Always the Last to Know Read online

  “Only by a month though.”

  “Yes, and that is enough to send my mother into a fit of throwing every unmarried man in the room in my direction this evening. Like you, I am very much in hiding.” Bess flopped onto the small bench in the garden. She was relieved that it was only Mr. Tiley outside. Having known one another since childhood, the two had an unspoken understanding that the manners their mothers had instilled in them were mere inconveniences easily forgotten when they were alone. Bess leaned back against the bench and watched as Mr. Tiley fidgeted with the buttons on his clothing. He gave up trying to escape his waistcoat, knowing that his mother would raise high heavens if he didn’t appear to be the prim and proper bachelor she had been boasting about to all the single ladies at the ball, and sat next to Bess on the bench.

  “Before I go absolutely mad in this thing, could you please unbutton these cufflinks?” Mr. Tiley asked, thrusting an arm in front of Bess’ face.

  “I suppose I could help, but what should I ask for in return? Hmm…” Bess put a finger to her chin in mock-thought. At the sight of Mr. Tiley’s green eyes, though, she caught her breath in her throat and let is stay stuck there for a moment. Bess could never properly handle herself whenever she met her blue eyes with Tiley’s green ones. Her best friend and Tiley’s sister, Marla, knew why Bess always felt faint at Tiley’s looks or touch, but Bess, refusing to believe Marla’s thoughts or her own feelings, never let herself think of Mr. Tiley in the way Mr. Tiley clearly thought of her.

  However, it needs to be said that while Mr. Tiley was hopelessly in love with Bess McDonalds, he had given up the dream of ever being with her since he believed her to be indifferent of him.

  Bess unbuttoned his cufflinks quickly, trying not to notice the feel of his skin, of his hands, touching her. She could not let herself be in love with Mr. Tiley. However, she did not take her hands off of his.

  It would be a smart match. Mr. Tiley made a healthy income, which always had appeased Bess’s mother. Bess never thought much of his money; she admired his character far too much to be concerned with his wealth. It was true that Mr. Tiley was a generous man with a humor that fit so perfectly with Bess’s, a feat not easily accomplished by most people.

  As she was contemplating what her heart was screaming at her head, Mr. Tiley could not stop himself. Before either realized what had happened, his lips were on hers. It was such a gentle kiss that, when they parted, Bess wasn’t sure if it was Tiley’s mouth or the wind that had grazed her lips.

  “I apologize.” Mr. Tiley said, staring at the ground. “I should not have done that.”

  “You should have done that years ago.” Bess smiled at him and he copied her grin before they kissed again. Unlike the first kiss that was so gentle, this kiss was filled with more power and desire and want and urge. Their hands roamed the other’s body. The waistcoat that Mr. Tiley fought to get out of earlier was easily removed by Bess while he found no trouble of removing the top half of her dress to reveal her low-cut chemise. He smiled to see her chest rising and falling in anticipation. He cupped one of her breasts through her undergarment and she let out a soft moan before pulling him down on top of her.

  This was not like Bess. She rarely, if ever, took charge of a situation, especially a situation like the one unfolding with her dear friend Mr. Tiley on a bench in a garden where a party was occurring not more than twenty feet away.

  Not only was Bess taking charge, but she didn’t care what anyone else would think. The only thing she could attribute her change of character to was that the love she had suppressed for Mr. Tiley throughout her life had finally burst out of the confines of her heart. It was something that she wanted the entire world to see, even if it meant the world seeing her and Mr. Tiley now, on a garden bench, wearing as little as Adam and Eve.

  Mr. Tiley leaned over her, his polished hair mussed and in his green eyes caused Bess to nearly lose herself. His body, as she had seen, was finely sculpted, and she could barely wait for him to fill her up.

  “Are you certain this is what you want?” He questioned, his breathing hard.

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “You do realize that we can never be friends again?” Mr. Tiley asked, though the answer was already known.

  “I never liked you that much anyway.” Bess said with a smile before she stroked his unbreakable manhood.

  Oh. My. God.

