Really taken.
By Kennedy Monroe.
At the sight of her, I spun around to face away from them. She was here? Had Jack invited her? Were they together after all? Wait—were they engaged? From a reality-TV proposal of hers? Why on earth was I even here?
I took a deep breath to steady myself.
She was better looking in real life. Her hair was shinier. Her lips were plumper. Her boobs were … boobier. She radiated sexy-farmgirl perfection in jean short-shorts and a gingham blouse tied just below her cleavage. She looked like a poster of herself—and, needless to say, also wildly out of place among all these lumpy, misshapen normal people.
She was like a living Barbie doll. And as badly as I wanted that to be an insult … it just wasn’t.
He must’ve said yes, right? Why else would she be here?
And who could blame him?
Faced with all that extreme, textbook, irreproachable beauty, no one could possibly say no.
At the sting in my chest, I had my answer.
Why was I here? For the same reason Doghouse and Glenn and Amadi were here. The same reason all the other ordinary people were here. I thought of Connie slapping Jack on the shoulder that time and saying, Be a gentleman!
I looked around.
It was Thanksgiving. I was here just like all the other people that Jack Stapleton did not have a thing for were here. To give thanks.
I fought the urge to set my plate down in the grass, walk straight to my car, and drive back to the city going a hundred.
But that would be worse, of course.
Feeling humiliated was one thing. Admitting to feeling humiliated was another.
I did a three-point turn and found a seat at the farthest end of the table, next to Doghouse, who could at least partially block my view.
I squeezed my eyes closed. Of course this was how things were. It had been an act of self-jinxing to imagine anything different.
I took some breaths, but my lungs felt trembly.
So I did what I always did: I made a plan to escape. I would tolerate this moment in my life as long as I could, and then I’d graciously stand up with a smile like I had another event to go to, and then I’d elegantly sneak off into the shadows and disappear.
Easy.
How long could I tolerate this moment?
I decided on fifteen minutes—which was far too many—and then I kept my eyes on my plate so I wouldn’t accidentally look at Jack and Kennedy.
Holy cow. What a preposterous couple name.
But Doghouse was looking at them enough for the both of us. “Can you believe she’s here?” he kept saying, elbowing me. “That’s Kennedy Monroe. She’s Marilyn Monroe’s granddaughter.”
“That was debunked,” I said.
“She’s better looking in real life,” Doghouse said then. “That wasn’t debunked.”
“Anyway,” I prodded. “Don’t you like Kelly?”
“What?” Doghouse said, his voice going up like on octave.
But I was done with pretense. “It’s so obvious, dude. Just kiss her already. Be a man and make it happen.”
Doghouse looked down at his plate and thought about that for a second.
And then he did.
Not kidding. He stood, walked over to where Kelly was sitting, tapped her on the shoulder, and said, “Hey, can I kiss you?”
Kelly blinked up at him for a second, and then she just said, “Yes.”
It was that easy.
I watched him take her hand and lead her off toward the barn.
“Holy shit,” I said out loud. Was that all it took?
He left me with no alternative but to take a big swig from my jar of moonshine.
The schnapps was sweet at first. But then the moonshine hit.
I guess there’s a reason moonshine’s mostly illegal. It was like drinking straight antifreeze. My throat burned like I’d swallowed acid, and, for a second, I wondered if I might die. To try to get some of the fumes out, I leaned over and hissed down at the ground like a cat.
Just then, Jack’s sneakers—I’d know them anywhere—showed up in my field of vision. “Burns, doesn’t it?”
I looked up. He was nodding, like Been there.
In response, I made a hacking noise.
He sat down in Doghouse’s empty chair. “It’ll take the paint off your car, for sure.”
I sat up and stared at him, like You drink this?
“It’s also good for cleaning jewelry. My mom soaks her wedding ring in it.”
I put my hand to my throat to massage it a little.
Jack nodded, all sympathy. “You have to build up an immunity.”
What were we doing? Why was he even here? Were we hanging out like friends? Who needed friends when they had Kennedy Monroe?