Page 36 of I Think He Knows
What follows can only be described as a Strawberry-Kiwi Breeze explosion of monumental proportions.
Pinkish-red goop splatters everywhere, coating me, the Lulu twins, and all innocent bystanders in a blanket of cold stickiness. It’s like the freaking elevator scene fromThe Shining, but with smoothie.
“Agggh!” someone shrieks.
Another person whips off their ruined sweater.
A third comes running with a stack of paper towels.
Me? I stand glued to the spot as my brain short-circuits trying to process this news.
Is this what he wanted to talk to me about? The reason he’s back here in Atlanta?
Is he MARRYING Freya DiMauritz?
No. They just started dating. If they are even dating, which has been neither confirmed nor denied. Either way, Carter’s not the long-term commitment type, never has been. He goes through girlfriends like I go through Wonderbread.
There’s obviously been a mistake.
I need to call him back. Now.
“Sorry, sorry!” I spring to life. Get on my knees on the floor. Start trying to help clean up the mess while throwing out apologies like candy. If I’m not very much mistaken, Lulu 2 snaps a picture of me.
I swear, it must be a full moon or something. But all I’m focused on is getting out of here so I can call my best friend.
“Mom?” Legs’s little voice suddenly comes from beside me. “What’s going on?”
I look up and give my daughter a beaming smile, hands stacked high with sopping wet, pink-stained paper towels. So basically, I must look like a wayward serial killer.
“Hi, honey! I’m just, um, cleaning up your snack. Is class over? Yes? Okay, we should go.”
I load a few armfuls of paper towels into the nearest trash can, not caring that my favorite work dress—ribbed gray material with cap sleeves and a cute side tie—is now tie-dyed bubblegum pink and red beyond repair. Then, I take Allegra by the hand and practically run to the dance studio door. Every pair of eyes in the place follows us, and I’m sure my cheeks are now as red as my stupid dress.
“Mom, I’m hungryyyyy,” Legs whines as she hops onto her booster in the backseat and clips her seatbelt on. “And that is soembarrassingthat you spilled my smoothie all over everyone’s moms.”
“I’m so sorry, Leggsy. We’ll stop and grab another one on the ride home.”
I roll down all the windows to get some much-needed fresh air, and then pull out of the parking lot, needing to get some space between us and the dance mob. I drive for a few minutes before swerving into a Sonic parking lot. Not quite Smoothie King, but Cherry Limeade also contains fruit… of a syrup variety. This is hardly the time to be picky.
But instead of pulling into one of the order bays, I stop in the middle of the parking lot and throw on my hazards, reaching for my phone.
“Mom, what are you doing?” Allegra says in horror. She’s just hit that age where she’s absolutely mortified by everything I say and do, and it’s really making me look forward to those upcoming teenage years. Not.
“One sec, hun. I need to check on something before we order.”
Before I call Carter back, I have to be prepared. Have to know what I’m working with. You know, so I don’t break down in a fit of hysterical tears or something when he tells me he’s engaged.
I ignore all my messages, open Google, and type in “Carter Callahan”, like I’ve done so many times before.
There are a thousand news articles that pop up, and I frantically click on the first one, which reads: “Hollywood’s Hottest Bachelor Officially Off the Market!”
And that’s when I’m greeted with a full-screen-size picture of my face. It’s not a good picture. It’s snapped from a distance in what looks to be a park in my neighborhood. I’m wearing sweatpants and my glasses, hair in a knot, and I was probably mid-sneeze, given my expression—face contorted, eyes half-closed, lips puckered above what looks to be an entire collection of chins. The caption reveals me as “Alana Mae Donovan, Carter’s longtime best friend and confidante.”
Which is mostly correct, give or take an A, but also how on earth doesE! Newsknow this, and moreso, why do they care? This seems more like Mona The Informer fodder than national news.
I scroll down furiously. There’s a second picture. And while it’s another zoomed-in paparazzi shot, I’d recognize that dark, scowling face anywhere. It’s my brother Liam, and Carter is next to him. They’re in a jewelry store.
Before I can even begin to unpack that one, I scroll to a third picture showing Carter and Freya walking down the street in LA somewhere, Freya looking impossibly cool in that off-duty supermodel kind of way and sporting only a singular chin. Under the photo is the caption: “Freya DiMauritz left heartbroken by revelation.”