“I am going to kill you,” I say aloud, now grasping my phone with both hands and glaring at the screen. Simon raises his head, and I glance down at him, returning my fingers to his fur.
“Not you, buddy,” I murmur. “Sorry.”
I read through the comments to view the extent of the damage. Brandon has changed his relationship status to “In a Relationship.” And the status update that tops the images reads, There’s nothing like reconnecting with your first love.
“You are so full of shit,” I yell, uncrossing my legs and struggling to stand. Simon jumps backward and shoots me another humans-are-so-crazy look before wandering back to his spot in front of the window, circling once before settling down and eyeing me warily.
My fingers are flying over the screen now, first scrolling to read the comments and view the “likes” on each element of the status update. The image of us kissing has the most comments, including the one from Quinn, which just reads, Well, well.
Other comments are from Brandon’s and my mutual Facebook friends—high school acquaintances mostly—but there are a couple from real-life, current friends either congratulating me or weighing in on the “cuteness” of the photo. The likes are rampant.
Blood rushes hot through my veins, and my head fills with a startling pressure, giving me a new take on the expression “steam coming out of your ears.” I feel like a teakettle that’s reached the boiling point, my need to scream the whistle.
And then, as I fumble off of the images and return to the status to figure out how to delete it, or untag myself, or…something, I inadvertently click the notification to “see who likes this image.” And what I see makes my body go cold. First on the list of likes is Todd Birnham.
* * *
“So let me get this straight. You are not dating Brandon Royer again.” My mother has asked this question multiple times now, as if she doesn’t believe my answer. And, I have to admit, the situation is rather unbelievable.
“That is correct,” I say, rolling my eyes in a reprise of my teenage self, who has appeared too many times this week already. I straighten my back in my chair, a grown-up stance, and gird my patience. “I went out with him a few times, but we are absolutely not dating.”
“Wait, a few times?” breaks in Catherine, and I remember that I only filled them in on two dates—the show at the Orpheum and last night’s disaster. I couldn’t get around it, since Brandon so helpfully documented both dates on Facebook. “How many dates is ‘a few times?’”
Eleanor is watching me with sympathy, as she knows the whole story. She’s the only family member—or person in general besides Carrie—that I’ve confided in about my run-ins with Brandon and Jeremy. Oh, geez. Jeremy. If my mom knew about Brianna’s pregnancy I’d be getting the third degree about that too. I have half a mind to announce it, just to turn the conversation away from Brandon.
If I’d had any inkling that tonight’s family festivities would revolve around my messed-up, and yet still somehow nonexistent, love life I’d have faked a stomach flu to get out of it.
“Three times, I think,” I mutter.
“Three times!” This is from my dad, which is mortifying.
“I can’t believe you’re going out with him again,” adds my mother, forcing another involuntary eye roll. “He was so awful to you back in school.” The look in her eyes shames me to my very core. It conveys things like, I’m very worried about you, and Didn’t our talk about Jeremy mean anything?, and Where is my capable, adult daughter?
I get it. If I were my own mother, I’d be thinking the same things. I don’t exactly have a track record for sound decision-making of late.
“I promise you guys, Brandon and I aren’t dating. That Facebook status was totally bogus.”
“But why would he put that out there, if it isn’t true?” That’s my dad, for whom the world is black and white. Honest in word, deed, and facial expression. Right now he looks perplexed.
Thankfully a swarm of servers arrives beside the long array of pushed-together tables with our entrees—dinner for twelve, which means that by the time everybody has their food and settles back down, I’ll be off the hook. The conversation devolves to things like, “The blackened salmon pasta? That’s me.” And, “No, I have the one with steamed vegetables instead of fries.” That’s Eleanor, still fighting back against the baby weight. The table is alive with passed dishes and condiment requests and toddlers who won’t be settled down. My niece Charlotte is seated beside me, and I spend a couple of minutes helping her pound the side of a ketchup bottle without splotching any on her outfit—a pair of hot-pink-and-white striped leggings with a purple skirt and a sparkly off-the-shoulder top with a tank beneath. On her feet are silver ballet flats, and she’s topped off the ensemble with a glittery purple bag that she carefully hung from the back of her chair, emulating me. I’m not sure when she morphed into this budding fashionista, but it makes me wish I’d been spending more time with my family. I’m missing too much.
