Page 1 of If My Wishes Came True
I’ve always been a sucker for a happy ending.
My heart flutters as I watch my newlywed clients in their brand-new home, seated on the loveseat across from me, flipping through my interior design portfolio. They’re the picture of happily ever after, fresh off the heels of their fairytale wedding and dreamy honeymoon in Italy. The bride’s tucked under the groom’s arm, their thighs touching. As she scans each page, her husband’s gaze is mostly on her. Whenever she sees a design she likes, she smiles, which makes his face light up. It’s the sweetest thing. She’s in running shorts and a t-shirt, with her hair in a messy bun, and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he’s never seen anyone more beautiful.
It’s refreshing to meet a man this devoted. The kind of husband I don’t have to worry about. Some husbands I’ve worked with have wandering eyes. They think I’m dressed to the nines forthem, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I’ve always loved fashion. Plus, I’m petite, so I wear stilettos fortheir functionality. I look much younger than thirty as it is, and being the shortest person in the room doesn’t help.
But that’s not what these husbands are thinking about when their gazes travel from my high heels to the hem of my dress. I can practically read their minds:She’s blonde and bubbly. Sexy. Why not try my luck?While their wives are busy preparing tea or coffee, they slip me their cell phone numbers, or make passes at me. My blood boils…but I keep smiling as I announce to their wives that I’m on my way to help them in the kitchen.
Thankfully, I don’t have to deal with any of that today. And now I know there are at least two honorable men in this world. My new client, Mr. Torres—who just went upstairs to get his wife a sweatshirt because he thought she looked cold (be still my heart)—and Dex Oliver.
Yes,thatDex Oliver. The Oscar-winning actor and mental health advocate. I’m good friends with him and his wife, Sunny. And boy, is their love story one for the ages. There’s no denying those two were meant to be together. If you saw the way they looked at each other, you’d understand. It’s the same with Mr. and Mrs. Torres, here.
After we wrap up our meeting, they walk me to the door, and I can’t help but eye the paintings hanging in their foyer. Mr. and Mrs. Torres hired me to design a nursery, so I won’t be tinkering with their art collection, unfortunately. Choosing artwork for my clients is the only part of my job that excites me. And there’sa lotI could do with this wall.
Trust me, I’m the last person you’d ever accuse of being full of herself, but I truly believe I’m a better painter than this particularartist. Never mind that it’s been years since I’ve picked up a paintbrush. A knot forms in my stomach as my gaze sweeps over each painting, imagining the magic I could create with a blank canvas of my own. But before the longing gets too intense, I leave.
The minute I step out of the elevator and into the lobby of their building—a skyscraper in downtown Chicago—I swap my stilettos for the sneakers in my tote bag, so I can walk the mile and a half back home. As usual, I’m in no rush to get back to my empty apartment.
On my leisurely stroll, I admire the city’s architecture. I moved here from LA two months ago and still can’t get over how beautiful Chicago is. I decide to walk out of my way a bit, toward the lake. And I can’t resist stopping at Olive Park, which has the most breathtaking view of the skyline.
It’s a perfect summer day. The sky is clear blue. The sun is glinting on the lake’s subtle waves. The trees all around me are lush and bright green. I let myself get lost in all the different colors I see.
I do this a lot—imagine what paint colors I’d mix on a palette to replicate each shade. I’d have to start with a deep?—
A wolf-whistle interrupts my daydream.
When I turn around, there are three frat boys in Kappa Sigma gear stopped dead in their tracks, staring at me. Their eyes are practically bugging out of their heads.
“Damn, she’s hot as fuck!” the one on the left exclaims, elbowing his friend in the middle, whose jaw drops.
“We’re on our way to the beach,” says the guy on the right. “Wanna join us?” The way he and his buddies are ogling memakes my skin crawl.
This happens to me so often, I figured at some point I’d get desensitized—but no. I’mscreamingon the inside. Regardless, I playfully roll my eyes and smile at them. “Sorry, guys…I have a boyfriend,” I lie. Then I turn around and pray they’ll keep walking.
They do, but not without one last comment from the bro on the left. “That dress would look great on my bedroom floor!” he yells as his friends laugh.
I bite my tongue to keep from cursing at him. But I’m not the cursing type, anyway. I’m Jenna Andersen. Head cheerleader. Homecoming queen. That’s what people want from me, so that’s what I give them. If stifling feelings were an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medalist.
I make it to my high-rise building without further incident. There’s a moving truck parked out front, and I see a man pulling boxes from it, but he’s turned away from me. Still, there’s a pang of dread in my gut. I happen to know the apartment next to me is vacant because I looked at it too, before I settled on mine. Now all I can think is,Please don’t tell me this guy with his toned, tanned arms and backward baseball cap is moving in next door to me.Odds are, he’s no better than the frat boys who catcalled me at the park.
Ugh.I wish I could curl up on my couch and watch romantic comedies for the rest of the night. But I have a first date to get ready for. I’m in a great headspace for it, I know.
It doesn’t matter—I’m not looking for anything serious, anyway. I gave up on love a long time ago. Not for others, of course. Like I said before, I’ve always been a sucker for a happy ending. And when it comes to romantic movies, the sappier the better.
I just don’t think that kind of love is in the cards for me.
There was a time in my life I was sure I’d foundthe one. But I was wrong. And while I didn’t give up on love right away, every major relationship I’ve had since then has blown up in my face. So I’m trying to keep my relationships casual. But it’s a lot easier said than done, especially now that I’m thirty. Suddenly every man in my age bracket is looking to settle down.
Which is why, tonight, I’m going out with a guy who’s forty-five and recently divorced. He’s the brother of one of my interior design clients. Since neither of us is looking for anything serious, she offered to set us up.
Back in my apartment, I pick a rom-com to half-watch as I get ready for my date. Some people need a playlist of their favorite songs to hype them up, but I prefer stolen glances from across a crowded room and first kisses in the rain.
I chooseFour Weddings and a Funeral.I was a freshman in high school when I first saw it with Jake Brenner, a junior. The young male attendant almost turned us away because the movie was rated R, and I was only fourteen. But when I batted my eyelashes at him, he let us in. I’ve kept that weapon in my arsenal ever since.
I know I’m lucky to look the way I do. I only wish more people cared to see what’s beneath the exterior. Jake definitely didn’t. Inside the theater, he sat with his arm around me, and I had to keep swatting his hand away from my breast. I was stupid to think he wanted to get to know me—everyone knew he had a thing for blonde cheerleaders. As soon as his gropey fingers made his intentions clear, I lost interest in him.
But damn if I didn’t fall in love with romantic comedies that day. I was totally smitten with the idea of love at first sight. Of true love announcing itself with a flash of lightning and thunder. I couldn’t wait for it to happen to me.
I was naïve then.
