I smooth down the front of my skirt and take several steps toward Candace's office. And then I stop short, swivel on my heel, and walk back to my desk, losing my nerve.
I'm at a loss with the Brewster account. I don't really know what to say to him if I call—"Um, yeah, hi Emory. It's Jen Dawson… You know, the interior designer you hired to redesign your hearth room and study? I, um, well, I'm wondering if you still want to work with me even though I don't put out like my boss does…"
Clearly, I'm not ready to deal with this.
I sit down again and finally turn my head to meet Ellie Kate's gaze, a sheepish smile on my face. I decide to do the next best thing to dealing with my professional problems like a grown-up. I clamor for company gossip. I point to my computer screen, and then I type Ellie Kate an instant message: Do you know if it's true that Candace asked Rachael to go to Paris?
I don't trust the news coming from Quinn, but I've yet to hear confirmation from anybody else, including Candace or Rachael herself.
As I study the purse of Ellie Kate's lips over the lip of her computer screen, I know I have my answer. That appears to be true, she types and looks up at me with a trace of pity in her eyes. If there's one thing I hate, it's being pitied.
I'm careful not to change my own facial expression as I type back, What did you hear?
Honestly, we could be having this conversation out loud because I realize now that we're the only people left in the office besides Brice and Carson, who are both too far away from us to hear. Carson's at her desk behind the partition that separates the workroom from the lobby, probably with her headset at her ear. And Brice is in the back room, cataloguing a shipment of new upholstery fabrics. I have no idea where Quinn is, but that's not unusual. And even though I'd been about to storm into Candace's office, I've remembered that she's not even here. She breezed out after lunch announcing something vague about a client appointment.
I can't believe I forgot this, because after she left Brice cracked, "That's code for Botox," and the rest of us fell apart.
My screen bleeps with a new message, and I look down to see that Ellie Kate has typed, I overheard Rachael asking Quinn for advice on what to wear to shop for antiques.
I guffaw. The closest Quinn has been to a buying trip is the merchandise mart in Atlanta, where we all go twice a year. But still, she is the first person in the office I'd ask for fashion advice, so Rachael's got me there.
But what I keep wondering is, why hasn't Rachael asked me for advice if she's going on this trip? Though Carson books the travel, I arrange all the details of the actual shopping in France and on any other bigger buying trips I've been on with Candace. Before me, Caroline, Candace's old partner, did it. There's a lot of research involved even when you've done it a few times. Rachael's got to be flying blind.
This situation with Candace just keeps getting weirder and weirder.
What she wears will be the least of her concerns, I type back. Though I hope Quinn told her to pack comfortable shoes. I think I've put in a collective total of about five hundred miles of walking on my foreign buying trips.
I hope Candace knows what she's doing, Ellie Kate types, and then, clearly realizing, like me, how silly it is that we're typing this conversation while sitting four feet from each other in an empty room, she gets up from her chair and walks over to me, perching on the edge of my desk.
"I wish I knew what she was doing," I say. "I mean, I get it. I crossed a line with that Facebook status. But she crossed me first." I pause, staring straight ahead and reliving the moment when I walked in on Candace in flagrante delicto with my client—or on her way there, at least. "And the question I haven't examined closely enough is, why did she do it in the first place? What was she doing there with Brewster?"
Just then a door bangs shut, and both Ellie Kate and I jump. She stands quickly and spins around, but it's just Brice, walking into the workroom with his arms full of gray-tone fabrics. He dumps them unceremoniously on a table and half-skips over to my desk. "What are we talking about?" he asks in a sing-song, conspiratorial tone.
"What do you think?" I say dryly. "The fact that I've practically been demoted to intern, at least in Candace's eyes." I pretty much avoid her at all costs now, lest she try to remind me how she takes her coffee.
Ellie Kate leans on my desk again, and then Brice drags over two of the rolling chairs that surround our communal worktable. They each sink into one, and Brice sits with his tall, gangly frame hunched forward, his elbows on his knees. He reaches up to swipe a hunk of his albino blond hair (bleached, not God-given) from his forehead.
