Why Can't I Be You (9781101602843) Read online

  A PLUME BOOK

  WHY CAN’T I BE YOU

  Jeremy Larkin

  ALLIE LARKIN lives with her husband, Jeremy, two German Shepherds, Argo and Stella, and a three-legged cat. Her first novel, Stay, is an international bestseller. She has never assumed a new identity to attend a high school reunion.

  Praise for Stay

  “Delightful! Both dog lovers and the pooch-free will enjoy this novel of friendship, love, and healing.”

  —Susan Elizabeth Phillips, New York Times bestselling author of What I Did for Love

  “With humor and exceptional charm, Allie Larkin’s story of a heartbroken young woman and the arrival of a clumsy, four-legged friend who brings new meaning to her life is simply wonderful. Stay is a treat of a novel that must be shared with every girlfriend who has ever loved and lost.”

  —Beth Hoffman, New York Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt

  “I cannot wait to read more from Allie Larkin—an effervescent new voice in fiction. Witty, sweet, and strikingly real, Stay is for any woman who has ever experienced heartbreak or loss and needed a friend to lean on. I loved every word!”

  —Beth Harbison, New York Times bestselling author of Shoe Addicts Anonymous and Hope in a Jar

  “I’m madly in love with this big-hearted, charming keeper of a debut about love in all its forms, including the four-legged kind. Allie Larkin has a special and original voice.”

  —Melissa Senate, author of See Jane Date and The Secret of Joy

  “Wow! This book blew me away. Sharp. Smart. Observant. Buzzing with romance, friendship, and heart. Most of all, incredibly well written. Stay is sure to become the new favorite among Emily Giffin fans. Enjoy!”

  —Sarah Strohmeyer, author of The Cinderella Pact

  and The Penny Pinchers Club

  “Gilmore Girls meets Marley & Me in this funny and compelling debut.”

  —Library Journal

  “A feel-good debut.”

  —People

  “Charming . . . Larkin makes writing look easy. . . . Stay has everything a summer read needs: humor, heart—and, endearingly, buckets of dog slobber.”

  —Miami Herald

  “Enjoyable . . . A pleasing meld of romance and dog tale, with an empowerment theme, making for a gratifying read.”

  —Bookreporter.com

  “Dog lovers will dig this heartfelt tale. . . . If you don’t like dogs, you’ll relate to this debut novel about finding your way back to life after heartbreak.”

  —Examiner.com

  Why Can’t I Be You

  Allie Larkin

  A PLUME BOOK

  PLUME

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa • Penguin China, B7 Jaiming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Allie Larkin, 2013

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Larkin, Allie.

  Why can’t I be you / Allie Larkin.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-60284-3

  1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Class reunions—Fiction. 3. Lookalikes—Fiction. 4. Mistaken identity—Fiction. 1. Title.

  PS3612.A6485W692013

  813’.6—dc23 2012018095

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Why Can't I Be You

  Acknowledgments

  To my oldest friends. You are superheroes.

  Why Can’t I Be You

  Deagan was jittery on the drive to the airport. I didn’t even make the coffee like mud that morning. I made it normal human strength, and I put lots of milk in his. He took forever to drink it, sitting at the rickety kitchen table in the tiny dining area of my sad little apartment, watching me scurry around shoving stray items into my carry-on bag. I couldn’t fit anything else in my suitcase. It was packed so full that I had to lie across it to get it to close. My cat, Mr. Snuffleupagus, watched from his perch on top of the dresser and gave me a good swat with his paw every time I passed by.

  I’d never been on a business trip before, and while the idea of it had always seemed glamorous and exciting, after spending the previous evening trying to get conditioner into a teeny-tiny bottle and ending up with a big slimy mess all over the bathroom floor, I was beginning to suspect that it was just as much of a hassle as any other kind of travel. The good part was, after the conference ended Deagan would drop Snuffy off at the kitty kennel and meet me in Seattle. We were going to rent a red convertible, road-trip out to Napa, and spend the week at a spa getting massages and drinking champagne in a hot-air balloon. It wasn’t a visit to see college friends and crash on their couch or a rent-a-cottage-by-the-ski-slopes-with-sixteen-of-his-work-buddies kind of trip. It was an honest-to-goodness vacation.

  Deagan was so busy playing with his cell phone that he didn’t do the nudging he usually did to get me out the door whenever we had dinner plans or were trying to catch a movie. And, since I was expecting him to look at his watch and sigh every five minutes when it got close to go time, I wasn’t watching the clock on my own. All of a sudden, I realized it was six forty-five and I was already supposed to be at the airport.

