by Mariah Dietz
A grin tugs at her lips. “I prefer it that way,” she says. “Everyone else always wants to tell me how it’s her who’s missing out and her who will regret this time, like that should mean I don’t care or can’t be mad or upset.” She shrugs. “I’ve learned there are no words for pain and loss. There’s only patience.”
Her words settle in my thoughts, reminding me of Olivia and how our friendship didn’t happen overnight or because she said or did any one thing. It was built slowly and carefully with mistakes and setbacks and time, and she’s the best friend I’ve ever had.
“Patience and lots of pizza,” I tell her.
Her grin widens into a smile, and then her gaze drops to my clothes. “Who did you make mad?”
“What are you talking about?”
She glances at my clothes. “Didn’t you hear that this is one of the messiest weeks? We’re going to be digging in the mud.”
I frown.
Trash and now mud?
10
Rose
“Is this good?” Anna, asks as she opens a container of sour cream in our fridge and gives it a hesitant sniff. My sister is beautiful and exotic looking, taking after our mom. Her dark hair is short and blunt, and her nose is narrow, her eyes almond-shaped, and her mouth a perfect bow.
“What’s the date say?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I can’t read it because it’s all rubbed off.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Eating expired dairy food could make you horribly ill.”
“Eating enchiladas without sour cream could make me horribly sad,” I counter as I take it from her and peel the lid off. “There’s no mold.”
Her nose crinkles. “Please tell me that’s not how you judge whether food is safe to eat or not.”
“I read an article that said most expiration dates are totally bogus.”
“Food poisoning is not bogus,” she says. “I got food poisoning, and I was…”
“Sick for two weeks and had to be hospitalized,” I say along with her.
Anna furrows her brow. “Why are you mocking me?”
“I’m not. I was there. It was terrible. You’re right.”
She still looks offended but doesn’t say anything more on the subject. “How are your classes going?”
I nod instantly because a delayed response is guilt by association for Anna, but my thoughts are spinning. It’s been two days since I kissed Ian and then spent the next three hours avoiding him at every turn. Yesterday was safe. Tuesdays are filled with a morning class on campus and my afternoons at the yoga studio where I teach two classes. I spent the evening with Gabriel looking at a couple more properties since my last offers were declined. Then, last night I tried to decide if miscommunications are as prevalent in real life as they are in romance novels after finishing another book that Olivia had let me borrow.
I’d feel like a jerk admitting to Anna that I sought out her company today because I was in desperate need of a distraction, so I didn’t have to think about Ian or what will happen tomorrow in Labor Economics when I have to face him. “Good, except for the newspaper. I’m considering quitting.”
Anna leans back in her chair with both hands spread like I’ve just told her the earth is actually flat. “What? Since when? Why?”
“Because I hate the editor,” I tell her as I add a healthy dollop of sour cream to my cheese and onion enchilada. The simple combination of filling sounds like it’s missing something, but it isn’t. It’s a perfect balance and my favorite.
“You can’t quit because you hate the editor.”
“Oh, yes, I can.”
“I’m still convinced you’re going to be the next Barbara Walters.”
“If you said that on campus, I bet half the student body wouldn’t know who you were talking about.”
“Another reason that you need to be the next Barbara Walters.”
“Barbara Walters is an American Broadcaster, not a journalist.”
“You could be both. You’re good at writing, and people think you’re pretty.”
I place both hands under my chin and pose with a wide smile before turning my eyes so that I’m cross-eyed.
Anna belts out a laugh and then throws a taco chip at me, hitting me squarely in the nose. Salt rains across my face, proving that these are the best chips in Seattle. “I’m convinced you invited me over just so I could tell you this, and you would have enough time to change your major and be able to credit me in ten years when you’re being interviewed about what inspired your career choice.”
I shake my head. “Don’t make me regret inviting you over, and my realtor, Gabriel, is putting in an offer as we speak.”
She raises another handful of taco chips, and I raise my hands in an attempt to shield them. “Just admit you missed me. What’s going on with your stupid editor?”
“You just said it—he’s stupid.”
Anna scoffs. “But why? What’s he doing? You like to learn new things. Writing the sports column is a good challenge for you. It’s pushing you outside of your comfort zone—another good thing.” She tosses a chip at me that I miss deflecting, and it tangles in my hair.
“He rewrote my article that was published Monday,” I say, fishing out the chip.
Anna stops. “Like changed your prose?”
“Like made me look like a trash writer and a liar to the entire football team.”
Anna blinks quickly, likely because my tone and words expressed more of my frustration than intended. “How did he make you look like a liar?”
I huff out a sigh and stand up to retrieve the copy of the paper with the article that he butchered.
Anna is smelling her taco salad with a puckered face when I return. “Does this smell strange to you?” she asks.
I ignore her question and pass her the paper. “I highlighted the parts that were mine.” There are few of them.
