DAMN KARMA
Connor
Dinnerwith the Fisher family was a mistake.
Damn Drew for the invitation. Damn me for not finding a good enough excuse to get out of it. Dammit to hell that I really, really wanted to see her.
And damn karma—the evil bitch.
“Gretchen isn’t what I expected.” Lauren’s voice snaps me back to the present.
“Why do you say that?” I ask cautiously as we walk back to my apartment.
“None of you told me that she was a freaking goddess!”
Stunned, I come to a halt on the sidewalk and Lauren turns to me. “What are you talking about?” While I agree thatgoddessis a fitting description of my best friend’s sister, my girlfriend saying it feels like a trap.
She hits me with a look of exasperation. “Connor, come on. She’s this dark-haired, tan, exotic beauty and I can’t believe nobody ever mentioned it.”
I’ve intentionally minimized mentions of Gretchen in our conversations over the years. There’s a zone of comfort I’ve created that I’ve kept limited to the most surface level facts: she’s Drew’s little sister who was around some when we were kids. That’s it. The deeper truth beyond that, my best friend doesn’t even know.
Lauren, for all her good qualities, is pretty insecure. She’s beautiful, yet constantly puts herself down. She’s great at her job, yet constantly chases the accolades of her coworkers. I’ve never judged her harshly for any of it because everyone has insecurities and she’s a great person in so many other ways.
My prolonged silence threatens to raise her suspicions, so I say, “Well, her brother doesn’t think of her that way and I mean…I guess she’s pretty, but I’ve known her since she was nine so…I don’t know, I’ve never really looked at her that way.” That last part is a bold-faced lie because Gretchen most certainly did not stay a kid forever. Neither did I. When she grew up—when webothdid—I took notice.
Lauren hums thoughtfully, then spins on her heel and starts to walk again. Our strides find their rhythm, heels clicking on concrete, car horns blaring in the distance, when she adds, “I guess I expected her to be more like Drew. You know, playful, full of life, never stops smiling. She just seemed like she didn’t want to be there.”
Something sharp and heavy settles over me. Karma doing her thing.
Gretchen’s always been quiet; an introvert. But the girl I remember would come alive around her family…and me. Tonight, though, she looked like she wished she could be anywhere else except at that table. I’m the one to blame for the apprehensive girl with the forced smile who avoided eye contact like the plague, who barely looked up from her dinner plate. Except when she did, those magnetic brown eyes found mine, making my heart seize in my chest.
As we enter the lobby of my building, the knots taking shape in my stomach have me feeling sick. I suggest to Lauren that she sleep at her own place tonight. I may not be legitimately ill, but her comments have left me unsettled.
When her Uber arrives, I give her a kiss on the cheek and tell her I’ll call her tomorrow. As the car drives away, I’ve never been more thankful that we have separate apartments. Though we’ve discussed the possibility of moving in together plenty over the course of our relationship.
The first time the subject came up, we were a couple weeks shy of our one-year anniversary and I had taken her home to meet my family over Thanksgiving. While they would never speak badly about her to me outright, it was obvious she didn’t fit in with our family.
To be fair, Lauren wasn’t herself that weekend and I don’t entirely blame her. She was so nervous. Meeting your boyfriend’s family is a big deal, but I didn’t anticipate how uncomfortable she would be.
My mom, the warmest person on the planet, invited her to help her, my sister-in-law and brother’s girlfriend with meal prep. Lauren politely declined. Instead, she retreated to the dining room to fuss with napkin folds that nobody cared about. Meanwhile, my dad, top-tier conversationalist, couldn’t connect with her at all. Once she started on about her privileged childhood—the Chicago penthouse apartment, full-service housekeeper and family chef—Dad checked out. He stopped talking so she talked more thinking it would get him to talk, but he kept not talking so she kept talking and…well, the loop became insufferable.
Lauren’s upbringing has always stirred up my own feelings of inadequacy. She’s not a snob or entitled, but she’s open about wanting the life she had growing up. She wants the penthouse apartment and the husband who takes over her father’s company when he retires, but I love my cozy one-bedroom and owning a business has never been a life goal for me.
Our priorities are very different; an issue that sends red flags flying at full mast in my brain any time she brings up the idea of living together. I’m ashamed to say, I’ve continuously kicked the cohabitation can down the road with empty promises likemaybe after the holidaysorlet’s talk when my lease ends in six months.
If we move in together, the next step is marriage. After two andhalf years together, I should want to marry her. But I don’t. I’ve been in such denial about the state of our relationship that I’m constantly reminding myself of all the reasons she’s great.
She’s gorgeous. She’s fun. She makes me laugh and loves to be the life of the party. She makes a really big deal out of birthdays and milestones. The people in her orbit always feel appreciated and seen. She’s great with kids and will make a kick-ass PTA president one day.
The truth is, the right guy—herright guy—would be lucky to have her.
Two hours later, I’m lying in bed, locked in a staring contest with my ceiling. My mind races with thoughts of nothing and everything.
Lauren. Gretchen. Drew. The Cubs game. Work. My lips on Gretchen’s neck. Lauren. Gretchen’s hands fisting the lapels of my jacket. Lauren. Work. Lauren. Gretchen.
Gretchen.
The rush of affection I felt when I saw her, the warmth that coursed through me when I hugged her, the ache that echoed in my chest with every second of eye contact, only reminds me of the self-inflicted wound I’ve spent three years trying to bury.