That sentiment changes when we’re all settled again, and the subject returns to me. “He really lied about your relationship status on Facebook?” This time it’s Chris. “That’s balls.”
“Christopher.” Christine elbows her husband, gesturing around at all the kids at the table, who aren’t paying any attention but are babbling in every direction and doing anything but eating. Only Charlotte is paying rapt attention, and I’m hoping most of this is flying right over her head.
“What?” he says. “I think it’s funny, that’s all.” He looks over at me with sparkling eyes. “Want me to beat him up for you?”
“Would you really beat him up, Daddy?” asks Charlotte in her high, sweet trilling voice, eliciting another elbow into Chris’s side from Christine.
“Okay, y’all. That’s enough.” It’s Eleanor, and I shoot her a grateful look. “I think the lessons we can all gather here are that you can’t believe everything you read on Facebook, and”—she gives me a sidelong glance—“that Jen should maybe think about shutting down her Facebook profile.”
“Cheers to that,” Chris says, holding up his glass of sweet tea.
My dad follows suit. “Hear, hear.”
And then my other brother, Brian, pipes up with, “Oh, hey, Jen. Ever heard of a website called Facebook Epic Fails?”
I glare first at him and then at Eleanor, beside him, who’s pursing her lips and trying not to laugh. And then I glare in turn at each member of my family of traitors and say, “How ‘bout them Titans?”
If anything can distract a table full of Southerners, it’s football.
* * *
By the time Monday morning rolls around I have no more insight into how to handle Brandon’s Facebook attack, though I did at least figure out how to untag myself from his photos and remove his posts from my wall. I also unfriended him, but I’m not sure what good any of that’s going to do, since the damage is already done.
That’s the most infuriating thing about social media—once something’s out there, it’s taken as fact and almost impossible to retract. Also, and this is the worst part, it’s impossible to erase it from people’s memories. I’ve learned that lesson in the past four months, if nothing else.
Why do I have to learn every lesson the hard way? Seriously, I’m thirty-one. Actually, I’m almost thirty-two—my birthday’s in a little over three weeks. When I blow out the candle on the cake Carrie is sure to bake, my wish will be that thirty-two is the year I learn from my mistakes and avoid turning my life into one giant “If only I hadn’t…”
The good thing about this morning is that I’m faced with another workweek that’s so busy I don’t have time to dwell on said mistakes. Today I’m checking in on the work at the Santiagos’ house and meeting with Amanda Jossamon-Barnes to discuss the delay on the bicycle-factory condo project. I’m also working to pull together ideas for Amelia and Noah’s house based on the feedback Amelia gave me last week.
I’ve just risen from my chair to start sifting through fabric books w
hen my cell phone rings in my left hand. It’s a number I don’t recognize.
“Jen Dawson,” I say, distracted as I pull a Romo book from the shelf.
“Hi, Jen. My name is Calliope Redwing.” The woman at the other end hesitates long enough for me to scroll down my mental list, but her name doesn’t ring a bell—and I’m sure I wouldn’t forget a name like Calliope Redwing. “I, um, I got your number from my, um, from my…colleague, Sandra Jonas?” The way she hesitates on the word “colleague” makes me wonder if she’s not actually a colleague but one of Sandra’s patients. Though there’s no shame in it, I know people are often reluctant to admit they see a psychologist. “I absolutely love the work you did in Sandra’s office, and I wondered if you might be available for a consultation?”
Oh, wow. What a time for a referral. “Absolutely,” I say, because there is no other answer. Besides, I just wrapped up the Sweeties project and progress is stalled on both Brewster’s place (at least, I’m stalling) and the Rasmutin project, so the timing actually sort of works. “What type of project did you have in mind?”
“Well, it’s work in my office,” Calliope says.
