by Nicole Deese
“I saw something I don’t think I was supposed to see . . . an email thread between Ethan and his assistant and a few other staff members at Cobalt. I’m fairly certain I was copied by mistake.”
I stopped with the hangers. “What kind of emails?”
“They mostly pertained to building up your brand, networking with bigger-name celebrities, and the possibility of hiring a ghost poster for your account.”
“No way. I don’t need a ghost poster.” It was a subject Ethan and I had hashed out multiple times before. Though I could see the time-saving benefit of someone else posting still shots for me on sponsored products or informal fashion polls, I didn’t need someone else pretending to be me when I was more than capable of meeting the responsibilities of my brand head on.
There was only one Molly needed for Makeup Matters with Molly. And that was me.
“I know how you feel about ghost posting, but that wasn’t all. Ethan also mentioned he was considering re-staffing your marketing team with more widely known professionals in the industry. He said he thinks your current team is holding you back.”
“What? No way. That’s insane. I’d never agree to that. Ethan knows how important you are to me. I’m sure that can’t be what he meant.”
“It’s just,” she went on, clearly not assured at all, “this job has meant the world for me and Tucker. To lose it would be—”
“Val, listen. Please. Whatever you read, whatever unfortunate brainstorming was discussed on that email thread, you being replaced is not ever going to happen. Ethan is just hyped-up right now because of this next big opportunity with the makeover show. He has a lot on the line—”
“But so do you, Molly.” She studied me through the phone screen, the same way she’d done for the past three years. “I realize your career has grown beyond what we ever hoped it would, and I want to be realistic about that. I want you to be realistic about that, too. I’m not ever going to be a big name in this industry. I’m a single mom who still lives in the same house she grew up in with her parents, in a town of less than fifteen hundred people. I love to research and edit and strategize, and I love working with you, but if you ever start to feel that I’m holding you back in any way, then—”
I jerked the phone to eye level and used the voice my Mimi would use whenever I doubted something true about myself. “That is trash talk. Complete trash. You’ve never held me back—not for a single minute. But if I keep talking to you like this, then I will for sure crease my foundation with frown lines that will need to be touched up in makeup, which will then delay the shoot time, so . . .” I did a super close-up of my quirked eyebrow, and Val’s laughter made my heart ease a bit.
“So by all means please stop making that face,” she said, sounding a lot more Val-like now.
“Fine. But this conversation is dead and buried. Nothing more to discuss on this topic. Got it?”
She gave a nod, then twirled her finger in front of the camera. “Now let me see the whole ensemble. With the shoes, too.”
I stretched the phone out as far as I could to show her the outfit she’d helped to select from head to toe. I twisted in the mirror, taking in the exquisite drape of fabric that came to a V at the center of my back and the way it hugged the curves of my hips and backside without a single pucker.
“It’s perfect. The Fashion Emporium will adore you.”
A double knock on the dressing room’s door was followed by an announcement that the photographer was ready and waiting for me in the studio.
“Thank you,” I answered back in my perkiest non-caffeinated voice. “I’ll be right out.”
And then to Val I whispered, “Wish me luck.”
She laughed. “You’re Molly McKenzie. You’ve never needed luck a day in your life.”
I blew her a kiss and ended the call.
“I trust the shoot went well?” Ethan asked, taking my hand to help me get situated beside him in the limo. Turned out he was flying to New York around the same time I would be flying back home from Seattle today. So, in our customary style, we decided to have a “travel date”—which was an exotic-sounding term for riding in a car to the airport together before going our separate ways. Sometimes I envied the relationship norms of typical couples. Then again, the very reasons we’d found each other were because we were anything but typical.
“It did,” I said, buckling my seatbelt and searching for the Mexican takeout I was beyond desperate to devour. The forty-eight-hour anti-inflammation fast was the absolute worst part of these big endorsement shoots. “Although the studio was absolutely freezing, and I had to use a beach towel I found in a prop closet like some kind of shawl from biblical times, so that was kind of funny. . . .”
Ethan was already back to typing on his phone. “Well, you’ll be happy to know I’m closing in on a new celebrity collaboration for you. Made some great headway this week on the goals we discussed.”
“Great. But um, hey . . . is my burrito in here somewhere? I’m starving.” I hoped my nose had suddenly lost the ability to smell melted cheese and green sauce smothered over a hand-tossed tortilla, because maybe that would explain why I couldn’t see a to-go box anywhere in this barren rented limo.
“Oh, yes. Sorry, babe,” Ethan quipped, opening the fridge next to him and taking out a clear container with three street tacos in it. No melted cheese. No green sauce. Just blackened chicken with pico de gallo, wrapped in disappointment.
He set the container on my lap, and I breathed out slowly. “Did you see my text when you told me you were picking up lunch?”
“What? Yeah, of course I did. Three street tacos. No sour cream. Your usual, right?”
Not even close to my usual. “I’m fairly certain men have died for lesser sins than offering a hangry lady the wrong lunch order when her heart was firmly set on a smothered burrito from Mucho Harvey’s.”
