Page 11 of Her Counterfeit Christmas
Meg blows out a long, exhausted breath. “It will probably never happen again.” She notices what I’m wearing. “Those aren’t pajamas. Where are you going?”
She and Livy hate Spencer, so I hedge.
“It’s a last-minute thing. I’m meeting up with a friend. I’m sorry to miss our movie night.”
There must be something in my voice or look because her eyes narrow.
“Does this friend happen to be an ex-boyfriend who you keep taking back?”
How does she read me so easily? “Why would you say that?”
“Because I can’t imagine anyone else you would ditch your roommates for at the last minute. Unless it’s an emergency?”
Getting money to take care of Nana is an emergency, but Meg and Livy don’t know about my money woes. Finances have always been personal and something for me to deal with by myself.
“No emergency.”
Meg sags. “So, itisSpencer.”
Caught. “It’s only dinner. We’re friends.”
“You’re wearing your lucky boots. What kind of luck are you hoping for with yourfriend?”
I slide my left foot toward the door. The right follows. “It’s not a big deal.”
She waves her hand. “Just remember how unhappy you were the last time you dated, okay?”
“I remember.”
“Good.”
Dating Spencer wasn’t all bad, nor was I always unhappy, but I did him a disservice by complaining to Livy and Meg every time he canceled a date or completely forgot we made plans because he was busy at work. Now that’s all they remember. They refuse to listen when I tell them how kind and generous he can be when he remembers my existence.
We tried dating three times and broke up each time because his work always comes first. I’d like a boyfriend who makes me a priority. I’m almost thirty, and I haven’t found one yet.
Meg stands and stretches. “Don’t worry about missing movie night. My parents surprised me by coming into town for the week. They’re taking me to dinner. I was going to invite you and Livy to come with us.”
“That’s great they’re here! Sorry I can’t go to dinner with you.”
She doesn’t visit her family in Idaho often, so it’s special that they came down to visit her. No time to chat about it. I’ve got to go if I want to make it to the restaurant on time.
“Tell Livy for me?” I ask.
“Sure, but you owe me. I hate being the bearer of bad news.”
“Thanks.”
I open the door and find a breathless Livy on the other side struggling with a half-dozen over-full grocery bags in her hands.
Drat. Caught twice.
I go through the entire explanation about Spencer and our platonic dinner again and finally make my escape.
During the drive to downtown Salt Lake City, and while I try to find a parking space, I rehearse how I’ll ask Spencer for help. I have never had to ask for money from a friend before, and the humiliation might kill me if the crazy holiday traffic doesn’t first.
L’oie Bleueis overwhelmingly gorgeous, and that’s from the outside. All sleek, black lines and warm-lit windows. When I walk through the front door, heated air whooshes past me, a blessed relief from the bitter winter night. Once I’m out of the wind, I take in the candle-lit tables, a live string quartet, and the waitstaff in their black shirts and slacks with white aprons and white hand towels over their left arms.
It’s all I can do not to turn around and leave. When Spencer and I dated, he took me to fancy restaurants all the time, but not toL’oie Bleue. It’s a cut above the rest and impostor syndrome hits like a sledgehammer.