  I AM GOING TO KILL ANNIE CONNELLY.

  Ten

  Wednesday, July 1st

  “What the hell, Annie?” I don’t even say hello to her as she walks behind the windows. I’m holding up her manuscript with a glare that would make Mussolini back the fuck off.

  “Whose bed did you get up on the wrong side of this morning?” She asks with a laugh. What? How is my scowl not menacing? I’ve been practicing it in the mirror since last night. It’s totally fierce; I had become afraid of me.

  I ignore her question, and drop her story on the counter in front of her. She looks at it for a second before raising an eyebrow at me.

  “I take it you didn’t like it?”

  My left eye twitches, “Annie, you wrote this about me!”

  “Don’t be silly, Jess.” She waves a hand at me, dismissing the idea. “This story isn’t about you.”

  “Really Annie? Because, you know, Bess McDonalds sounds quite similar to Jess Reynolds. Then there’s Marla, which is totally Carla, but with an M. And Mr. Tiley? Come on, that so rhymes with Riley.”

  Annie chuckles, “Please, Jess. It was just a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I say matter-of-factly as I grab the story, “But I’ll accept that since I have more damning evidence. How is this not about me?” I open the packet to page 32 to read an excerpt, “Bess could not take her eyes off the dark-haired man that had just entered the room. Marla had explained that her fiancée’s best friend was an attractive man of Italian heritage but attractive was nowhere near what this man was. Bess looked at him, trying to remember his features, hoping to later replay them in her dreams: broad shoulders, dark curly hair that fell into his chocolate eyes, and a friendly smile that showed his dazzling white teeth. He was introduced as a Mr. Pulcini, and Bess, with her strong imagination, had already thought how lovely it would be for her to be addressed as Mrs. Bess Pulcini.”

  I finish reading and Annie just stares at me, amusement dancing across her face.

  “Mancini, Pulcini. Come on, Annie. And that description? That is the exact description I gave you of Matt.”

  “I think you’re reading what you want to read, Jess.”

  “What?” I ask, exasperated.

  “You’re seeing yourself, and others, in my characters. And it’s great that you’re relating to them, that’s what I want, but I think you’re digging too deeply into it.”

  “But it all rhymes!” So that may not be the best argument, but it’s all I can think of. I mean, rhyming is a pretty powerful literary device. And, okay, so it’s a powerful literary device in poetry, and this is clearly a smut novel, but still… it counts for something, right?

  “You’re grasping at straws, dear.” Annie adds calmly while patting my shoulder in a sad “oh, you poor delusional girl” kind of way.

  I shake her hand off of me, “And just for the record, I would never let a man, how did you put it, ‘take me roughly in the barn while a farmhand watches from a nearby stall.’”

  Annie lets out a sad laugh, “It’s such a shame that you reject the unfamiliar. You have no idea what you are missing, honey child, especially the standing ovations from the audiences.”

  “Audiences?”

  Well, that confirms it: Annie films porn in front of a live studio audience. I mean, I’ve always figured that she was in a porno or two, and this just confirms that belief. And I’m not even going to look for any hidden meanings in the term ‘standing ovations’ from said audiences. Eww.

  I turn back to her story, “This is my life, Annie. I mean, Bess is totally me. She’s sarca
stic and clumsy and overweight and studies languages and her best friend is getting married and she thinks that the Italian Best Man is a sexy man beast but it doesn’t matter because she is so obviously head over heels in love with her best friend’s brother and she doesn’t even realize it...”

  Oh my God.

  “Jess, you okay?”

  “Not at all.”

  ***

  Well, that’s it. I’ve gone off the deep end. I always knew that I would probably be declared clinically insane, what with a mostly absent dad, an overbearing mother, and the sad realization that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life. I knew that this day was going to come.

  I just didn’t think it would be this soon. I thought I would at least be in my forties before I was hauled off to some asylum and restricted to a straightjacket for the remainder of my life.

  But no, I’m only twenty-two and completely crazy.

  “You’ve been quiet for a while, Jess. Are you okay?”

