The Fallback

by Dietz, Mariah

  I take a deep breath and stare at my reflection.

  “Gabe doesn’t define me. This breakup doesn’t define me.” I roll the cuffs of my blazer, straighten my shirt, and grab my hair dryer, taking a few extra minutes so I can leave the house feeling slightly more in control.

  When I arrive at work, Catherine’s parking spot is still empty. I make my way inside and past Andrea with a smile that’s only moderately forced. The text from Levi distracted me, and my attempt to flirt with him took too much time. But it was the message from Jamie that completely derailed my morning, but I refuse to allow it to take more of my time, thoughts, or energy. I take a seat at my desk and grab my phone, intent on sending Levi a message and forging through today with a better mindset.

  Me: I’m looking forward to crossing off another first.

  I pause and then erase the word “first” because it comes across sounding almost virginal.

  Me: I’m looking forward to crossing another item off the list with you. ;)

  Then I send a message to Felicity.

  Me: Remind me we need to look up how in the hell to flirt. Technology has made my life so much harder.

  Felicity: Are you channeling Grammy? Technology has been around most of our lives. #GiveMeMyCrownBackDramaQueen #Imposter #MyBFFIsFearless

  Me: Fearlessly admitting fear. I don’t know how to flirt via text! You’re the only person I text.

  Felicity: #Loser

  Me: Hashtag Unimpressed

  Felicity: You don’t write the word “hashtag.” Stop acting like an old fuddy-duddy.

  Me: It’s part of my charm.

  Felicity: I’ll admit it is one of your endearing qualities…

  Felicity: When I send flirty texts to Dan, I send lots of insinuations. It’s just like flirting in person.

  Me: We haven’t made it to the insinuation stage.

  Felicity: #sexytimes

  Me: We’ve gone on one “date.”

  Felicity: OMG. You can’t refuse to use the # and then use quotation marks on me. You really are channeling Grammy.

  Me: I hope you know you’re giving me a headache from all my eye rolls.

  Felicity: C-O-N-F-I-D-E-N-C-E. I know you have it. Use it. #Bye

  Me: The next time you get sassed by one of the kids, I’m going to happily remind you who they learned it from.

  Felicity: You love my sass.

  Me: Keep telling yourself that. I’ll see you tonight.

  Felicity: XO

  I take a deep breath and glance at my phone a final time to ensure I don’t have any messages from Levi, Jamie, or any other ghosts from my past. I set it aside and get a solid hour of work in before Catherine comes in. She’s wearing a deep-cut black dress and a pair of heels that defy her age.

  “I should have gone to school to be a meteorologist,” she says. “No one else can be wrong so often and still keep their job.” Catherine snatches a tissue from the corner of my desk and wipes the wet grass from the side of her shoe. “It’s nearly summer. Why is it raining?”

  Loaded statement followed by a loaded question equals the recipe for a particularly persnickety Catherine. I carefully lace up my proverbial ballet shoes and attempt to dance over the landmines I sense. “You look great. If you need a spare umbrella, I have a couple behind my door. Feel welcome to help yourself.”

  She sighs, stretching a hand across her flat abdomen. “I have a meeting today with that man who came in to discuss a work party on a boat. Obviously, I need to suggest Lake Michigan.”

  I stare at her, waiting to hear the issue, knowing the attractive owner and her concerns of making this proposal perfect are what’s causing her particularly bad mood.

  “But the coastline of Lake Michigan off of Illinois is awful,” Catherine says dismissively. “I never go because it’s disgusting. Diapers and trash and beer cans are everywhere.” She shudders. “Do I try to convince him of something else? A nice terrace event? Renting out a jazz bar?”

  I shrug. “He seemed determined to have a boat party when we met, but I’ve met plenty of brides and grooms who’ve thought they knew what they wanted and didn’t.”

  She lowers her chin, clearly not appreciating my answer. “Are you telling me I should offer him something else?”

  I open my bottom desk drawer and thumb through several files before pulling one free and handing it to her. “My approach would be to suggest this company if he’d like to do a small cruise ship. I’ve worked with them several times for weddings, and they’re very professional. They’re a little further north, above Oak, so you don’t see most of the trash that follows the tides. Also, I’d mention it, but he and others likely already know about the beaches and might even realize it looks a hundred times better than it did ten years ago. But I’m sure he’ll be impressed to hear a couple of other options that you casually suggest in an effort to provide him with alternatives.” My tone reflects that of one I use when speaking with a client: concise yet kind.

  Catherine opens the folder and scans the contents before looking back at me, the corner of her lips teased with a smile. “And you’re meeting my son today at noon, right?”

  I nod. “I am.”

  She nods in return and then takes the file and strides toward my door, stopping before she makes it all the way out. “By the way, how are things going with the Gilbert wedding?”

  I know she’s searching for her authority. It always follows instances when I help her resolve a problem. The Gilbert wedding has essentially become another event of mine, though Selena will ultimately receive credit and compensation for it.

