Page 30 of Minted
The reality is depressingly close in all the worst ways: Bentley’s been exactly the playboy I’ve always known him to be, and he’s asking for my help to find the perfect woman, because that’s exactly what he deserves now that he’s finally ready to settle down with someone.
I, on the other hand, am looking for the human equivalent of a Buick LeSabre. Driving a McLaren is just a ruse that’s going to leave me very, very unsatisfied in the end. Basically, I’m playing with fire, and I’m finally realizing that I’m going to get burned.
It would help me a great deal if he’d stop sending me photos, but a small, stupidly-optimistic part of me hopes that he doesn’t. And when I get home that night, I update my profile photo to the one he sent. I’d been avoiding updating it, now that I’ve gained weight, but he’s right that I don’t look so bad.
I just don’t look good enough to be standing next to Bentley. Which is how I know it’s not going to happen for real.
Ever.
8
Bentley
A lot of guys called Dave Garbage Guy when we were in school. A lot of them. It ticked me off, but it wasn’t a problem I was equipped to solve. When I told them to stop calling him that, they’d ask me why. When I said it was because he was my friend, they’d just laugh or mock me, too. It always stirred up more interest and got more people to use the name.
The guy who started the whole thing was named Mark Bateman.
His dad owned a bunch of car dealerships, and he planned to inherit them one day. He didn’t need to be smart, and he knew it. He never bothered to work hard, and none of the teachers had any sway with him. But then, one day, his dad’s company had to file for Chapter Eleven.
Now, that’s not something that most kids would even know.
Only, I read the news every day, and I saw that my dad was the judge handling the case, so suddenly, he had a lot of power over Mark Bateman. When his father realized who I was, he made a big deal out of it to me, telling me that anything I needed, his son would be sure to do.
I’m a little ashamed to think about how I behaved around Mark.
I made him follow me and Dave around carrying our gym clothes. I made him give us his lunch. I made him apologize to Dave, on his knees, even.
When I had the chance, I did not take the high road.
Because he’d been a huge bully, it was so freaking fun. I wish I could say that I regretted it, but I never did. I’m sure if I ever have kids, I’ll have to lie about it. But last night, at that holiday party? It felt just like that. The funny part is that I didn’t even have to do anything mean or anything I regret doing. All I had to do was show up and point out how amazing Barbara was.
Everyone can see her. They know she’s smart, witty, hard working, elegant, stylish, and gorgeous. It was clear they had been gossiping about her breakup with James the Jerk. All I had to do was highlight what they already knew.
James traded in a sleek grey Ferrari for a bright red Audi.
Not that I think Barbara should be compared to a car. I feel bad even thinking about that. But still, the point is that she shone like the Christmas lights she so admired last night, and the only one who didn’t see it was her. It was really, really fun tormenting her ex, and I liked sending her five or six photos.
But I have a new goal for the next few holiday parties.
I’ve learned a little bit from watching Seren. Twenty-five years ago, instead of making Mark Bateman follow us around, instead of torturing him for making Dave feel small, I should’ve made Dave see that he was amazing, like Seren has. If I had done that, he wouldn’t have been hurt by stupid taunts like ‘Garbage Guy.’ Last night, on our way home, I realized that James isn’t the problem.
The problem is that Barbara believes the crap he fed her.
She should know that she’s worthy. She should see that she’s not at fault. Instead of making him feel low—which felt pretty good, I won’t lie—I need to make Barbara see just how amazing she is. Then she won’t care what James or anyone else thinks.
But I’ll have to figure that out later.
Barbara just texted me. SEND ME A PHOTO OF YOU.
I make a duck face—which I’m absolutely awful at—and send it over.
NO, YOU MORON. I NEED TO SEE WHAT YOU’RE WEARING.
I WAS KIDDING, I lie. Then I snap a new photo and send it.
ARE YOU GOING TO PROM?
Huh? WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?
