Page 49 of Contingently Yours
Is he saying he has regrets over the debonair way he flies through life? Shooting me a look, he must notice my confused frown because he rolls his eyes.
His hands move again, but what I hear next isn’t a sarcastic choice, at least not to my ears. Elton John’s ‘Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word’ flows out of the piano like a wave of regret.
“Put it this way. We didn’t braid each other’s hair in the Broadhouse family. And no one consults me on my opinions about weddings, other family functions, or anything, for that matter.”
He remembered I used to braid the girls’ hair? Shit. I need to stop taking phone calls in front of him.
“Because you slept with all their interns on purpose?” I ask, genuinely curious if I’ve hit the mark.
A derisive laugh cuts the song short. “Jealous?”
The jerk. He’s so conceited. Correct, but conceited.
“No. I’m just trying to understand why you could fuck up so badly at publishing and then become the best agent Lou has.” If he overheard my phone conversations, I no longer care if he knows I overheard his, too.
“Because I’m good at what I do, sweetheart. I hope you’ve been taking notes.”
I stare at him, equal parts frustrated and baffled. “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Avoid saying what you really mean.”
His cackle barks across the distance between us. “Uh, I reallyamgood at selling properties. Scout’s honor.” Holding up his index and middle finger, he feigns a solemn expression, but then frowns. “Or have you been in a coma for the last four years?”
As I watch his brow wrinkle in laughter, it’s like seeing numbers appear in one of those color blindness tests. It’s clear he thinks he’s a comedian, but his method is all sarcasm. He can’t even answer a simple question. It’s not like I’m being antagonistic. I know we started off on two wrong feet, but he should know me well enough by now to know that I don’t kick people when they’re down.
“You’re such a coward.” I shake my head, saying it mostly for my own ears.
“What?” He laughs. “Oh, please. Do tell.”
When we first started this trip, my annoyance kept me from speaking to him. Then, whenthingshappened, it was my nerves. I’m annoyed with him right now, but for new reasons, and while some stupid part of me still wants him, I’m grateful my nerves have taken a back seat.
“Anytime someone wants to talk about anything remotely serious or uncomfortable for you, you make jokes or get insulting.”
“Yeeeah. It isextremelyuncomfortable for me to talk about how amazing I am at being a real estate agent,” he drawls.
“And playing the piano. And talking about how your family is disappointed in you,” I add, because he needs to look in a damn mirror if no one’s ever held one up for him.
“Wow,” he deadpans with a slow clap of his hands. “Well done. You got me.”
He’s so fucking stubborn. All he’s doing is proving my point, so I hold out my hand and gesture to him. “Exactly.”
“Okay, what else?” He chuckles, waggling his fingers in the air for me to lay it on him.
I’ve only got one other major example. It’s as difficult for me to fathom voicing as I assume it will be for him to admit, but I’m sick of not seeing who the real Andrew Broadhouse is.
“And…trying to pretend you’re not attracted to me.”
The amused sound he lets out seems overdramatized. It means I’m right, but the sound still hurts.
“Ah, there it is! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a request!”
It takes me a second to make out the melody he plays next. When I do, I want to march over there and slam the lid down on his fingers.
When ‘I Touch Myself’by the Divines stops, he meets my glare with a thoughtful look. “I can try a country version of it if you prefer.”
“You’re fucking hilarious.”