  “Deags!” I yelled, grabbing a wad of sweaters from a pile at the bottom of my closet, shoving them into the front pocket of my straining suitcase. “We have to leave! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh,” he said, giving me a dazed look, “yeah.” He rubbed his hand over his face like he was trying to snap out of it. “Brendon texted about moving volleyball practice up to five thirty, but Faye can’t get out of work in time, so Justin is trying to—”

  “Okay, never mind. Tell me in th
e car!” I yelled, pulling my blazer on frantically.

  We made a mad dash to the parking lot. Deagan carried my suitcase and loaded it in the trunk, which was nice, because (1) it was heavy, and (2) while he was loading it, he didn’t notice when I slipped on some ice. We’d had a hard rain and an early frost, and the parking lot was like a skating rink.

  I caught myself by grabbing the bumper of the nearest car, and set off the alarm. Deagan looked up. I jumped away from the wailing car and shook my head like I didn’t know what happened.

  “I don’t know why people have car alarms,” I said, trying to act casual as I got in the passenger seat of his Mazda3. “Everyone just ignores them anyway.”

  “Uh-huh,” he grunted.

  Deagan was usually a little quiet in the morning. I told myself it was nothing unusual, but deep down I worried. He hadn’t finished his volleyball story. I didn’t really want to hear more about the trials and tribulations of scheduling practice, so I didn’t ask, but I wished he would say something—maybe tell me he was going to miss me or that he couldn’t wait for our vacation. Something.

  He fiddled with the heat vents on the dashboard, and I noticed that his hands were shaky. He’s just nervous because we’re late, and he’s driving on icy roads, I thought, but when we stopped at a light, he gave me a look—a really deep, long, soulful look—and my heart got fluttery in a way that was well beyond travel nerves.

  My lease was up in two months. We’d talked about it at dinner the other night. That look had to have meaning. That look, the silence, the nerves. He was going to ask me to move in with him.

  And it’s not like I hadn’t thought about it. I knew where I would hang my Jackson Pollock prints, and which corner of his living room would be perfect for the wing chair I’d reupholstered with fabric from an old wool suit. On my first morning living there, I’d wear my black satin bathrobe and make him pancakes and fresh-squeezed orange juice. I already knew I would do everything in my power to keep all bodily functions to myself, no matter what. And I’d decided that someday, when we finally got married, I wasn’t going to take his name, but I would consider a hyphenation: Jenny Shaw-Holmes had a good ring to it.

  The drive to Greater Rochester International Airport only took fifteen minutes, but by the time we got there I’d thought up five different ways to say, “Yes! I’ll move in with you.” I’d vetoed three, and was torn between a staid and dignified “Of course I will!” and shouting, “Oh! Deagan!” as I threw my arms around his neck, getting just teary enough to be sweet but not messy enough to embarrass him.

  Deagan was a hospital corners kind of guy. He didn’t even have any specks of lint in the leather casing around his gearshift, and all the chrome detailing on his dashboard shone like it had the first day he got his car. Sometimes, I wondered if he even had fingerprints, because he never left smudges anywhere.

  He pulled up to the curb at the JetBlue drop-off, put the car in park, hit the hazard-light button with his knuckle, and started fumbling around in his jacket pocket. There was something in there. Something he had his hand around. It had a hard corner.

  Holy mother of monkey lovers, I thought. He’s got a ring box in his pocket. Maybe it’s the ring. The one I’d seen in an ad in Glamour. We were sitting on the couch drinking coffee. He was reading Sports Illustrated. I flipped the page, and there it was: an elegant solitaire with an emerald-cut diamond. I stared at it for a little too long. I pictured it on my finger. I imagined him getting down on one knee and opening the box. By then, we’d been dating for a year, and it seemed about the right amount of time.

  “Whatcha reading?” he asked, looking over my shoulder. The page across from it was about new spring makeup colors. There was hardly any text. It was obvious I hadn’t been reading about coral lipstick for such a long time. “It’s pretty,” he said, pointing to the ring. I turned the page quickly, my cheeks flushing.

  He asked where it was from, said “hmm” very thoughtfully when I told him Cartier, and never mentioned it again.

  Maybe he’d finally gotten the ring and he just couldn’t wait. Maybe he’d planned to ask me on our trip, but he was so upset that we’d be apart and the ring was burning a hole in his pocket. Maybe when I got to Seattle, I could post a picture of that ring on my hand. My status would be Jenny Shaw is getting married! And all the girls I’d gone to high school with, who were now smugly pregnant and posting about cravings, morning sickness, mucus plugs, and something called a Boppy, could just eat it.

