by Isabel Jolie
Lunch today went well. It wasn’t awkward. Until Jane, her boss came in when I was helping her calculate the year to date values she needed for the grant she’s working on. Maggie looked like she had been caught doing something illegal. My gut instinct tells me the charity she works for isn’t on the up and up. Maggie says I’m only suspicious because the charity was started by Senator McLoughlin, and I disagree with his politics.
I do disagree with his politics. I think he’s all about money and not about people, but to be fair, that’s my view on most politicians. Still, numbers don’t lie. After Jane left her office, Maggie frowned and told me she’d get the numbers she needed from Jane, and I didn’t need to do anything else. Fine. I don’t know why she didn’t go to Jane in the first place.
When I left Maggie’s office, she didn’t seem pleased with me. So, when Sam’s assistant, Janet, called with an invitation for dinner with Sam tonight, I jumped at the chance. It meant more time to smooth over whatever tension is going on between us. I knew she’d agree to go out because she never turns down dinner with Sam. When Sam gets dinner reservations, it’s for places with good food, and he always picks up the tab. For years, I tried to pay. But at a certain point, you accept your friend is a billionaire, and you let him cover the tab.
Sam orders phenomenal wines. It’s not like I struggle financially. I do well enough as an assistant professor, especially when you consider I have the life insurance from my parents plus their estate. But I don’t order the kind of wines Sam does. I’d never, and I mean never, drop the kind of cash Sam drops on a meal out.
Maggie continues scrolling on her phone, acting as if whatever she’s reading is fascinating. Maybe it is. Fine by me. It gives me the opportunity to look at her without her realizing it. I love looking at her. Observing her. I notice if she gets a new lipstick shade. Or if she paints her nails a different color. If she buys any new item of clothing, I notice. Because I’ve memorized her entire wardrobe. She’s beautiful. Natural in a small-town girl kind of way, utterly unique in this soot-covered city.
I shouldn’t have done anything with her last night. Or that day in her apartment. Or even the night we were both so incredibly drunk I only remember the night in flash frames. But it’s as if now that we’ve opened Pandora’s box, I can’t close it. Last night, something snapped, and I had to be inside her once again. I love her with every bit of my soul. I love her so much, that no matter how much it hurts, I will not let her fall for me. So, I’ll be a jerk. Make her think I’m hooking up with other women. Whatever it takes. She deserves a life I can’t give her.
The blasted image of her standing by Adam’s graveside comes to mind whenever I contemplate more. It’s a photograph in my memory bank, and my mind pushes it forward every time I ponder the life I want for Maggie. It’s as if there’s a person in charge of the images, and at the first hint of me growing weak, he says, “Oh, no, not now. Don’t forget the funeral!” and he propels it forward, center spot, so instead of passing shops or pedestrians or restaurants, I see Maggie’s back, alone, standing by Adam’s grave. Yes, brain. That is what I don’t want for her. Got it.
When we arrive at our destination downtown, I swipe Maggie’s proffered cash away, pay for the fare, and follow her inside.
Carbone’s is one of my favorite Italian restaurants in the city. Sam chooses this place at least once a month. I don’t check in with the hostess, because I know Sam’s already at our table. It’s a small round table in the corner. The brick walls provide the character, as does the artwork on the walls. But it’s the food that keeps us coming back.
“How’re y’all?” Sam asks, his southern twang coming out in his words. He works to hide his Texan accent, but at times, when he’s trying to welcome someone, or calm a tense situation, he brings out his southern roots. I’m not sure he knows when he does it.
Maggie answers him and glances to me for agreement with her statement. Yes, we’re doing fine. She and I are doing fine.
I take her coat and pull out her chair for her to take a seat. I caress her back as she sits. Her startled eyes are the only reason it crosses my mind that the gesture might be too much. In the past, she wouldn’t think twice about it. But with the recent slips, maybe that’s changing.
When I return from coat check, Sam and Maggie are already deep in conversation. Maggie is like that. She can talk to anyone. I suppose I could too, but I seldom want to. On a night like this, I far prefer to sit back, watch her, and listen. Maggie’s from the Midwest, and as such, doesn’t have a distinctive accent. Or at least, it’s not one that’s easy to mimic. She has a sweet-sounding voice that wraps me up like a lullaby. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of listening to her talk. Man, can she sing. If she drinks enough on karaoke night, she’ll belt her favorite songs, and the whole place pauses to listen. Not to laugh, but to appreciate her.
“So, have you guys decided what you’re doing over Christmas? Are you going skiing?” Sam hits my arm when he asks the question after our dinner has been set out before us. I must have been zoning out. I tend to do that.
“We haven’t talked about it.” I toy with my fork to avoid Maggie’s gaze. I was going to talk to her, but then the massage incident happened, and I didn’t want wires to get crossed. Given what happened last night, today’s probably not a good time to discuss spending Christmas vacation together either.
I stare at Sam in an attempt to silently communicate with my adopted brother. He should change the subject.
Maggie kicks my shoe under the table and asks, “What’s wrong with you?”
My attempt may have come off as some sort of a scowl. My expressions don’t always correctly translate.
