Cliff and Ansley get along right as rain. I don’t know why she’s not intimidated by his hotness now—they shared a joke earlier about the first time they bumped into each other at L&L—literally—but his Trudeau good looks no longer seem to have the catastrophic effect on her that they did lo those couple of weeks ago.
I guess when she’s into a different hot dude, it lessens the effect of the rest of them. Interesting.
She happily chatters away with him as Henry and I remain relatively silent. Taking slow sips. Me wondering what it is that’s crawled up his ass, and him? I’m not so sure.
Perhaps he’s annoyed at how well Ans is getting along with my, ahem, boy toy.
Gawd.
The thought of her even saying that phrase—out loud—to other people—floods me with embarrassment all over again. My cheeks are warm, my chest is erupting into splotches, and I meet Henry’s gaze over my last sip of wine. All ready to order one or six more.
Cliff is midsentence, wrapped up in a story about the policies he’s been lobbying for when, devil may care, Henry raises his eyebrows at me and interrupts.
“So, Clint…” Henry’s eyes kind of narrow as he turns them on Cliff. Tone tinged with a hint of something I can’t quite place.
“It’s Cliff, man.”
“Oh, right.” He flicks his wrist like he’s flicking away a gnat and he pauses but doesn’t bother to say the correct name.
I hold on to a snicker.
Douchebaggery at its finest.
And I don’t know what it is that’s got Henry’s panties in a twist. Clint—I mean, Cliff hahaha—really isn’t all that offensive, but maybe that’s his offense.
He continues. “So, yeah, when did you say you’re leaving town?”
Cliff runs his hand from my shoulder to the small of my back.
A guffaw bursts out of my face. It comes from out of nowhere and catches me off guard.
“Well, actually”—he turns toward me and gets in close—“and I haven’t even been able to tell you yet, peanut, but—good news—they’ve extended my contract. So I’ll be here longer than I thought.”
I raise my eyebrows.
Why?
Why?
Henry raises his eyebrows too and turns his stare on me. “Good news.” He pushes on a hint of a smile and then he empties the rest of his drink.
He seems to get over whatever’s been bothering him after this. The cloud of pissed-offedness lifts from above our spot at the bar, and the four of us settle into what must look to others like two new couples enjoying each other’s company.
When Ans and I go on one of our girl trips to the bathroom, I pull her aside.
“So, am I done then? You’re fixed? You’re happy? You’re with Henry?” I chew at the inside of my lip and talk with my hands.
She averts her doe eyes, a small smile brightening her features. “Well, I saw today about this event and, I don’t know, I thought it’d be cool to go to with him, so I just…sent him an e-mail. He was as surprised as you are!” She titters. “I don’t know what came over me, I just—he made me feel pretty comfortable the other night and—I guess your work is done?”
It’s great news for Ansley—great!—but it impales me somehow.
I know, I know. This whole thing has stirred up some unresolved crap for me where Henry is concerned. Made me see him in a new way. Made me see, yeah, he’s pretty fantastic.
But the fact of the matter is, we aren’t fantastic together unless he thinks he’s talking to someone else, so that’s the answer.
And Ansley’s pretty fantastic too—this is such a breakthrough for her!
Really, this is a relief.
I don’t have to endure falling deeper for him because she’s on her own now. This was the plan, and now I’m out of it.
“Are you okay?” she asks at once, reaching out and touching my forearm.
I push down the tightness in my throat and look at her in the mirror.
“I’m fantabulous!” I throw my arms around her and give her a big squeeze. “So happy for you!”
It’s the truth, but it still feels like a lie.
So I muster excitement that I know I really do feel for my friend, slather on a smile, and put my arm through hers.
“Let’s get back out to the boys.”
* * *
Cliff had wanted to come back to my place to celebrate his extension, but I gave him some lame excuse about it being late and Gordon blah blah blah. After a small kiss, I send him on his way and I walk with my heels in my hands. Listening to the soft piano tink away from the piano bar down the street.
I know this was the deal all along, that Ansley was just another client—that she’d get comfortable enough to be with someone. It’s not her fault she matched with Henry. And it’s not her fault she likes him.
I stop at the bridge overlooking the train tracks. The breeze is cool against my cheeks, the wind whips as the Metro bustles by. The rush of it surging like the thoughts in my head.
I will let myself be sad for exactly the rest of this walk home. Indulge in it. Feel the entirety of it.
And then let it go.
I close my eyes, and I see Henry. Those light eyes. The way his lips pulled at that cigarette. Try to remember the way they felt against mine.
My pocket buzzes, and for a moment, my breath catches. Can he hear my thoughts? Can he feel me somehow?
But when I check the burner phone, there’s no message. I scold myself at the thought that it even was—he’s got her number now. I’m not going to be hearing from him anymore.
It was a text from my own phone.
Cliff: You make it home, peanut?
I’m not in love with the nickname, but I was wrong about Henry. And maybe I’m wrong about Cliff too. Maybe it’s time to get out of my own damn way and give this a real shot.
Chapter 14
So what are you going to do now that your services are no longer needed?” Gordon looks at me through his eyelashes, his tone clawing at my insides.