“Oh, are you a clinical psychologist too?” I ask, thinking maybe I misread her hesitation.
“No, I’m a lawyer,” she says, abashed. Yep, she’s totally one of Sandra’s patients.
“Oh, well, great,” I say. “I’d be happy to meet with you.” A private lawyer’s office should be a piece of cake. “Do you work from a home office as well, or do you have outside office space?”
“Oh, it’s outside office space all right,” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice that makes me feel as if I’m missing something. “It’s an office of forty-two attorneys, fifteen paralegals, and about seventy members of support staff. Have you heard of Jameson, Jameson & Pflug, PLC?” I’m working to pick my jaw up from the floor when she continues. “Our offices are in a historic building downtown. It’s an old cotton warehouse that was converted in the ’80s. Anyhow, the place hasn’t had a face-lift since I’ve been there, and I’ve been a partner now for sixteen years.”
I’m stunned into silence, though my head is spinning with questions I need to ask. Meanwhile, she keeps going.
“Sandra mentioned that you have a particular love of historic restoration and adaptive reuse, and she’s highly complimentary of your work ethic. I know this is a big project, and you’re part of a small design studio, but I saw that your firm does handle commercial work, and I wanted to call you first and gauge your interest.”
“I…um… well, I’m flattered, first of all,” I say. “I’ll have to thank Sandra for the nice referral. And I imagine that with a project of this scope and in a corporate setting, you’ll probably be working through a committee and seeking proposals?”
“Yes…ish,” she says with a laugh. “It’s a large firm, but it’s a family-run business that’s privately owned, and it’s very much a good ol’ boy enterprise. I’ve worked on Chet, our managing partner, long enough now about our need for renovations that he’s finally given in and given me a budget, and so you’d basically be working with me—a committee of one. If you’re interested once you see the space, I’ll ask you to put together an initial presentation package that details your rates and availability and what you might be able to do for us.”
“Of course.” My thoughts are still spinning, and my eyes are roving over our little studio. There’s no way I can handle a project this big on my own with everything else that’s on my plate, but my collaboration options are ever-dwindling. Ellie Kate’s now gone, and Candace hasn’t begun to interview for her replacement yet. And these days, I don’t feel comfortable asking Candace or even Rachael to partner with me on a job. That leaves Quinn and Brice, and Brice doesn’t yet have the certifications to qualify him for commercial work. Squelching my hint of panic, I add, “When would you like to meet?”
It can’t hurt to check out the space, at any rate. If it’s too much for me or my firm to handle, I can always decline and refer her to someone else.
“How about this Thursday?”
“Um…” I walk back over to my desk and pull up my Outlook calendar. “This Thursday is fine. How is two o’clock?”
She pauses. “Two works for me,” she finally says. “I can move an appointment.”
When we hang up the call, I’m feeling the first stirrings of excitement overriding my shock. I’ve done only two large corporate office projects in the past, and they involved rigid standards set by corporate committees. It sounds like I’d face none—or at least less—of that bureaucratic red tape here. But I would need to find a collaborator, possibly more than one. In fact, I’d need to assemble an entire team.
Adrenaline is pumping in my veins, to the point that I can’t focus on my fabric search. I’ve flipped through a Duralee book twice without really seeing the patterns when the front door bell jangles, distracting me further. I look up to see Quinn rounding the corner from the lobby. As soon as she spots me, she drops her bag on the floor beside her desk, tosses her purse onto her chair, and walks over—no, stomps over—to my perch at the worktable.
“Who was that guy you were with on Facebook?”
“Uh, hi,” I say. “How was your weekend?”
She harrumphs. “He looks like a player,” she says, pulling out the chair across from me and plopping onto it so hard that it pops, squeaks, and rolls back a few inches. She scoots it forward with her feet, folding her arms across her chest. “And why did you pull the photos down? Are you trying to keep your relationship a secret?”
“First of all, what does a player look like?” I say. “Clearly I need to know, so I don’t keep getting played. Second, there is no relationship. Brandon was just getting me back for rejecting him.”