  “We were able to pull a few strings, and the venue is officially booked. Invitations are ordered, food is booked, and they’re doing cake tasting on Friday. Selena sent samples of flowers over yesterday, and as soon as that decision is made, we’ll start ironing out the final details.”

  Catherine looks both relieved and disappointed. Sometimes, I’m pretty certain she’s hoping I’ll tell her I’ve failed. “And how are you doing?” she asks, confusing me. In nearly ten years of working together, I can’t recall a time she’s bothered to ask me how I am. I don’t mind. Catherine’s not someone I’d give an honest answer to anyway. A boxed and common answer like “well” is all I’d give her, as I do now.

  She glances at my desk. “And things with the breakup?”

  I sit forward, resentful the idea of Gabe still has an effect on me, especially when I went through this rigmarole this morning. A fake smile pulls my lips northward as I shake my head. “We’re both much happier.” I’m shocked how convincing I sound. Maybe it’s actually true. I haven’t put much thought into it. For so long, I’ve worked to be happy, but now that I finally don’t have to remind myself to be happy, am I actually happier? Happier than what? Did I ever measure my happiness before this breakup?

  “Good.” With a curt nod, Catherine turns and disappears down the hall and out of sight.

  I lean back in my chair and consider her question again. Measuring happiness seems impossible. Too much has changed in my life for there to be any level of comparison.

  I leave the office twenty minutes before I need to, saving the time to call Grammy and make plans for the weekend. The rain has stopped, but gray clouds darken the sky.

  “Hello?” She answers after the fifth ring. It’s what she does. Grammy refuses to get caller ID, and therefore she waits until the last ring before the answering machine picks up, hoping that if it’s a telemarketer, they will have hung up.

  “Hey, Grams. How are you?”

  “Brooke, honey, how are you?”

  “I asked you first.”

  She chuckles, and there’s a slight background noise. “I’m fine, dear. Just got out and swept the back porch.”

  I’d tell my seventy-nine-year-old grandma she shouldn’t be doing that, but she’d threaten to wring my neck if I did. “It’s warm out today,” I tell her instead.

  “Feels good. The humidity and the mosquitoes haven’t come out yet.”
r />   “This is true.”

  “Now, tell me how you are. How are things going at Felicity’s? I bet they enjoy having you around.”

  Irrational or not, guilt swims through my thoughts. I lived with Grammy from the time I was ten until I was twenty, and to have chosen not to live with her now makes me feel as though I’m betraying her for taking care of me for so long. “Things are going really well, but I was calling in hopes that I could come and stay with you this weekend. I don’t want to intrude, so if you have plans—”

  “Child, hush,” she tells me. “You’ve been on this planet for nearly thirty years now, and if you haven’t yet learned that you’re always welcome round here, then I didn’t teach you a thing.”

  “I just don’t want to impose.”

  “When have you ever imposed?”

  Lately, it feels like all I’ve been doing is imposing. But that’s just one more thing I don’t mention. “Do you want me to stop at the store and pick anything up?”

  “Just bring yourself,” Grammy says.

  “All right, well, if you think of anything, let me know. Today and tomorrow are going to be pretty busy, but I should be able to get out of the office by lunchtime.”

  “Good. That way you won’t run into too much traffic. I’ll call your brother and see if they can come for dinner on Friday. It’s been several weeks since we’ve all gotten together.”

  It’s actually been longer, not since my breakup with Gabe—we haven’t even discussed getting together. “That would be nice.”

  “Okay, dear. Well, I’ll see you Friday, then.”

  “See you Friday. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, sweetie.” She hangs up, and I wipe an errant tear from my cheek. Its presence is as random as it is unwelcome. I’m done with crying and don’t have any idea where it’s derived from. Whether it’s guilt for choosing to stay with Felicity, or because my breakup with Gabe has impacted so many people, or possibly because sometimes while talking to Grammy I still feel like I’m a child.

  I glance into the rearview mirror, checking my makeup and searching for that confidence Felicity keeps telling me I possess.

  19

  The building is small and unassuming. Its brick exterior and single flower pot would be great touches if this were one of the many best-kept secrets that really aren’t secrets in downtown Chicago. Those places dot our city with silent prestige. But this doesn’t have the buzz or waitlist to allow the simplicity that’s verging on plainness, guaranteeing me more work than I’m ready to consider.

  I head up the cement stairs, noting the lack of a railing, and stand in front of a large glass door. Inside, chandeliers dimly shine above a carpeted floor. I’m sweating, my fears compounding. I know very little about bars, but this place is far more than eight weeks from being ready for a grand opening. I knock twice. When no one appears, I pull the door open, releasing the sounds of Pearl Jam. “Hello?” I call. My voice barely competes with the current riff played over the speakers. I step farther inside and call out louder.

  As I wander farther inside, I turn, taking in more of the building and all of its pain-inducing details. I stop when I see a man half-hidden beneath a counter. The dull clink of metal is barely audible above the music.

  “Excuse me. Have you seen Mr. Westbrook?” My voice disappears into the chorus. I expel a deep breath and reach forward, tapping the man on the leg. He jumps, hitting his head on something below the cabinet. He murmurs a train of quiet curses before pulling his upper body free and rubbing his forehead.

