Impractically Perfect: A Romantic Comedy Page 12

“PENNY I’M DYINGGGGGG!” Jesus, Gillian.

  “But the thing is,” Cam continued, “you’re probably going to make yourself some enemies if you pursue this. Maybe start looking for another job—possibly, another career path. You won’t be too popular after all this goes down.”

  Wait, what? I had no intention of getting fired. How involved in this thing did I really need to get? “That’s…not going to happen, Cam. My job is kinda important to me. Like, it’s how I pay for stuff. I know you don’t get that because you’re still a kid, but money makes things happen in the world. How do you think I can afford to pay for my apartment? How do you think I can buy food and clothes and stuff?”

  I heard myself talking, but what I was saying was so unlike me that part of me didn’t believe I was actually saying it. My brother was smart—smarter than me, for sure—and had always been the one to give me advice, not the other way around. Even when he was a little kid. So why was I being so mean to him?

  “Alright, well, if you’re going to be immature, I’m going to go.” Abruptly, Cam hung up on me and I felt like I had just eaten an entire bowlful of drain veggies.

  Gillian was now basically screaming. “PENNY I NEED THAT ICEPACK STAT. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?”

  No idea, Gillian. I really have no idea.

  “Um, so, this is me,” I said, almost as uncomfortably as I felt, unlocking the door to my giant apartment while Cyril gazed at me in awe. She had brought Dayton, her quiet, polite son, who I was just meeting now for the first time.

  Cyril had explained to me that lived with her son in a 500 square foot studio apartment, east of the city. I hadn’t realized how far she must commute into work every day, and I certainly hadn’t realized what a toll it must take on her.

  I reddened as I showed her around my shiny kitchen, and as Gillian flopped down the stairs, dramatically holding her icepack to her head, wearing only a sports bra and lacy underwear. Unabashed, Gillian straddled one of the stools at the bar top, not bothering to greet Cyril. I don’t even think she noticed the little boy sitting oddly still, cross-legged, at the kitchen table.

  Shyly, Cyril took a seat next to her when I offered, and as if she hadn’t noticed her before (she had), Gillian finally made eye contact with her. I suddenly had the distinct feeling that the universe was slowly imploding, as my work and home lives collided.

  “Hey!” Gillian said, putting the icepack on the counter and her flashing a bright smile. Her teeth were too big for her mouth, but in a beautiful slash endearing way, not in the way that mine would be if they were too big for my mouth, which would be terrifying slash chipmunky.

  Cyril bobbed her head in what was possibly the meekest greeting I had ever seen, and the corners of Gillian’s mouth turned down slightly. She had given her a single chance at redemption, I knew, and apparently, Cyril had failed the test.

  Looking between her scantily-clad self, with her toned thighs and nonexistent stomach, and Cyril’s slightly pudgy shape, Gillian scowled. “Well, it’s nice to meet you.” She stood up and walked, a bit show-offy in my opinion, seeming to want to make sure Cyril could see her from all angles. And then, suddenly, Gillian shrieked violently.

  “WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?” She was holding out a pointed finger at Dayton. “WHAT IS THAT?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Gillian?” I asked, hastily stepping between her and the child, who for some reason, had hardly reacted, and was just gazing at her with a look of slight curiosity. “He’s Cyril’s son.”

  “WELL WHO IS CYRIL?”

  “The woman you just met a second ago.”

  “Right.”

  It wasn’t until Gillian had flounced away that Cyril stood up to hug the unfazed Dayton.

  “Should we like…put some cartoons on?” I asked her, ready to head to my bedroom to look for some clothes. Cyril just looked at me like I was out of my mind.

  “Dayton doesn’t watch television. Just give him a crossword puzzle or a Dickens novel, he’ll be fine.”

  All I could find was an ancient Sudoku book that had never been touched, and he got to work at the kitchen table right away, using a half-dried out green marker to write in his numbers.

