How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,49

most of them. It was fine until she got to Megan herself. “I heard about that side of the family,” the woman—her name was Sylvia—said, pouring herself more wine. She’d had a lot of wine. “The model and the hippie. Janice didn’t know what to do with her sister. She was impossible. Running around, thinking she was going to be a model, never in one place for long, always broke. People that irresponsible shouldn’t have kids. Janice took pity on the daughter after her sister died, but there was only so much she could do.”

I looked at her, thinking about how far Megan had come to see these people because her mother had mattered so much to her. This impossible woman dying of cancer in her early forties. “You know that’s my girlfriend you’re talking about, right?”

Sylvia wasn’t fazed. She sipped her wine. “I’m sure she’d a lovely girl. But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. What does she do with her life? Nothing, as far as I can tell. Now you, you’re an EMT. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on her.”

I’m not an EMT, I thought. I got fired from the bank and I live in my mother’s basement. Suddenly this all seemed like a bad idea. I didn’t want to impress people. I was starting to think I especially didn’t want to impress these people.

I turned and looked at Megan. She had finished talking to her cousin. As if she sensed me looking at her, she turned and her eyes met mine. I lifted an eyebrow. She gave me a pale smile that didn’t reach her eyes, just a twitch at the corners of her mouth, and looked away again.

Fuck this, I thought.

I wanted this morning’s sexy, confident Megan back.

I’d find a way.

Twenty-One

Megan

There were artsy plaster swirls on the ceiling of my room. Thirty-seven of them, to be exact. I lay in my frilly twin bed and stared up at them, unable to sleep.

I’d thought I could handle this wedding. I’d been so sure.

But I’d spent dinner talking to Stephanie, listening to her talk about law school, her six months in Europe, her job, the planned honeymoon, the house she was buying with Kyle. Their plans for kids. She was only twenty-five, for God’s sake. I was twenty-three, and I was completely fucking lost.

My cousin still had no idea that her groom had taken my virginity years ago. I didn’t think it mattered. Because today I’d looked at Kyle and felt… not much of anything. A vague bank of memories, drifting and disappearing again. He’d grown a goatee. He had that same earring. He hadn’t gotten fat or lost his teeth or gone bald. He was just Kyle.

Next to Jason, he looked like nothing. I was starting to realize that at seventeen, you don’t make the hottest choices about men.

I felt queasy. I hated this. I always knew where I was going, what I was doing, even if I was getting fired and dating a loser boyfriend. I was on my train, and anyone who didn’t like it could get off. My parents had taught me that. Life was too short.

But being here, with these people, made me feel like I wasn’t enough.

I rolled over, picked up my phone, and called my dad.

“Hello, honey,” he said when he answered. “How was the wedding?”

“It hasn’t happened yet,” I replied. “It’s in the morning. What are you doing?”

“I’m looking at a catalog of solar panels,” he said. “They aren’t as expensive as they used to be, you know. I bet I could get entirely off the grid. What’s the matter?”

I sighed. “I’m feeling a bit like a flake.”

“You’re not a flake,” Dad said instantly. “You’re a free soul.”

“I don’t feel like a free soul at the moment. I feel like someone who doesn’t own a house.”

“A house? What do you need that for?” He sounded outraged. “You need four walls to keep you out of the cold, that’s all. That and your freedom.”

“Okay, then, a job. I could use a job. A real one.”

“Jobs are modern slavery,” Dad said, like I knew he would. I’d heard him say it many times. “Also, I know what Janice does for a living. Lawyers are the devil.”

“Dad.” I gritted my teeth. “I get what you’re saying, but I’m twenty-three. I need to make a living for the next sixty or so years without starving. Drug-Rite isn’t going to do it.”

“You should do the photo styling,” he said. “You always liked