Nina:
Oh, good. You met him.
Me:
You are dead to me.
Nina:
Going through a tunnel. Losing you. Talk soon. (Heart emoji, heart emoji)
Even though I love her, I hate her.
Me:
That only works if we’re having a voice call.
Radio silence
Me:
(Middle finger emoji)
Nina:
(Laughing emoji)
I need to find a new friend.
Jameson
I am affected. Just so we’re clear, I don’t get affected. If being a Navy SEAL taught me anything, it prepared me for the unexpected. Meeting Addie threw me a curveball, but I’ll manage. This is a job—a much safer job than my previous one. The PTSD has eased. With the help of my psychiatrist, I’ve gained some valuable skills to cope when it rears its ugly head, and for the most part, I am able to function without isolating. The only physical reminder of my mission gone wrong is a scar on my chest, where they removed some shrapnel. I was one of the lucky ones. I came home.
But I also became a statistic when I got here. The readjustment, after all of the horrors I went through at war, was harder than recovering from my physical injuries. I don’t miss the nightmares, the inability to leave my apartment, and my need to numb with alcohol. I was left with no choice other than to seek outside help. It was either that or become a recluse—and I almost chose that unsavory option. But through the “encouragement”—aka the insistence—of my best friend, Harrison McCall, I did the “right thing.” Now I have tools to help me deal, like exercise and mindful breathing, and I’m participating in life again. Still, working on the emotional connection portion of the program, though.
The publicist gig was something that fell into my lap. After getting home and realizing that my career as a SEAL was over, I isolated myself and pushed everyone around me away. But Harrison would not back down. He refused to accept that this was how the rest of my life would be.
Harrison and I met while going to Yale. We’re an unlikely pair—him being a blue blood and me being a product of the projects. While Harrison never wanted for anything, my mother scraped to make ends meet. When I wasn’t working multiple after-school jobs, I was studying. Fortunately, my hard work paid off and joining the Navy allowed me to attend this very prestigious university. I fulfilled my mother’s dream of going to college. My goal was to create a life that would make it so my mother would never have to work again and get her out of her dismal apartment in an area high in crime. She deserved only the best; her life was a series of disappointments and heartaches. My dad left shortly after I was born, so it had always been the two of us. Yet even when things were tough, she never wavered in her positive attitude. She made everything better.
While I was overseas, she passed away from an aneurysm. The guilt of not being here for her still haunts me. She died alone, and her death was the same day that I was injured in an ambush while on a mission. By the time I was sent home, she had already been buried. Harrison took care of everything. He is my brother in every sense of the word.
The last conversation I had with her was about two weeks before her death. It was the last time she said her famous quote to me—the one she’d told me so many times before to lift my spirits: “If you want to make your mark on the world, be true to yourself. Don’t follow the pack. Lead them.” When I got home, I had that tattooed on my chest as a reminder that she is always with me.
Six months after my mother’s death, Harrison came over to my apartment and did what he did every day—he opened the shades to let in the light and set down some food on the counter. He was never invited, but that was not an obstacle. He sat down and looked at the sullen, sunken face of his college friend who had once shown so much ambition and promise.
“Man, this has got to stop. You have spent six fucking months feeling sorry for yourself, and it’s time to move on. You have a full life ahead of you. Your mother would never have wanted this for you.”
“Don’t you dare bring my mother into this. You have no idea what it’s like to watch your comrades, your friends, die in front of you, and not be able to help them. I failed them along with my mother. I couldn’t help anyone. What makes you think I can help myself now?”
“Do you think they would want you to sit and waste your life? Your only failure is not living. What would your mother think of you now, after she worked so hard to get you what you needed to build a good life for yourself? Celebrate being here. You got a second chance. Not many people can say that.” He sounded exasperated.
“Wait, where are the cameras? Are we filming a fucking Lifetime movie? Take your inspirational crap somewhere else.”
“Fine, but before I go, I have an offer. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Join my company. You did some publicity work before you joined the SEALs, and you were good. I need help. We are drowning in business. Please consider it. You owe me, and I know you could make a good career out of this.”
I did owe him. He was the only one who had stuck by me after my mother died, took care of me while I recovered from my injuries, and despite what an asshole I had become, kept being my friend.
When I first came home, I was inundated with friends trying to help. They would bring me whole meals and try to draw me out of my miserable existence. One by one, the visits diminished. I had successfully pushed everyone away, with the exception of Harrison. That fucker is stubborn.
“I’ll think about it,” I said. And I meant that. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time to move forward and start living again.
“Wait, did you just say you would consider it?” He grinned.
“Don’t get all excited. I haven’t said yes.”
“Yet. But you will.”
And after that come-to-Jesus talk, I agreed that the only way to honor those who lost their lives was to move forward with mine. Working gives me purpose. But personal relationships, aside from my friendship with Harrison, are not on my radar. Sure, I engage in mutually satisfying physical encounters, but I make sure they know the score. I don’t get attached. It helps me avoid the pain of loving someone. I can’t allow myself to feel. It hurts too damn much.
