Page 103 of Lovebug
But that feeling was nothing compared to what was happening in my belly right now.
Hiswife?
Too shocked to respond, I stand there motionless and breathless for… I don’t know how long. Long enough, though, that when I do get my wits about me again, I realize two things.
One: Tina is out of sight, and I have no way of contacting her again. And two: Wally is staring at me across the crowd with a concerned look on his face.
I avert my eyes from his immediately, and I get the hell out of there.
Chapter Twenty
I’m midway through my inaugural viewing ofDirty Dancing—holy moly Patrick Swayze!—
and drinking what I’m starting to suspectmaybe a corked bottle of wine. Someone must have given it to my parents as a gift. In like 1987. But isn’t wine supposed to get better with time? Maybe it needs to “breathe?” Guess I’ll keep sipping.
Despite how truly awesome the movie is, I’m having a hard time focusing, and I press pause right as Baby runs her hand over Johnny’s truly spectacular rear end while they’re dancing in his shack.
I also know a sexy guy who lives in a shack.
Stop it. Do not think about the sexy guy who lives in a shack. He’s a liar. A married liar. Or at the very least a married truth-withholder. I’m not interested in spending time with any truth-withholders. And being married is obviously and absolutely a deal-breaker. You know what I need to do? I need to find out who his wife is and send her the world’s most epic apology letter asap. Also a fruit basket. That’s appropriate under the circumstances, isn’t it?
But my head is filled with more bizarre events from today than just the ones involving Wallace. (Yes, he’s been demoted to Wallace. He’ll get no more “Wallys” from me). I’m starting to think that he’s not the only one who’s been withholding the truth from me. My parents, Tina, even Naomi Thornton… what do they know that they’re not telling me?
I did do some snooping today. Cyndi would be proud. I started out on the computer, googling around, trying to find more information on Aunt Tina. Searching for a phone number, an address, a place of employment. Anything. Being that I don’t know what her married name is, though, I came up with very little. A few mentions of her standings in track meets back in her high school days and a photo of her winning a local science fair were about all the internet had to offer. Sure, I could call my parents in the Poconos and tell them what happened today. But they’ve never been forthcoming with information on this subject before, so I’m not fooling myself into thinking that will magically change now. So I moved on to some physical spaces in the house I’m never privy to. Maybe Mom and Dad’s things will tell me the stories they refuse to. I started in their closet and medicine cabinet. But when I found a bottle of generic drug store lubricant on mom’s side and a bottle of “erectile dysfunction support” pills on dad’s… well, that was enough feedback for me for one day, and I returned to my corked wine and classic 80s films.
Just as I’m about to un-pause Patrick’s booty swirl, a text from a number I don’t recognize lights up my phone.
Unknown:I can explain.
Me:Explain what? Also, new phone. Who dis?
FYI, I don’t actually have a new phone. I’ve just always wanted to say, “New phone. Who dis.” So I decided to make that particular little dream come true. Boom. Go me.
Unknown:It’s Wally.
I’m undeniably angry with this guy right now, but that doesn’t stop me from programming him into my contacts quicker than you can say ‘can-you-get-fired-for-showering-with-your-boss-if-you-didn’t-know-he-was-your-boss-at-the-time’?
Me:Hello, Bieber.
I wonder if he picks up on the classic Seinfeld inflection I use when I type this. My snide “Hello, Bieber” sounds an awful lot like Jerry’s “Hello, Newman.” At least in my head. As we all know, it’s hard to convey tone over text.
Wally:Please don’t call me Bieber.
Me:Okay. Boss?
At that point, my phone rings.
It’s him.
Nerves hit me in a wave. Well, I can’t pretend I’m not available to pick up the phone because clearly, I am. I press the answer button, and my hand shakes a bit as I lift the phone to my ear. Why is the thought of talking to him more intimidating than texting?
“At what point were you going to tell me that you are my boss?! Mymarriedboss?!”
Wow. I surprise myself by being the conversation opener.
“I wasn’t.” A delicious male voice comes through the phone.
Delicious? Since when do I think a voice can be ‘delicious’?
