tossed it in the trash. It’s not like high school was awful for me or anything. I had a small group of pretty steady friends. I was never the victim of bullying. But that’s just it—I was never low or high enough on the social radar to be ridiculed or revered. I was generally just not noticed.
I see movies sometimes where high school is all dates and carnivals and jeans with T-shirts and prom and first loves and hamburger joints and laughing selfie montages. And I wonder: Was high school really like that for some people? My montage would be a series of me studying in progressively awful haircuts and doing pedicures with some of my girlfriends the night of junior prom, insisting we’d so rather be together than at some lame dance.
Even then I was deluded.
But I came through it fine. I didn’t pass on my five-year reunion because going back would be extremely painful or anything. I just saw no reason to parade my continued mediocrity in front of people who couldn’t remember my name the first time around.
But when this special “bonus” reunion with all the alumni from the decade of my graduating class came up, I actually found myself sort of wanting to go. Why? Because now I finally had something to be proud of.
Damon.
Stupid, workaholic, AWOL Damon Wade.
I have a serious boyfriend who’s a secret agent for crying out loud! If that’s not something to finally make me noteworthy, nothing ever will be.
Well, okay—he’s an acting liaison between the FBI and local law enforcement here in the state of Utah. It’s “all paperwork and hardly any car chases” as he puts it. Not very Jason Bourne when you break it down like that. But he’s still an FBI agent who has to wear a bulletproof vest sometimes. Who else at this party has a boyfriend whose job requires a bulletproof vest? (Not perfect Suzanne Lake over there if she’s still dating that guy who works at the Sprint kiosk. Oh, you get a discount on smartphones, Suzanne? My boyfriend dodges bullets! Or rather . . . he doesn’t have to. That’s what the vest is for.)
It may also be overstating to call him my “serious” boyfriend. Damon’s not a big define-the-relationship kind of guy, but we’ve been together eight months, and he agreed to come to my high school reunion! That’s got to mean he’s committed.
Probably.
Plus he once pulled me out of a fire. I should go tell Suzanne Lake that.
It’s just the first time in my life I have bragging rights to a hot, sweet, grown-up boyfriend. And he doesn’t even have the decency to show up so I can parade him around like arm candy. Because that’s really the only reason anyone comes to these things. People pretend they want to reconnect with friends and see how the old gang is doing. But even the most secure show up in the hopes that the guy who gave them a swirly every lunch period has gone bald and bankrupt. We’re all there seeking some kind of vindication for the torment—or, as in my case, invisibility—we suffered from our peers.
Every conversation is a study in subtext. It begins with the locking of eyes across the room with that acquaintance you had French with that one time, and then you crossing to each other for a stiff hug.
“Hey there, lady! How are you?”
“Oh, I’m just fantastic. How are you?”
“So great!”
There’s a pause for you to do a quick sweep, sizing up whether the person’s let themselves go. Or if they’ll notice that you’ve lost fifteen pounds since your awkward adolescence—fifteen pounds that looks closer to twenty in this dress you managed to jam yourself into like an oversize sleeping bag. This obvious visual assessment leads to the empty chorus of, “Well, don’t you look gorgeous!” “No, you do!” “No, YOU do!” that tapers off into uncomfortable laughter.
Maybe a little small talk about the decorations: “Nineties retro is so fun—such a blast from the past!” Or maybe some offhand comments about the food that double as little nods to your own awesomeness: “Oh, those cream puffs look delicious, but I can’t have any. I’m totally a vegan-clean-vegetarian-non-eater now.” And the follow-up, “Well, it shows!”
Then finally the reason we’re all here: the status. Career? House? Spouse? Kids? Blogs with more than a billion followers? Your own fashion line of vegan-clean-vegetarian-non-eater clothing?
This is where things always fell apart for me. Even at regular parties when I ran into people from the past, I dreaded this inevitable status declaration. I was always following things like, “I have a blog about crafting with my four amazing kids that’s getting turned into a show on HGTV!” Or “My husband is running for state senate, and I’m his campaign manager! The clear choice is Bruce Floyce! Take a pin.” Or, “Well I’m just finishing my doctorate in time for my newlywed model husband and I to take a Hawaiian vacation before our little miracle comes! Although I’m sure I’ll look terrible in my size-two maternity bathing suit! Ahahaha!” Which I answered with my own, “Yeah, Forever 21 does employ people over the age of twenty-one. That’s the ‘Forever’ part . . .”
But this time I actually had something to say! This time when they finished telling me how they were starting a nonprofit for three-legged dogs, I could say, “Yeah, still working retail, but I’ve also acted as a consultant for law enforcement. Not that I can say much about it—classified, you know? That’s how I met my boyfriend. He’s in the Bureau, but he’s so modest about it. There he is right over there, getting us some drinks. The gorgeous blond in the suit? Why, yes, he can bench press his own body weight.”