  “Jenny,” he said, his hazel eyes wide, framed with the kind of dark, thick lashes any woman would die for but only guys seem to have, “I have to tell you something.”

  “Oh, Deags!” I said, sighing happily.

  “I know! I know! You have to go, but I think I need to say this now.”

  I felt frozen. Like time and air and space and the rotation of the earth had all stopped just to hear what Deagan would say next.

  “I just, I have these . . . feelings . . . and I think I owe it to all of us to figure them out.”

  “All of us?”

  He gave me a helpless look, and it clicked into place. “All of us” meant him and Faye—the girl he thought he loved—and me, the one he was pretty sure he didn’t.

  Faye, from volleyball. For months, I’d tried to ignore the fact that every story about his weekly game seemed to start and end with Faye. I told myself that every story had to include her, because she was a super-amazing volleyball player who carried the team and made every winning shot. But then they made the play-offs, and I went to see the first game. I watched Faye screw up one play after another, and realized Deagan’s interest in her had nothing to do with her skills on the court. When I saw her get hit in the ear by a spike because she was too busy making goofy faces at Deagan, it started a twinge in my stomach, a little ball of nerves that bounced around in there and didn’t want to go away.

  A car behind us beeped, but Deagan didn’t even react. He took his hand out of his pocket. He was holding an unwrapped stick of gum. Doublemint. He always bought the value packs that someone might say are about the size of a ring box—if that someone had an overactive imagination and a spatial relationship deficiency. He shoved the gum into his mouth and started chewing.

  “It’s just, Faye and I, we have so much in common,” he said, slowly, pushing the gum from one side of his mouth to the other with his tongue. “And I think if I don’t . . . explore that, I think it won’t be doing anyone any favors.”

  “Explore that?” I said, picturing him in bed with Faye, wearing a pith helmet and a headlamp like he was about to go spelunking.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll still watch your cat while you’re gone.”

  “Thank you,” I said automatically, like he was doing me some amazing favor by not starving my cat to death in the face of our breakup.

  “But I don’t think it’s appropriate for us to go to Napa now,” he said in a stern voice, as if I’d suggested something completely ridiculous and crass when I’d sent him links to the spa months ago, when we were still, for all intents and purposes, a perfectly happy couple.

  I wanted to sob. I wanted to scream. But I just felt numb. Like time and air and space and the rotation of the earth might forget to start again, and I’d just be frozen in his car forever. Finally, I felt one big fat tear drip down my cheek, and then another and another. I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket.

  An airport-security vehicle with orange flashing lights pulled up next to Deagan’s car. The driver honked and made a swooping gesture with his arm.

  “I’m sorry, Jenny,” Deagan said. “But do you mind?” He hit the button on his door to unlock mine. I grabbed my carry-on bag off the backseat. I didn’t look at him. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. I used my damp sleeve to wipe my fingerprints off the chrome door handle as I got out. And then I stood on the cu
rb and watched him pull away, driving fast, like he couldn’t wait to start his new life with Faye. Like he couldn’t get away from me quickly enough.

  I wiped my face with my sleeve again. I could feel the mascara running from my eyelashes, making them stick together, but I didn’t have the energy to do anything to fix it. My carry-on felt like it weighed a million pounds. I dragged it across the floor of the airport lobby, even though it didn’t have wheels.

  “You’re cutting it really close,” the attendant at the check-in counter said when I handed her my driver’s license.

  It was only when she asked if I was checking any luggage that I realized my suitcase was still in the trunk of Deagan’s car. Even if I wanted to completely humiliate myself by calling and begging him to drive back to bring it to me, it was way too late.

  I got stuck in the middle seat on the airplane, crammed between a man who looked like a linebacker, with shoulders that pushed into my seat space, and a woman wearing so much perfume I could taste it. The fake, flowery soapiness of her scent made me remember when I was about five or six and I ate a huge mouthful of bubbles in the bathtub because I expected them to taste like candy. They didn’t.

  I sat between the two of them, trying hard not to cry and failing miserably. The linebacker pretended to ignore me, giving me the side-eye every now and then from behind his New York Times, and the woman who smelled like Mr. Bubble kept sighing and clucking every time I sobbed, like she wanted me to talk about it with her. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to be that absurd cliché—crying on a stranger’s shoulder on an airplane. But when the attendants came around and gave us all little bags of peanuts, I remembered how much Deagan hated them—he always gave me his bag—and suddenly only having one little bag of stale airline peanuts seemed like the loneliest state of being in the world. I let out a sharp, loud sob that sounded like an angry goose honking.