“Yeesh. I hope it was a good meeting then.”
“It was,” she says. “I presented the initial strategy, and they’re signing on with us. We have another meeting to sign the contract set for next week.”
Carrie’s been kicking ass and taking names ever since she was promoted to creative director at her firm last summer. I’m super proud of her, especially since she had major self-doubt about the promotion. Another friend of ours, Amelia Wright (or Mel, for short) used to be in Carrie’s role, but she lives in Texas now with her husband. Lately, though, she’s been in town several times scouting real estate because she oversees the Dallas office of Anderson Public Relations and sometimes travels to Memphis for work. She has the money for this second home by virtue of her other job as an internationally bestselling author.
“Go, you,” I say, impressed but not surprised. I know better than Carrie does how awesome she is. “So, you want to go celebrate?”
“Sure,” she says. “I was going to call you anyway. Mel’s not in town this weekend, by the way. She’s coming in week after next for some literary event at Rhodes College. She’s the keynote speaker.”
I’m shaking my head at this. It seems like two months ago that the three of us—along with Reese Spencer-Chapman, Amelia’s childhood best friend and the fourth member of our old crew—were in our mid-twenties, just meeting, and regularly hanging out in bars bemoaning our pitiful careers, bank accounts, and love lives. It doesn’t seem possible that we’re now grown-ups.
Or that Amelia, Reese, and Carrie are grown up, at least. Ever since my Facebook stunt I’ve felt more like an overgrown teenager.
I shake off the thought, swinging open my car door at the same time without checking to see if the street is clear. An oncoming Hummer almost takes off my door, and I feel a rush of wind and the car shuddering beneath my feet as it passes. “Ack!” My heart racing at my idiocy, I gather myself for a breath and then say, “I’m just up the street from you. I was about to go into Greencork—is that okay?”
The chic-but-laid-back wine bar has exactly the vibe I need tonight. It’s cheerful, friendly, and usually plays host to large groups of women—book clubs and girls’ nights out—nary a man in sight on a typical evening. The thought of dipping back into the dating pool makes me sick to my stomach, so I want to avoid the singles scene for now.
“You’re reading my mind,” Carrie says. “Did you say you were calling Rachael?”
“Nah,” I reply. I would have called Rachael if Carrie wasn’t free, but since she is, I’d much rather have my best friend to myself. Besides, I’m getting a weird vibe off of Rachael now that I’m persona non grata at the office. I feel a dash of unease as I think about work. That’s another reason I don’t want to call Rachael. I haven’t told Carrie about Candace’s passive-aggressive behavior yet, and I wouldn’t be able to dish with Rachael there.
* * *
I’m so comfortable that I don’t even notice Brad Pepper’s arrival at Greencork until he’s towering over my chair. Carrie and I have managed to snag the best seats in the place—one of two pairs of slipper chairs in front of a homey fireplace. There’s no fire in it tonight, what with it seventy-eight degrees outside at 9:30 p.m., but it still ups the cozy vibe in the restaurant a thousandfold.
Brad is a principal at Levi-Pepper Architects, a Midtown firm that specializes in historic adaptation. I’ve worked with Brad on one project, an old bread factory his firm turned into a mixed-use residential and commercial development. I designed the model units for the condos.
“Well, Jennifer Dawson,” he says, and his voice booms so loudly in my right ear I nearly jump out of my seat.
“Bradley Pepper, hello,” I answer, switching into my “office voice,” something Carrie’s boyfriend, David, makes fun of me for. Jeremy has an “office voice” too. I never even knew we did it until recently when David pointed it out. Now I’m a little self-conscious about it, and I try to modulate my voice back to a more normal, conversational tone. “What are you up to tonight?”
It’s obvious what he’s up to—after all, we’re in the same bar on the same weekend evening. I look beyond him to see who he’s with, but I can’t tell. Greencork is a self-service wine bar with five or six wine cooler stations topped by signs that read “crisp, fruity whites,” “full-bodied reds,” and so on. Customers are milling about, perusing the wine machines and inserting cards into the card readers when they decide on a pour. There’s a table a few feet away from us with a woman’s bag slung over the back of one chair, and I’m guessing it belongs to Brad’s date. Sure enough, a tall, leggy brunette makes her way to it, and I watch as she scans the restaurant, her eyes finally landing on us.
