A woman popped up behind her while she waited for her drink and spoke over Eva’s shoulder to the barista.
“Okay if I push a few corner tables together for the book club?”
“Knock yourself out. I’ll be in and out of the discussion today. Jesse called in sick so there’s no one else to cover the counter.”
“Cool, thanks,” the woman said.
Eva spun around. “Let me help with the tables! I’m here for the book club, too. I’m new.” Eva extended her hand for a shake, a habit of business ingrained in her when her clients’ payments were often signed off on by old fashioned men with stiff grips that liked to hold her young flesh a bit too long.
“Welcome! How’d you find out about us?”
“I spoke to Taylor.”
“I’m Taylor.” The woman scrunched her thin eyebrows together until recognition clicked. “You must be the one reading Oscar Wilde. Eva, right?”
Eva nodded. Southern, she smiled to try to mask her disappointment. Taylor was not a lanky, goateed man in flannel and Chuck Taylors. She was a leggy brunette wearing stonewashed jeans, a shimmery tank top, and a deep blue crushed velvet blazer. When she returned Eva’s handshake, her thin fingers were covered in silver rings darned with turquoise. Taylor was the kind of woman that made her funky fashion look effortless, her look a mashup of what was likely Goodwill clothing and flea market jewelry. Eva admired that. Her own outfits were plucked off of mannequins or ordered exactly as they had been modeled in J Crew catalogs.
This was not quite the character Eva had imagined herself cavorting with throughout the foggy streets of London. Taylor was tall, pale and gorgeous instead of tall, dark, and handsome. Her almond eyes were cat-like and smudged with kohl, the only makeup on her face. Her hair was short and tousled.
Together, they rearranged the furniture and sat. They mumbled typical greetings: the how was your day, thank you for coming, thank you for inviting me small talk of strangers. The remaining book club members failed to materialize.
“It looks as though I might have invited you to a bust,” Taylor said after looking down at her watch. It was ten minutes after 8:00 and there were no other copies of The Bridge of San Luis Rey in sight.
“It’s Taylor’s fault!” the barista threw out from the counter. “She had to go and pick a depressing novel where five characters get offed in the first couple of pages. That’s enough to turn anybody off.”
“So you actually read the book this time, then?”
“That depends on your definition of read. And whether you’re asking if I read the actual book or the SparkNotes version.”
There was an audible sigh from Taylor. “You’re incorrigible.”
The night’s saving grace was that the book discussion was completely enthralling. No one in Eva’s life cared about books the way that she did. The only books anyone wanted to discuss were about wedding etiquette and table settings.
The only problem was that Eva’s phone was blowing up with texts from Amanda the entirety of the conversation. Even after she’d silenced the ringtone, the vibration of her cell was still audible from inside her handbag.
“Do you need to get that?” Taylor finally asked, cutting off Eva’s thought about plot structure mid-sentence.
“No. I probably should have just turned it off,” Eva muttered, reaching down into her purse.
“You must be popular then because my phone only goes off that many times if there’s an emergency.”
Eva paused, wondering if she should confess to what was really going on. If nothing else, it made for a good story.
“I should have realized Taylor is a unisex name, but I sort of thought the Taylor I was meeting was going to be a guy. I don’t get out much, so when my friend found out I was going to book club tonight to meet the witty librarian from chat… well, she made me promise to ask you out.”
Taylor choked on her Italian soda, erupting into a half-cough, half-laugh. One of her ring-clad hands flew to cover her mouth while she used the other to slap her knee.
“Not what you expected, eh?”
Eva shook her head. “I’m still glad I came, but…yeah. Definitely not what I expected.”
“I hate to make it even worse for you, but I’m not even a librarian. I volunteered at the library for a few years until they offered me a job as a library page. I’m taking classes at State in Computer Science so I can go into IT.”
“Well, at this rate, it’s good I’m a wedding planner and not a psychic.”
“Let me see the texts,” Taylor said.
Mortified, Eva handed over her cell. Taylor scrolled through the texts, eyebrows raised, before she started tapping away at the screen. “Your friend sure has a vivid imagination. If she’s living vicariously through you, I thought it would be cruel to continue to keep her waiting.”
Taylor slid the phone back across the table so that Eva could read the response she’d written. “Do I have a story for you! I didn’t have to do any asking out tonight—Taylor beat me to the punch!”
Eva looked up, puzzled.
“Isn’t a girl’s night out technically a date between two friends?” Taylor asked.
And just like that, Eva had plans for Friday.
3
Taylor
Getting ready for a girl’s night out turned out to be every bit as difficult as dressing for a date. It was true what they said, that women dressed for other women regardless of the occasion. Taylor sized herself up in her full-length mirror: skinny jeans tucked into brown leather booties and a long cream tank top under an unbuttoned burgundy flannel. It was late September, the time of year that’s most impossible to dress for in North Carolina. Layers were always a safe bet, easing the transition from hot days to chilly evenings.
Taylor told herself the temperature was why she’d changed three times already, but deep down, she knew that she was nervous.