It sounds terrible, but like everyone here I just want to have a reason to be proud for once, to be more than a waste of space. And it would’ve worked if Damon were here as proof.
But he’s not. That’s where the conversation has gone worse than normal.
Because when you have no boyfriend to back up your story and flash that dreamy smile, no one believes you when you answer, “And what does your boyfriend do?” with “He’s in the FBI.”
They just look at you with pity and subtly slip the plastic knife off your plate.
I went through this scenario about four times before realizing there was no way to turn it around. The one time I got really angry and tried to insist, “No, he’s real. I’m telling you he’s a real guy. Look, I have pictures of the two of us on my phone! Wait, come back! I have proof!” Julie Pentley hightailed it to the dessert table and started whispering to Candace Logan and pointing in my direction.
Within half an hour at this stupid reunion, people finally know who I am: the crazy girl who thinks she’s dating James Bond.
Yep. I will murder him.
So now I’m leaning against the wall beneath the Look how we’ve achieved our dreams! banner and stuffing cream puffs into my mouth at a record-breaking rate. The group discussing my mental deterioration by the dessert table has grown, increasing my anxiety while blocking the sweets that would be my antidote. When this plate of cream puffs runs out, I’ll have to bribe some passerby to go and swipe more for me. That is, if any passerby will actually talk to me instead of walking by with a little wave of pity.
To make things worse, I’m pretty sure this is the exact stretch of bleak wall where I perched partner-less at those few school dances I had the gall to turn up solo to. Eight years since high school and nothing has changed.
And now I’m out of cream puffs.
I hate everything.
Such naive enthusiasm accompanied me into the gym when I first arrived. With gusto I slapped on this name tag declaring that I am, indeed, Jacklyn Wyatt. Now I’d like to peel it off, find a mop, and pretend to be the janitor or something.
Completely disheartened, I tip my empty plate into a garbage can and slink out into the darkened hallway. No one seems to mind my departure.
Down the corridor, past the familiar classrooms and drinking fountains and scarred lockers that have been painted and repainted in the intervening years, I sink onto the linoleum. Even at this distance the retro music transitions into a muffled love song by the Backstreet Boys. Oh, how I loved them back in the day. How I lay in bed listening to their music and pining over one bleach-headed teen heartthrob or another. Stupid boys.
“Hey, you.”
I look up. Damon’s leaning against the wall, all casual charm and ease like nothing at all has happened. I turn away.
After several seconds I hear him settle down onto the linoleum beside me, blowing out his breath. “That bad, huh?” he asks. “When you won’t even look at me, I can assume it’s pretty bad.”
I bite back all the angry, hurtful things that have been swirling around my brain and only let out, “You promised.”
He plants a kiss on the back of my shoulder. “I know.”
“Does that mean anything to you?” I say, pulling away. “Promising something?”
“Of course it does.” He sounds slightly stung. “I know it may not seem like it, but it means a lot to me.”
“Then what happened this time?”
“Well, there was this guy holding hostages—”
“No, don’t tell me.” I drop my face into my hands. “I don’t want to know. Because I’m sure it’s entirely rational and noble, and hearing about it will rob me of my anger, and that’s the only thing keeping me together right now.”
Damon shifts more toward me and places a tentative hand against my back. “Jack, is this all about me?”
“Yes,” I say acidly. But after a moment, tears burning my eyes, I admit, “Maybe some other people too.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
Voice low with embarrassment, I explain, “Everyone inside thinks I’m crazy.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, when you tell people you have a boyfriend but he’s not there as proof, they start to think you made him up like that time at homecoming when you insisted you had a boyfriend who got stuck at the airport.”
I can tell he’s stifling his amusement as he says, “You did that?”
“I was tired of telling people my dad bought me a corsage so I wouldn’t feel like such a loser.”
He’s silent awhile. Nineties pop pulses vaguely through the floor. “Just out of curiosity, why was your boyfriend at the airport to begin with?”
As if this night hasn’t been humiliating enough. I sigh. “His plane got grounded in Tanzania.”
“And what was he doing in Tanzania?”
“Fighting to free the Tanzanian orphans.”
After a beat Damon gives a short burst of laughter.
Finally I turn to look at him, fuming. “It’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry.” He leans in and kisses my forehead. “I’m not laughing at you, I’m just . . .” His gaze, already soft, seems to melt into me. “Things like that just . . . make me like you even more.”
I glare harder. “Don’t be cute right now.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s seriously cheating.”
“Cheating?” He fakes innocence. “I would never do that.”
“No?”
“Of course not.” He eases closer, tilting his head so his mouth is close to mine. “Like this. Something like this would count as cheating, so I would never do it.”
I can feel his breath against my lips. “Sure.”
“Or this.” Damon brushes his lips against my cheek, close to my ear. “That would be completely unfair.”
“Completely,” I say faintly.