  My eyes round and my pulse heightens as he stands. He’s wearing a bright red T-shirt that closely follows every line and bulge of his abs and biceps, accentuating the width of his shoulders and chest. The red color signifying “stop” and the way it fits him, which welcomes a “go,” are a complete contradiction.

  “Brooke?” The same deep rumble that’s been plaguing my thoughts breaks over the music. Then he fishes a small remote from his pocket, and the music, my focus, and my heartbeat cease.”

  I stare at him, desperate to find an excuse for why he’s here.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Mr. Westbrook?” I ask, my voice as timid as my thoughts. I pray he says no. I need him to shake his head and give me a look of utter confusion.

  “Yes…” Levi says instead, knitting his eyebrows at my formality.

  “You’re Mr. Westbrook?”

  “Yes…” Recognition dawns, his eyes widening with understanding. “You work at Glitter and Gold?”

  “You’re my boss’s son.”

  Levi smiles. It’s charming and demure. “What a small world.”

  I shake my head. It’s not small—it’s evil. “This is…”

  His face falls. Maybe he’s finally connected the dots. Maybe he reads my distress. Maybe he’s seeing the same red flashing lights going off. “This doesn’t… This shouldn’t change anything. This is just work.”

  I shake my head. “You’re my boss’s son.” I repeat the revelation, the shock hitting me in waves. “I had no idea. You look nothing alike.” I put a hand to my face, attempting to fill the empty space that was created this weekend when he touched me, branding my skin. “I had no idea…”

  “I didn’t either. She just told me she was going to send her best associate.”

  “We…” I pause, straightening. “We didn’t know. It’s fine.”

  Levi tilts his head, his brow creasing. “You’re saying it’s fine, but it doesn’t sound like you think it’s fine.” He takes a step closer to me.

  I hold my ground, attempting to act unaffected. “I just mean we obviously had no idea we couldn’t be anything but professional acquaintances when we met.”

  “Professional acquaintances?” He sounds borderline offended. “Why can we only be professional acquaintances?”

  “Your mom is my boss.”

  Levi shrugs.

  “Your mom’s my boss! I kissed my boss’s son!” I place a hand to my forehead in an attempt to balance the weight of my thoughts.

  “Why is this such a big deal?”

  “How do I know your mother’s gardeners, personal accountant, hairdresser, and nail tech but not you? I know her food allergies. I know her damn bra size, and I had no idea you were her son.” I shake my head. “I’ve been in her house dozens of times. I would have remembered seeing you.”

  “If you’ve been in the house, then you’ve seen me. There’s a five-foot painting of me in the foyer.”

  I pause, working to recall the large painting he’s referring to. “From when you were five!”

  “I was eleven and had just won first prize for hurdles with my horse.” Levi holds an imaginary rein with one hand and a trophy in the other, flashing a smile that is both forced and sarcastic. I’ve never focused on the picture we’re discussing, not looking enough to see the similarities behind the pose he’s struck.

  “That doesn’t explain how I didn’t know about you!”

  “Are you upset because you wish you’d met me sooner?” He flashes a flirty smile, one that’s been rehearsed and that I’m betting he knows the typical outcome of.

  I shake my head, ignoring his smile and dimple and clear, blue eyes, which become brighter as he teases me. “This. Us...” I wave a hand between us. “We can’t… I mean, we can only be friends.”

  Levi’s eyebrows soar. “Because you work for my mom?”

  “Among other things.”

  “What things?” he challenges, taking another step closer to me. “I had no idea you had curly hair.”

  Distracted, I run a hand over a section of my locks, hoping they’re not resembling cotton candy—poofy and frizzy.

  “You don’t like it.” He states this like he knows me. Like my mannerisms and actions have a voice he understands, which is impossible since we’ve only known each other for a few days and have spent mere hours together. “I think it’s beautiful.”

  I shake my head again. “That’s only because yo
u haven’t seen it in the humidity. Or heat. Or rain. Or wind. It only behaves indoors with controlled temperatures.”

  Levi smiles again and closes the gap between us with another stride. “You could say the same about me.”

  I take a step back, desperate to recreate spacing. “It would be completely unprofessional and inappropriate for us to be anything more than professional acquaintances, and your mom definitely wouldn’t approve. In addition, you were right. I was in a long-term relationship, and I’m not ready to date. Not yet. It’s too soon.” I shake my head to add emphasis.

  “And you’ve realized that just now?”

  “Actually, I’ve been questioning it since I met you—before I met you. Plus, I’m supposed to be planning a successful grand opening for your bar.”

  He shrugs dismissively. “It doesn’t have to be successful.”

  My eyes grow, likely twice their normal size, as I stare at him. I have no idea if he’s joking or serious.

  “My business partner chose this location. Personally, I think this place is a waste of time and money. We can’t compete in the market over here, and quite frankly, I don’t care to.”

  “Then why did you hire someone to help if you don’t care?”

  “My business partner takes care of this stuff. Not me. I don’t care about how a place looks; I care about the energy—the heart and soul of the place—and the menu.”