“You didn’t ask for a smothered burrito, babe. You asked for . . .” He exited the screen he’d been on and scrolled back to our text thread as if to prove me wrong, only he couldn’t. “Oh. I must have misread it. Sorry.” Or he hadn’t read it at all because he was likely too busy multitasking seventeen things when it came time to place my order. “I have, however, been working on something that just might steer you away from plotting my demise.”
I opened the container of soggy sadness and limp cilantro. “That’s doubtful.”
“I just got off the phone with one of the producers from the show. I think I got you an early audition.”
I paused my first bite. “How early?”
“Late July. But they asked for a compilation of your highest-viewed videos that showcase your talent. Something we can turn into the producers ASAP.” He tapped his cheek with a finger. “Pretty sure that deserves a kiss.”
He wasn’t totally forgiven yet, but I complied with his request, kissing his cheek, as he hated lipstick on his mouth.
Never one to let an opportunity go, I capitalized on the moment. “You know who’s excellent at making compilation videos, seeing as she’s worked on every video post I’ve ever done? Val. She’d be perfect for this.”
He tapped into his inbox again. “Hmm.”
“Yeah, I can’t tell you how many times she’s taken my raw cut ramblings and made them into something marketable and professional—”
“You don’t have raw cut ramblings,” he chided. “You have first takes. Hear the difference? Success is a mindset, Molly. How you frame your words is often more important than the words themselves.”
“Fine, then. Val takes my first takes and works magic on them. And we’re fortunate to have her level of talent at Cobalt. I’d never want to work with anyone else.” There. How was that for framing my words? Pretty clear, I’d think.
He looked up from his phone and studied me. “I’ve never doubted her talent. But I figured you’d want her to edit all the footage you’ll be giving her on that teen halfway house. Was I wrong?”
So . . . I hadn’t told Ethan about th
e failed interview with Silas, either. And I certainly wasn’t going to try now. I didn’t have the first clue how to reframe that kind of rejection into a “success mindset.” Silas hadn’t only dismissed my application that day, he’d dismissed me—before I’d even had a chance to brainstorm a list of possible life skills classes I was certain he would approve, if only I were given a second chance. Maybe that was the key. . . .
“Molly?” Ethan’s face cocked to the side, his quizzical gaze on me. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no. It’s just The Bridge isn’t a halfway house. It’s more of a home for older teens who simply need a hand up to take their next step in life.”
“That’s a perfect sound bite. Use it,” Ethan said approvingly. “When’s your first post scheduled?”
“I’m, um . . . I’m actually still working out some of the logistics.” As in hoping I could persuade Silas away from Team Anybody Else to Team Molly. “But yes, I’d want Val working with me on this project.”
Just as soon as I could get Silas Whittaker to agree to a second meeting with me, which I would. Now that sounded like a success mindset.
I whipped out my phone and started typing up a syllabus in my digital notepad.
7
Silas
Whoever said guys were messier than girls hadn’t spent much time poking around the dark side of a female-dominated restroom. Though the personal accommodations at Lavender Cottage seemed more than sufficient, given there were three full bathrooms in a house of twelve women, somehow their facilities were in constant disrepair. Predominantly the issues had to do with drains. Leaky. Clogged. Backed up. All of the above.
On my knees, and eye level with the problematic pipe, I clawed my way through a wall of feminine product boxes under the sink. With a careful sweep of my arm, I pushed the boxes to the back corner, only to uncover an apocalyptic supply of lotions and fruity shower gels.
While there was so much I couldn’t control inside this messy and complicated world of teens in transition, I could wrap a leaky pipe with plumber’s tape. If only every issue we faced could be resolved so quickly.
“Ya know, the next time I start to doubt if I’m doing enough for the greater good, I’m gonna remember this moment: my big brother swimming in a sea of tampons.”
I jerked back and bashed my head on the underside of the sink basin. “Ouch. Jake?”
I emerged from the cave of estrogen and rubbed at the sore spot on the back of my skull. He laughed. There were people who winced at the sight of others in pain. Those people were not Jake.
He lifted a clear bag of wrapped sub sandwiches. “I bought us lunch.”
I sat back on my haunches, eyeing him warily. “Why? I thought you were still framing that fourplex up north.”
“Permits got delayed.” He shrugged. “Such is life as a crew lead.” Jake reached his giant hand into the bag and grabbed one of the sandwiches.
“Don’t even think about opening those up in here.” The very thought made my skin crawl. I stood to wash my hands and pumped an abundance of soap into my palm. But in typical Jake style, he did not heed my warning. It was a wonder that I managed to supervise twenty-four human beings for a living when I couldn’t control one Jake Whittaker if it killed me. “You are truly disturbed.”
He laughed. “If you think this is bad, you should see how my crew eats on the jobsite.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Most of them don’t even wash their hands first, Silas.”
I stretched my neck from side to side and reached for the pink hand towel hanging on the rack before thinking better of it. I’d seen the way these girls cleaned a bathroom. Another point to the gender cleanliness myth. I shook my hands over the sink, working to keep the droplets of water in the basin.
Jake pulled out a napkin stamped with a red logo. “Here, use this. I swear I didn’t blow my nose on it first.”
I peered at the twenty-four-year-old man in front of me, who still often acted as if he were fourteen. “Who raised you?”
