Say the Word

by Julie Johnson

  “You saw those women in Two Bridges — they didn’t exactly throw down the welcome mat or invite us in for supper. I doubt they’d be very helpful if I showed up again. And if Miri is right — if the police are involved in this — who knows how high up the corruption goes? I could end up causing more problems for these girls than I’d solve.”

  Fae sighed. “Well, that doesn’t exactly give us many options.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said, taking a sip of my Merlot. “All I know is, there’s a story here.”

  “What if she’s making it all up?” Fae asked. “What if Vera ran away with her boyfriend and she’s jealous? Or what if she’s a compulsive liar? She’s young. Maybe she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “You didn’t see the look in her eyes, Fae. Something terrible is happening to those girls. I might not have proof yet, but I can sense it with every fiber of my being. And I’m going to find out what it is.”

  “I don’t like this,” Fae told me.

  “Neither do I.” I swirled the dark red liquid in my glass, watching as light from the setting sun through the window refracted off it. “But for Vera… I have to do something.”

  My cellphone buzzed on the coffee table, vibrating with an incoming text message. I scanned the screen quickly and, nosy as ever, Fae peered over my shoulder to read it too.

  Desmond: Babe! Dinner tomorrow?

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “Are you going to say yes?”

  “I don’t know.” I stared at the screen, riddled with indecision.

  “Because of Sebastian?” she asked, leaning forward to catch my eyes.

  “Yes. No. Maybe.” I sighed. “I don’t know, okay? It just feels wrong to date someone who I feel nothing more than friendship for.”

  “Well, I think you should go. You’ve barely given him a chance,” Fae said.

  “Said the girl who never dates.”

  “I date!” Fae protested.

  I snorted into my wine glass.

  “I do!” she snapped. “I’m the Luster relationship expert for god’s sake! Women from all over the country write in every month for advice after reading my column.”

  “No, love, you really don’t,” I said, patting her thigh gently. “And in the rare case that you do, it’s with emotionally unavailable men who you know won’t get attached. You might be the Luster relationship expert, but you haven’t been in an actual relationship in all the time I’ve known you.”

  “That’s so false.” Fae pouted, jutting out her bottom lip like a little girl. “There was… Paul!”

  “Paul was your very openly gay yoga partner,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Ben,” Fae suggested.

  “Wasn’t he engaged to a girl from Jersey?”

  “Well, what about Tom?” she asked, cheeks flushing.

  “The security guy at your building?” I elbowed her in the arm. “Pretty sure he doesn’t count either.”

  “Fine, so I don’t date,” she muttered, planting her chin in her palm. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”

  “Besides the fact that you’re the Luster relationship expert, that is?” I laughed.

  “Shut up.”

  “Fine, maybe because you insist on setting me up with every available penis in the tri-state area, but never even attempt to find someone for yourself?”

  Fae giggled, but didn’t counter my words. She knew I was right.

  “Or, maybe because you’re gorgeous and could have anyone you wanted in this city?” I proposed gently. This wasn’t the first time we’d discussed her lack of male companionship, but usually she just laughed me off or evaded the subject entirely. This time, though, she seemed to take my words to heart — maybe now that she knew a bit about my past, she finally felt free to talk about her own.

  Fae was silent for a long time, her laughter subsiding and a sad, reflective expression overtaking her face. “There was a guy, a long time ago. He was…” she drifted off, her eyes distant with memories. “Well, we were too young, and it was too serious.”

  “First love?” I asked, treading carefully. I didn’t want to scare her off, not when she was finally opening up to me. Fae was many things — warm, fashionable, funny, beautiful — but forthcoming wasn’t one of them.

  “I guess you could call him that,” she said. “People say you never forget your first love, that you carry them with you in your heart for the rest of your days. And they’re right. I just wish someone had warned me about that when I was eighteen.”

  “Tell me about it,” I murmured, Sebastian’s face appearing in my mind.