  In my bedroom, Cyril tried on several dresses, apologetically protesting between each one, saying that any of them would be fine—even the ones that she couldn’t fit over her ample breasts. But I insisted that she keep trying, and we both grew more and more frustrated and impatient, and Cyril was soon ready to call it quits. “I’ll just tell Dr. Booper I can’t go,” she said quietly, dropping lightly onto my beautifully-made bed.

  And then, from the very back of my closet, I found something from another lifetime that I had completely forgotten about.

  “Okay, this dress has never ever fit me, I don’t even know why I bought it, I think the tags are still on it—yep. Please, just try this last one?” I felt so bad for having judged Cyril so harshly, for Gillian’s less-than-polite greeting, for whatever the hell was happening to her at Happy Healthy Teeth. I had to find a dress that would work.

  She sighed, but did as I asked. The zipper was a little tight and she needed to suck in a bit for me to get it all the way up. But when she turned around, I gasped.

  “Cyril, you look…just take a look in the mirror.”

  “Oh…oh, it’s perfect,” she said, making the skirt twirl around her, unable to take her gaze off of her reflection. “Perfect” wasn’t quite the word I would use, but it was definitely the best we were going to do. She had a bit of arm fat oozing over the top, and it was slightly too long for her, an awkward length between her knees and her ankles. But…she still looked more beautiful than I had ever seen her. With the right hair and makeup, she could for sure pull it off.

  I think the most important part, though, was how her face changed when she saw herself in the dress. Not like, actually changed, that would be weird. Changed in that…it lightened, brightened. The smile it brought out on her was the real reason that the dress really worked.

  “I’ll take it,” she said, turning to me.

  In a desperate act of charity, I had ordered in dinner, and Cyril, Gillian, the twins, and Dayton, all crowded around the living room coffee table with paper plates of Thai food that I had portioned out for them. For myself, I was about to open up my calorie-counting app on my phone, but decided against it and slipped it back in my pocket.

  “So, Cyril, tell me about what you like to do in your free time!” Either Camille or Candice was sitting next to Cyril, trying to get her to open up about herself. Meanwhile, Cyril, uncomfortable with most forms of human communication, was talking exclusively about her latest obsession, a newly released book by Wendell Loom about a medieval princess who wooed all the men in the kingdom with her astounding levitation abilities. Camille/Candice nodded knowingly. Perhaps the twins were also fans of weird sci-fi/fantasy/eye-patch books? It wouldn’t be particularly surprising.

  Gillian, having recovered slightly from her hangover and actually showered and dressed, was now talking to Dayton like he was an actual human being.

  “Soccer, huh? I used to play soccer when I was a kid! What position do you play?” Dayton was still sitting straight up in his seat, but he had seemed to relax a little bit, and was even eating some of his Pad Thai.

  “Goalie,” he whispered, and Gillian’s eyes widened in faux-shock.

  “No way! That’s what I used to play!” It was only half a lie; Gillian had certainly played soccer all throughout college, and she had been the goalkeeper—once, when all the goalies and their subs were out sick with the Swine Flu. Most of the time, Gillian had played midfield, for which she could thank her skinny legs and toned abs.

  Dayton was entranced with Gillian, and scooted a little closer to her. “Last game I made a save and everyone cheered for me,” he told her quietly.

  Looking around the room, I felt a strange kind of happiness. It was the same feeling I got when I talked to someone in the chair about how they were feeling, talked them th
rough their problems, made them able to see the light again. Like the one time I had urged a struggling married couple to go to therapy, and at their next appointment, they told me how much better they were communicating, how they fell in love all over again. Or the time that little boy had talked to me about his golden retriever that had to be put down that week. Or that woman who talked to me about her sexual assault. I was the first person she had ever told.

  Whenever those things happened, I felt like I was doing something positive for the world. Like I was making a difference, however small it might be.

  Maybe loaning a dress to someone I had worked with for years wasn’t the highest on the list of nice things you can do for someone. I mean, it certainly wasn’t the same as solving all of her financial troubles or figuring out where her entire Happy Healthy Teeth paycheck was going. But she had needed my help, and I had given it to her. And I felt better than I had in a long, long time.