“My wife and I just had dinner at Tsunami,” he says. “We have another hour before we have to relieve the sitter, so we’re taking full advantage.”
“Ah, that’s nice,” I say, my eyes flashing to his left hand, where, sure enough, a white-gold band flashes from his ring finger. I had no idea Brad Pepper was married. In fact, I seem to recall him feeding me a line or two when we were working together. I wrack my brain, trying to remember what it was he said. Dawson, you have legs for weeks. That’s what it was. It made me uncomfortable at the time since we were working in close proximity, and I was engaged. He must have a thing for legs, I think, glancing at the brunette again.
Brad drags over a chair from the bistro table nearest my seat and plunks down on it, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone. “So, give it to me straight,” he says, and my eyes widen. “Is Candace really cheating on Dan with Emory Brewster?”
I nearly choke on my sip of pinot. “Holy shit, Brad,” I say before I can help myself. We really aren’t that close, and I’m shocked that he’s come right out with this. It hits me, not for the first time, that men are worse gossips than women, even though we get all the bad rap for it.
Not that he’s the first person to call me out on my stupid, idiotic Facebook “fuck up,” as Jeremy so nicely put it. I’ve gotten questions from at least two or three past clients or colleagues, and my sister-in-law Jane even called me from across the Atlantic after seeing my status update.
It’s bothered me before how, in this day and age, our private lives are no longer private. I’ve had a couple of strange moments where I’ve run into somebody in, say, Target that I haven’t seen in five years, and they say something like, “I saw that you were just in New York. Your trip looked like fun.”
What? Oh yeah, Facebook. It’s completely changed small talk.
Or how about those moments when you meet someone for the first time, but you forget you haven’t met because you already know so much about each other’s lives? Like Ellie Kate’s husband, Matt. When I finally met him in person at an awards banquet after two years of seeing him in photos with their adorable daughter, Chloe, we skipped the handshake and went straight for the hug.
That’s all fine and good. But how about this: Certain relationships from the past belong in the past. We leave them behind for a reason. Now, thanks to Facebook, the high school hierarchy follows us around in a way people have never had to deal with outside of a class reunion.
I don’t want to know that the homecoming queen is still as popular as ever and rich now or that the cheerleader who modeled that one time in Seventeen magazine is now overweight. I don’t want to have to decide what to do with a friend request from my tenth-grade boyfriend—If I decline, will he think I never got over him? If I accept, will he think I never got over him?—and I don’t want all of these people to know what I did last weekend, what I think about the latest episode of Real Housewives, or how I just screwed up monumentally at work.
I know we all choose to be on social media, and if I absolutely did not want to make any portion of my private life public, I could just avoid Facebook and Instagram and Twitter and live like people did in, like, 1992. But seriously, anybody without a Facebook profile in this day and age is either weirdly paranoid or antisocial, and I’m neither. Usually.
Right now I feel that deep urge to crawl into bed and put my pillow over my head again. But Brad Pepper is still talking to me.
“Everybody is talking about it,” he says, and I shudder to think who “everybody” is. Right now it feels like every stinking person I’ve ever met in my life. “We have a pool going on at my office. I’ve got ten down that Candace is screwing him.”
I thank my lucky stars that I have an honest answer to his question and that it’s, “I don’t know.” Candace and I haven’t talked about that little episode at Brewster’s mansion since it happened, and apart from Candace trying to make me her lapdog on the project, I haven’t touched Brewster’s file since that night.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Brad’s face twists into a smirk beneath his neatly trimmed lumber-sexual beard. “You’re the one who started the rumor.”
“I mean, I really and truly don’t know,” I say. “Don’t you know that you can’t believe everything you read on the internet?”
