So that happened a roman.., p.1
So That Happened: A Romantic Comedy, page 1
SO THAT HAPPENED
A ROMANTIC COMEDY
KATIE BAILEY
Cover Vectors by
JOANNEWHYTE AND MSANCA
Copyright © 2022 by Eleventh Avenue Publishing Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
www.eleventhavenuepublishing.com
CONTENTS
1. Annie
2. Liam
3. Annie
4. Liam
5. Annie
6. Liam
7. Annie
8. Liam
9. Annie
10. Liam
11. Annie
12. Liam
13. Annie
14. Liam
15. Liam
16. Annie
17. Liam
18. Annie
19. Annie
20. Liam
21. Annie
22. Liam
23. Annie
24. Annie
25. Liam
26. Annie
27. Liam
28. Annie
29. Liam
30. Annie
31. Liam
32. Annie
33. Liam
34. Annie
35. Annie
36. Liam
37. Annie
38. Annie
39. Liam
40. Annie
41. Liam
42. Liam
43. Annie
44. Liam
45. Annie
46. Annie
47. Liam
48. Annie
49. Annie
A Note from Katie
1
ANNIE
Bras with no underwire are all fun and games until you’re racing through a crowded airport, leaping over rogue suitcases like an Olympic hurdler as you wave your boarding pass in the air (uselessly) and yell “wait for me” (equally uselessly). Like the pilot’s going to hear you all the way from the flight deck and take enough pity on you to halt the flight.
Lucky for me, the useless yelling and waving lend me enough of a “move out of the way for the crazy person” vibe that the crowds at the Logan Airport part like the Red Sea. Unlucky for me, by the time I arrive at my gate in a panicked, sweaty mess, I’m wearing my breathable, non-cancer-causing, metal-underwire-free eco-bra like a necklace.
“Hi,” I pant-gasp at the attendant as I shove my hands up my sweater to return my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder back to an appropriate holding position.
Attendant lady’s eyebrows raise dubiously as her gaze follows my hands’ path under my sweater, her frosted pink lips frozen in a grimace.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not a pervert,” I explain wheezily. “I bought this bra off a TikTok ad. Needless to say, it doesn’t really work.”
Frosty Lips looks momentarily stunned. “Pardon me?”
“I’m a sucker for those change-your-life marketing scams.”
It’s true. I am the ultimate target market for those clickbait-y social media ads—the millennial version of infomercials. I could explain further that I have drawers full of blackhead removers that don’t work, no less than four weighted exercise hula hoops for slimming the tummy region that I’ve used a grand total of twice, lip gloss that’s meant to have a plumping effect but really just feels like you’ve inserted your lips in a hornet’s nest, and—
“Ma’am, your ID and boarding pass, please.” Frosty is still staring at me, and I notice her fingertips hovering near an intercom. She’s obviously ready to call for backup.
I hastily yank my hands out from under my sweater and proffer my rather crumpled boarding pass at her. She looks at it in disdain, then pinches her thumb and forefinger at the very corner like it’s a used Kleenex.
But snooty and disdainful as she might appear, my driver’s license picture sure pulls a smile out of her. Probably because I look like a young Elton John.
“This is you?” She doesn’t even try to hide the laughter in her voice.
I sigh, waving a hand as I bounce forward on my toes. “Bad breakup last year. Wore pajamas for a month. Gained ten pounds. Cut off all my hair to release the ‘bondage of self’ or whatever Jennifer Aniston called it.”
I don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself. But I do know that I will be at the Georgia DMV ASAP first thing Monday morning wearing full makeup to get myself a brand-new, peach-themed license with an updated photograph.
“I see,” she says in a tone that suggests she very much does not see, and wants me out of her vicinity, like, five minutes ago. The lady hands back my documents. “You’re lucky we’re letting you on.”
Hallelujah, and thank you, AmeriJet!
“Thank you so much! Seriously!” I sing as Frosty Lips hands me my boarding pass, her little button nose crinkled. I choose to ignore it—there’s no way I’m letting her rain on my parade right now.
I half-run, half-stumble, half-skip through the gates and onto the jet bridge, but right before I hightail it through the door, I swear I hear her whistling Rocketman.
Sick burn, Frosty.
Little does she know that she basically saved my life. It’s Friday night, and this is the last flight of the day from Boston to Atlanta... where I start a new job on Monday morning.
Yeah, like three days from now.
Needless to say, my mother was none too impressed with my forward-thinking, life-planning skills. Or lack thereof.
I am excited to see my dear old mom tonight, though. Unlike me, she’s very much a planner—to the point that she’s texted me no less than six times to confirm that she’ll be at the airport to pick me up. Like mother, not like daughter.
