Set on You Page 6

  “I am, actually.” Tara looks genuine. By the way she’s lowered her shoulders, I think she might even be a little relieved. “You know Dad would be all for it. It would be responsible and economical.” She mimics Dad’s voice.

  Grandma Flo smiles in agreement. “You know, I think I might take you up on that. I’d have to discuss it with Marty first, but I’m sure he will love the idea.”

  As she and Tara embrace in a sentimental moment, I try to envision what Grandma is going to wear. Will she go for a traditional bridal gown? A ball gown? Some sort of elegant pantsuit? The whole thing is bizarre and near impossible to imagine, as I’ve only ever seen her wear her signature Grandma outfits. The ones adorned with nature patterns on the front. A pair of loons. A maple leaf. A fox. Certainly not a wedding dress.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Grandma Flo says, clasping her hands together. “Do you have plans tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t think so.” I rest my head against the back of the couch and stare at the ceiling, silently willing life to return to a simpler time when Grandma Flo wasn’t taking over Tara’s wedding. Better yet, when I wasn’t climbing my nameless nemesis in the gym after vowing off random hookups. I need a strong drink.

  “Good. I’d like you to meet Martin’s family. We made a reservation at Mamma Maria’s.”

  I let out a prolonged sigh at the thought of spending my night socializing with strangers. Tara covers up my less-than-enthusiastic response by fawning over the ring, interspersed with detailed wedding talk. I throw in the odd nod and squeal so as to appear semi-thrilled while still in shock. Grandma eventually packs up the rest of her cookies (for Martin) and leaves, but not before expressing disapproval of my leggings, pointing out my severe camel toe.

  “Crystal.” Tara tosses the sequin throw pillow at me the moment the door closes. “Don’t you dare go all Meet the Fockers on Martin. He’s a sweet old man.”

  I toss the pillow back. It bounces off her knee and onto the floor. “What makes you think I’ll go Robert De Niro on him? I don’t own a lie detector test.”

  “Yet.” She pauses. “And because that’s just what you do. You go into mama-bear mode. On everyone.”

  I pull back, brows knit. “No. I don’t.”

  She gives me a pointed look, as if this is something she’s been meaning to bring up. “You’ve hated every guy I ever dated. Did you know Seth was terrified of you? You didn’t even speak a word to him until probably six months into our relationship. And that was just to ask him to borrow his veggie spiralizer.”

  I stare at her. I never did give the spiralizer back. Probably because zucchini pasta has become a staple in my diet, and also because I just knew Seth was going to suck. But maybe Tara has a point. The last thing I want to do is upset Grandma Flo if she’s found a second chance at happiness.

  “I’ll be nice. I promise.”

  chapter seven

  MARTIN NO LONGER has a mustache. I’ve spent the past half hour staring at the bare skin of his upper lip, as well as the sizable mole on his neck. There’s a hair poking out of the center that I’m resisting the urge to pluck.

  He’s been droning on and on about his many family members as they enter the private room in the restaurant. He spares no detail with the backstories, like how his great-niece got straight A’s in every course in her latest college semester at Duke despite dealing with asbestos in her dorm room.

  I know he’s just being friendly, trying to acquaint our families. But finding out the breadth of his eldest daughter’s latest shingles flare-up isn’t exactly ideal conversation prior to eating a four-course Italian dinner.

  “Crystal, can you come here for a second?” Mom interrupts. She tugs at my elbow, gifting Martin a massively fake smile. I’ve inherited her inability to temper her facial expressions, particularly when she is displeased.

  “Yeah?” I whisper, leaning in.

  Mom’s nervous gaze flutters around the candlelit room, taking in the awkwardness that is our two families, standing divided on either side of the table.

  Mom’s side of the family, the McCarthys, are a formal bunch. We’re a small group, with Mom only having her brother and his two kids. We’re not overly boisterous, like the Chens, Dad’s side of the family.

  Everyone is trying to remain calm and collected while feeling hella uncomfortable at the sight that is Grandma Flo draping her entire body over Martin on the chaise lounge, posing harder than Tyra Banks for photos. Martin hasn’t stopped showering her with cringeworthy affection all evening.

