She laughs that laugh, the same one that got me through so many hard times growing up. Like when my mom took off, or when a tampon rolled out of my bag in the middle of math class in seventh grade. Or when that dick Clay Dawson made up that rumor in high school. Yes, the kind of shit you take to your grave. Unless you have a friend like Kendall.
My gaze wanders around the crowded mall. “I’m so glad I told you that story. These days, when people think about dying, they want someone to erase their internet history on their hard drives. Me? I want someone to erase your memory.” Which makes me reconsider whether I want to mention the whole dick blog situation. Not because I don’t trust her, but because I’m feeling a little raw from the mention of the jerk who made my life miserable as a teen.
She laughs harder and reaches over to grab my hand. “I love you and promise I’ll never whisper a word of that story to anyone. Besides, I saw Clay a few months ago, and he’s as bald as a newborn baby. Karma is a badass bitch.”
I’m almost tempted to feel sorry for him. Almost.
I take another bite of my overcooked General Tso’s chicken and lament the reason we’re at the mall in the first place. “Please promise you won’t laugh when I try on those dresses.”
“Cross my heart.” She studies her dinner again before she wrinkles her nose and pushes the plate away. “I called my consultant at the boutique, and she set aside a few outfits for you.”
“You have a consultant?”
Really, I shouldn’t be surprised. Kendall is quickly becoming one of the best public relations consultants in the city, and she always looks stunning, even tonight in skinny jeans and a boho-chic sweater. If I wore that outfit, I’d look like I swallowed a water buffalo, but on her, with her silky, fire-engine red hair and that designer scarf, she looks like she fell out of a fashion magazine.
“My sister has a consultant. I mooch every now and then. When’s your thingy again?”
Holding back a groan, I mumble, “My thingy isn’t legit. I haven’t been invited yet.” I give her a resigned look. “It’s in three weeks, but Malcolm likes to wait until the last minute to extend invitations, as though we haven’t all cleared our calendars in case we get the nod.”
Besides the annual holiday gala, Gwen Waller’s birthday party is one of the biggest schmoozing events the firm has all year, and business is always overflowing afterward for the attorneys who attend.
And let’s be honest. I could use the help.
There are several aspects of my job I’ve come to hate since graduating law school all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to take corporate law by storm. The first of which is client origination, because I didn’t get into this field to be a salesman, but that’s a big, obnoxious part of this job.
Second in this growing list of pet peeves is the reality that women are sorely underrepresented at my firm, a problem I hope to remedy when I make partner.
Third is the fact that I care whether I’m extended an invitation to this dumb party.
With that thought, I blurt what’s really bothering me. “Is it pathetic that I’m shopping for an outfit when I don’t even have an invite?”
Kendall’s response is lightning-quick. “No way. It’s smart, like buying Magnum XL condoms for a date. Because you never know, and a girl can hope, right?” She winks in a way that only Kendall could get away with, which somehow makes her look button-cute and sassy.
“I’m also paranoid that if I do get an invite at the last minute, I’ll be stuck wearing something heinous. You know how much I hate buying clothes. Nothing ever fits my butt and boobs. I can pick one or the other, not both.” I pull my dark, shoulder-length hair out of my makeshift hair bun and re-twist it. “Sadly, after what happened yesterday, I’m thinking I need more than one dress. I’m tired of feeling like a fashion reject.”
Her big eyes widen, excitement oozing from her pores.
“Calm your tits, Fairy Godmother,” I warn. “Just because I’m getting a few outfits doesn’t mean I’m going to go crazy. I’m an attorney. I have to look professional, and as we both know, finding a few outfits might take me all year.”
“So no nipple clamps? We could pair them with a fitted skirt and a nice riding crop for a BDSM-meets-office-attire vibe.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “I’m thinking no to all of the above except the fitted skirt. As long as it doesn’t make my booty look big.”
“I promise your booty will look bitable. Rawr!”
“Fine, but we’re not having some dumb Pretty Woman moment because that movie irks me. Like one afternoon with a credit card and a lesson in table etiquette can magically transform a girl.”
“Such a cynic.”
“No, a realist. Because in real life, the rich guy goes home to the wife he never told Julia Roberts about.”
The expression on Kendall’s face is priceless. “I think you just crushed my soul. Stop talking.”
I twist the napkin in my lap. While I want to believe in true love more than I’d like to admit, the fact that my dad still moons over my mother, who is long gone and barely deigns to call us on Christmas, only exacerbates my bad attitude. And when I add my ex-boyfriend’s quick dismissal after dating a year, I can’t help but feel a little petulant.
Elliot and I seemed so right on paper. He was a little older and had just been promoted at his accounting firm, so I knew he was serious about his career. He was smart and cute in a nerdy way. When I looked at him, I thought he was my speed, someone I could settle down with and have a family. Someone who would be there for me the way I wanted to support him.
Except I wasn’t his speed, apparently.
So will I try to look better at work and hope Nathan starts to think of me as more than a friend? Sure, why not? At the very least, maybe Angela will find someone else to tear down. Do I think my efforts will make a difference? With my luck, it’s unlikely.
But another glance at Kendall makes me feel guilty. She doesn’t need me rubbing off on her. Not after her ex planted his own landmines around her heart.
I sigh dramatically. “Okay, okay. Help me look pretty. Maybe Nathan will suddenly realize I’m the love of his life and want me to have his babies.”
She gets this slightly dazed look in her eyes. “Don’t forget the big wedding. And can we invite all of those bitches from high school, so they can see how hot you and your man are together?”
I laugh. I’m probably the only person in the greater Portland area who will ever hear Kendall use foul language. For work, she’s prim, proper, and epically poised. But with me, she shows her snarky side.
“Of course. And while we’re entertaining this fantasy, can I bring in some huge clients and make partner? And maybe fit into some smaller jeans?”
“Hell, yes!”
It’s hard to argue with my best friend when, deep down, I hope she’s right.
An hour later, we’re linked arm in arm as we walk into another shop. So far, Kendall has talked me into an assortment of cleavage-revealing clothes, items I’m sure I’ll regret tomorrow morning.