“Nothing.” I sip my wine. I’m not going to get into this with Sam here with us.
“Maggie, bless your heart for putting up with this guy. I don’t know how you do it.”
She graciously smiles. If you listened to Sam, you’d assume Maggie and I are together. That’s not okay. The next chance I get, I need to make sure Sam knows not to make statements like that. Statements that twist reality into us being a couple. He knows we’re just friends, but it’s statements like that that could confuse things between Maggie and me. We don’t need that right now.
I focus on the meal in front of me. The menu here is fantastic, but tonight, I chose an old favorite, the spicy rigatoni. The pasta here is homemade and always cooked to perfection, and the vodka sauce reminds me of the sauce my mom used to serve. I can remember her twisting the green lid off the jar when she’d make dinner for us. Her sauce wasn’t homemade, and so many times I’ve tried to remember what brand she used. I’ve bought almost every marinara sauce on the grocery store shelves in my quest. No luck.
Maggie ordered her favorite too, the veal parmigiana. She cuts a small piece and offers me a bite. I accept, and she places her fork in my mouth. I close my eyes to fully appreciate it. It’s the flavors that come through that set the food at Carbone’s apart from other Italian restaurants, and perhaps what makes this the home of a Michelin chef.
“How’s the semester going?” Sam asks.
“Fine,” I answer. “How’s work going for you these days?”
“It’s good. We’ve got a new batch of interns starting. It’s not in the news yet, but I’m going to make that change I told you about. Shift my focus to the VC side. I’ve put all the wheels in place. I’m ready.”
“You know, it’s mind-blowing what you’ve done with the company. And to think I’m your drinking buddy.”
“You earned your PhD, Jason. I’d say you’ve accomplished a lot too,” Maggie adds. When she looks at me with those doe eyes, in the way she’s looking at me right now, like I hung the moon, it batters home how much of a heel I am, and how much I don’t deserve her friendship. She always, no matter what, sees good things in me. It’s unfathomable.
“One of these days, I want what you two have,” Sam says out of nowhere, wistful.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. Maggie a
nd I aren’t together.
“She stood by you through grad school, through chemo, and hospital stays.” I push my plate away, full, unable to take anymore, as he continues. “And you are always hanging out waiting for her to finish her volunteer shifts, cheering for her during whatever marathon or century ride she’s signed up for. You guys pull for each other, you’re each other’s cheerleaders. It’s got to be nice to have someone like that.”
Maggie’s cheeks flush, and she reaches for my hand underneath the table to squeeze it. I let her, but the moment lasts too long, and I withdraw my hand and reach for my water glass. None of this is good. I feel it in my chest, a tightness. Sam doesn’t know it, but all his talk makes it harder, and it confuses what’s already a muddled mess between Maggie and me.
“You used to have lady friends by the dozen.” I throw that in not because I believe it’s true, but it’s how we give Sam shit, and I need to change this conversation.
“You know better.”
“Read about it on Page Six.”
“You know better than that, Jason.” Maggie scolds me with a frown. “Sam, if I set you up on a date, would you go?”
“No.” His response is so quick I laugh.
Maggie rolls her eyes. Next thing I know, Maggie is getting updates on Sam’s family. I find I’m hungry again.
When we’ve finished dinner, Sam drops a motherload of a bomb when he says, “I have a driver coming by to take y’all back to your place.”
“Sam, that’s not necessary. You’ve already paid for our meal like you always do,” Maggie tells him, speaking for us.
Once again, he treats us like we’re a couple. And Maggie doesn’t even correct him. I am screwing this up royally. We’re not a couple, and I can’t have her thinking that. Acting like we are isn’t good for anyone, especially Maggie.
The check arrives, and as Sam pays, I excuse myself and step up to the bar. I need a break from my table and all the hidden innuendos. There are a few stools.
It’s not a big bar, but there’s a woman sitting at it, eating by herself, so I sit down beside her and order a gin and tonic. I’ve had too much wine. I need something cleaner and more refreshing.
She looks familiar, and then it hits me. She was in the MFA program when I was getting my doctorate. I don’t remember her name, but I remember her face. She fills me in on her life now.
Sam’s hand taps my shoulder from behind me. “Hey, we’re about to head out. You staying here? You want me to send Maggie home on her own? I can have the driver take her.”
Maggie stands several feet back. Sam speaks in a lower tone, so Maggie can’t hear. Maybe he’s not assuming everything I think he is. Maybe some of it’s in my head. But then Maggie looks our way, and I swear, she looks almost angry. As if I shouldn’t be talking to a woman. And that’s exactly what I can’t have. I can’t have her thinking she and I are in a relationship. That she has a right to get angry if I’m with another woman. We’ve got a long history of our friendship withstanding us dating other people. And that’s the way it needs to be. For her sake.
“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”
Sam looks pensive. Judgmental. I brace for him to say something, to tell me I’m an ass, but instead he gives a cursory nod to the woman I’m sitting beside, then he guides Maggie out of the restaurant with his arm on her back.
He’ll make sure she gets home safe.
The woman I’m talking to offers to buy me an additional drink, but I decline. I’ve had far too much tonight.