  After Cyril and Dayton left, I suddenly felt very…alone. The twins went off to their bedrooms, and Gillian, having just finished nursing her hangover, went out again. I was sure that she was still hanging out with Tahira Jackson’s boyfriend, although I would never tell her my suspicions. I knew perfectly well what a bad idea it was—if this got out, she would be in the public eye…which, now that I thought about it, was probably exactly what she wanted.

  I circled the kitchen, feeling incredibly stir-crazy. Without realizing what I was doing, I got my phone out to text Sven. It was like an instinct. Maybe he could make me feel better.

  Distract me, I texted him.

  His reply came only ten seconds later. Would you prefer a limerick or a haiku?

  I laughed out loud. What a silly, un-Sven-like thing to say! And such a quick response!

  One of each? I replied.

  There once was a girl named Penny

  Who wanted to eat something…lenny

  Something something

  Something…sorry, I tried, I can’t write limericks :(

  I smiled. It’s okay, I forgive you. Where’s that haiku at?

  It took him a few minutes to respond, so my screen had turned back off by the time my phone buzzed. When I looked at it, my heart definitely stopped for at least a full second.

  It was Toby. Wait a second. This whole time, had I accidentally been texting him?

  Whoops.

  We weren’t supposed to be talking. We had decided not to see each other anymore, and my plan was to remove myself from the situation.

  But…I didn’t want to stop. So I didn’t.

  Our conversation continued for the next three hours; we talked about his ferret’s current unfortunate bathroom habits (he preferred to defecate in any areas that were dark, including the inside of Toby’s sneakers) and politics (how much we both hated them). We talked and talked and talked about everything, until we got to the topic of Sven. As if on cue, I started sobbing uncontrollably, and was grateful that he couldn’t see my face over text message.

  But he must have known that something was wrong. ok. look, i’m sorry, but why are you with him? sounds like he’s made you cry just about every day in the last week, so what are you doing?

  we’re soulmates, I explained, trying to convince not only him, but myself.

  There was long pause, and I was sure that he had given up and was done talking to me, forever. And that thought scared me more than I cared to admit.

  Finally, my phone vibrated. that’s not a thing, Penny. soulmates don’t exist.

  And I knew he was right.

  “Penny Partridge! Do you know how to pick up your phone?”

  “Sorry, Mom, I’ve been super busy…”

  “That’s no excuse, hun. This mother-daughter thing goes both ways, I can’t have you gallivanting off, going on crazy adventures and then neglecting to TELL me about them!”

  I sighed, shaking my head. “You know perfectly well that I’m not going off on crazy adventures, Mom. I’m currently sitting on my bed watching my ants discover a whole new patch of dirt that they hadn’t seen before, with a glass of wine in hand that isn’t even good wine because all my good wine is at Sven’s because he turns his nose up at my cheap wine and judges me, and I got so sick of it that I hid all my shitty wine in the back of my crisper drawer at home.”

  Mom sighed. “So you two are engaged now, wow. I can hardly believe it. It seems like only yesterday that you were oh-so-very single, roaming the world, looking anywhere and everywhere for love…”

  “Stop it, Mom.” Although she wasn’t wrong. Sven was my first real relationship (I didn’t count Liam). Before him, I had no idea what I was even looking for.

  “Just be careful getting around town this weekend, hun. That storm is coming in fast, and it looks like it’s going to have very unfortunate timing for your wedding.”

  “We’ll be careful, Mom,” I said.

  She sighed. “I feel like I don’t even know Sven that well. How did you two end up together again?”

  I thought back to the day we met. We had been talking for a few weeks beforehand online, and eventually made the decision to meet in person. I had liked that he typed in complete sentences and knew how to spell “ratatouille.” He had liked that I…actually, I was never too clear about how the hell I had managed to lasso such a perfect guy.

  That evening, we’d had a weirdly too-romantic Italian dinner that made me slightly uncomfortable, and walked hand-in-hand beneath the sunset through the National Mall, sharing our first kiss in front of the Lincoln Memorial. I went home with him that night, and from that point on, we had just kind of fallen into a relationship.