"You heard about the France trip, I take it," he says. It's a statement, not a question, and I'm wondering how long ago Candace committed this latest treachery, and how long everybody else has known about it. I nod once, my lips set into a thin line as the thought of that pisses me off all over again. "I don't know what she's thinking," he continues. "Taking a baby over there to do big girls' work." He pauses. "I mean, I love Rachael. Don't get me wrong. But she's what, like two years out of undergrad? I have socks older than that girl. And she's never even called in a fabric quote, let alone ordered anything for the shop."
His voice is surprisingly sour, and I glance up, pondering that. Age is a touchy subject for Brice—he turned forty last year, and on his birthday Ellie Kate, Quinn, and I went out for drinks with him and his partner, Ken, after work, listening and offering soothing words as he agonized over the fact that he'd yet to do anything big with his life.
After that he started taking design classes part time at the University of Memphis, and every once in a while when we're not in intern season, Candace brings him in to serve as design assistant on a project. Now that I think about it, he's got a point—he's more qualified for the buying trip than Rachael is. He's worked at Greenlee Designs longer than I have, and he's received, catalogued, and expertly overseen every order that's come through the shop's doors for at least seven years. Plus, he has excellent taste, an encyclopedic knowledge of furniture styles and design periods, and an inherent ability to recognize what's on-trend and what's out. But because he doesn't have letters behind his name, he's deemed less qualified than a staff member fifteen years his junior.
Funny how we're all harboring our own brands of bitterness, without even realizing we're not the only ones whose dreams become smaller and harder to attain every single day.
"I wish Rachael would talk to me about it," I say. "I'd help her figure things out."
Ellie Kate looks at me sadly while Brice stares at me like I've just sprouted purple hairs on my chin.
"Let Candace fix her own mess," he says. "I swear that woman's gonna drive her own business into the ground while we all sit here and watch, just because she's too damn proud to give up an ounce of control."
"What do you mean?" I ask. I don't handle the books, but I'm pretty sure the firm's profit margins have been flush for the past several years, at least since the real estate market started moving again. I've brought in enough on my own to make that happen for the past three years in a row.
"I mean," he says, pausing for dramatic effect, "I think the firm's in trouble. And I think that has something to do with why Candace went after Emory Brewster."
Both Ellie Kate's and my jaws go slack at this statement, but before we can press him further, the bell dings to signal the opening of the front door, and a few seconds later Rachael rounds the partition into the main room of the studio. She strides across the room and plops her purse on her desk before she finally seems to notice us, and then she cocks her head in our direction. "What's up?" she calls out as she rounds her desk and touches her mouse pad to wake up her computer.
Brice is already out of his chair and dragging it back over to the worktable as I think, Be obvious, why don't you. It's clear we've been gossiping without her, and therefore, about her.
Ellie Kate gives me a look that says her thoughts are echoing mine, and she says, "Nothing. Just taking a goof-off break."
&n
bsp; "Mmm." Rachael's head is already buried in her laptop, as if she doesn't care in the least what we're up to. That has the effect, once again, of making me wonder what she's up to. It occurs to me that she's been awfully quiet in the office lately. Normally she and I hang out together outside of work a bit, and although I've noticed that she's shied away from that, I've sort of chalked it up to her feeling uncomfortable that Candace has picked her to replace me as her right-hand woman. Until now, I haven't really thought about the fact that she doesn't seem to be talking to Ellie Kate, Brice, or Quinn as much as she used to either.
Before I can put much more thought into that idea, my phone screen flashes with a Facebook notification, and I glance down automatically to check it.
Brandon Royer has sent you a new message, flits across the screen and then disappears. Instantly my cheeks grow warm, and my stomach jumps with a twinge of something between nervous anticipation and dread. Why is Brandon trying to reconnect with me? I click to open the Facebook Messenger app and see his message highlighted. I almost click on it, but at the last second I jerk my finger back, realizing he'll be able to see that I've opened and am reading the message. He just left it, and I don't want to seem too eager.