As a kid in the sandbox, you ask someone if you can play with their Barbie or their Tonka truck and like magic, you’re instant friends. As an adult, things were so much harder. The college students in her classes were younger than her, too caught up in the whirlwind of dorm parties and Greek life recruitment to have time for Taylor outside of study groups. Her coworkers at the library were older, busy with children or grandchildren. Outside of book club and the boxing ring where she volunteered downtown, there weren’t many places she felt like she belonged.
That was probably why she felt so moored to the minor but constant characters in her life. Taylor always went to the same cashier at the grocery store no matter the length of his line, the same teller at the bank, the same stylist at the discount salon for her monthly trim. She knew their names, their interests, what sports their kids played. The small interactions might have been meaningless to other people, but they were important to her. They made her feel less alone in a world where most people seemed bound and determined to freeze her out.
A night out with Eva felt like an opportunity to make an actual friend—not just another acquaintance that was tied to a specific place she returned to on some kind of routine schedule.
There was also that other thing. It was pretty clear Eva wasn’t interested in women, but Taylor was. It didn’t hurt that Eva was nothing short of enchanting. As soon as Eva had started speaking about literature, it became quickly apparent that Eva wasn’t just another pretty face. She was passionate, highly articulate, and read her favorite passages aloud in such a way it made the listener sure Eva was somehow channeling all of the emotion trapped in the pages of the novel. She’d make for a wonderful audiobook narrator. Back at the coffee shop, Taylor had caught herself wondering if Eva was the type that would read to a lover in bed.
Taylor wouldn’t have minded if it was a romantic date she was going on and not a friend date, but she’d take what she could get.
* * *
The Craft Corner was a boutique workshop space in downtown where you could sign up for classes on how to make any number of things from soaps to pain
tings to seasonal wreaths. When Taylor had suggested their bookbinding class to Eva over text message, Eva had agreed.
The workshop had already started when Taylor slid into her seat several minutes late. Her wardrobe changes had cost her more time than she’d realized.
“Couldn’t find parking!” Taylor whispered, not wanting to disrupt the others. Eva smiled a response before turning her gaze back to the instructor, who was going over all of the items each student could find at their work station. Some of it was straight forward enough, like thread and glue. There were other tools like awls and bias tape and bone folders she’d never heard of. This looked like it was going to be more complicated than the website had suggested, but Taylor wasn’t the type of woman to be easily daunted. If anything, the stresses of the past several years had taught her that.
When the instructor was done explaining the first set of steps, he put Sinatra on a record player and left them to work. They had half an hour to measure out the correct sizes for their pages, line them up, and poke holes in them with a small tool. “If your holes aren’t measured out carefully, it’s going to make it harder to stitch the papers for your book together when we regroup,” he said.
Taylor slid the paper she’d selected out of her messenger bag. The thick cardstock seemed durable enough to withstand whatever damage she might do. She also had extras should anything go wrong. Beside her, Eva slid out an iridescent paper that looked like gossamer, red veins of what looked like thread running through it.
“I might have gotten too ambitious,” Eva said, squinting down at her instruction sheet. “This is so delicate I’ll probably shred it all to hell before I can make anything that looks remotely like a book.”
Taylor rubbed Eva’s paper between her thumb and her forefinger. It felt almost like cloth. “This is thicker than it looks. As long as you’re gentle, you should be fine. What kind of book are you making?”
“Amanda, that girl that was texting me the other night? She’s one of my clients. We’ve gotten to be friends and I was hoping to make her a guestbook for her wedding as a gift.”
“Something tells me that if you can pull off planning perfect weddings, a guest book is going to be a breeze.”
It was already clear to Taylor that Eva didn’t share her haphazard approach to life— take it one step at a time, get through the day, and wake up grateful to repeat the process. Taylor had thrown the idea of perfection out the window a long time ago. Everything about Eva, from her choice of career to the impeccable application of her nude lipstick, gave the impression that she was careful and meticulous. Just like her notes for book club had been.
Eva was a beauty with olive skin, teeth the same bright white of her pearls. She looked like affluence but didn’t give off the entitled vibe Taylor might have expected if she had only seen Eva in passing on the street.
“What about your book?” Eva asked.
“It’s going to be a bucket list, more or less. I’m going to cover the pages with collages of the places that I want to see, the things that I want to do.”
“Like a vision board,” Eva said. “I have a few of those for work. It helps me to brainstorm with my clients and give them inspiration while they’re planning their wedding.”
“Exactly, except I’m planning my life. There’s so much I want to do. Tackling this book seems like a good place to start!” Taylor said, getting up to make her way to the paper cutter.
She hoped the way she’d halted their conversation hadn’t seemed too abrupt. If she stuck around, she was afraid Eva might ask questions about why Taylor hadn’t already started chasing down those dreams. That was a subject she wasn’t ready to broach.
By the end of the night, their fingers were covered in pinpricks from their sewing needles and Eva’s neat French manicure had been sullied with a mess of binding glue. They both left triumphant regardless, finished projects in tow.