  But I didn’t really want to say to Mom, “Oh, we met on Bumble, remember? And then I had sex with him on our first date and was just kind of with him after that…” Mom would probably be thrilled to have that kind of conversation with me, but I didn’t want to open the door to hear about her sex-capades.

  There was only so much I wanted to know about Mom’s myriad of different vibrators, or all the men she’s dated, or that she was doing her dishes wearing a butt plug “just to see how it felt.” As happy as I was for my mother’s newfound sexual freedom, it was a little…well, scary.

  So instead, I just said “Bed Bath and Beyond.” My mother loves Bed Bath and Beyond, and any relationship starting there would definitely be perfect in her eyes. More importantly, it was the least sexual place I could possibly think of.

  “So this weekend, huh? Time moves so fast. Can you even believe it?”

  “What?”

  “The wedding, Penny. Saturday?”

  Right. I had forgotten that I had kinda sorta maybe told Mom that we were getting married in…TWO DAYS? Crap. I really hadn’t thought this through, had I?

  “Oh, you know…when it’s right, it’s right, and we were like ‘we’ll do anything to make sure this happens!’“ Maybe I was talking out of my ass, but at least I was saying something.

  “Well, Penny, that is something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about…I’ve just been so distracted between Eugene and Lewis that this whole wedding thing sort of snuck up on me. My point is, Sven seems like a perfectly nice guy; but is he really the right guy for you?”

  What the hell, Mom. She usually knew the right thing to say to me, but this was…this was not cool. How could she be talking to me like this?

  “Um. Where exactly is this coming from?”

  On the other end, Mom hesitated. “I just…I know you so well, Penny, I’m pretty sure better than you know yourself. I know you’ve always had a picture of what you want your life to be like, and I know Sven checks off all those little boxes in your head…but I don’t know if this is it, hun, I really don’t.”

  “I mean…we’re in love, if that’s what you’re asking…”

  “I see.”

  I nearly threw my phone. “We are, okay? And I don’t care what you or anyone else says, Sven and I are perfect together. Things are going to work out, you just wait and see.”

  “Alright, bab
e,” said Mom, but she didn’t sound convinced.

  I wasn’t sure if I was either.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Good Choices Are Hard To Make

  It was Friday night. The horrible storm had indeed arrived, bringing with it high-speed winds, and more snow than we’d gotten in a decade. Much more concerning, however, was the fact that the gala was tomorrow, and I still had literally no idea what I was going to wear. All of my energy had been taken up in finding Cyril a dress, and I hadn’t even begun to think about myself.

  I still had my non-proposal dresses, which were clearly not an option, because every time I looked at them I started hyperventilating. Eventually, I decided it didn’t matter what I wore, because no matter what, I would still be a lonely failure with nothing to show for nearly 30 years of work. I might as well show up in a potato sack. Not that I had one of those, or anything.

  At 4am, I awoke to screaming.

  “WHERE IS MY PHONE?” It was Gillian, and for some reason she was in my room, rummaging through what was left of my stuff after I had donated basically everything. Groggily, I looked up at her.

  “Hmmm? I…wha…hmm?” My brain wasn’t working yet.

  Gillian threw pair of dirty jeans at my face. “What the hell, Penny? I know you took it. A whole bunch of super inappropriate tweets that I DID NOT WRITE ended up on the candidate’s twitter account, and my phone is the only one with access. It hasn’t been hacked, which means that someone did it FROM MY PHONE. The tweets got deleted right away, but the screenshots are all over the internet. I could lose my job.”

  “Oh shit,” I said, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. “We’ll figure this out.”

  “No, idiot,” said Gillian, “I know it was you, stop acting all innocent.”

  I stared at her, dumbstruck. Did she seriously think that I had a hand in this? I would never…even think to do that! I proceeded in telling her this, and she proceeded in throwing more of my stuff at my face, including a series of tampons, a paperback I had been meaning to read with a shirtless guy on the front, and a thing of half-used deodorant.