Instead I torture myself with the five words that show up in the preview screen: Hey Jenny, I just got…
Automatically my eyes roll at seeing my name written as "Jenny"—I went by Jenny all through elementary, middle, and high school, but as soon as I left for college, I shucked the nickname as if it were an adolescent shell. From day one of freshman year, I was Jen.
He just got what?? I think. He just got word about my Facebook screw up? He just got married? He just got diagnosed with a debilitating disease, and he's contacting everyone he ever wronged in the past to make amends?
I groan out loud, unable to stand the suspense. "Ah, screw it," I mutter and click on the message.
Hey Jenny, I just got back in town and I see you're still in Memphis? Wondering if you ever see Tyler or Chip or any of the old crowd. Want to meet up and get a drink sometime?
I chuckle out loud at his mention of "the old crowd," considering he dumped me for a new, cooler crowd our junior year. I think I spoke to Tyler Kissett, captain of the football team, twice during all of high school. I happen to know that he is still in town, but I haven't seen him since the day we donned our graduation gowns. I think he's a hotshot lawyer now, or maybe he's a doctor… I'm not completely sure. As for Chip, he was Brandon's best friend practically from the time they were in diapers, and I'm surprised Brandon would be asking me about him. Doesn't he talk to Chip on his own anymore?
As I'm mulling over these things, it suddenly begins to hit me that Brandon just asked me out. I mean, sure, he phrased it as a casual thing, but still. Why me? Why not one of his old homecoming-court or cheerleader-crowd friends? I mean, he barely spoke to me after we broke up, and it's been more than a decade since I've even seen him at a distance.
Slow tingles start to shudder through me as I remember how I felt about him back then, back before he ditched me for greener pastures and broke my heart into a million bits. I cried over Brandon Royer for a full month and moped over him for six months after that, straight up until Ethan Frye asked me out in the fall of our senior year. I wound up dating Ethan until we both left for college, him to Penn State where his father had gone and me to South Georgia for SCAD.
Even though it was Ethan I lost my virginity to—in his basement one night after his parents had gone to bed, about a week before our senior prom—it was Brandon I never fully got over. Maybe that's why, I realize now. Ethan and I broke up amicably, not wanting to tie ourselves down to a long-distance relationship in college, but Brandon broke my heart. And since Brandon and I never actually consummated our relationship, the sexual tension between us was never really resolved.
Is that why I'm tingling all over right now? My face grows warm, and I close Brandon's message without answering it. This situation requires a serious BFF consultation. I text Carrie to see if she's free for happy hour, then slip my phone into my purse to avoid further distraction. I've got a to-do list to complete.
* * *
"Let me read it again." Carrie takes the phone out of my hands, where I've been reading and rereading the exchange between Brandon and me for longer than I care to admit. With Carrie's input, I replied to Brandon's message soon after we got here, and since then he and I have gone back and forth several times, planning a time to meet.
Carrie and I have been sitting at the bar at South of Beale for well over two hours, and we'll be here probably at least that much longer because our friend Amelia just texted that she's out of her meeting and on her way to join us, along with Carrie's boss, Katie.
Before that happens I want to resolve this little…situation that's brewing between me and my high school sweetheart-slash-heartbreaker. "What do you think? Is this a real date or a friend-zone kind of thing?"
I've already asked this question about fifteen times, phrasing it different ways each time. Thank God Carrie loves me so much. I chew on my cuticles as she scrolls down the message thread. I'm one step shy of texting my high school friend Allison to get her take on Brandon's messages, but I'm afraid of starting up the high school gossip chain. Yes, it still exists, especially since I still live within a fifteen-minute drive of my high school.
And, of course, I'm on Facebook, which isn't all that different from the high school cafeteria when you think about it.
"He's definitely asking you out," Carrie assures me for the fifteenth time. "It's not a group thing, so in my book that makes it a bona fide date. Plus, he's even turned it into dinner, which is way more serious than drinks or lunch." She gives me a curious look. "Are you sure you want to go out with this guy? I mean, if he broke your heart once, who's to say he—"
"I know, I know," I interrupt her. "I don't plan to date him for real, and I definitely don't see myself falling for him again. Or anybody, for that matter. It's too soon…" My voice trails off as my mind wanders to Jeremy and to the box of his stuff I still haven't figured out how to get to him.