I rip off my glasses and stare up at him—my first two-eyed glare I’ve been able to issue in a hot minute.
“The doc cleared you to ditch the patch, I see? Excellent eye-roll. Great form.”
“Still got it!”
We air-five, and then I settle back into the office chair and address the question at hand.
“Why, focus on my other clients, of course.” I add a playful little hitch to the end of that just to assure him that I am, in fact, Okay.
Which I am.
“Blanchey-poo…”
“What did I tell you about calling me that?”
“I saw the way you were looking at him last night…”
“Cliff?” I give a wide stare that I hope looks convincing.
He snorts. “Amazingly, no. Although I don’t know how you’re not directing all your attention at him. I’m talking about G.I. Joe.”
I stand and start fiddling with the papers on my desk. “Don’t be stupid. This was the plan all along.”
A tsk. “Ew, don’t be like that annoying girl who doesn’t see what everyone else sees. Nobody likes that girl. That girl’s dumb. You’re not.”
At last, I toss a stack of magazines to my chair and the thwap that it makes reverberates through the back room and punctuates my point more than I’d intended with the gesture.
“Did it ever occur to you that perhaps it’s self-fucking-preservation?”
Lucky for me, lucky for Gordon, the store phone rings. We both stare at it a minute, the blaring interruption to yet another one of my outbursts.
The Caller ID says Van de Kamp, and I curl a lip at G. I’d much rather continue our uncomfortable convo than start a new one with my freaking boss.
“Roger,” I answer, and Gordon returns to work.
“Fine event last night, Blanche,” he says. “I’ve heard wonderful things on my end.”
“Oh, thank you. I was surprised you weren’t here in the flesh. I know how much you like Se
an Riker.”
He clears his throat a number of times. “Ah yes yes yes, well, I will be at the next one.”
“The fund-raiser for literacy, absolutely. My people and I are already on it.”
I mean, kind of?
He grunts in what sounds like approval and presses on. “The reason I was calling is because—how long have you been running the store, Blanche?”
He mumbles like he’s trying to count months or years or crunch the numbers in some way, when I decide to just bail him out.
“Four years.”
“That’s right—that’s right. Well, in that time, we’ve seen some great improvements to the place, and the reason has not been lost on us. You. We want you to come work for corporate.”
I don’t know what to say.
“Hello?”
I laugh. “Sorry—I’m just a little stunned. Corporate, in New York?”
His guffaw echoes through the receiver. “Yes, ma’am! We’re creating a position that will focus on handling these types of events at the corporate level. Akin to, say, a publicist. An events coordinator of sorts. You really know how to put lipstick on a pig, as they say—and incidentally, you know how to keep that pig smiling even when there’s an apple in its mouth.”
The metaphor, mixed or confused or not, turns my stomach.
“We just know you’re going to knock this upcoming charity event out of the park, and that would serve as your last hurrah there at the store—if you say yes, of course.”
It isn’t that being recognized for my talents doesn’t feel Wonderful. And although we don’t talk specifics—Vandy wants to do that in person sometime soon—I’m sure the perks and the pay raise would be enough that I wouldn’t even have to do this moonlighting gig anymore.
These are all good things.
Awesome things!
So why do I feel so squinky about it?
I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about that very question as I try to distract myself by brainstorming a list of what we need for this new event. Possibly my last event at L&L.
* * *
“It’s a real first-world problem, I know,” I say when I tell Gordon, who thinks I’m overreacting.
“Who would take over the store?”
I can tell he’s trying to slip nonchalance into his tone, but yeah. Fail.
“You, obvi.” I laugh and shove him with the bottom of my wedge sandal.
“Well, I’ll set aside my selfishness in wanting to hear more about that at the moment—but really, hon. I don’t get what the issue is.”
I take a deep breath and try to synthesize the thoughts I’ve been having since the phone call.
“To do this would mean leaving D.C. It would also probably mean never having my own place. My own store, I mean. Sure, it’s great managing a place like Literature & Legislature—I have a certain amount of autonomy here, but I’m still under a wider umbrella. And I’ve always kind of wanted to do my own thing someday.”
“I never knew you wanted your own store.”
I pick at the cork on the bulletin board. “It’s pretty out there, I know. But taking a corporate position kind of puts an end to that dream. I’d just be a cog in this gigundous machine instead of my own machine.”
“An extremely well-paid cog who could have her friends over to her fabulous New York apartment and could afford to treat them to bougie-bougie dinners and shows…”
So the conversation doesn’t help much.
But I finally manage to get my mind off it for the evening and focus on my new client Missy and the guy I start messaging with on her behalf. I have to put in some time before Su and Dee get in town tomorrow.
I decide to break Rule Number 10—Don’t be first—because if you’re really going to take a chance on something, you shouldn’t need to play games and wait for the dude to message first. Out of all my rules, it’s the silliest, so I suppose it’s not a big deal to break it, when I start hammering away at the app.
I realize as I hover over the screen, being first is hard! What does one say to be interesting? Or do I just say hi, or…
Lightning strike.
