Page 58 of The List
But I’m not sure I’m ready to open up yet. To let them see the version of me that’s somewhere between dirt-digging PhD and wild vixen. The one who’s actually a little vulnerable.
“We’re giving each other space this weekend,” I tell them. “I let him know it was important to me to spend quality time with my sisters.”
They beam at that, pleased to be the focus of my attention. Lisa grabs my other arm so we’re walking like some awkward six-legged creature down the narrow Newport sidewalk. “We’re glad you came with us, Cass,” she says. “We didn’t think you would.”
“What?” I almost stop walking. “Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know,” Missy says. “You never seem interested in doing stuff with us.”
“You’re always making excuses,” Lisa adds. “Like maybe the kinds of things we’re interested in are boring to someone with a PhD and all those other fancy letters after your name.”
I feel a tightness in my chest that wasn’t there before, and I blink back a sharp sting in my eyes. Is that how my sisters see me? As someone who’s too good to spend time with them? I always thought it was the other way around.
“I’m glad to hang out with you,” I tell them. “It’s been fun.”
With some surprise, I realize I mean it. I really care about my sisters. Sure, we’re opposites in a lot of ways, but we have more in common than I once believed. We love travel and wine and food. We’re generous with each other. We’re passionate about the things that are important to us, even if they’re not the same things. We have a fierce love of family, warts and all.
I’m tempted to talk with them about Simon. To get their opinion on whether I might really have a shot at something serious.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have a crazy flash of hope it’s him. That maybe I summoned him with my thoughts.
But it’s just a note from one of my coworkers about soil samples from a mill site in eastern Oregon. I start to shove my phone back into my pocket, but Missy reaches for it.
“Hey!” she says. “Weren’t you going to show us photos of your man?”
“Oh. Right. Sure.”
They stop walking and huddle up next to me on the sidewalk as I flip through my photo library. I want to angle it away so I can find something flattering instead of all these shots of job sites. I realize that I don’t have any photos of Simon and me together, and I feel a little sad.
At last, I find a shot of him standing in the woods. I snapped it when he was turned away, gazing out through the trees at the mountains in the distance. This was just after the Forest Service ranger left, but just before we had sex again, this time across the bench seat of my truck.
It’s just his profile, but you can still see his face a little. And you can definitely see his ass. His snug jeans that make it clear the man knows his way around a gym. I hold the phone out so my sisters can see.
“Wow.” The stunned look on Missy’s face makes me even happier than this single syllable does.
“That’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Still, I’m smiling as I peer at the screen. “That’s Simon.”
I feel a weird sense of possession when I say his name.
“He looks sort of familiar.” Missy wrinkles her nose the way she does when she’s thinking. “What did you say his last name is?”
I didn’t, actually. As a matter of fact, I’m ashamed to admit I don’t remember. I know he told me weeks ago, but it went in one ear and out the other. At a certain point, it becomes awkward to ask the man you’re sleeping with, “excuse me, what was your name again?”
But there’s no way in hell I’m admitting this to my sisters. Will one more little white lie really hurt?
“Simon—Simon Glass,” I say. “His name is Simon Glass.”
Oh my God. I realize I’ve just blatantly stolen this from an old Brady Bunch episode where Jan Brady invents a fake boyfriend named George Glass. I say a silent prayer my sisters won’t remember this. They were always more interested in watching the Home and Garden network anyway.
Luckily, no one bats an eyelash. “Simon Glass,” Missy repeats. “Huh. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Lisa frowns. “So, you’d be Cassie Glass if you got married?”
“No,” I say with exaggerated patience. “I’d keep my maiden name, of course. It’s the twenty-first century. Women can keep their maiden names, you know.”
Good Lord. I can’t believe I just answered that question. That I’m even entertaining my sisters’ domesticated inquiries instead of scoffing at them like I normally would. I look down at myself to make sure I haven’t spontaneously sprouted a cashmere sweater set and pearls.
