Ugh. This is driving me crazy. I can’t keep torturing myself with these questions.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I send him a quick text before I can talk myself out of it.
How’s your day going?
There. Just a totally casual, totally chill message. Nothing accusatory or aggressive. Maybe he’ll take advantage of my olive branch and write back with an apology. If not, maybe his response will give me some other clues about his behavior last night. Like,Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I met someone. OrI’m sorry, Blair, but I ran into an ex at the Junkanoo and we decided to get back together. Any kind of explanation would be better than the horrible radio silence I’ve been getting.
“What are Ted’s dinner plans this evening?” Mom asks, and I realize I’ve been tuning her out for the last few minutes. “You two have been seeing so much of each other, and he gets along so well with your father. Don’t you think Ted would like to join us for?—”
"Mom!” I cut her off, exasperated. “I never found Ted last night, and we’re not seeing each other, so I’m not going to invite him to a family dinner. You’re building this up in your head to be way more than it is. I’ve barely even talked to the guy. He probably has better things to do anyway.”
"Oh, Blair." Her voice is sympathetic, but for all the wrong reasons. I’m sure she thinks I’m pining away for Ted Polansky, too timid to make a move. "I know he’s a famous athlete, but trust me, Ted would be over the moon if you reached out to him. He’sveryinterested in you. Probably because you two have so much in common. I could invite him to dinner myself, if you’d prefer."
That is the last thing I want, but since I can’t have her calling Ted behind my back, I just say, “Please don’t. I’ll handle it, Mom.”
"If you’re sure…”
“I’m positive.”
I spin away from her and stalk over to another circular rack of blouses and tank tops, flicking through the hangers with irritation. The ritzy shop is brimming with upscale vacation wear, a mix of designer labels and locally made batik and linen pieces. Mom dragged me in here after we had breakfast in town at the café next door. Probably because she’s concerned about my non-Ted-friendly wardrobe.
Not that I totally blame her for judging my outfit. I put zero effort into getting ready this morning. My hair is in a messy bun and I’m wearing jean shorts with frayed edges and a slouchy tank top over my bikini.
"Blair? Did you hear me?"
I look over my shoulder. "What?”
She holds up a navy-blue halter top with a peplum waist and white trim. It’s actually pretty cute.
“I thought this would go with that skirt you liked,” she says.
“You’re right. It would.”
“Well, go get it. I’ll buy you both.”
I obediently go fetch the skirt, even though I’m 100% certain that the whole reason Mom wants to buy me this outfit is so that I can wear it to dinner with Ted Polansky.
Following behind her as she continues to browse, I run my fingers over buttons and ruffles and different fabrics as my mind drifts back to Sebastian.
“How about these?” Mom says, holding up another hanger.
"Seriously?"
The pants are wide legged and loose, not unlike Palazzo pants, which I happen to love. But it’s the pattern that has my jaw dropping. Deep cobalt and pale aqua bloom in the background, while a navy branch-like design with small orange flowers fills the foreground.
“Wow. It looks like the bottom of the ocean,” I say.
“Are they too loud?” She looks down at them again, sheepish. “I thought they looked fun.”
“No. They’re great. You picked perfect,” I tell her.
"They’ll match the top, too.”
I smile. Retail therapy for the win. “They will. Thanks, Mom.”
When she gets in line to pay, I hang back and dig my cell out again. No response from Sebastian. I hesitate and then send him another text, this one more direct.
Can we talk?