This throws her off her warpath, and she pauses and studies me with her lips pursed. “Really?” Her expression is skeptical but intrigued. “That’s crazy. So you guys aren’t even going out?”
“We went out,” I say, emphasizing went. “As in, a couple dates. Non-exclusive. And there won’t be any others.” Just thinking about Friday night makes me feel like the steaming teakettle again.
“Sex?” she asks.
“Quinn!” I say. “Not your business.”
“Okay, no sex,” she says. “Figures.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? And why are you so interested in my love life all of a sudden?”
“Since you rejected my cousin.”
Now it’s my turn to be silenced. I stare at her for a few long seconds before answering. “Rejected your cousin?” My voice sounds breathy, and my heartbeat is skipping into overdrive, but I try to feign ignorance. “What are you talking about?”
“Todd,” she says. “He asked you out, and you turned him down.”
“He told you that?” I’m not sure why this information seems ten times more vital than the work problems pressing in on my shoulders.
“Yes, goofball. He told me that.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m the one who’s been trying to set y’all up. You’re making it shockingly hard, considering that you’re single, he’s single, and, despite the fact that we’re blood related, I happen to know he’s a total babe. And he’s into you.”
My mouth has gone dry, and I lick my lips. “You think he’s into me?” My voice has just shot up an octave—so much for trying to play it cool.
Quinn looks amused and sort of smug. “He’s into you.” She uncrosses her arms, reaches forward, and hooks her finger into the loop at the top of one of the Romo books, pulling it toward her. She starts absently flipping through the large swaths of fabric samples as she talks. “He thinks you’re wound up a little too tight, but he totally wants you. I can tell because he hasn’t stopped talking about you since that first job he did of yours.”
“He said I’m uptight?” I frown, even while thrilling over her last sentence. That’s two for two on guys calling me uptight this week. Awesome track record.
“No, but you are uptight.�
�� She flips the pages of the fabric book over and shuts it with a snap. Then she looks right at me. “You need to relax, chica. You’ve been working your ass off, not even noticing or caring that this place is falling apart around you. You and I are the only ones holding it up at this point, and I’m startin’ to wonder why I bother. I’m polishing my portfolio. I can tell you that much.”
I glance around the studio, and Quinn is right. It’s mid-morning on a Monday, prime work hours, and this place is as still and quiet as church on a Saturday night. Carson’s up front, of course, and I can hear her muffled voice on the phone with someone, probably a fabric or furniture rep, checking prices for a job. But Candace hasn’t bothered to show up yet, and for some reason, neither has Brice. Rachael is in the office, hunched over her desk at the front corner of the studio in her now-usual stance, as if she’s trying to hide what she’s working on from the rest of us. She’s ignored me for so long now that I almost forget she’s here.
“What about Rachael?” I say, lowering my voice even though I know she’s probably got her earbuds in.
“What about her?” Quinn says, leaning her elbows on the tabletop and lowering her voice too. “She’s checked out, gone. Most of the time when I try to peek past and see what she’s up to, it doesn’t even look like she’s working on design projects. I have no idea who any of her clients are. She’s always hunched over her computer screen with some sort of spreadsheet open. I think she’s freelancing or something. You know she used to do bookkeeping for…somebody.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. At one point, back in the day, Rachael and I were kind of close. I know she put herself through undergrad working some kind administrative job for a local dry-cleaning chain. I glance over at her, squinting into the sunlight streaming in from around the front partition, and then freeze in place. Rachael’s shoulders are tight, and it appears as if her whole body is leaning in our direction, like she’s straining to listen.
I sit back in my chair. “Well, anyway…” I say in a slightly louder voice, motioning with my eyes toward Rachael, trying to silently convey that we need to change the grain of the conversation. “You’ve given me a few things to think about.” I can’t wrap my head around the idea that Greenlee Designs is in trouble. This place is an institution in Memphis, and in the whole South, for that matter. Candace used to be a rock star. What’s happened to change that?
How to Look Happy Page 26