Addie
“You could have prepared me,” I say while having lunch with Nina the next day at a swanky restaurant in Midtown Manhattan. As usual, I’m dressed for comfort versus style, while Nina is dressed for Fashion Week. And by the way, it is not Fashion Week. Our friendship remains a mystery.
“Prepared you? What fun would that have been?” Nina smirks while I roll my eyes.
“I was expecting a woman, and you sent me a brooding man who looks at me like he can’t believe he got the booby prize.”
“Jameson is very good at his job, and you need the best. Plus, he isn’t bad to look at, is he? You can thank me later.” She continues to gloat.
My lady parts clap in agreement. Traitorous bitches.
“Okay, so he is attractive in an annoying bully kind of way. I told him that I was in charge, so I think we established how this is going to work.” I give her a satisfied smile.
Nina laughs. She laughs so hard, she snorts. Nina never snorts. Her laugh is refined and classy. Being such an immense source of hilarity for my friend is beyond irritating.
“First of all, he needs to take the lead. You haven’t navigated this process. Addie, this is big. When people figure out who you are, you will not get a moment’s peace. Your book is going to be huge. I can literally feel the success you’re going to have. You’re giving humor and lightness to menopausal women. You’re giving them hope that their lives haven
’t ended simply because a man left them or their bodies have changed the rules.” Nina does an excellent job of switching from friend to literary agent without hesitation.
I allow that to sink in for a moment as I munch on my last French fry while my friend eats her kale salad. Maybe I should start eating kale. Wait, I hate kale. Then a thought slams into my mind. People are going to see me. Like, physically see me, and that brings up a new level of anxiety. My face drains of color.
“Maybe this was all a mistake. I kind of wish I hadn’t written this book,” I whisper.
“Too late for that, my friend. Let’s bask in your moment. I will be with you every step of the way, and so will Jameson.” A smile spreads across her face, and I sigh. I guess this will be an interesting adventure.
Addie
I walk into the reception area at the salon of the stylist that Nina had arranged to meet me. Unfortunately, yoga pants and food-stained T-shirts don’t scream “success.” A small bit of panic bubbles up, and it makes me search the abyss of my purse for something sweet. Some people carry a flask or a stash of Xanax. I carry chocolate. A sigh of relief escapes my lips as I unearth a lone wrapped piece, and my fingers go on autopilot to unwrap it. As I close my eyes, enjoying the heavenly treat that feels like a party in my mouth, a familiar masculine voice interrupts my bliss. I might have moaned a little bit—for the chocolate, not the man.
“Sorry to interrupt your intimate moment, but George is ready for you.” Jameson’s eyes seared into my skin. He isn’t big on greetings like, “Hello! How are you?” Nope, he’s like a robot. Devoid of any emotion. This is going to be painful.
“Crap, I didn’t know you would be here,” I blurt.
“Obviously.” He glares at me. Color me fifty shades of annoyed. I gather my purse, reluctantly following Jameson. “Nina thought it best that I meet you here. You know, to make sure that you show up.”
“Whatever.” I turn my attention to the person who will be dressing me.
George Benson is gorgeous and completely flamboyant. His tall, slender stature is draped in a stylish Armani suit. His styled, slicked-back, jet-black hair highlights his high cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes. George is hot.
“Addie, George. George, Addie,” Jameson says in what’s supposed to be an introduction but is so dull that I almost fall asleep.
George greets me with an exuberant hug and then proceeds to do a complete up-and-down of my attire. He looks deeply concerned. Then he does a once-over of Jameson, and a smile tugs at his lips. He looks deeply interested.
“I don’t suppose you hit for the other team,” he says to Jameson, flashing his megawatt smile and batting his eyelashes.
“No.” With that, Jameson goes to sit down. George laughs.
“Addie, I am so excited to meet you! Nina tells me that you have many appearances and events lined up, so you’ll need some clothes that make a statement. Plus, we have a makeup and hair team, so you won’t have to do anything. Just sit back and enjoy this incredible ride.” He’s grinning at me. I might puke out of anxiety.
“We are going to burn this outfit and anything else resembling it. Now, go into the other room and strip down to your panties. I need to see what I’m working with, girl, and I can’t get an inkling until I get you out of those clothes.”
I stare at him, overwhelmed with mortification. He wants me to undress? Like, in front of him? I strive not to see myself without clothes, let alone allowing someone else to see me without their protection.
“Sweetie, I’m gay. You in your panties is not a big deal.” He waves his hand, dismissing my insecurities.
I move toward the door feeling Jameson’s eyes boring into my back. I close myself into the spacious dressing room and strip. The insult of having a full-length mirror adds to my reluctance, but I close my eyes and do as George instructed. As I am disrobing, I am assaulted by memories of my mother. Every day, her passive-aggressive words would singe my self-esteem.
“Addie, why can’t you just go on a diet? Then you would get boys to notice you.”