  Fae laid her head down on my shoulder and, for a moment, we found comfort in the fact that though we may have lost our first loves, we’d found each other. I didn’t press her for more details; when she was ready, she’d tell me.

  “Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Fae whispered. “About seeing him?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll miss you at work. It won’t be the same without you.”

  “It’s temporary,” I told her. “Sebastian will be gone again as soon as these shoots are done, and I’ll be back on 57th in my cubicle with the rest of the Harding slaves before you know it.”

  I wished my heart didn’t ache so much at the thought of him walking back out of my life, with nothing resolved between us. I wished the past didn’t have to stay in the past. And, most of all, I wished I could live the way those two naive teenagers had aspired to all those years ago, and find a way back to him regardless of the odds stacked against us. Unfortunately, without a magic genie or a fairy godmother at my disposal, I was pretty certain my wishes would go unanswered.

  When Fae left for the night, I corked the bottle of Merlot and made myself a quick dinner — otherwise known as pouring some Cool Ranch Doritos into a bowl — and texted Desmond back.

  Dinner tomorrow sounds great. Call you after work.

  I figured when I saw him in person again, I’d know what to do. For now, my mind was too preoccupied by thoughts of a very different man to even consider what was happening with Desmond. Between my boy issues, Miri’s revelations earlier that afternoon, and the fact that I’d just reached the bottom of my final stash of Doritos and would have to restock at Swagat tomorrow, it was safe to say that my mind was spinning and I’d been through the emotional wringer. There was only one thing — besides copious amounts of Merlot — that might help at this point.

  The Jamie Box.

  I pulled it down from its spot on the top shelf of my closet, running my fingers reverently across the carved wood. Flopping down in the center of my bed, I laid the box gently on the comforter in front of me and slowly lifted it open. My eyes immediately caught on the framed photo of Jamie and me embedded on the inside of the lid, then moved down to take in the neatly ordered row of colorful envelopes that sat within the box itself.

  The photo had been taken five years ago, when I was a sophomore in college. At the time, Jamie had lived with me in a small apartment near the UGA campus, and I’d planned my course schedule around driving him to treatments and appointments in Atlanta so he didn’t have to be alone. We’d moved away from Jackson two short days after I’d broken Bash’s heart, and we’d never looked back. I hadn’t returned for a single spring break or summer vacation because I couldn’t bear to see the love of my life look at me with hatred in his eyes.

  Except for the memories that would always haunt us, Jamie and I were free of our past. Our parents called occasionally under the pretense of checking on us, though truthfully I think they were relieved to be rid of us and the responsibilities Jamie’s illness had piled on them.

  And while I’d still been heartbroken two years after leaving Sebastian, you wouldn’t know it by looking at this picture. Jamie and I had been happy — staring at each other rather than the camera lens, with matching grins crossing our faces as we laughed at some ridiculous joke Jamie had cracked. A nurse had snapped the picture just after we’d received the news that h
is scans had come back clean. He’d been headed toward remission.

  As the camera flashed and captured the frame, we didn’t know just how short-lived our relief would be. We didn’t know we’d have only a few blissful months of thinking he’d defy the odds, before the cancer would return with a vengeance. We didn’t know the struggle that lay ahead of us. And we didn’t know that two short years later, that same struggle would claim his life and take him away from me permanently.

  My fingers traced the glass covering our happy faces. I missed my twin, with his endless positivity and his refusal to quit living even when he learned that his life had an expiration date a lot sooner than he’d been expecting. I missed the way he’d call me the “light of his life” when, in truth, he was really the brightest part of mine. I even missed his endless teasing, and the mischievous smile on his face whenever he’d done something to embarrass me beyond redemption.

  But at least I had the box. It had been delivered to me by one of Jamie’s favorite nurses about a month after he’d died. Inside were exactly one hundred letters, each sealed with a specific directive about when or where I should open it.

  For the day you receive this box.

  For your first day at a new job.