"But it's not too soon to have a little fun." Carrie waggles her eyebrows at me, and the expression is so exaggerated I can tell she's just trying to get me to stop going down the thinking-about-Jeremy path.
"Ugh. Not with Brandon," I say, dragging out his name a little bit, though my stomach takes a roller-coaster plunge just thinking about "having fun" with Brandon. "Been there, done that."
"But you didn't buy the T-shirt," she adds, winking at me, and I swat her on the shoulder.
"There's probably a reason," I say. "If the shoe doesn't fit, don't wear it."
"Did his shoe not fit? Is there something you're not telling me?" She's giving me a speculating look that makes me think the question isn't rhetorical.
"O-M-G," I say, laughing. "Third base, with a little extra something for him," I add. "That's as far as it went. And as far as I can remember, his shoe was a standard size." I give her a fake scowl. "And now enough with the innuendos." My cheeks are burning and would be even without the strawberry basil martini I just consumed. Carrie's laughing so hard that her face is as red as mine.
"What's so funny?"
Carrie and I jump at the same moment. We've been so wrapped up in our conversation that neither of us noticed Amelia and Katie come through the door, even though we're sitting just inside the doorway at the long, wooden bar. We all squeal at the same moment, eliciting a wry smile from Nathaniel, our favorite bartender. He puts his hands in the air and waggles his fingers in cheerleader spirit-hands fashion, his mouth open in a silent, mocking scream. I wink at him just as Amelia leans in for a hug.
"Oh my God," I say, my voice intentionally an octave too high. "Amelia Wright, live and in the flesh. Hold on…" I pull my purse from the back of my barstool and fish around in it until I find my phone. I pull it out and pretend to hold it up. "Can I get a picture?"
She sticks her tongue out at me as she pulls out the barstool ne
xt to Carrie. "Hush, you bee-atch," she says, her eyes sparkling good-naturedly. All of us are ogling her protruding belly, which hits the bar once she's sitting in her chair.
"Wow, you've really popped out in the last three weeks," I say. "Has it really only been that long?"
Amelia is rubbing her stomach with one hand, and she smiles a little dreamily. "I swear it did this overnight," she says. "Like, I went to bed on a Tuesday, and I woke up Wednesday morning five inches thicker in the waist. None of my clothes fit."
She's officially the cutest pregnant woman I've ever seen, and I'm trying really, really hard not to feel jealous. Amelia is an easy person to feel jealousy toward though. A few years ago she wrote a series of bestselling novels that are still being made into movies. For a while she was dating the leading man of her own movies—who also happens to be one of the most famous men in Hollywood—and cameras followed her everywhere. Then she jilted him for her high school sweetheart and became even more of a fixture in the tabloids.
Now that she's married to said high school sweetheart, Noah Bradley, her face is not quite as prevalent in celebrity gossip magazines—meaning that instead of being in every issue, she's only in every third issue or so. It drives her crazy.
I imagine that the cuteness of her baby bump is giving her a resurgence, hence the "bee-atch" comment. She absolutely hates it when people stare at her or make a big deal over her in public, though she'd never let them know it.
I grin at her. "When's your due date again?"
"September twelfth," she says. "Which means we have roughly one month to find a house and sign a contract to be sure we have time to close before the baby comes."
"I'm so excited you're moving back," Carrie says, and Katie, who's sitting on the other side of me, nods her head in agreement.
"Well, part time, anyway," Amelia says, sheepishly, and I figure it's because she's embarrassed to highlight the fact that she and Noah can easily afford to maintain homes in two cities. From what I understand, she's now overseeing the brand new Dallas office of Anderson Public Relations, but I'm guessing, based on the amount of time she spends traveling to promote her books and movies, that she's fairly hands-off. "I want to have the baby here though," she continues. "It's closer for Reese and my mom to come down—within driving distance."
How to Look Happy (Unlucky in Love Book 3) Page 10