Kristan Higgins - All I Ever Wanted

“Angie.”

“Angie,” I immediately crooned in a whispery voice. The old Rolling Stones song was a favorite of mine, “‘Aaaangie, you can’t say we never tri-ah-ah-ied.’” Bowie joined right in with a whining howl, and Angie wagged appreciatively. Her owner said nothing. “Did you name her after the song?”

“No. Her name is Four D Mayo’s Angel,” he answered in what I’m sure he thought was a patient tone. “I shortened it.”

“Oh, so she’s one of those purebred AKC dogs, is that it?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Apparently unable to stop talking, I kept going. “Bowie’s a mutt.”

“Yes. I’m aware of that.”

“Right. Because you’re the vet.” For heaven’s sake , Michelle said. Shut it, Callie .

“Angie, go lie down, girl,” the good doctor said. His dog wagged at me once more, then walked off down the hall. Bowie crooned a mournful goodbye.

“Well, see you arou—” I offered to Dr. McFarland, but he was already going into the next exam room to deal with the obese terrier and its owner.

I looked at my dog, who stared back, ready to hear whatever gem I was about to impart. “That did not go too well,” I whispered.

Up at the front desk, Carmella took pity on me. “Divorced,” she said. “Not over his wife, I think.”

“Oh,” I murmured. “Too bad.”

My trip to Humiliationville cost me $75. Michelle told me I’d learned a valuable lesson in not wasting other people’s time. Betty mourned the shoes that money could’ve bought.

In the parking lot, Ball Python Woman was sliding her pet into the passenger seat, which made me wonder what the heck the snake did while she drove around. “Well, that was a complete waste of time,” she announced as I opened the door for Bowie.

“You’re telling me,” I answered.

BACK HOME, I CROSSED New Vet off my list and checked my e-mail. Yesterday, when Annie was supposed to be getting ready for the new school year, she had instead screened several candidates, thoroughly enjoying her foray into Internet dating. This guy is gorgeous! she’d written, complete with a link to his info. Doug336. What did those numbers mean, anyway? That there were 336 Dougs in the world, all of them looking for love? That was a lot of Dougs. I sighed and turned to look at the framed photo I really should toss.

It was taken at last year’s company picnic, two months before that fateful foray to Santa Fe. Mark had organized one of those team-building exercise retreat things involving paintball and physical exertion, and though there had been grumblings about why the heck we couldn’t have gone on a booze cruise instead, I’d had a great time. Especially during the Chicken Challenge. Oh, I loved the Chicken Challenge! It was basically a game of piggyback chicken in a lake, and guess who got to partner up with the boss? Me, that’s who, and Pete had snapped a photo of the two of us, soaked and triumphant, me on Mark’s back, my arms around his lovely neck. That was a happy, happy day. I’d been so sure Mark was feeling it, too …

Get rid of the picture , Michelle advised.

I didn’t. But I dragged my eyes off it and clicked the link. “Okay, Doug336,” I said. “Let’s make a date.”

I HAD KNOWN MARK SINCE I was a kid and, like most of the kids I knew, admired him from afar. I might have been pretty and friendly, but he was older by two years. He was the mayor’s son. He lived up the street, right on the town green, and not in a funeral home, but in a house where, rumor had it, he had an entire floor to himself. He was an only child, he was tall, he was athletic, he was handsome. In my young eyes, Mark Rousseau and Leonardo DiCaprio both had the same appeal and the same unattainability … they were fun to look at, sure, someone to swoon over … but someone you’d talk to? No.

And then came Gwen Hardy’s fourteenth birthday party. Boy-girl, rec room, a closet … the classic scene. Despite the fact that several classmates were well into the world of horny teenage groping, I had not yet so much as held hands with a boy. Jake Fiore had asked me out in sixth grade, but I told him my parents were very strict and old-fashioned … not that my parents were paying a lot of attention, but because it seemed easier than negotiating the murky waters of adolescent love.

Anthony Gates approached in seventh grade, and again, I flashed the parent card, apologizing profusely and telling him I thought he was an awfully nice guy, but my dad … gosh, but thanks so much, I was really flattered. (I mastered the art of the nice rejection early in life, as you can see.)

The truth was, I believed in Love. After my father moved out, I resolved that Life Would Still Be Happy. I was helpful with my baby brother, cheerful in the mornings to counterbalance Hester. I made sure I always skipped out to my dad’s car when he came to pick us up for his nights and pretended to love bowling because he loved bowling. Made Mom tea when she came in from work. Always kept my room neat. Smiled when I felt like crying, and when I did cry, made sure I went into my closet so no one would hear.

Love would be my reward. I yearned for love. I’d have it, and not with any ordinary boy, either. It would be overwhelming, undeniable, meant to be Love with a capital L . The kind that caused Johnny Depp to swing from a rope outside the mental hospital in Benny & Joon . The kind that made John Cusack hold up the boom box in the pouring rain so Peter Gabriel could do the talking for him. My parents had obviously failed miserably on that front, but I would never make their mistakes (whatever those were). Hester was cynical and bitter, having been sixteen when Dad left and all too aware of why our parents’ marriage failed. She took the other extreme a child of divorce might embrace—swearing that she’d never let a man have so much as a toehold on her heart. She’d roll her eyes as I wept at romantic movies and advise me to stop being such a putz, but I wouldn’t stop. Didn’t want to.

Okay, so back to Gwen’s basement. Her parents were upstairs watching Seinfeld , and we were playing some variation of Truth or Dare that involved a boy and a girl going into a closet and making out. Prior to the party, Annie and I had spent roughly a thousand hours discussing whom we’d most want in the closet with us … her vote was the extremely cute Jack Doyle, the man she’d end up marrying. Me … I didn’t really have a leading contender. Until the actual night.

Gwen lived four doors down from the Rousseaus, and she’d worked up the nerve to ask Mark to stop by her party. For some reason, Mark agreed. It was a huge triumph for Gwen … Mark was sixteen already! He had his driver’s permit! He was on varsity lacrosse and soccer! He shaved! Mark, as we all knew, was dating Julie Revere, and Julie’s little sister rode the bus with Corinne Breck’s cousin, and Corinne, who was in our class, said that her cousin said that Julie’s sister said that Julie said she might let Mark go all the way .

We were all hugely aware of him … not one of the girls had touched the giant bowl of Cheeto balls for fear of getting orange gunk stuck in her braces, and most of us were sipping Diet Coke instead of the far too childish punch. I was so glad I’d worn my denim miniskirt with the cropped pink angora sweater. And yes, Mark had checked me out ten minutes earlier when he’d come in (thank you, padded bra!), causing me to blush furiously even as I pretended not to see him.

When Mark’s turn came during Truth or Dare, I didn’t hear the question he was supposed to answer. A roaring sound filled my ears. My face burned. I adopted a casual pose, and when Mark’s dark eyes stopped on me, I gave a little smile, even though my heart raced fast enough to make me sick. He stood up, crossed the circle and held out his hand. “Okay, kid. Time to go slumming with me,” he said with the crooked grin that would torture me for the next decade and a half.