by Nicole Deese
“In some special sea? Sounds complex. Although I’m still unsure why you’d choose to apply it in the first place. Isn’t your face a critical part of your . . . of whatever it is you do online?”
I couldn’t stop. Tears poured from my eyes for a whole new reason now. Picturing Silas’s expression, a look of shocked horror at the words I’d just spoken out loud, had to be the funniest thing happening on the planet today.
“If you don’t stop wheezing,” he said, “I’ll be forced to contact the authorities.”
“I can’t even handle this conversation right now.” Tears dripped from the corners of my eyes.
“That makes two of us.”
Incredibly, Silas did not hang up. And even more incredibly, I had the distinct impression that he might actually be enjoying himself. Maybe even as much as I was.
“How exactly does one go about taking something like that off?” he asked.
“It was supposed to peel off with ease,” I said, recalling the words on the package. “But I can assure you, there is no ease happening here.”
“Perhaps you need to apply the Band-Aid strategy to this predicament? Take a deep breath and tear it off.”
He obviously did not understand the severity at hand. “I can tell you with some level of certainly that if I applied that strategy to this, I would lose my nose.”
“So what’s your plan B?”
“Hope it disintegrates by morning?”
Silas laughed, and I laughed with him. And even with a black sea urchin suctioned to my face, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like this. Weeks? Months?
I sighed. “I’m gonna try a warm washcloth, though I’m fairly sure it’s gone straight through my pores and into my bone structure at this point.”
“A case for job hazard insurance if ever there was one.”
“You could have been a lawyer.”
“I almost was.”
I placed my slippered feet to the floor, shocked by this admission. Not because I couldn’t imagine Silas in a courtroom wearing a pressed three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase. That was pretty much the way I saw him even when he was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. But the fact that he would admit something about himself so openly to me was . . . surprisingly nice.
“Really? Why weren’t you?”
“I realized I could do more for these kids by doing the kind of work I’m doing now. Although, I did pass my bar exam.”
“You passed the bar exam but didn’t practice law?”
“That’s correct. But I have been able to use my understanding of certain policies and practices to help the community I serve.”
Quietly, I padded my way into the bathroom and reached for a fresh washcloth before running it under warm tap water. I hoped the sound wouldn’t interrupt his line of thought, because I wanted to hear whatever Silas was willing to share about his life. It’d been a long time since I had a phone conversation with someone other than Miles or Val. Ethan and I primarily communicated through text.
When Silas didn’t volunteer anything else, I prompted him. “Miles told me you were the one behind The Bridge receiving Fir Crest Manor after it went to the estate board.”
“There was a team of us involved. It certainly was not a solo effort.”
And yet, even from that one sentence, I knew Silas had more to do with the acquisition of that giant house for his program than anyone else. That was the kind of guy he was. No one who met Silas in person would ever think of him as someone who’d be okay with doing anything halfway. Silas was the kind of person you wanted to be next to when the world turned upside down. Because while chaos ensued, he would be the guy with the clear head and the strong voice, the one mapping out the next right steps for us all.
“Well, I’m glad it was awarded to The Bridge. I can’t imagine that gorgeous manor being used for anything else.” I pressed the damp cloth to my face, feeling instant relief as the warmth soaked into my dehydrated skin.
“We’ve come a long way, but we still have a long way to go.”
His words prompted a familiar question. “What’s your off-the-page goal for the program, Silas?”
“My . . . off-the-page goal?”
“Yes, sorry,” I said, realizing how normal that question was to me but how weird it likely sounded to the outside person. “It’s a phrase Miles and I made up years ago when we started goal setting every January. Although that makes him sound like a willing participant, and he’s not. He complains about coming over for days beforehand every year, and then only agrees because he can never say no to my white chicken chili. But we coined that phrase for the goals that are too big for just one page. I’m curious: What would it be for The Bridge?”
The hard sigh that followed made something in my chest constrict as I made my way to the sofa once more, wiping my under-eye area gently, then folding the warm rag in half to do the same on the other side of my face. Silas was under no obligation to answer this dig-deep question of mine. We weren’t friends. We weren’t really even colleagues. We were just . . . two people who existed in the same time and space on Tuesday and Friday.
“Interesting timing,” he all but murmured. “I’m actually just arriving home from a trustee meeting where I was asked a variety of questions about the future of our program. I can say with some level of confidence that your approach is far more appealing than theirs.”
The idea of a trustee board peppering Silas with questions did not sit well with me. It was difficult to imagine anybody challenging his authority in an area he had proven himself an expert in. “Is everything okay?” I tucked my feet beneath me before reaching for my mug of now-cool ginger tea, my stomach suddenly unsettled. “I mean, I’m sure you’re not at liberty to discuss details, but is the program okay? The kids?”
“Yes.” Only it wasn’t the kind of yes wrapped in a sigh of relief. It was the kind of yes that seemed contingent on a list of other yeses. I knew that version of the word quite well, seeing as it was most often used during my meetings with the Cobalt Group while Ethan was wearing his manager hat and not his boyfriend hat. Those hats were starting to look more and more the same these days.
