Too Good to Be True - Kristan Higgins [57]
I didn’t relish the fact that I was lying to Natalie—and my parents, and grandmother and even Callahan O’Shea—but it was a far sight better than being Poor Grace, tossed over for her sister. Morally wrong to lie, but hey! If lying was ever justified, I’d have to say it was now.
For a brief second, another scenario flashed across the old brain cells. Callahan O’Shea sitting by my side, rolling his eyes at how Andrew was even now showing off in the kitchen, chopping parsley like a manic spider monkey. That Cal would sling his big, muscular arm around my shoulder and mutter, “I can’t believe you were engaged to that scrawny jerk.”
Right. That would happen, and then I’d win the Lotto and discover I was the love child of Margaret Mitchell and Clark Gable.
To distract myself, I looked around Nat’s living room. My gaze stopped abruptly on the mantel. “I remember this,” I said, my voice a tad tight. “Andrew, this is the clock I gave you, isn’t it? Wow!”
And it was. A lovely, whiskey-colored mantel clock with a buttery face and elaborately detailed numbers, a brass key for winding it. I found it in an antiques shop in Litchfield and gave it to Andrew for his thirtieth birthday, two years ago. I planned the whole dang party, good little fiancée that I was. A picnic in the field along the Farmington. His work friends—our friends, back then—as well as Ava, Paul, Kiki and Dr. Eckhart, Margaret and Stuart, Julian, Mom and Dad, and Andrew’s snooty parents, who looked vaguely startled at the idea of eating on a public picnic table. What a great day that had been. Of course, that was back when he still loved me. Before he met my sister.
“Oh. Yeah. I love that clock,” he said awkwardly, handing me my wine.
“Good, since it cost the earth,” I announced with a stab of crass pleasure. “One of a kind.”
“And it’s… it’s gorgeous,” Andrew mumbled.
I know it is, dopey. “So. You two are very cozy. Are you living here now, Andrew?” I asked, and my voice was just a trifle loud.
“Well, uh… not… I still have a few months on my lease. So, no, not really.” He exchanged a quick, nervous glance with Natalie.
“Mmm-hmm. But obviously, since your things are migrating here…” I took a healthy sip of my chardonnay.
Neither of them said anything. I continued, making sure my tone was pleasant. “That’s nice. Saves on rent, too. Very logical.” And fast. But of course, they were in love. Who wouldn’t be in love with Natalie, the fair flower of our family? Nat was younger. Blond, blue-eyed. Taller. Prettier. Smarter. Man, I wished Wyatt Dunn was real! Wished that Callahan O’Shea was here! Anything other than this echoing sense of rejection that just wouldn’t fade away. I unclenched my jaw and took a seat next to my sister and studied her. “God, we just do not look alike, do we?” I said.
“Oh, I think we do!” she exclaimed earnestly. “Except for the hair color. Grace, do you remember when I was in high school and got that perm? And then colored my hair brown?” She laughed and reached out to touch my knee. “I was crushed when it didn’t come out like yours.”
And there it was. I couldn’t be mad at Natalie. It was almost like I wasn’t allowed to be mad at Natalie, ever. It wasn’t fair, and it was completely true. I remembered the day she was referring to. She’d permed it, all right, permed that lovely, cool hair, then dyed it a flat, ugly brown. She was fourteen at the time, and had cried in her room as the chemical curls failed to produce the desired results. A week later, her hair was straight again, and she became the only brunette in high school with blond roots.
She’d wanted to be like