  For a day you’re feeling sad.

  For a Valentine’s Day when you’re single.

  For your first night in a new apartment.

  For the first birthday you celebrate without me.

  For a rainy afternoon.

  For the day you get married.

  For the day my first niece or nephew enters this world.

  The letters’ contents were always a surprise. Most were lighthearted, meant to bolster my spirits or make me laugh. Some were full of hope, encouraging me to try new adventures or broaden my horizons. But a select few, the ones I treasured most, were both poignant and heartrending — interwoven with memories and the poetic injustice of a resilient young man forced to leave this earth too soon.

  I’d opened about a third of them in the three years since I’d lost him, and read them so many times I’d nearly memorized their words. The others remained unopened, as crisply sealed as they’d been the day they were composed, waiting for their prescribed time. Occasionally, when I was really sad, I’d get the urge to tear them open all at once and devour Jamie’s words on a binge, as if doing so might somehow repair the cracks in my soul and mend the missing pieces he’d taken with him.

  I never did, though. Jamie would’ve been pissed at me for ruining his carefully thought-out plans.

  Today, I reached for a familiar blue envelope that sat near the front of the stack. I ignored the tear-stained, finger-smudged paper as I read the words scribed across the front.

  For a day you wish my handsome mug were there to make you smile.

  I pulled the thin sheet from the envelope and felt my lips twist up as Jamie’s sloping hand came into view.

  Hey Sis,

  Obviously, since you’ve selected this particular envelope, I’m going to assume you’ve either had a rough day or Doritos has finally decided to stop producing the Cool Ranch variety. In either case, try not to panic.

  If it’s the former — rough days pass. The sun will set, the earth will rotate, and a month from now you probably won’t even care that your best friend was a bitch or you had a bad day at work.

  If it’s the latter — I’m sorry, because I know how much you love your Doritos, but honestly sis, at some point that metabolism of yours is going to slow down and you’ll be the size of a house. Don’t shoot the messenger! (You can’t, I’m already dead.)

  Sorry. I can’t seem to stop weaving death jokes into these letters. I’m really beating a dead horse, aren’t I? (See what I did there?) Anyway, not to play the cancer card or anything, but at the very least you can be glad that your rough day probably didn’t involve a nurse walking you to the bathroom and watching you poop because you’re not quite steady on your prosthetic leg yet. Do you know how hard it is to perform with a captive audience right outside the door? Sheesh.

  I love you, sis. I know none of this has been easy on you, and I know you aren’t happy right now. But you share my DNA and, since I’m no longer around, you’re pretty much obligated to share that Kincaid awesomeness with the world in my place.

  Do me proud, sis.

  Chin up. Smile through the tears — it helps them pass faster. (Coincidentally, I use that same strategy when trying to pass certain other bodily fluids with Nurse Charlene standing right outside the door.)

  Love you.

  Jamie

  I smiled as I reached the bottom of the page. There was no one in the world who could cheer me up like Jamie — even now, when he was gone. I folded the letter with care and placed it back in the box, taking one last glimpse at the photo of us inside before the lid snapped closed.

  In some ways, I was lucky. Not everyone who lost a loved one got to say goodbye; unexpected losses do little in terms of delivering closure. Jamie’s letters had allowed him a semblance of immortality. His body might be gone, but he’d left his heart behind with me — small pieces of himself, enmeshed in handwritten letters and imprinted on my spirit.

  Every sacrifice I’d ever made for him had been worth it. I just wished they’d been enough to keep him here with me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Now

  I was up well before sunrise the following morning, unwilling to be late on my first day working for Sebastian, and hoping to avoid any further incurrence of his wrath. Slipping into a sleek navy pencil skirt and a flowing white silk top, I topped off the outfit with peep-toe Louboutins and simple silver jewelry — Vera’s bracelet included. I pulled the top layer of my hair up away from my face with a clip but left the majority hanging loose around my shoulders, and applied my makeup with more care than I typically bothered with.