She sets her fork down and accepts the paper, her brown eyes passing over each line of the article that has her eyebrows cinching higher with each condemning word. “Someone is posting pictures of the football team in compromising positions?”
“And this article makes it sound like I’m encouraging people to follow the site!”
Anna reaches for her phone and double checks the site twice before punching it in. Her lips curl into an “O.” “Did you see this?” she asks.
“I’ve been avoiding it,” I admit.
“These are college guys?”
I peer over her shoulder at the picture of another football player with his abs exposed. “You mean Kurt didn’t look like that in college?” I ask, knowing full well her husband has never looked like that.
“Are they on steroids?” she asks. “No way can anyone have that big of muscles at that age.” I peek over her shoulder to see a picture of receiver Marcus Williams.
I grin. “I think that’s what happens when you spend forty hours a week working out.”
“Forty hours?” she screeches. “How are they getting a good education if they’re practicing that much?”
“That’s not what you’re wondering when you look at that picture,” I tell her. “And he’s only a sophomore.”
Anna nearly drops her phone. “What? Guys did not look like this when I was in college.”
“They did. You just didn’t see them because you spent all of your time in the library and with Kurt,” I tell her.
She flips her phone over to look at the picture one last time before turning it off. “Did he do it?”
“Do what?”
“Oh, and I’m the one who couldn’t see past his muscles?”
I ignore her poke and take her phone. In the bottom corner of the picture of Marcus standing in a pair of boxer briefs, it reads, “Rumor has it that Marcus Williams keeps a girlfriend in both Montana and in Washington.”
That nagging feeling returns. “I have no idea,” I tell Anna. “I don’t know Marcus or his girlfriend.”
“If
it is true, it’s probably a good thing he’s being called out. He’s acting like Christopher.”
My rebuttal freezes on my tongue as I consider her words. What if I had been told that my ex-boyfriend had been cheating on me? Would it have been more embarrassing to learn the news over a website gaining popularity and traffic? Would it have been easier because it would have been clear for everyone to have seen what a snake he was?
I shake my head, separating the two situations. “We don’t know that it’s true,” I point out.
“Why else would they post it?”
“People lie all the time.”
Anna tips her head to one side, a silent warning that she’s going to be patronizing. “People lie about how much money they have and what size of bra they wear and to say they’re busy, so they don’t have to babysit someone’s kids or hang out, they don’t lie about someone cheating.”
“There is a mountain of tabloids that probably reach higher than Mount Rainier that would contest that.”
Anna shakes her head. “Why are you defending this guy? Do you even know him?”
“Why are you condemning him? First of all, this is none of our business. And even if it were, we shouldn’t pass any sort of judgment unless we know all of the facts. This could have come from a bitter ex looking for revenge or trying to break up his current relationship to weasel her way back in. We need his side of the story before making any assumptions.”
“You know what he’d say. Some bullshit like Christopher did about how he was coerced and tricked.”
I shake my head. “Can we stop talking about Christopher?”
“No, because he’s relevant. Imagine if you guys had laid out both sides of your story for the internet to cast votes on. What do you think he would have said? Do you think he would have owned up to being a cheating bastard? He didn’t own up to it even after you confronted him.”
“All I’m saying is this is this site is wrong, regardless. This person is grossly invading these guys’ lives by posting pictures and comments that are sexually exploiting them in an attempt to publicly condemn them.”
Anna’s expression turns smug. “Did I mention you should become a journalist?”
“Eat your taco salad,” I say, pushing her lunch closer to her.
“It smells funny,” she says.
I grab it and sniff the salad. “It smells like a taco salad.”
“Do you know how many bacteria live on iceberg lettuce?”
“Why’d you order it if you’re afraid to eat it?”
“Because carbs make it so I can’t fit into my pants.”
“Carbs aren’t your enemy. Your crazy delusions are.” I swap her takeout container with my own. “You need to eat something.”
“This is all gluten and cheese.”
“And deliciousness,” I tell her.
“I can’t eat this. I’ll break out and gain ten pounds.”
“But you won’t have E-coli.” I stab my fork into her salad and take a giant bite.
Anna huffs out a loud sigh but slowly picks up her fork. My sister is six years older than me and graduated three years early. Sometimes I think her brilliance is detrimental to her sanity because she worries about everything, a characteristic that went into overdrive after our mom passed away.
“How’s work going?” I ask.
“Busy,” she says. “Everything seems so trivial now.”
“Really? I figured it would have been the opposite.” My sister recently made the decision to work with local politicians at the federal level because the next item on her checklist is to have kids—two, a girl and then a boy.
Anna shakes her head. “After running a presidential campaign, everything just seems so … simple.”
“You could do local politics. Maybe it would seem more inspiring.”
Anna rolls her eyes. “I don’t want to advise on mayoral elections. That would feel like a massive demotion.”