I keep an eye on my watch. As soon as five minutes have passed, and I know Maggie and Sam will both be in transit home, I tell the woman it was good to see her again. Then I get my coat and step outside to hail a cab.
Chapter 22
Maggie
“Morning, girl. I made you coffee.” Yara greets me in a giant sleep shirt that falls to her knees and super thick socks with a mouse face and yarn balls for ears on each foot. Her hair is a matted mess and leaves little doubt that she, unlike me, got some action last night.
“Thanks.”
As she pours a third mug of coffee, I consider telling her what happened last night. That Jason hooked up with a woman at a bar. Not even a bar, really. We were in a restaurant.
She’s almost finished doctoring the third cup of coffee when it occurs to me to ask, “So, did someone stay over?”
Yara glows, and the smile that spreads across her face might be the happiest I’ve seen on her in eons. I raise my eyebrows and mirror her smile to encourage her to say more.
“She’s pretty awesome.”
I sip my coffee and smile at my friend. She’s been through a long string of hook-ups without any great meaning behind them, so I’m genuinely happy for her. “Maybe we can all go to dinner tonight? I’d like to get to know her.”
Yara lifts both mugs of coffee. “I’ll ask her. I mean, you know, it’s still new. But this has potential. It’s a good thing. It feels good to have potential.”
Her words are still running through my head when I flip the light on in my office. I’m happy for my roommate, but damn, I wish I too had potential. Every time I imagine there might be potential with Jason, he proves there’s none. It’s like slamming my head up against a wall and hoping each time it won’t hurt as much the next time I do it. He’s made it abundantly clear he only wants a friendship. If I had any doubt, him picking up girls in front of me sort of proves it. And the thing is, I’m so mortified by the entire situation, I can’t bring myself to tell anyone about it.
There’s really no point in telling anyone, anyway. I already know what they’d say. My sister would tell me to stop hanging out with him, maybe move back home, and Yara would tell me to stay the hell away from him. Since I can hear them in my head, there’s no reason to play the live audio.
I’m in the middle of responding to an email when there’s a tap on the doorframe to my office. Jane closes the door, and in two quick strides is at my office chair. I can tell from her imposing height over my desk she’s wearing tall heels today or possibly platform heels. There’s a scowl on her face that means she’s pissed.
I stop typing and rotate my chair to face her. Something is seriously wrong.
“Did you give Jason access to our database?” Her nails flutter against the fabric of the office chair.
“No.”
She arches an eyebrow, clearly not believing me.
“I didn’t. I printed out some pages. Results from the first half of the year.”
“I told you not to share that information with anyone. Those figures are not public. And what you shared with him isn’t even accurate. That’s why I asked you. No, I told you not to share incomplete information. Private data.”
“I only asked him to help me figure out some of the data for the Prospect grant. That’s it.”
“If you need information, you ask me. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
She glares at me in a way that makes me feel like I’ve somehow personally attacked her. My boss has never been this angry at me before.
“Send me an email with exactly what you need, and I’ll get you the information by the end of this week. This is your warning. If you share private information again…”
She doesn’t finish the statement, but from her scowl and overall posture, there is no doubt what will happen. She huffs dramatically, in what seems to be her transition from angry boss to congenial boss, then sits down in the chair.
“Can you give me a quick rundown of what remaining grants must be completed for this year and the first quarter next year?”
We go over my status sheet each week. I hand her a clean copy I had printed for the meeting we’re supposed to have on Friday during my one-on-one with her. She asks a few more questions than normal, and it feels like maybe she’s trying to make up for jumping down my throat.
Jane has a reputation for being a ball buster. I don’t mind. That’s how she’s so good at her job, and how she got picked by Senator McLo
ughlin to run his charity. It annoys me to no end that women who are good at their job often get labeled a bitch. Sometimes you just have to cut through the crap to get things done. Men acting the same way are admired. Women are considered menopausal.
By the time she leaves my office, we’re back on cordial terms. I’ll have the data to get the grant submitted by the end of the week. All is good.
Then the phone rings. I see the digits displayed on my office phone screen and debate answering. After the third ring, I pick up.
“Hey, Zo,” I call her Zo, and she calls me Mags. She’s my sister, and I suppose she’s my real best friend. Or she was my other best friend.
“What’s wrong?” That’s my sister. I utter two words and she’s got a barometer on my mood.
“Nothing.”
“Mags.” She’s using her stern voice, the tone that says don’t bullshit me.
Tears form, and I stare out my office door at the blank beige wall my office opens onto, considering if I should get up and close the door. “Jason hooked up with someone last night.”
“Okay.” There’s hesitation in her tone. What she’s saying in the slow way she utters the word is And why is this a problem? The two of you are just friends, and he’s made this abundantly clear time and time again, you imbecile.
One tear glides down my cheek, and I swipe it away. That is all I will allow myself. Zoe’s right. I deserve this. I am the imbecile.
“How are you doing?” Her question lacks any accusation at all, just concern. Which I kind of hate, because now I’m really tearing up. I suck air through my nose, determined to keep it under control. I will not cry. Not at work.
“Mags…I know it hurts. But it was bound to happen eventually.”