  Martin’s family appears to be your standard white, down-to-earth, Midwestern, American-born-and-bred crowd. He has three kids, plus their grown children, and a bunch of siblings, all enthusiastically talking about their cottages and the upcoming fishing season. They’re also taking advantage of the open bar, cheerfully slapping each other on the back and shouting many decibels too loud for this room.

  “Just wanted to save you from the shingles conversation.” Mom winks, pushing her bangs from her eyes. After one conversation, it’s clear Martin is an oversharer. The opposite of Grandpa’s perpetually crusty, reserved nature.

  “How are you feeling about it all?” I ask her sympathetically. She, of anyone, probably took this news the hardest. She was really close to Grandpa. Tara claimed Mom was fine, but I don’t trust her, given her paranoia I’ll channel Robert De Niro and ruin the entire dinner.

  Mom fiddles with her champagne flute, forcing another grin. “Fine. Why wouldn’t I be? If Grandma is happy, so am I.” Apparently Tara wasn’t exaggerating.

  She has a point. Grandma looks so full of life, dressed in a classy gold lace dress and matching shawl. Her short gray hair is neatly styled into old-school waves. She is still tucked under Martin’s arm, mid–Julia Roberts laugh, as he gazes at her like she’s the light of his life.

  “You look gorgeous tonight.” Mom takes in my navy cocktail dress. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you out of your Lulus.” As much as she’d deny it, I know her comment is a slight against my career choice.

  “You know I can’t wear anything but Align leggings for the rest of my life,” I say, deciding this isn’t the time or the place to get into it. And besides, these leggings are everything. Lululemon credits me for converting hundreds of women to the glorious, life-changing comfort that is their Align legging. “No Hillary tonight?”

  Mom lets out a sorrowful sigh and I immediately regret bringing it up. “The restaurant wouldn’t allow it without proper paperwork to prove she’s a service dog.”

  I level a hard stare at her. “Mom, Hillary is not a service dog. You have to stop telling people that.”

  Mom clutches her chest, appalled that I went there. “She’s like a therapy dog to me.”

  “We talked about this. It’s a real certification, you know. Some people need them for legitimate health reasons. Not just because they’re obsessed with their dog and can’t leave them alone without having a meltdown.”

  Mom apparently disagrees, rolling her eyes in defiance. She chugs the rest of her champagne like it’s water as Grandma Flo announces it’s finally time to sit down for dinner.

  She made name cards for everyone, as she always does for family dinners. They sit among the brightly colored ranunculus floral arrangements, artfully prepared by Tara and Mom earlier today.

  Unfortunately, the families are purposely intermixed, one of us between two or three of them, to help us get to know each other. An introvert’s worst nightmare.

  I have the luxury of sitting smack-dab in between Martin himself and a place card that reads Scott in flowing calligraphy. Of all the Ritchie family members I was introduced to tonight, I don’t recall meeting anyone named Scott. As the waiters begin to serve the salad, I notice every seat at the table is filled, except for Scott’s.

  Martin leans in to me, crunching his Caesar salad. A bit of crouton flies out of his
mouth, landing dangerously close to my wrist, and I immediately set it onto my lap under the protection of the tablecloth. “You’ll be beside my grandson, Scotty.” He gives me a glowing smile, as if I’ve hit the jackpot as far as seating arrangements are concerned. Joy.

  I’m momentarily distracted by Dad throwing Martin’s son an animated high-five across the table. Dad is one of those people who can walk into a room full of strangers and exit fifteen minutes later with new, lifelong best friends. He’s a quintessential extrovert, the first to arrive at a social gathering and always the last to leave.

  “Looks like Scotty is running a bit late,” I say, eyeing the empty chair beside me.

  A green-eyed woman with a stylish bob, whom Martin introduced as Patricia, his daughter-in-law, shifts forward diagonally across from me. “He told me he was coming right after his shift,” she says, glancing at her watch. By the way her nose is wrinkled with annoyance, I’m assuming that’s his mother.

  “He’s a firefighter, my grandson,” Martin informs me proudly. “Followed in the family footsteps.”