“Well, good. Because I’ve got a drawer full of pointy hair accessories that could easily double as weapons if I needed to give some old dudes the what for.”
“There are several women on the board, as well.”
“My accessories drawer is equal opportunity.”
He chuckled as I heard the jangle of keys, a door opening and closing, and footsteps walking on some kind of hard surface floor—definitely not carpet. Wood? Tile? What would the personal residence of one Silas Whittaker look like? Did he organize his spice cabinet and food pantry like he did his office bookshelf? “I’ll keep the offer in mind. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Tap water turned on in the background, hitting a sink basin before filling something. A glass? A container?
“What are you making right now?”
A pause. “Tea.”
“You’re a tea drinker? So am I! What kind do you like?”
“Chamomile.”
“Huh.”
“I suppose you have an opinion about this?”
“Not exactly. Though it is curious why you would choose such a flavorless option as your tea of choice,” I said.
A quiet chuckle, and then, to my utter shock, Silas switched gears entirely. “I’d like to see every name that represents a teen in transition not only have a bed but a home, people to rally behind them and believe they can be more than the cards they’ve been dealt. I’d like to see every room at Fir Crest Manor used to its fullest potential—even our barren lobby. I’d like to triple our staff, providing jobs to weary case workers who need respite yet still want to be part of the solution to improve the system. We’ll need several more cottages built for sleeping quarters, and someday, I’d like to provide an option to extend our program into independent apartments for those older than twenty-one but who st
ill need some guidance and a safe place to land. On that note, I’d like to have a dedicated closet of supplies for graduates who are ready to move on. I want them to leave with more than the worn-out luggage they came to us with.” The high-pitched whistle of a kettle sounded in the background, and I pressed the phone closer to my ear to hear Silas’s voice. “Ultimately, I want Fir Crest to feel like a home, especially to the residents who’ve never had one.” He paused a beat. “Does that qualify for your off-the-page goals?”
“Yes,” I whispered, though I could hardly exhale, my mind already whirring away with ideas—the first being to submit a formal request to Mr. Greggorio at The Cobalt Group. I’d heard stories of large donations being awarded to special organizations connected to his clientele. In my opinion, The Bridge had to be one of the most honorable nonprofits in the nation.
And then a new thought struck me: What would it be like to help somebody else reach their off-the-page goals?
“Good.” He cleared his throat. “Because I actually did have an agenda for this phone call when I made it originally, and it wasn’t to discuss sea urchin masks, bar exams, or my boring choice of tea.”
I set the cold washrag down on my coffee table. “To be fair, you were the one who said boring.”
“I spoke to Clara, and I wanted to check in with you on how your first mentor group went.”
“It went great!” I said, a little too excitedly, hoping she’d left out a certain summertime goodie bag debacle. “I mean, the girls seemed comfortable with me being there, and they answered all Clara’s questions—well, except for Wren. She was pretty quiet, but we made a plan to—” I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering at the last possible second that I wasn’t going to be the initiator on said plan. Clara, the person Silas actually trusted, was in charge of that.
“Is this plan related to a makeover and movie night at Lavender Cottage?”
I mouthed the words Thank you, Clara! to my empty living room. “That would be the one, yes. Would that be something—” I hesitated, searching for the right angle, though the words pained me to ask—“we’d need your stamp of approval on?”
“It would be, yes.”
I took a deep breath, prepared for a fight that might cause me to retrieve my hair chopsticks from the drawer, when Silas said, “But I’ve already given it. It’s already on the calendar.”
I may have squealed a tiny bit. “It’ll be great, Silas. The girls were so excited about the idea, and you won’t have to worry about anything. I’ll take care of all the planning. I’ve already pinned the snack tray I’ll be bringing to my Party Foods Pinterest board so there won’t be any need for food preparation at the cottage itself. I can bring it all with me.”
“You can submit receipts for whatever food items you purchase.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” Though I’d never in a million years ask a not-for-profit to buy food for a makeover snack tray. “I’m just thrilled you approved it!”
“You’re welcome.”
I took a breath as a mix of unexpected gratitude and vulnerability rose inside me, compelling me to speak. “Silas?”
“Yes?”
“I realize you took a chance on me—saying yes after you’d already said no . . . but I want you to know that I’m really looking forward to spending the summer with these girls.” A truth that was becoming more and more apparent. I loved having a set time and place to be each week, with actual people who expected me to simply show up. To sit. To listen. To share. To be nothing more or less than Molly McKenzie. It was such a different reality than the one I lived in most of the week. And there was something surprisingly refreshing about that. Something right. Something I hadn’t even known I’d been missing.
“Many of our young ladies have said the same thing about you. We’re glad to have you with us, Molly.” He went quiet for a few beats. “And I’m glad you didn’t take my first no as a final answer.”
The validation I heard in his voice caused my throat to swell and my eyes to sting. I worked to push the unexpected emotion away and simply said, “Have a good night, Silas. Thank you for calling.”
“Good night.”
“Bye.”
