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My stomach bottoms out. “What stuff?” I choke out.
Frankie clasps her hand to her mouth. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Just forget I said anything.”
“Oh, no. You’re not going to open up that can of worms and not tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I swear, Penn has the biggest mouth.”
“Just tell me, Frank. What did Penn say to Jack?”
“Apparently, this happened a month ago, but he didn’t bother to tell me until yesterday. He might’ve told Jackson that…you’re in love with him.”
I freeze. She didn’t just say what I think she said. Wasn’t I just thinking wonderful thoughts about my little sister?
“Frank, how could you?”
“It was just…”
“We’ve never even talked about that.”
“I know. But I just always suspected… I mean, isn’t it true?”
“Does it even matter if itis? Why would you talk to Penn about that?”
“It was just casual conversation. I had no idea he was going to go to Jack with it.”
Everything is finally making sense. Why Jackson is being such an ass. Why he didn’t call me this morning after he promised.
“Damn it, Frankie. What the hell am I going to do now?”
“If Jackson hasn’t said anything to you, just do nothing. Pretend you don’t know. Pretend it’s not true.”
“It’s not.”
“Mandy…”
No. I am not going to cry. I’m not going to cry over Jackson Paris, who gave me the most amazing time of my life last night, told me he loves me, but then neglected to call me this morning when he was supposed to. Now I get it. He thinks I’ll read too much into his postcoital words. How many others has he said those words to in the throes of orgasm? I feel sick. Really sick.
“I have to go,” I say abruptly.
“Mandy, I’m sorry.”
“That doesn’t really help me right now.”
“I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. I just assumed Jack had gone to you about it, and the two of you had a good laugh.”
“I’m really sick of people assuming things about me,” I say, but there’s no bite in my words.
All these years, Jackson assumed I was some sweet and innocent schoolgirl with whom he couldn’t share his deepest fantasies. And now Frankie assumes I’m in love with my best friend. She’s right, of course, but it’s not like she had any way of knowing.
Do I really wear my heart on my sleeve like that? Do I have “I love Jackson Paris” tattooed on my forehead?
I may as well.
I step out of the bridal shop, head to the subway station, and get on the train.
