Or that’s what I think is going on.
With him on my mind, I text Jess and confirm what time I’m supposed to meet her at Coffee Cats early Friday morning, then curl onto my mattress and open my laptop, aware that I owe her support on her dating-app project. Jess will help my father. In fact, she’ll go out of her way to help my father. She adores him. He is a father to her, when her father was more monster, with wandering hands and lips that seemed to find all the wrong parts of her body. Or so Jess has told me, in those specific words. I haven’t asked a lot of questions. I just listen when the tidbits of her pained childhood find a way to rear their ugly head, even in tiny bits, after she is triggered. Of course, she pretends she is not triggered and does so with the ease of practice. Quite skilled at such avoidance, she elegantly swoops whatever topic has taken us to her bad place aside and away. I can almost envision her as a magnificent white dove lifting her wings and flying high above the trees that shelter the beast lurking below.
The app loads, and my message box lights up. I now have eleven messages to what is most likely a hundred for Jess, but this isn’t about comparing. Okay, maybe it is with her article in play, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Uncomfortable, I decide, but I do believe that’s about my own insecurity and sense of inferiority. An unimpressive, inappropriate reason to avoid helping Jess with her project.
I open the list of messages and find nothing from the ex, Kevin. But what I do find surprises me. I begin pulling up profiles, focusing on the ones that left messages after I changed my profile photos. One stands out. The photo is of a cartoon emoji man named Adam, and the message reads: You looked beautiful and natural in the first photo. In the new photo you just put up, you look guarded and awkward. As if you’re afraid to be the woman in the first photo.
While it’s possible there is truth to that observation, my defenses bristle and bristle loud and proud. I quickly write back and say: This from a person who’s afraid to even post his real photo?
With that, I shut my computer screen, already done with this dating app, at least until Jess convinces me otherwise.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I wake with a jolt Friday morning, eye the clock, and panic with the realization I’ve overslept. I all but bolt to the closet, only to realize my dry cleaning is still at the cleaners.
Unfortunately my “basic” wardrobe of “basic” black is off the table. Well, not completely. I have one black skirt. My blouse options include white, green, and red—apparently my closet is the interesting combination of goth plus Christmas. Of course, I didn’t buy the random rainbow-colored items. Jess and my mother did.
Surveying my options, I decide that red is for attention and expected from someone like Jess, who always shines in the spotlight, but for me it looks desperate. What I do not want to do is come off thirsty two days after I nose-dived while standing at a podium in front of the board of directors for the library and a stranger in the back of the room, whoever he may be. However, white collects stains, and green is a Christmas tree.
I grimace and pull on the red, luxuriously silky sweater, which can only mean Jess paid way too much money for it. I suppose it’s a good thing I’m wearing it today, when I’ll be seeing her. I doubt anyone else will even notice.
It’s time to find out if I’m back to the uncomfortable comfort of being unseen and unheard again.
Despite my rushed exit from my loft, I manage to arrive at the bustling Coffee Cats a few minutes before Jess, claiming a spot in the ten-deep line. The woman ahead of me orders a vanilla white mocha, which strikes me as contrary as my need to remain invisible and also be seen—it seems meant to become my new drink. I order one with whip and nonfat milk, also rather contrary but highly appropriate. I also order Jess’s usual nonfat hazelnut white mocha with an extra shot of espresso, no whip, and no foam. She doesn’t try new drinks. People who know who they are and what they like don’t have to experiment.
Once I’ve claimed a table, I head to the pickup area, waiting for my order. In a rush of sweet-smelling perfume, Jess joins me in line, and as if she’s grabbing a page from my book, and me one from hers, I’m in color, and she’s wearing all black in the form of a sweater dress and boots.
“Sorry I’m late,” she breathes out, sounding flustered. “I’ve been trying to get an interview with a big music exec for weeks, and his secretary finally called me back. And no, I did not get the interview. She was a bitch. I’m not done trying, though. Do we have a table?”
“Back corner,” I say, motioning to the spot I’ve chosen.
“Always back corner,” she replies. “You are nothing if not predictable.”
“Predictable sounds pretty good after my last forty-eight hours.”
“Maybe we should be having Bloody Marys, not coffee.”
“Me and vodka would make my feet forget how to walk.”
She shifts her bag. “My bag is going to make me unable to move my arm at this point.”
“Go sit,” I say. “I’ll wait for the drinks.”
“You’re the best,” she declares, her eyes lighting. “You wore the red sweater. I love it on you.” She smiles brightly and, with that, strides away.
“Seven!” the barista calls out an order, and I realize we have four before us.
With that in mind, and my workday creeping up on me, I hurry after Jess, sliding into the booth across from her. “Our drinks aren’t even close to done based on the order they just called,” I explain, “and I need to talk to you about something before we both have to go to work.”
“Oh no,” she says. “What happened?”
“It’s not really an ‘oh no’ kind of thing. It’s a good thing, actually. My father has a really hot patent right now. It’s primed to change the energy industry to the point that some might try to buy it, just to kill it. He needs legal protection. Can you help?”
“Heck yes, I can help. I have a guy that looks after my parents’ money and investments. I can call him.”
I blink. Investments? I didn’t know she had investments. I mean, yes, her parents left her money, but I thought she never touched it. Of course, she does well at her job, and she makes killer money. I don’t know why this is bugging me, but it is. It does. Sometimes I think I know more about Jess than I do about myself.
But I didn’t know this.
What else don’t I know?
“This is exciting,” she continues. “And I know how badly he needs this to go well,” she adds. “And you do, too. I know you’ve been worried about him.” She grabs her phone from the table. “I assume this is urgent. I can make a call now.”
“Yes, please,” I say, and the sincerity in her voice and actions has me blowing off my ridiculous thoughts. I mean, of course she has investments. I’m weird and paranoid right now. That’s clear. I was even accusing the weeping willow of being scary the other night.
I almost laugh at my ridiculousness.
I’m about to tell Jess as much when I hear the barista shout, “Eleven!” which would be me, and a number is much better than being called “Girl.”
“That’s us,” I say, but I hesitate. “My mother doesn’t know about this, Jess.”
She sets her phone back down. “Why?”
“I told you. I think there’s trouble between them.” My lips press together. “Let me get the coffees. I really need caffeine. I didn’t exactly sleep like a baby last night.”
Her chin bobs. “I hear ya, honey. Get the coffee. I’ll make the call.”
“Thanks, Jess,” I say, pushing to my feet and crossing to the coffee bar.
Once at the counter, I pick up the two cups in my order and eye the sides of the cups to figure out which is mine. I blanch at what I find. There’s a note scribbled on the side of my cup that reads: Red suits you.
Chapter Twenty-Three