  I might not be in Cara’s league, but that didn’t mean I had to arrive looking like the fashion-illiterate schoolgirl I’d once been. The clothes, the shoes — they were my battle-armor for the gauntlet I was about to run. I stared at myself in the mirror and tried to summon the cultured, city woman who exuded confidence, walking around Luster like she’d been raised shopping at Bergdorf Goodman, rather than the local Goodwill. I searched for her in my reflection, assuring myself this would be no different than any other day at Luster, but she was nowhere to be found. In her place, I saw the same insecure girl who’d worn a brave face each day of high school. The girl on the outskirts. The subject of every whispered rumor that left the venomous lips of Amber and her minions.

  I groaned, dropping my forehead into my palms and wishing I’d taken Simon up on his offer to pick out my outfit and do my makeup before I faced the firing squad. Sure, he had a penchant for turquoise 1980’s inspired eye-shadow, but at least he’d have been there to kiss my cheeks, slap me on the ass, and tell me how fabulous I looked.

  The sound of my phone ringing made me look up. Speak of the devil…

  “Simon?”

  “Baby! Just calling to tell you good luck and, even without my expert fashion advice, I’m sure you look divine. That man of yours won’t know what hit him.”

  “He’s not my man,” I told him, rolling my eyes. “And I’m pretty sure he’s dating a model, so…”

  “Baby,” Simon chided. “You’ve got boobs and booty. Trust me — those skinny little skanks have nothin’ on you, honey.”

  “Thanks, Simon.”

  “Thank me by telling me all about it over drinks tonight before your date with Desmond,” he said. “Now go, or you’ll be late and sexy Sebastian will have to spank you.”

  “Simon!” I protested.

  “Kisses!” He clicked off.

  I laughed at his antics, feeling monumentally better than I had before his call. I squared my shoulders, grabbed my travel coffee mug, and was out the door before I had time to psych myself out again.

  Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  ***

  I was wrong.

&
nbsp; Who’d have predicted that a ring of hell could be contained within the walls of the fourteenth floor of a perfectly innocuous looking skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan? Not me. Yet here I was, damned to an eternity of servitude in a place of nightmares. All that was missing were the fiery pits and ghoulish architecture. Satan was here, though — in the form of a buxom brunette, no less.

  Cara: the devil incarnate.

  I’d arrived with fifteen minutes to spare, but there were already several people milling about the office. A flurry of activity was in progress — assistants rapidly scribbling notes as their superiors tossed out concepts for photo shoots and set designs. Three men, each carrying several large photo canvases of famous Luster spreads from past decades, exited the elevator behind me and immediately began setting them up on easels around the room perimeter.

  I stood near the wall, taking it all in as my stomach clenched with nerves. The floor was one large open space, with several work stations set up around the room and a conference table long enough to seat thirty by the far windows. There was a space cordoned off with racks of clothing and a small, mirror-enclosed platform, which I assumed was used for model fittings.

  Recognizing no one, I had absolutely no idea where to start and, like a stream around a rock in the riverbed, people filtered by as though I were invisible. Which, at first, was fine, but after a few minutes began to piss me off. I was Lux Kincaid. No longer the high school wallflower, unsure of my place in this world. If Sebastian wanted me here to work, I was going to work. I didn’t wait around for orders like a meek intern. I was a professional, successful, career-driven woman. And if he didn’t like that, well, he could send me back to Luster and this whole ordeal would be over before it began.

  Pulling my shoulders back, I threw procedure out the window, strode toward the center of the room, and jumped into the fray. I’d never been particularly good at following the proper decorum rulebook, anyway. After introducing myself as the Luster writing correspondent for the Centennial issue series, I’d immediately become engrossed in a conversation with two friendly designers — both of whom, coincidentally, were named Jenny. We were so enmeshed in our discussion of a possible 1960’s revolution-themed photo shoot, we didn’t notice our audience until it was too late.