“When we are at the club, I need for you to order a salad so that the ladies think you’re least trying. It is so embarrassing to have a daughter who is overweight.”
My ugly trip down memory lane is interrupted as George knocks on the door, enters the room, and evaluates the situation. I hold my breath.
“Addie, you are gorgeous. Look at you with your curves. Honestly, if I style another anorexic model, I think I might scream. Is it mean that I eat cheeseburgers in front of them?” He giggles. “But girl, what panties are you wearing? My grandmother wouldn’t be caught dead in those. Of course, she has a grandson as a stylist, so she has no choice in anything she wears.”
I burst out laughing, and for the first time in a while, I relax. “George, nobody even sees my panties, so that doesn’t matter.”
“Umm, girlfriend, when you are getting your sex on, do you want your man looking at your panties wondering if you raided your grandmother’s underwear drawer?”
“Well, that isn’t an issue at this point.” I look down at the floor. My vulnerability is overflowing.
“Honey, having the right undergarments will make you feel sexy. Confident. And when that lucky man unwraps you like the present you are, it will set the tone for the experience.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I smile. Jameson’s face pops into my head. I am in so much trouble.
George takes my measurements and brings in a few items for me to try on. Unlike most women, I hate shopping and have cultivated a knack for buying online to avoid the unforgiving mirrors and lighting that taunt me. Plus, it isn’t like need to be fitted, since I only buy yoga pants and T-shirts.
“We are introducing colors into your world, Miss Thing. No more drab for you. Your body was meant to be on display. And heels. You must wear heels to give you some height and elongate the body. We are going to have so much fun!” Unfortunately, his excitement is not contagious.
Fun is not the word that I would use to describe this situation. Maybe the opposite of fun. Like visiting the dentist. And heels? That is a recipe for disaster. The last time I wore heels was when I attended Matthew’s wedding, and I fell. Not just a subtle fall, either. No, when I humiliate myself, I commit to it fully. I fell face-first into the wedding cake. It’s on video and everything. Dorothy made sure to post it on any and every social media site. When confronted, she told me that since there’s so much sadness in the world, laughter is the best medicine. So apparently, my humiliation gave others some healing comic relief. You’re welcome.
After George finishes measuring, tugging, and violating a lot of personal space, I get back into my clothes and leave the dressing room. George wraps me in a warm hug.
“I’ll bring the clothes to you tomorrow. You are fabulous, Addie. You and I are going to be great friends.” His genuine smile brightens his face.
I feel a little overwhelmed. It doesn’t help that silver fox has been staring at me while George and I talk, his gaze dark and intense. A stare that kind of scares the shit out of me. I exhale, sigh, and whisper, “Okay, well, see you later.” I walk out the door only to find that my new, brooding appendage is following right behind me.
Jameson
With any new client, I do a background check. An important piece of my job is to stay ahead of any complications that might threaten to arise. I want to make sure there won’t be any surprises, and with my extensive connections in law enforcement, it is never an issue to expedite a deeper investigation.
There are a few unexpected blips on Addie. Her mother is deceased; her father seems to have disappeared not long after her brother was born, and she has a loser cousin who goes from job to job, has filed for bankruptcy, and married a woman with sticky fingers. This is not the best scenario when working with a public figure. When a family member starts making bank, roaches start crawling out of the w
oodwork, so I have to make sure those individuals don’t ruin my client’s reputation.
I’m relieved to see that other than those few issues; she is clean. No arrests, tickets—not even an overdue library book (but after seeing her book-laden apartment, she probably doesn’t need to borrow government-owned books). She pays all of her bills on time, and she keeps only a few close friends. It seems straightforward, but I know to always expect the unexpected. And some of the unexpected is already happening. I find myself surprisingly overwhelmed by an unusual sense of responsibility for Addie. I’ve never felt this way about anyone except for my mother. And that petrifies me. It is unsettling and beyond confusing.
My mother was the best example of someone happy despite her circumstances. She was never bitter about being a single mom, and she was the epitome of unconditional love. Even when I was deployed, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “Go make the world a better place. You were meant to make a difference.” She always made me feel valued. No one has been able to infiltrate my walls since she died. No one has measured up.
After we leave George’s place, Addie walks a few feet ahead as if she’s trying to lose me.
“Addie, the car is right here,” I shout over the crowd of people navigating the sidewalk.
“Car? I take the subway. I don’t have a car.” She gives me that “you’re a dumb-ass” look.
Then she spots the sleek black town car and her eyes widen.
“Nina wants you to be shuttled around by car for these kinds of appointments, and for events, too. This will be our mode of transportation.”
I can see by the expression on her face that she is trying to process this change among a host of others. I catch up to her and put my hand on the small of her back to ease her toward the car. She shudders at my touch, or quite possibly she is chilled, but I feel electricity. Could she feel the same strange connection as I do? She hops in the front seat. The driver looks at her like she’s an alien, and I smirk as I slide into the back.
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