  I scan Martin, trying to imagine him as a firefighter forty years ago, to no avail. “You must be proud of him.”

  Grandma Flo pipes up from Martin’s other side. “Oh, Tara, speaking of Scotty. Wait till you see him. The man is a looker.”

  Both Tara and I shift uncomfortably in our seats. Since Tara’s failed engagement, Grandma Flo has been obsessed with playing matchmaker for her.

  It isn’t that I want my grandmother setting me up with random dudes. But out of principle, I once asked why she hasn’t tried to set me up. She waved it off, calling me one of those “independent types.” She then followed it up by admiring my face, going on about how I’m a perfect mix of my parents, and how rare it is that I’d have my mom’s hazel-gold eyes. Complimenting my “facial beauty” is typical when people try to compensate, falsely assuming I’m in need of a confidence boost where my body is concerned.

  For Tara’s sake, I attempt to shift the focus away from her singleness. “If Scott is such a looker, why is he single?” I toss in a grin to ensure everyone knows I’m joking.

  “He’s not.” Martin nods back toward Patricia. “He’s dating that professional figure skater. Diana. Isn’t he, Patricia?”

  Patricia nods. “They’ve been together about six months now. Though she’s on tour doing Disney on Ice,” she adds, distractedly glancing at her watch once again. “I don’t want you guys to have to wait for him. He’s probably still at work, as usual.”

  Martin shrugs. “Duty calls.”

  My annoyance with this tardy Scott character only grows upon confirmation that he’s the sole reason no one except Martin has touched their salad yet. It’s already seven thirty. I ate light in anticipation of a massive meal tonight, by seven at the latest. I wondered why they were delaying cocktails and appetizers.

  Martin sets his hand over the back of Grandma’s chair before pressing a kiss on her temple. “Scotty won’t mind if we get started. I’ll go ahead and start my speech.” He tosses his cloth napkin onto the table in front of him, standing with his full glass of red wine. Everyone shifts their attention to him.

  “Before we eat, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my family and Flo’s family for coming this evening, and Tara for giving us an entire wedding,” he adds with a wink, highlighting Tara’s misfortune for the fifth time tonight. Everyone giggles uncomfortably while Tara white-knuckles her salad fork.

  “I don’t know if everyone knows this, but Flo and I attended the same elementary school. We were classmates, all the way until the eighth grade. She was by far the prettiest girl in class, with her little pigtails,” he says affectionately. “When I was—”

  Martin’s speech is rudely interrupted when the door to our private room busts open.

  The Ritchies erupt with enthusiasm, shouting, “Scotty!”

  My eyes settle on the hulking figure taking up nearly the entire width of the doorway. The forest-green eyes. The Chris Evans face.

  No freakin’ way.

  It’s Squat Rack Thief.

  Squat Rack Thief is Scott.

  I don’t know if I’ve ever wished myself to disappear into oblivion more than I do right now.

  chapter eight

  THE UNIVERSE IS officially conspiring against me. I must have done some seriously messed-up shit in a past life.

  Scott, better known as Squat Rack Thief, is borderline unrecognizable in non-gym wear, without the ball cap casting a grim shadow over his face. His wavy hair is damp and pushed back, as if he’s fresh from a shower. Under the warm candlelight, the deep jewel-tone hues of his eyes pop like emeralds. He’s wearing a sport coat over a pale blue button-down shirt and beige pants, all of which fit with unfair precision.

  When he spots me next to his grandpa, he stumbles backward a step, gripping the doorframe. Clearly, this is as shocking to him as it is to me. In fact, I half-expect him to turn around and sprint out of the restaurant.

  Seeing him here is jarring, given the last time we were in each other’s presence, every square inch of our sweaty bodies was pressed together.

  My stomach clenches as Martin cheerfully bellows, “Scotty! My boy!” from his standing position.

  My mind races as I come to the full realization that the man who gave me the best kiss of my life was not single. He was taken. The sincerity in his eyes when he looked at me was a massive lie. Nothing but a farce. An Academy Award–winning performance.

