Read Online How to Look Happy by Stacey Wiedower - Free Book Online Page A

in town several times scouting real estate because she oversees the Dallas office of Anderson Public Relations and sometimes travels to Memphis for work. She has the money for this second home by virtue of her other job as an internationally bestselling author.
    “Go, you,” I say, impressed but not surprised. I know better than Carrie does how awesome she is. “So, you want to go celebrate?”
    “Sure,” she says. “I was going to call you anyway. Mel’s not in town this weekend, by the way. She’s coming in week after next for some literary event at Rhodes College. She’s the keynote speaker.”
    I’m shaking my head at this. It seems like two months ago that the three of us—along with Reese Spencer-Chapman, Amelia’s childhood best friend and the fourth member of our old crew—were in our mid-twenties, just meeting, and regularly hanging out in bars bemoaning our pitiful careers, bank accounts, and love lives. It doesn’t seem possible that we’re now grown-ups.
    Or that Amelia, Reese, and Carrie are grown up, at least. Ever since my Facebook stunt I’ve felt more like an overgrown teenager.
    I shake off the thought, swinging open my car door at the same time without checking to see if the street is clear. An oncoming Hummer almost takes off my door, and I feel a rush of wind and the car shuddering beneath my feet as it passes. “Ack!” My heart racing at my idiocy, I gather myself for a breath and then say, “I’m just up the street from you. I was about to go into Greencork—is that okay?”
    The chic-but-laid-back wine bar has exactly the vibe I need tonight. It’s cheerful, friendly, and usually plays host to large groups of women—book clubs and girls’ nights out—nary a man in sight on a typical evening. The thought of dipping back into the dating pool makes me sick to my stomach, so I want to avoid the singles scene for now.
    “You’re reading my mind,” Carrie says. “Did you say you were calling Rachael?”
    “Nah,” I reply. I would have called Rachael if Carrie wasn’t free, but since she is, I’d much rather have my best friend to myself. Besides, I’m getting a weird vibe off of Rachael now that I’m persona non grata at the office. I feel a dash of unease as I think about work. That’s another reason I don’t want to call Rachael. I haven’t told Carrie about Candace’s passive-aggressive behavior yet, and I wouldn’t be able to dish with Rachael there.
     
    *  *  *
     
    I’m so comfortable that I don’t even notice Brad Pepper’s arrival at Greencork until he’s towering over my chair. Carrie and I have managed to snag the best seats in the place—one of two pairs of slipper chairs in front of a homey fireplace. There’s no fire in it tonight, what with it seventy-eight degrees outside at 9:30 p.m., but it still ups the cozy vibe in the restaurant a thousandfold.
    Brad is a principal at Levi-Pepper Architects, a Midtown firm that specializes in historic adaptation. I’ve worked with Brad on one project, an old bread factory his firm turned into a mixed-use residential and commercial development. I designed the model units for the condos.
    “Well, Jennifer Dawson,” he says, and his voice booms so loudly in my right ear I nearly jump out of my seat.
    “Bradley Pepper, hello,” I answer, switching into my “office voice,” something Carrie’s boyfriend, David, makes fun of me for. Jeremy has an “office voice” too. I never even knew we did it until recently when David pointed it out. Now I’m a little self-conscious about it, and I try to modulate my voice back to a more normal, conversational tone. “What are you up to tonight?”
    It’s obvious what he’s up to—after all, we’re in the same bar on the same weekend evening. I look beyond him to see who he’s with, but I can’t tell. Greencork is a self-service wine bar with five or six wine cooler stations topped by signs that read “crisp, fruity whites,” “full-bodied reds,” and so