“Thank you for this,” Eva said once they were out on the street, holding up the guestbook. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be at home on my couch on yet another Friday evening curled up with a book.”
“Books never make for bad company, but I’m definitely game for hanging out again.” It was hard to contain her grin, so she bit the inside of her cheek.
“I’ll call you.”
Eva stepped closer to give Taylor a hug, her warmth cutting all the way through Taylor’s flannel. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched, other than Eva’s handshake only days before. The feeling was electric, and combined with Eva’s heady scent, almost magical. Her smell was the perfect combination of fresh laundry, expensive hair product, and floral perfume. Lilac with notes of something else—something exotic she couldn’t quite place. Taylor resisted the urge to linger in the hug a little longer than she should.
On the drive home, Taylor thought about Eva humming along with “New York, New York” as they worked. She turned on the radio to drown out the recent memory. It was better not to think about what she wanted too much. Instead, she’d appreciate the scraps of good the universe gave her when she got them.
4
Eva
Eva liked simple. She liked classic. A-line wedding dresses that fall off the hips just so. Oriental rugs on hardwood floors and the easy slant of light that makes just-mopped oak shine beneath your bare feet. Grocery stores with mood lighting where affluent people shop and cranberries glisten in pools of water to make your mouth salivate.
Eva did not like things that made life complicated.
Her feelings, if she acted on them, would absolutely make her life complicated. So instead, she did what she did best and threw herself into her work.
Today, Amanda was coming by so they could wrap up the remaining loose ends that had to be tackled before the wedding. There were final vendor contracts to sign, checks to collect for the florist and caterer, and choices to be made about gift bags for out of town guests. Worst of all, there were finishing touches to put on the seating chart. If Amanda’s stories were any indication, her reception would probably be a bloodbath regardless of how far she sat her feuding family members from one another. The way Amanda told it, her family was mafia meets soap opera.
This was the meeting where many brides would melt down under the weight of last last-minute stress, second-guessing their decision on everything from their cake flavor to their groom. While Eva would never tell her clients this, it was the point in the planning period that most often made her understand why people skipped the pomp and circumstance and decide to elope.
Unsurprisingly, Amanda floated into Eva’s office cool as a cucumber and flung herself into the leather wingback chair in the lounge area Eva had created to make brides more at ease while they conducted business with her.
“I am not turning over a single cent or giving you my John Hancock on any of your paperwork until you tell me absolutely everything about this Taylor fellow.” Amanda crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. “I mean business, missy.”
Eva took a big gulp of champagne. She’d meant to uncork the bottle after Amanda got here to celebrate the end of event planning as was her tradition, but she had broken it out early specifically because she knew this very conversation was inevitable.
“You know the part of the text that said I had a story to tell you?”
“Yeah, so you better get to tellin’,” Amanda said, reaching for the bubbly and the empty flute on the table in front of her so she could pour herself a glass.
“I hate to disappoint, but it’s a funny story. Not a romantic one.”
“A story can be both, love.” Amanda said before taking her first sip and giving a thumbs up. “This is good stuff. You know what else is good? A romantic comedy.”
Eva was well aware. She’d seen every romcom that Jennifer Lopez, Meg Ryan, and Sandra Bullock had ever been in. Some of them, she could probably even quote line by line from memory.
“Based off of Taylor’s name and the chat vibes I was getting, I thought Taylor was a man. Taylor
is definitely not a man,” Eva said, plopping down onto the chair across from Amanda.
“But Taylor asked you out anyway. I’d still count that as a victory.” Amanda leaned across the table to clink her champagne flute against Eva’s as if giving her a congratulatory toast. “So did you go out?” Amanda asked.
“Sort of. No. Yes.” Eva mumbled.
“Well, which is it?” Amanda asked, eyebrows raised.
Eva could feel her chest getting hot. Surely, out of any of her clients, Amanda was the least likely to judge her. Beyond that, it really was just a funny story.
But if that was the case, why did the story seem so hard to tell?
“When I told her you were texting me because you wanted me to ask her on a date, she took my phone and thought she’d have some fun with her response. We hung out again, but it definitely wasn’t a date.”
Amanda leaned forward again, this time picking up the bottle to reach over and refill Eva’s glass. Then she sat back quietly for a long time, looking at Eva as though she was trying to find the right words.
“I’m not sure I’m convinced. If it wasn’t a date, why are your cheeks so flushed?”
Eva shrugged, unable to find the words to respond. It was still too early in the day to begin any serious drinking, but at this rate, she wasn’t sure that just one bottle of bubbly was going to be enough.
Eva thought of the way Taylor’s almond eyes were laser-like in focus as she completed each task at the workshop, the confidence she had in her ability to make something with her hands. Eva had been so busy darting covert glances at Taylor that she’d almost ran out of time to finish her work.
“I know you probably aren’t as open with your clients as you are with your friends, but I still know you well enough to notice when you’re acting strange,” Amanda said.
Forgetting Chuck Taylor Page 2