  I sort of nod at Annie. Thankfully, the bank has been mostly quiet and I’ve been able to just sit and think about all that has just transpired.

  I love Riley.

  I love Riley.

  I love Riley?

  Surely not. I mean, he’s Carla’s brother. He’s been my enemy since I’ve understood the concept.

  And, okay, over the past few years, we’ve become close. Riley has really turned into my best friend. Which is weird in itself. I can’t even grasp what level of strange me loving him is.

  Snap out of it Reynolds, you don’t love Riley. Come on, you can’t love him. It’s Riley. Riley Callahan. The same Riley that once pushed you out of his treehouse and broke your arm.

  And, okay, so he was eight and didn’t mean to push me out of the treehouse. Even as a child, I had no sense of balance and was accident-prone, something my mother was sure I would grow out of. The bruise on my knee where I collided with the kitchen cabinet this morning dashes what little, if any, hope she had left for me.

  That brings up a good point… What in the hell is my mom going to say when she finds out that I love Riley?

  What am I thinking? I can’t tell my mom that I love Riley. I can’t tell anyone that I love Riley. Because I don’t. Love him, that is. I’m just going through a lot right now, and all the stress has got to me and weakened my rationality. Maybe I should just go home and take some Tylenol and sleep until this ridiculous idea leaves my mind.

  “Here, drink this.” Annie thrusts a Styrofoam cup into my hand. I take a sip of the hot liquid and nearly spit it out on the counter.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s just coffee.” Annie leans in, “And a touch of bourbon.”

  “Annie!”

  “I’m just trying to bring some color back in your cheeks. You’re white as a ghost.”

  Who is she kidding? I’m always white as a ghost. This newest development has nothing to do with the fact that I can’t keep a tan.

  The feeling that I might be sick is an entirely different story though.

  “Coffee and bourbon isn’t going to fix this.” But vodka and cranberry juice might. I offer her a weak smile, “Thank you though.”

  She smiles back at me before moving to her own window to greet a customer, leaving me to further contemplate my discovery.

  It’s not that Riley is a bad guy or anything. He’s really great, actually. We torture each other but, in all honesty, he’s incredibly nice. I mean, he’s letting me live with him for Pete’s sake. Living with me is no picnic and he’s fully aware of that, but he’s still sharing his house with me. He really loves his family too, and that’s admirable. I have to respect him for that.

  Great, I respect him too. What’s next?

  I groan and lay my head on the counter. This isn’t happening.

  But it so is.

  I guess it could be worse; I could love some dull guy who has no intelligence or a half-smile that gives the butterflies in my stomach jackhammers.

  Because, really, Riley is smart, and he always makes me laugh, whether I want to or not. And, okay, he’s not hideously unattractive. He’s tall with those bright green eyes, and he has that unruly hair that I’ve always wanted to run my hands through to smooth it out.

  Only now, instead of running my hands through his hair to smooth it out, I just want to run my hands through his hair, period.

  I lift up my head and smack myself lightly across the face, just enough to feel a bit of a sting. Okay, that proves that I’m definitely not dreaming. I really am thinking all these things in my waking life.

  And what does it even matter if I love him? I mean, it’s Riley. He’s not going to love me. He’s not bad looking; he could get a girl way more attractive than me, and that’s not a difficult feat to accomplish. He could get a pretty girl who is able to maintain a single digit jean size who understands his process of making mixed CDs and doesn’t argue with him during board games or while trying to figure out the seven degrees of Kevin Bacon, starting with Sandra Bullock – Riley doesn’t think that I should be able to use Beauty Shop as a degree since he doesn’t consider it a movie, but 105 minutes of his life that he’ll never get back. I personally thought the movie was kind of funny. It’s no Ace Ventura (which he uses in the process of getting to Kevin Bacon from Sandra Bullock), but it is still a little humorous.

  That’s what is going to happen, though. Riley is going to meet some fabulous woman who is thin and hates Beauty Shop as much as he does and he will fall madly in love with her. Then he’ll marry her, and Jackson will sleep at the foot of their bed every night. They’ll have a son and a daughter and maybe even a white picket fence and annual trips to Disney World.