“It’s not a demotion. You chose to stay—you weren’t fired.”
She releases a long breath and finally cuts off a piece of the enchilada and then takes an insanely long time bringing the bite to her mouth.
“Delicious, right?” I ask.
“I can taste the calories,” she says, making me laugh out loud.
“And they taste delicious.” I add the dressing she had requested to be on the side and pour it over the salad before taking another bite. “Though, I’m not hating on your salad. It needs more cheese, and some queso would be killer. What it really needs, though, is some hot sauce.” I push my chair back to get some from the fridge.
“You and hot sauce,” she says as I pick through our shelf devoted to hot sauces.
“Some hot sauce would be killer on the enchiladas, too,” I tell her.
She waves me away. “I accepted a new position a couple of weeks ago,” Anna tells me. “Dad referred him to me, actually.”
“Is that a good thing?”
Anna lifts her brow as though trying to decide for herself. “Yeah, dad likes him. They went to Brighton together. He’s running for governor. In fact, I think…” Anna reaches for her phone and flips from the site to what I’m assuming are details on her new job, her mouth ajar. “His son plays on the football team,” she says.
Dread tangles in my stomach.
“Ian. Ian Forrest,” she says. “Oh, god. You’re cringing. Why are you cringing?”
“I’m not cringing.”
“You looked like you were having a stroke, you were cringing so bad. What do I need to know? Is he terrible? Tell me he doesn’t kill and torture small animals.”
“He doesn’t kill and torture small animals.”
“Roooooossseee.”
“He’s a good guy, and he hasn’t been on the website … yet.”
Anna winces before taking a bigger bite of the enchilada. “Okay, I need to know the details of this website. Tell me what you know.”
“It’s not a lot,” I warn her.
She takes another bite. “That’s how all scandals start.”
I lay out the minimal facts for her, showing her the email that Anthony had received. We go back to the website, catching up on yesterday’s rumor victim, Damien Cooke, a junior running back accused of cheating on his midterm paper.
Anna has demolished both enchiladas by the time we’ve finished looking over everything for a second time. “Whoever’s doing this doesn’t seem to have a very big following,” she says. “It’s not trending on any social media platforms.” Her heavy sigh contradicts her words. “But, they’ve clearly spent a lot of time and energy on this, and they paid to hide their domain, which is a little concerning. I can’t believe I went from discussing homeland security policies to investigating college … cheating—in all of its forms.”
I grin. “Nice pun.”
“Now, tell me, did you really put in an offer for a yoga studio?”
“Four of them, last night. And, I met this awesome duo who are trying to break into the fashion industry with activewear, and we have a meeting to discuss some mockups.”
“Is this really what you’re passionate about?” Anna asks, taking a bite of her rice and beans that she’s swirled together. “I mean, I get that you enjoy this as a hobby, but do you really want to make it your whole life?”
“Why not? Life is filled with so much stress, why not do something that I love?”
“What if you did it on the side?”
“Anna, I’m happy with my decision and direction.”
“But you’re so smart.”
“Why does smart have to equate to an office job and a six-figure salary for you?”
“I just worry about you. You’ve always had such a dreamer’s heart. I don’t want you to pour your heart and soul and all the money you got from mom’s passing and invest in a business model that flops in a year.”
“Life is short, you have to take risks, and I’m lucky enough to be able to afford some.”
“Sure, but why not use some of th
at money and buy a house or a nice condo? You’re putting all of your eggs into one basket.”
“I’m not. I have my degree to fall back on if necessary. I don’t know why you care so much.”
“Because you were meant to change the world, Rose.” It’s the same sentiment my mother used to tell me whenever inspiration struck, and I did something that others would often find crazy or strange.
“It’s not my place to change the world. It’s my place to make my own place in this world.”
She stares at me for a moment. Her eyes are the same shape as our mom’s were, but Anna’s lack the same patience and insight that hers did. Where mom sought understanding, Anna is impatiently seeking for understanding to dawn upon me.
I reach across and shovel some of her rice and bean mixture into the guacamole and sour cream she pushed to the side.
“We do not share,” Anna protests.
“We just did. You now have all of my cooties.”
She shivers. “You know I hate when you do that.”
I grin because I do.
We spend the rest of the afternoon discussing her husband, Kurt, and his recent promotion at the law firm he works at, and her frustrations with their neighborhood’s HOA and how they’re not enforcing screens for garbage cans. I let her vent and then distract her with one of the few things we both love: travel. Anna and I have been creating individual travel bucket lists for as long as I can remember. They started with tearing out the pages in our mom’s magazines, and over time it grew and stretched into studying and learning about new cuisines and cultures that we compare and share, often adding the suggestions to each other’s growing lists.
“I need to get going. I’m ovulating,” Anna says as the afternoon begins to fade.