I step onto the plane and greet the flight attendant at the door, flushing a little to see the full seats along the aisle. Excited as I am to have made the flight, the rest of the passengers clearly don’t share in my happiness. As I trip down the center aisle, muttering vague, non-targeted apologies to everyone already safely buckled in and ready for take off, judgy looks are cast my way.
One particularly kind gentleman (not) even starts a slow, sarcastic clap.
I can’t stand situations like this. You know, the type that make you feel itchy in your own skin.
I want to be one of those devil-take-the-hindmost, own-the-situation-with-confidence people. And deep down, I truly believe that there will come a day where I could stride to my seat with purpose and dignity, making it seem like I don’t care that I made 200 people wait because I am very busy and important with a great reason for being late.
But I’m one-eighth Canadian. And I’m late because I, a grown woman of twenty-six-and-a-half years old, just spent ten minutes hiding in the airport bathroom.
So instead, I’ll be saying “sorry” a million times while wishing the ground would swallow me up.
I don’t believe in throwing salt over my shoulder, or that breaking mirrors brings bad luck. If a black cat crosses my path, my only instinct is to pet it. But if I were a woman of superstition, I would say that the universe might be trying to tell me that relocating back to Atlanta is another mistake.
It’s not, though. I know, in my bones, it’s not. It’s my chance for a fresh start.
The slow-clapper is still—a tad unbelievably—slow-clapping, and I almost stop and deliver my inspirational internal pep-talk aloud. But then I remember that I’m a bathroom-hider who’s about to move back in with her parents (a situation that will inevitably prompt my mother to invite every single male from her church between the ages of twenty and forty for dinner to present to me as a “prospect”).
My mother seems to believe that if I simply married myself off, I’d be substantially happier.
I beg to differ.
As much as I love my mom, I don’t think she can possibly understand what happened. Dad was her first love—they’ve been together since high school and she never wanted anything or anyone else. I, on the other hand, may know nothing of childhood sweethearts, but I did recently learn a valuable lesson about why you should never, ever get involved with someone you work with.
“Come on now, put a spring in your step!” The impatient flight attendant shoos me along to my seat. Which is, of course, all the way at the back of the plane. In the middle of a row.
By the time I’ve finished my catwalk of shame—and, horrifyingly, had to ask the elderly lady with bad hips in the aisle seat to let me by—the last thing I need is for my other seatmate to hate me.
“Oof,” I say to the man in the window seat, adopting what I hope is a charming, jovial tone. “Bad day for a squirrel to break into your car. That leather upholstery will never be the same again.”
I don’t know why I say this. Nobody asked.
It’s like that meme. You know, the one that’s like “Nobody:” and then a picture of someone saying something really dumb.
I am a living embodiment of that meme.
But it’s a real story, even if it’s not mine. It happened to my ex-coworker Larry once. He had to get a rabies shot and a course of antibiotics. Those welts didn’
This time, my being late wasn’t my fault though. I had no other choice but to hide in the bathroom until the last possible moment. You would, too, if you thought you saw your ex and his new wifey.
Sounds stupid to say aloud, obviously. So I’m sticking with the squirrel story.
Which, upon some light reflection, may sound equally stupid.
However, the man next to me doesn’t react. Doesn’t even seem to register I’m here.
I can’t see what he looks like as he’s fully shielded behind the massive Wall Street Journal he’s wielding. But if his body language is anything to go by, he’s pissed. The knuckles on his big hands are white as he grasps the paper, and he’s practically radiating tense energy.
I sit back in my seat, but can’t resist peeking over to try and get a glimpse of his side profile. I’m guessing he looks like a cross between an angry Squidward and Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.
I catch a glimpse of his profile and my breath catches.
Boy, my instincts were off.
It’s not much, but it’s enough to know that the angle of that stubbled jawline screams movie-star-hotness.
He finally seems to register me—well, register my stare—and he moves his paper to fully hide his face. I swear his nose wrinkles as he does so.
Good lord, to top it all off, do I smell bad?
As surreptitiously as possible, I pretend to adjust my seatbelt while taking a little sniff of my underarm. A little sweaty, maybe, but I still detect deodorant. Nothing gross.
Maybe he’s one of those super-smellers that can detect a scent the rest of us can’t. Kinda like a bomb-sniffing dog. Or one of those people who smell cow farts for a living to see if they’re eating a good diet (it’s a real thing, look it up).
Either way, who is this dude to make me feel self-conscious without even a single glance in my direction? Just because his crisp, white dress shirt has zero sweat stains under the pits, and he smells like what I’d imagine a sexy pine forest would smell like, it doesn’t mean he needs to make me feel like a greaseball.
