“Plus he’s just not . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to be mean, but he’s just such a George.”
“That’s what I like about him,” she said with a little smile. “But you and I have always had different taste in guys. Anyway, that’s how I thought you felt. I just wanted to make sure, since you were being so weird about it.”
“I wasn’t being weird. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Why would I get hurt?” she said. “George is the nicest guy I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “You really think he likes you?”
“I do,” she said, her face turning pink. “I know that sounds conceited, but . . . he kept looking at me last time. Not in a gross way. In a nice way.”
“You did look amazing.” I remembered how much care she had put into her outfit and makeup that night. “Is that why you were so dressed up?”
“Maybe,” she said, a little coyly. “But let’s not talk about this anymore. I don’t want to jinx it.”
And she wondered why I questioned her sophistication.
I ended our chat as soon as I gracefully could and just sat there for a while, paralyzed. I couldn’t believe I’d misread yet another situation. My ego had taken a lot of pounding over the last twenty-four hours, all of it deserved.
I tried to remember the original conversation with Heather. I could have sworn she’d said she liked Aaron. Plain as that. But clearly she hadn’t. I should have felt relieved about that, since it meant her heart wasn’t broken by the news he’d been in love with his stepmother all this time, but I didn’t; I felt annoyed.
Heather could drive me crazy, I reminded myself. She was sweet and loyal and trustworthy and dear in all sorts of ways, but she could also be a little misguided and clueless. Like saying that George was interested in her . . . That was ridiculous, wasn’t it? I would have noticed if he liked her.
But would I have? Clearly, my radar sucked: I hadn’t realized that Heather liked him. I’d thought all her little secret smiles were for Aaron. And I’d also thought that Aaron liked me—it never even occurred to me for a second that he might be in love with someone else. And why hadn’t I picked up on the fact that Ben and Arianna were a couple, even though they’d driven over to my place together?
Apparently I wasn’t the sensitive and intuitive Queen of Emotional Subtleties I’d always thought I was.
But still . . . Wouldn’t George have flirted with Heather if he liked her?
Well, maybe not flirted. George wasn’t the flirtatious type. The thought of him doling out little meaningful looks and touching her lightly on her arm . . . No. Definitely not.
But he would have signaled his interest in some way, right? Like . . . you know . . . finding excuses to work with her one-on-one. Being patient and encouraging, no matter how anxious she got. Softening his voice whenever he talked to her. Smiling at her more than at me. Much more than at me.
All of which he had done. Repeatedly.
I twined my finger around one of my curls so tightly that it hurt my scalp when I tried to extricate it. I swore out loud.
And what about the bunny? That stupid little stuffed bunny? He gave her one and not me. I had forgotten about that and Heather never even knew that I hadn’t gotten one. But I bet if I told her now, she’d see it as one more sign that he liked her.
And maybe she’d be right.
Maybe the age difference didn’t bother him. Maybe the intelligence difference—because there was one; he was a lot smarter than Heather, even if it was mean of me to think it—didn’t bother him either. Maybe he just liked that she was upbeat and good-natured and easygoing and honest and sweet—all the things I liked about her.
Plus she wasn’t a spoiled, conceited, narcissistic brat. Next to me—and he’d only ever seen her next to me—she had to look even better. Nicer, anyway.
And why shouldn’t he like her? Why did it seem so wrong to me?
It was the age difference. He was just too old for her, even if neither of them saw it that way. Guys that much older only went out with girls that much younger because they wanted to take advantage of them in some way—
No, that was ridiculous. George wasn’t about to take advantage of anyone. My mother trusted him. Heather trusted him. I trusted him. He was trustworthy.
But still . . . there was an awfully big age difference. Well, not so big—less than three years. But he was out of college; she was just going in. That was weird. Not unheard of. But weird.
I wished I had gotten Heather to see how awkward it would be for them to date. Would a guy his age really want to go to a high school prom? Of course not. And would she want to go to parties where everyone else was over twenty?
Yeah, she probably would. I would. I often did, with my parents.
Not that that was the point. The point was that it would be a mistake for the two of them to date. I couldn’t even imagine it. Heather was so clearly wrong for George. I could see why she had a crush on him but not how he could crush back.
Wait a second—could I see how she could have a crush on him?
I fiddled with another curl as I thought about that for a moment, absently stretching it across my upper lip, mustache-like.
George was sort of cute, if you liked the hipster-nerd type (minus the hipster). There was nothing actually wrong with him. He was no Aaron Marquand—no bronzed, blue-eyed young Adonis—but Aaron was a bit of a cliché. There were tons of guys like him on TV with their flat abs and white teeth—Generic Hollywood Dudes.
And George had a better smile than Aaron: Aaron’s was mischievous and general, a grin that announced his good humor to the world, but George’s was rarer and more personal—if you got a smile from George, it meant something.
I knew this better than anyone; I’d worked hard for some of those smiles.