  And worse, I feel awful for Diana, his figure skater girlfriend. I’m all too familiar with the betrayal, heartbreak, anger, and feeling of unworthiness that accompany being cheated on. Looking back, I have reason to suspect a few weeks’ overlap between myself and Neil’s ex, Cammie, before he officially went back to her. The last thing I’d ever want to do is to be that person to another woman. Not that the onus of blame should rest on the third party. But I don’t want any part in the narrative at all.

  Scott tears his deceitful eyes from me, giving his grandfather a warm, genuine smile. He rounds the table toward us to pull Martin into a loving hug. “So sorry I’m late. Had a fire call at the end of my shift.”

  “What happened?” Martin asks.

  “Some kids started a kitchen fire. Their parents weren’t even home. If the neighbor hadn’t called 911, it woulda been bad. They were all shaken up. Really young too. The crew and I stuck around to make sure they were okay,” he humble-brags.

  A mildly audible snort escapes me. My brain cannot reconcile the image of morally corrupt Squat Rack Thief comforting small, trembling children. He has to be exaggerating. In fact, I’d bet money he was at home, lazing around in low-cut boxers. He probably lost track of time diligently organizing his various protein powders, or worshipping his own reflection in the mirror.

  Martin forgivingly waves him off. “Atta boy. Always knew you’d make me proud.”

  Scott nods in faux-hero solidarity and then turns, embracing Grandma Flo with the biceps I’ve only recently discovered are used to save people’s lives from fires . . . and to lift me against lockers. “Flo, you look stunning,” he tells her, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly.

  Not only is it irritating that Scott is flashing her a wholesome, charming smile, but it rankles that he’s already well acquainted with my grandma.

  I feel like I’m in the twilight zone. This reminds me of the time my high school friend Kelsey started dating our English teacher when we went away to college. Aside from how inappropriate and creepy it was, him showing up at our dorm room parties felt wildly bizarre. Like two very separate worlds that should never, ever collide.

  Scott meets my eyes again. His Adam’s apple bobs when he registers the open seat, his seat, directly beside mine.

  Before he sits, Martin introduces us. “Scotty, this is one of Flo’s beautiful granddaughters, Crystal Chen.”

  I
want to slap away Scott’s smug expression as he holds his hand out. “Scott Ritchie. Nice to meet you, Crystal,” he says, as if we’ve never met. As if we didn’t get hot and heavy in the gym changing room forty-eight hours ago.

  He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. If he feels the slightest bit guilty for cheating on his figure skater girlfriend with me, there is zero evidence to support it. And it’s infuriating.

  I want to call him out on his infidelity, right here, right now. Expose his misdeeds. But I think better of it. The last thing I want to do is ruin Grandma’s dinner, especially after I promised Tara I wouldn’t. So, I take a breath and hold my tongue. “Likewise,” I say primly.

  I eye him suspiciously as he takes his seat beside me. If I thought he smelled good sweaty after a workout, he smells frustratingly delightful now—like a steamy shower fantasy. He’s definitely just showered, because he smells like that green bar soap. Manly. Slightly spicy. Far too alluring. Apparently, this is the scent of a coldhearted cheater who shows no visible signs of remorse.

  My body is a traitor. The mere proximity of him sends a hum of energy to every limb, all the way down to my toes. I resettle in my seat, turning away from him as Patricia flashes him a stern, motherly look, which I can tell is silently screaming, How dare you be late to your own grandfather’s engagement dinner?

  I refuse to look at him as Martin resumes his speech.

  “As I was saying, I’ve loved Flo since first grade. Since the day she stole my cap at recess and refused to give it back. She’ll probably argue with me on the semantics, but we went steady for most of elementary school, until she broke up with me for Ned Reeves.” He eyes her with a nostalgic smile.

  Grandma Flo whacks him on the arm from her seated position. “I broke up with you because you kissed Peggy Penton.”

  The two of them chuckle and Martin continues on. “Anyway, we had a couple years apart . . . quite a few.” His voice cracks. “We lived most of our lives as dear friends, but I’ve always cared deeply for her. I loved Roger as well.” He takes the time to look at each and every member of my family. “I promise to take as good care of her as he did for fifty-seven years.”