“You okay, dearie?” the elderly lady on my left asks in a thick Boston accent. “Crick in your neck?”
“Fine, thank you.” I lift my head out of armpit-sniffing territory and shoot her a smile. Bless her heart. “Sorry, again, for making you get up.”
She pats my arm with a wrinkled hand. “Nonsense. It’s good for me to move around before sitting three hours in flight. I consider myself lucky that you boarded late.”
On my right, Broody Man snorts.
I ignore him. Maybe it wasn’t a snort in my direction. Maybe he was clearing that super-smelling nasal airway of his.
“Cabin crew, boarding is complete,” the pilot announces over the speaker system.
Broody Man very slowly and obviously checks his watch and sighs. Loud enough that he must be doing it on purpose.
And this time, I know it’s directed at me.
Seriously? I was, like, five minutes late.
Seven, tops.
Fine. Ten.
But no more than eleven.
Besides, it’s not like they held the plane for me. I’ve been onboard for a few minutes now, and we still haven’t even pulled away from the gate.
So this delay is abso-positivi-lutely not my fault.
In a little moment of indignance, I glare at the back of the guy’s newspaper. Which is a slightly more-passive, less-aggressive form of glaring at someone who can actually see you doing it.
Also much more informative about the NASDAQ, as it would happen.
When I’m all glared out, I kick off my old leopard-print booties and stow them under the seat in front of me. I’m about to pull my new Brené Brown book out of my bag when I notice the elderly lady looking at me expectantly.
I bite my tongue. Honestly, after the excitement of Bathroomgate and the consecutive luggage-hurdling to my actual gate, all I really want to do is tune out the world in bookland and tuck into my trusty snack bag. But I have enough Haribo gummies to share. Plus, old people are always full of interesting stories.
“Are you visiting Atlanta for a vacation?” I ask her.
She sighs and claps her hands dramatically. “For love!”
“Wow.” I’m suddenly invested; this lady’s got to be pushing eighty. “Tell me more.”
“His name’s Walter.” Her saggy cheeks become petal-pink with a flush that takes years off her appearance. “He’s a veteran. Ever so handsome.”
I decide the polite thing to do is to refrain from asking which particular war he’s a veteran of, so I opt for a smile. “I’ll bet.”
“You should see his pictures from thirty years ago. He was a fox.”
“How did you two meet?”
“Christian Mingle. Have you heard of it?”
Outwardly, I’m calm and nodding, but in my mind, I’ve jumped straight to swindlers and catfishers and horrible predators who would take sweet, old, technology-impaired ladies for a ride and lead them to financial ruin. Damn you, Netflix documentaries, for skewing my views on internet love!
“Have you met Walter in person yet?” I ask hopefully.
She gives her head a little shake, beams. “My first time.”
My smile tightens.
The elderly lady leans toward me eagerly. “Do you have an account, dearie?”
“Pardon?”
“A Christian Mingle account.”
I loll my head back against the headrest. “Never tried online dating myself.”
“Not even Timber? I thought all you young folks were swiping on Timber these days.”
I bite back a laugh. “Do you mean Tinder?”
“Potato, pot-ah-to.” She shakes her head dismissively, fingers tapping on her armrest. “All that swiping ain’t good for you, anyway.”
She runs a critical eye over me, taking in my rainbow-striped sweater, mom jeans, mismatched socks, and beaded hoop earrings. I imagine my style to be bohemian and carefree. Starving artist chic. Minus the starving part because, like Shakira, my hips don’t lie.
In reality, however, I usually end up looking less “boho princess,” more “color blind kindergarten teacher who got dressed in the dark.”
“So, if you’re not online dating,” she asks. “I suppose you have a boyfriend?”
“Very much single.” I say this brightly and with finality, hoping this will put a pin in this particular portion of the in-flight entertainment. I open a bag of Haribo and hold it out, but the lady is undeterred.
“And why is that, dearie? Pretty girl like you.”
I made a string of mistakes that led me to lose everything I worked so hard for.
Luckily, before I can think of how to respond aloud, I’m saved (kind of) by another announcement over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, due to unforeseen issues with the plane’s operating system, we will be stalling here at the gate until further notice. We hope to have an engineer clear us for take off in a few minutes, and I’ll give you an update from the flight deck when I have one. In the meantime, thank you for your patience.”
A collective sigh rises from around the plane. I can practically feel the bristling, prickly energy from Grumpypants (formerly known as “Broody Man”—he’s been upgraded. Or downgraded, perhaps. It’s kind of a Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Diddy situation).
I reflexively glance at him as he sets down his paper, and for the first time, I get a good look at him.
Wowzers.