Jake beamed. “The same people who were crazy enough to raise you, brother.”
I waved him out of the bathroom. “Go on, we’ll head outside.”
I trailed his six-foot-six frame down a hallway clearly not meant for people of his stature. When Jake shot up those last six inches during puberty, passing me and everybody else in our seven-member family, I warned him about the dangers of being conspicuous. He would no longer be able to hide in a crowd. He’d be visible everywhere he went, and with that increased visibility would come bigger expectations and greater responsibilities to uphold. Because at some point in his life, his height and presence could easily make him a target if he wasn’t mindful of his actions and the company he chose to keep.
As a Hispanic man who moved with his all-white adoptive family to northeast Washington during my teen years, I knew a little something about being different. I was the only non-white face in our high school for nearly two years, until the administration began an international exchange program. Now, of course, things had become much more diverse in our region, but even so, it still wasn’t uncommon for me to be the only minority in a room.
As the long dorm-style hallway widened into the open-concept floor plan, I had to give the young ladies credit. They were far less rough on their furniture than our guys, though the food stains were about equal between them both.
Although we encouraged a no-eating-in-the-living-room policy, there were some things at The Bridge I chose to turn a blind eye to. For my sake as well as theirs. In the nine years I’d worked with kids who’d come from hard places, I’d learned a few things about grace—and it was a lot easier to hand out when I didn’t hold it with a clenched fist.
As we made our way to the picnic shelter in the common area outside, Jake sat on top of one of the wooden tables and planted his NBA-size feet on the bench while I sat at the next table over, watching as he took a crocodile-worthy bite of his Italian sub. Jake had once been a nationally recognized swimmer with a wingspan and an appetite that could rival Michael Phelps. Six years later, not much had changed, other than his now having a stable job as a framer and a fiancée I thought the world of—Clara was a saint.
My stomach growled the instant I unwrapped my sandwich. I hadn’t eaten since after my morning run. “Thanks for bringing this.”
I didn’t miss the way he eyed me. “So what’s up? What’s got you so stressed today—I mean, more than usual.”
“Who says I’m stressed?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the handyman badge you try to wear when you either A, hear bad news, or B, want to control something that can’t be controlled, or C, both. So, which is it?”
Definitely C. I finished chewing and set the remains of my sandwich aside. “I heard from Sharon at the county this morning.”
“Yeah? And?”
“Two boys on our waitlist died in a drug house last night. Overdose.”
I didn’t need to spell it all out for him. He’d been around this world long enough to know what that meant. Not only had our system failed them, but so had we. So had I.
I didn’t know their faces or the details of their stories, but I knew enough. I knew all about teen boys who’d been turned over to the state with nothing but a pocketful of false hope and empty platitudes.
“That’s tough, bro.”
I nodded and stared out at the hills just beyond the guys’ cottage. “I can’t keep turning kids away.”
“You’re not the one turning them away.”
“I may as well be.”
He laughed without humor. “You can’t only focus on the list of kids you can’t help. What about the twenty-four who are here now? Look what you’re doing for them. Not to mention the ones who’ve already successfully transitioned on from here. Don’t forget about them.”
I huffed a short sigh. It didn’t feel like enough. It never did. It probably never would. Not when there were hundreds of kids who aged out in our state each year with nowhere to go and no one t
o call. “I’m thinking of presenting the expansion proposal at the board meeting next week. It’s time. We have this huge house to offer—and yet our hands are tied due to lack of funding.”
“You know I’m in. I’ve already drawn up the plans. As soon as the trustees give you a green light, I’ll build whatever you need.”
“I know you will. Thanks.” If only the board shared Jake’s enthusiasm for such a project. But I knew what we were up against. Though the board was made up of five respectable leaders in our community, they were realists. I could relate. Still, no matter how many statistics I quoted or how many personal testimonies I shared with them, it would always come down to affordability and sustainability. Taking in more referrals meant more staffing needs, more bedrooms, more supplies, more of everything we couldn’t provide without more funding.
Fir Crest Manor was a dream location without a dream budget. While the main house was used for classes and communal living, it wasn’t used for sleeping quarters, not when our program was co-ed. It was hard enough to enforce the hands-free rule, which was one rule we didn’t leave open for interpretation. I knew what happened when pink and blue were given too much free time together, and we didn’t need any little purples naming Fir Crest Manor on their birth certificates. Thankfully, Glo and Jerry managed the Lavender Cottage and the Bunkhouse well, and what they didn’t catch, our security cameras did. We all slept more soundly knowing that extra layer of overnight accountability was recording.
“You know what would help you? A Black Widow type,” Jake spat out, as if we shared some kind of common Marvel language.
“Excuse me?”
“It might be time to bring on some kind of fundraising powerhouse. Someone who isn’t afraid to kick butt and take names. They can put on one of those fancy shindigs that rich people live for—cash will be flowing faster than Glo can keep the punch bowl filled.” He shrugged. “That’s my vote.”
An immediate image surfaced in my mind. Only it wasn’t of Scarlett Johansson wearing black leather but rather of a woman with billowy blond hair wearing heels that could double as a weapon.