He gives me another look, basically one that makes it clear he thinks I’m off my meds.
“Whatever.” He leans an arm on the mantel, as if he’s settling in for a while. “Do you know if you guys are bidding in on the Midtown Bike project?”
I breathe a surreptitious sigh of relief that we’ve moved past the gossip and on to something solid. “You mean the Marc Rasmutin condo-conversion project? No, I don’t think we’re in on that,” I say. “I’ve been too slammed, and Midtown renos are usually my forte. Rachael’s been busy with the new Methodist clinic, and I haven’t heard anybody else talk about it around the office.”
“Talk about what? Candace and Brewster?”
A new voice pops into our conversation, and my head swivels around to my left. “Quinn!” I shoot her a dirty look for the Candace comment, and she gives me a toothy smile. Of all the people from work I could run into tonight, Quinn is second only to Candace herself as least preferable.
That’s not because I don’t like her—it’s more that I know she’s about to embarrass me. Like, really, really embarrass me.
She plops down into one of the two chairs facing Carrie’s and mine, which were vacated several minutes ago by two law students, judging from the conversation we couldn’t help but overhear.
My choice for tonight’s hangout no longer seems so appealing. Greencork is a perfect spot for conversation, with good lighting and no place to hide. I should have picked Celtic Crossing, a pub just around the corner. It’s always smoky and filled with barely legal college kids, which is why we hardly ever go there, but it’s also full of dark corners, and the music is loud. A great place to disappear.
“I was just asking Jen about that,” Brad says, his voice peppier than it was after I tried to shut him down. “Do tell.” He folds his lanky frame into the fourth slipper chair. I glance hopefully at his wife to see if she looks annoyed at being abandoned, but she’s deep in conversation with a petite, redheaded woman who’s standing beside their table. As I watch, the woman drags out the second chair and sits down, talking animatedly.
I scowl.
“Well, Jen here is being all quiet about it—funny, since she’s the one who announced it to the freaking world—” She cuts herself off and glances at me, but the look on my face does nothing to shut her up. “So I’ll tell you my theory.” She leans deeper into our little circle.
“I think Candace is jealous that Brewster hired Jen instead of her, and so she used her most persuasive technique to nose in on the project.”
Brad looks appropriately scandalized, but I can see the glint of glee behind his expression.
“Quinn,” I exclaim, but I can’t find the right words to refute her accusation. She is right, after all. I’m still fighting for words when Brad interrupts.
“That woman is dangerous,” he says, shaking his head, and it’s my turn to look scandalized.
“What do you mean?” I ask. In my six years working for Candace, I’ve never heard anyone dare to speak a word against her. At least, not to me. I wonder briefly if that’s because up until now, I’ve been her protégé. I certainly typed my way out of that title.
“Oh, come on,” Brad says, his face slightly flushed from alcohol. I’m starting to realize he’s a little drunk, and Quinn’s right there with him—her usual MO on a weekend night. His voice is so loud that I glance up to see who else might be here tonight and who might be listening. Nobody in the restaurant seems to be paying attention to us. “Everybody knows she was banging Lane Bickers.”
At that, a few heads do swivel in our direction, mainly because Brad’s voice is so loud. Even though I’m not the one who said it, my face heats up with guilt and embarrassment.
“Nobody can prove that,” I mumble, at this point unsure why I’m even defending Candace.
“Oh, come on.” Quinn repeats Brad’s words. “She totally dicked you over, and you’re still acting like her minion. You’re better than that.”
My forehead wrinkles as I try to figure out if she just insulted me or complimented me. With Quinn, it’s never easy to tell. Finally I say, “I’m not talking. For the obvious reason that Candace Greenlee writes my paychecks.” I narrow my eyes at Quinn. “And yours.”
She rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
Spoken like a girl who’s had most things in life handed to her on a privileged platter. If she lost her job at Greenlee Designs, Quinn would just use her daddy’s connections to land a spot at another prominent design firm. If I lose mine, though, I’m pretty sure I’ll have to look outside the market just to find another designer who will give me the time of day. Badmouthing your boss on social media isn’t exactly a skill that looks great on a résumé. And Memphis is like an overgrown small town. Everybody in the local design community is talking about my Facebook faux pas. I frown as I suddenly realize Candace is my only professional reference.