The best first line I ever got flashes across my mind—so I steal it.
Me: Of all the dating apps on all the phones in all the world, he swipes into mine.
I can’t stifle a snicker as I see the words materialize across the screen. It really was such a great way to start—so much I could analyze about it—that maybe I’ll use it every time I decide to do away with Rule Number 10 and message first.
As I watch the little mail logo fly off into cyberspace, or wherever this Wally guy is, I feel bubbly in my chest once again as I anticipate the banter.
This is the part I love, right? The playful back and forth. The part where no one hates anyone yet, the canvas is blank, and there’s nothing but Opportunity in store.
Ding!
I bounce my way over to the couch.
Wally: Huh?
And the Henry-shaped void stretches from my living room out through the kitchen window to wherever he and his excellent banter are right now.
So stupid.
I swallow down the tightness and respond with something that I guess is more this dude’s speed:
Me: Never mind. What do you like to do for fun?
* * *
“Well, I, for one, am proud of you.” Isla beams as she flicks her way through a rack full of skirts.
“So am I! New job—new guy!” Dina’s voice trills from the depths of the dressing room.
She’s been nothing but exclamation points since I picked her and Sue Ellen up from Dulles Airport. Sue Ellen, on the other hand, has been more reserved than usual—not sure if it’s the contrast between their two energy levels that’s highlighting it, or if it’s something more.
“Look at you—you’re growing,” she deadpans from atop the tufted chaise lounge and sips the champagne the sales lady gave us.
“Is this really necessary? How fancy do we need to be? The party’s at your house.” I do the ol’ Lady Justice with one sequined little number and one sleek black dress worthy of Audrey Hepburn herself.
Isla scrunches her nose at both my choices and returns to her search. Flip flip. Flip flip.
“Well, it’s certainly not black tie, but it wouldn’t kill you to put some heels on. Plus, this is the girls’ first trip here”—she indicates Dee and Su with a loose hanger—“and, hello, I need to meet this Clint.”
“Cliff.” I can’t suppress a snicker.
“Oh? Henry said…”
I just give an eye-roll. Shake my head.
“So tell us about him!”
I stare across the store and let my last encounter with Cliff fog over in front of me. His eyes, the hint of the woods on his skin as he lured me closer. As we closed down the hotel bar.
“He’s got great hands,” I say.
Isla smacks me in the gut with a strappy caged cami that, let’s be real, I could never pull off even if I could get it on—and I’m back to reality.
“He’s an environmental lobbyist. Doing research on climate change right now and speaking on behalf of OSHA.”
“Where’s he from?” Dee wants to know.
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t really know…”
Do I? I should. Did we talk about this?
I rack my brain, tap an index finger to my chin as she fires off more impossible questions like How long’s he staying in town, Where’d he go to school, and What color are his eyes?
Sue Ellen looks up at me through her eyelashes, a mischievous twinkle taking over her bright blue stare.
I laugh. “What? We haven’t done a whole lot of talking.” I pull back, both palms pressed out in front of me in surrender.
“I’m beginning to gather that.” Isla nods.
“That’s okay! Jeff and I started out that way too!” Dina emerges with a gold number on that makes her look full-on Queen Bey, the new caramel highlights in her dark hair cascading past her shoulders an
d getting lost in the fabric of the dress.
I’m staring into space again, when—aha!
“Hazel! His eyes are hazel!” I stab the air with an In your face, bitches index finger, and then direct my attention back to the dresses. Flip flip.
But then I’m not so sure.
“Bravo.” Su glances at me in the mirror. Raises her crystal flute.
“Now that you’re entertaining the idea of actually dating him—like for real,” Isla pipes up, ever the voice of reason, “you’d better find out some things about him.”
That familiar itch whenever I start thinking about Trying Again with a person spreads through my middle and threatens to eat me from the inside out. But I resist the urge to bolt the hell out of here and just start talking.
These are my oldest friends, after all. Nothing to be afraid of here.
“I suppose I could…” I say to the racks after a few minutes. It does seem like everyone is with someone and everyone’s happy. “It’s not cuffing season, but I suppose the lusty month of May does approach…”
“I’m not with anyone, darlin’.” Su sits on the edge of the chaise as the saleswoman tops her off.
There’s an uncomfortable buzz that seems to freeze us all. I can’t take it. It’s only been six months since Steve’s “revelation”—and how Sue Ellen is even upright yet is a revelation to me.
I turn to her. “This is exactly why—”
She stands, smooths her blouse in the trifold mirror, and checks herself out as she does so. “That’s nuttier than my momma’s fruitcake at Christmas. There were signs. Signs I ignored. You’re not dumb enough or helpless enough to overlook not doing the dipsy doodle with someone for over a year. A year! I was just so scared of being alone that I—”
She tilts her head and checks out her ass as she speaks. Her demeanor is calm.
You know, like a serial killer.
Norman Bates, at the very least.
She swallows hard and finally meets my gaze again.
“The point is, you’re not like that. You won’t do that. You’re stronger than any of us here. You’ve been alone forever, and just look at you.”
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