I stared at my darkened phone screen for the longest time, replaying his words and blinking back unshed tears. It was easy to dismiss the compliments I received from my followers online—always begging for more videos, more entertaining reviews, more affordable bargain wear and comparisons. Because those kinds of compliments were consumer based, a satiation that lasted only until my next post. My next campaign. My next VIP deal link.
But this kind of affirmation felt different. Personal. Honest. Real.
And something inside me yearned for more of it.
Silas
I stared at my phone screen for the longest time. Replaying Molly’s words back to me. Hearing her voice inside my head as she said good-bye. Wondering if I’d misinterpreted the tears I swore I’d heard in her voice before she ended our call.
I rubbed at the stress headache presenting at the front of my skull, pressing my thumb into my right temple. As usual, I’d steeped the tea bag for double the recommended time. The first sip was always the worst. The flavor was as bland as Molly had said, but I didn’t drink it for the taste. I drank it for the anti-inflammatory qualities I’d researched for reducing tension headaches. It was worth a shot. So far I hadn’t noticed much change, and after tonight’s meeting with the board, I doubted an eight-ounce cup of hot water would bring much relief.
But what plagued me wasn’t just the fact that the trustee board had turned down my proposal for taking out a loan against the equity of Fir Crest Manor for the sake of an expansion that could save hundreds of lives—it was the number they’d attached to the project. A number so beyond radical it felt as fictitious as if we’d been asked to slay a dragon or chase after a legendary ring.
We needed to raise a million dollars before we could break ground on new sleeping quarters or hire new staff or save teenagers who believed their only chance of survival was prostitution and pushing drugs. I dismissed the scarred face that materialized in my mind with a single shake of my head. I hadn’t been able to save my brother from a life of ruin, and as much as I’d fought to make a difference in the lives of other kids like him . . . a million dollars may as well be a hundred million to a nonprofit that barely managed to scrape by as it was.
Steaming mug in hand, I swiped my phone off the counter once again and tapped on an app I rarely used unless I needed to launch a private investigation on one of our residents or one of their associates. Social media wasn’t entirely useless. While I’d likely never understand the people who felt compelled to air their dirty laundry so freely to a world of perpetual strangers, they were also the easiest types to get a read on.
But this time, I typed Molly McKenzie into the search bar.
Several options came up at once—including one with a blue check mark, indicating the official page of Molly McKenzie of Makeup Matters with Molly.
My finger hovered over her picture, as if debating the real reason behind this unwarranted perusal. Because this had nothing to do with personal safety. Nor was it about scoping out a potential threat.
This was one-hundred-percent about satisfying my own curiosity.
I clicked on the first video that came up—Molly, looking into the camera with her cascade of golden hair and sea glass eyes, talking away about some magical towel that offered a remedy for frizz while drying shower-wet hair in record time. Her animated expressions were as inviting as they were intoxicating. At one point, she tossed the towel and did a slow-mo of shaking her damp hair while she lip-synced to the chorus of “Natural Woman.”
I laughed out loud and clicked on another one titled Yoga Pants or Dress Pants—You Be the Judge!
Again, Molly hammed it up on-screen, strutting down a hotel hallway and interviewing the innocent bystanders about her pants. Were they better suited for the gym or for the office? Or were they interchangeable? Naturally, th
ere was one pair that could work for either, and there happened to be a special deal on them for only the next twelve hours if her viewer clicked on the link below. Not shockingly, there was a comment with more than three hundred sad face emojis stating that the pants had sold out.
I leaned back against the edge of the countertop, navigating my way through post after post—some were replays of past livestreams, some were reviews of products she tested out right then for the first time, opening packages and reading instructions as if they were the next great American novel. Others were time-lapse videos following a sequence of events. But the common denominator was the same—Molly. In her element. Funny, bright, opinionated, classy, smart, and always, always stunning.
I viewed her poll requests, asking her fans to vote on specific products or event outfits. And vote they had. Thousands and thousands of times. She honored the popular vote with a picture every time, these posts securing far more attention than the majority.
I scrolled through her replies. Not surprisingly, Molly was nothing but perfectly polite in all her responses. No matter what the commenter posted, she never failed to thank them for their feedback. Negative or positive.
I didn’t know how long I studied her page, but by the time I switched to the other profile platform she mentioned during her videos, my tea was cold and my lower back had begun to complain.
My finger halted almost immediately as a grid of small squares loaded on my screen. Though almost every picture of her could have stopped traffic, there was one that caught my eye more than the rest. The one with a man sleeping on a sofa behind her sad-face selfie, captioned Jet lag is the thief of romance.
Heat flared in my gut.
I didn’t need to click on the image or read any of the comments to know the answer I’d find waiting there, yet I did anyway. And the revelation put a sharp end to whatever warped reality I’d allowed myself to briefly entertain.
Molly McKenzie had a boyfriend.
16
Molly
Because our flight times hadn’t lined up, Ethan the Boyfriend had promised to meet me at the shoot location in Malibu, while Ethan the Manager had promised he’d taken care of all the details of my contract. My electronic signature had barely spit out a confirmation receipt to my inbox before I was sent a first-class ticket to LAX from The Fit Glam Kit. A rare but welcome perk!