A smile is dancing around the corners of Brad Pepper’s lips, and I realize Quinn’s and my bickering has given him all the confirmation he needs about the rumor I started. He pushes out of the armless chair, which is covered in a green-and-gold swirly pattern and is much too small for his long and lanky frame. “You ladies enjoy your evening.” He tips an imaginary hat and winks at me. “You should think about tossing your hat in the ring on the Midtown Bike project,” he says. “You do good work.”
I half-smile at him as Carrie observes the whole conversation with a worried look on her face. “Thanks,” I say in a bemused voice. As he walks away I shake my head, so buried in my thoughts I’ve almost forgotten I’m not alone. I take a long, deep drink of my wine.
“He’s right,” Quinn says, and I glance up to find both her and Carrie watching me.
“Right about what?” I say, still distracted.
“You should bid on the Rasmutin project,” she says. “It’s right up your alley. I’ve thought about it, but I’ve got enough on my plate.” She pauses. “Screw Candace. You can write your own ticket, girlfriend. You’ve got it, and she’s losing it. That’s why she’s resorting to taking your clients away from you.”
My jaw slackens as I stare at her, and I see Carrie nodding out of the corner of my eye.
I shake my head. “I’ve got enough on my plate right now too.” My voice falters a little at the end of the sentence. I did have plenty of work until Candace lifted Brewster from me. But now…
“You’ve got to let her stop getting to you,” Carrie says. “So you screwed up with the Facebook status. All you can do is move on.”
Quinn rolls her eyes, the serious turn of the conversation obviously boring her more than gossiping with Brad Pepper about the scandal I exposed. She stands, wobbling slightly on her stilettos—silver peep-toes with five-inch, clear acrylic heels. “Have fun, chicas.”
I lean slightly toward Carrie, afraid the dark red wine in Quinn’s glass is going to slosh over the edge and onto my favorite skirt. I watch her as she sashays across the room toward a table full of twenty-something girls near the big pic
ture window at the front of the bar. One of them puts her arm out as Quinn walks up and pulls her in for a drunken selfie.
“She acts like she’s still twenty-two,” I mutter, irked at Quinn for butting in and making things worse for me.
“Yeah. She does,” Carrie says. I see her shrug out of the corner of my eye. “Good for her.”
“Good for her?” I repeat, incredulous.
Carrie leans back in her chair, and I notice for the first time how exhausted she looks. She has on more makeup than usual, and I see now that it’s covering up dark shadows beneath both of her eyes. She closes them as she draws in a long sip of her pale gold wine, a California chardonnay, I’m sure—it’s her favorite. “Yeah. I mean, I feel about a hundred years old right now.”
“Are you okay?” I ask. I haven’t realized how much pressure Carrie is under—or at least I haven’t realized how much it’s getting to her. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly. But she sets her glass on the round table between us and starts rubbing her eyes with one hand, squeezing her brow. “It’s just that our accounts are down right now. We lost two major clients when Trey left, and we’ve got the overhead of the Dallas firm on top of us. I really needed the McMurtreys to sign on tonight. Thank God they did.”
I drain the last sip from my glass. “Do you want to finish that and go on home?” I ask, pointing at her glass and feeling dismayed but also concerned. Carrie has a habit of worrying about everybody else more than herself, and she looks like she’s the one who needs to be taken care of right now, not me.
“No, no,” she says. “Tell me about what happened at work today.”
I tell the story of Candace’s sabotage as quickly as I can and then change the subject to Carrie’s newest niece—a topic that makes her happy. As she talks about how Mazie rolled over for the first time and how her sister was freaking out because her maternity leave is ending in less than two weeks, I feel relief to see the worry lines disappear from my friend’s forehead. Carrie obviously needs to relax as much as I do.
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