“Or this.” A kiss grazes my nose.
“Right.”
“Or this.” His mouth comes down on mine, softly. When he pulls back, he whispers, “That would just be unforgivable.”
“Really, I don’t see how I can ever talk to you again.”
“Hmm. Well, then, I might as well go for broke.” He kisses me again, pulling me in by the back of my neck. I’m slightly breathless when he leans away.
“You . . . cheat,” I mutter, but I’m not quite holding back a smile.
Damon’s grinning. “Hey, I’m just discussing what I would never do.” His brow knits slightly. “You okay?”
I knead my own shoulders. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I’m sorry no one believed you. I can go in there and present myself as evidence if you want.”
“No. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because whether or not you exist, they’re still right about me.” I can’t quite meet his gaze. “I’m still that chubby girl with no career and no future and nothing to show for my life.”
“Everyone takes some time to figure out who they are.”
“Not you.” I can hear how whiny I sound, but I can’t help it. “You came out of the womb in a three-piece suit all ready to become FBI Ken.”
“Ken?”
“Like Barbie and Ken with the blond gorgeousness.” He chuckles, and I whimper, “I’m serious! Next to you, I look even more pathetic. It’s like everyone has their life figured out but me. There are people in there who were two grades younger than me who already own houses and have businesses. I can barely afford my rent half the time.”
“Hey.” Damon catches my face and raises my eyes to his. “You have someone who’s totally crazy about you. Does that count for anything?”
A smile spreads across my face without warning. “I guess. A little.”
“Well, it should.” He kisses my palm. “I know a lot of women in my line of work. Many of them are extremely successful, confident, beautiful—”
“This is not your best pep talk.”
“But,” he presses, “none of them have ever made me feel what I feel when I look at you.”
I’m smiling despite myself. “You’re cheating again.”
“Gotta use what I’ve got.” He gives me another kiss, warm and lingering. Then, forehead against mine, he asks, “Better?”
I nod, eyes closed. “Better.”
“Good.” He pulls back to look at me. “You want to go back in there? Or would you prefer maybe Chinese and a movie?”
“There aren’t enough cream puffs in the world to make me go back in there.” He stands and pulls me to my feet when I realize, “Crap. I left my jacket on a chair.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“Oh, I dunno.” He’s leading me down the hall, and I pull back on his hand halfheartedly. “It’s not that nice a jacket. We could leave it as collateral damage.”
Damon chuckles. “Don’t be silly.”
“I work in a clothing store. It’s not like replacing it will be that hard.”
“I’ll just slip in and grab it,” he says. “No one will even notice me.”
“Have you seen you? Every female with a pulse will notice you.” We’ve reached the entrance to the gym, and without a word Damon presses a kiss to my temple and continues inside.
I lurk in the doorway, half hidden behind a tangle of crepe paper as he makes his way across the gym. After a minute he locates my jacket slung on a chair and retrieves it. But as he’s returning, he suddenly notices the dessert table and detours toward it.
“No, no, no, no, nooo,” I mutter, silently willing him toward me like a Jedi.
But he’s already stepped up to the large group laughing there. Clearly the Force is malarkey.
From this angle, I can’t see what he’s saying, but their laughter stops abruptly. As predicted, the women are smiling at him. Julie Pentley and Candace Logan are in full-flirt-al assault. The whole thing looks entirely pleasant.
Then he points in my direction, and I jerk, trying to further conceal myself behind the crepe paper and slipping on a streamer before catching myself. All eyes have turned toward me regaining my footing in the doorway, their expressions equally astonished. After another moment, Damon nods and walks away, swaggering slightly as he comes back to me.
He pauses long enough to give me a serious kiss, turning us profile for the group to see, then takes my hand and leads me toward the exit.
“What in the world did you say to them?” I demand as we slip out a side door into the parking lot.
“Nothing much.” His tone is casual. “Since I didn’t get to meet any of your classmates, I thought it was only polite to introduce myself.”
“What?”
“I just told them who I was and apologized for my tardiness then thanked them for treating my beautiful girlfriend so kindly in my absence.”
My mouth drops open. “You didn’t.”
“I did. I also may have implied that the FBI was equally grateful and, as a result, there would be no Bureau involvement in their lives.”
I laugh out loud, head thrown back. “They’re all going to think they’re under surveillance now or something.”
“Hey, I didn’t say that. In fact, I said the opposite.”
We’ve reached my car, and I pull him toward me. “Thank you. For standing up for me.”
“Of course.” Smiling, he gives me another quick kiss. “Now, shall we divide and conquer? I’ll get the food, you stop at Redbox, and we’ll meet back at your place.”
“You trust me to pick the movie?”
“Well, you’re having a tough night. I guess you deserve any cheesy chick flick you want.”
“Who says I’ll pick a cheesy chick flick?” I ask. When he gives me a pointed look, I concede, “Yeah, okay. Probably.”