  I, on the other hand, will become some crazy cat lady. I’ll live out my days all alone with, like, thirty-six cats. And then I’ll die and no one will care, except for my cats. And they’ll only care because no one is feeding them.

  That sounds about right.

  What am I going to do? I love Riley. Stupid Riley “Smartass-Comment-for-Everything” Callahan. And I know that I just realized this, but it’s been there for a while. What else can explain the goosebumps? Riley has been giving me goosebumps for years, and they’re getting more frequent all the time. Not just anyone will give me goosebumps, and no one has, except for Riley, in a long, long time.

  And what about last night when he tackled me to the ground in our play wrestling match? I was perfectly content lying there under him and looking into those eyes of his and thinking how comfortable and right it all felt.

  Then I realized that it was Riley lying on top of me and that I must have hit my head really hard on the floor or something when I fell.

  I can’t blame a bump on the head for the way I’m feeling now.

  No, I blame Annie and her stupid book. I was just fine until I read her story about Bess and Mr. Tiley and the love breaking through the ‘confines of her heart’ and then all the smut that followed.

  Annie doesn’t know why I’m freaking out. Oh, she knows that something is up, but she hasn’t caught on to the fact that my entire life is scrambled around like a Rubik’s cube… and those things ain’t easy to put back in order, you know. But Annie just thinks that I have PMS or something, and I’m not about to tell her otherwise.

  Because what am I going to say? ‘Oh, I just realized that I’m in love with my best friend, housemate, and pseudo-landlord and now I’m going to have to go live with thirty-six cats until I die.’ Yeah, that’ll go over well.

  I’m not going to be able to live at Riley’s now. I mean, I can’t live with my landlord who I’m in love with. What if he brings home a date? What if he gets a girlfriend? I won’t be able to take it. I really will go off my rocker then.

  Oh no. I’m going to have to move back home. At least until I can get a few paychecks saved up to afford putting down a deposit and first month’s rent on an apartment somewhere. There’s no way that I can move back home and keep my sanity in check. Maybe I can stay at Carla’
s until I get some money saved up?

  Or, maybe, I’ll find out that I’m suffering from a chemical imbalance which makes me think that I love Riley when I really don’t.

  Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen.

  I am so screwed.

  ***

  “Place settings.”

  You know, I’m glad that Carla and I have reached that point in our friendship where we don’t have to say ‘hello’ or ‘how are you?’ to each other. Instead of any niceties, it’s totally okay to say ‘place settings’, shove a calligraphy pen in my hand and make me sit at the table to write out 200 names on parchment as soon as I walk in the door.

  At least when she shoved the calligraphy pen in my right hand, she shoved a fresh strawberry smoothie in my left hand. It’s hard to be mad at anyone who gives you a strawberry smoothie as soon as you walk in the door. Especially after you’ve spent the morning in despair over the fact that you’re in love with a smartass like Riley Callahan and totally unable to talk to anyone about it because your coworker will start rattling off sex advice, your current roommate will get angry because you’re in love with her brother, your best friend is the one you’re in love with, and your mother will kill you dead.

  But, hey, I have a strawberry smoothie; at least my glass isn’t totally empty.

  “I can’t believe I almost forgot the place settings.” Carla is still shaking her head as she punches in a number on her phone.

  Yeah, she almost forgets about the place settings, something that nearly caused her to have a nervous breakdown, but has no trouble remembering that I’m good with a calligraphy pen, a talent I haven’t used since I was in eighth grade art class. And, believe me, it’s showing on these place setting cards.

  Carla ends her phone conversation with Evan’s tailor and looks over my work. If she’s displeased, she doesn’t say so. She just nods and starts dialing another number. Evidently she’s been calling people all day to make sure everything for the wedding is still lined up correctly. So far, everything is on schedule and, according to the meteorologist that she cornered at the news station she works at, the weather will cooperate. I hope he’s right because, if it rains, I have a very strong feeling that Carla will beat the poor weatherman to a pulp.