But what does that have to do with me?
Putting my law degree to work, I carefully read each document addressed to me, starting with the one welcoming me to join the “most popular dating show on TV.” With each line I read, I became uncomfortable.
This almost looks real.
When I finished, I tossed the stack of papers on the wooden coffee table and picked up my cell phone. Standing in the center of the rustic living room of my parents’ Virginia home, I tapped my bare foot against the cold hardwood floor as I pushed the call button. With a hand propped on my hip, I waited for my call to be answered.
I glanced at the clock hanging over the crackling fireplace, calculating the time difference between Virginia and California. It’s only four o’clock over there so she should be—
“Zoe!” My best friend’s light airy voice chirped as she answered the phone. “Oh my God!”
“Kumiko Liane Green,” I barked her full name, walking toward my childhood bedroom and closing the door behind me. I flipped on the light and the oceanic blue walls lit up. “This bullshit has your name written all over it.”
The gasping sound of her laughter was infectious as my suspicions were confirmed.
“You ass!” I exclaimed, my smile taking the bite out of my words.
Koko laughed harder.
“This is not funny,” I argued, stifling my own amusement. “I don’t even watch reality TV so as soon as I saw The One in the first line of the letter, I knew your ass had something to do with it!”
My mass of curly hair flopped around my shoulders with each shake of my head.
“Two months after you are attached to the show, I get this mysterious paperwork in the mail. Tsk tsk. Your pranks are usually a little more elaborate. You have to step your game up, my friend. You’re slipping,” I teased.
She scoffed, her light voice cackled like an evil villain in a cartoon. “Remember when I first got the offer letter to work with Julia Jones on The One and you kept giving me shit?”
I smiled even though my eyes narrowed suspiciously. Standing by my desk, I let my fingers slide across the old leather bound book of poems by Pablo Neruda that I took everywhere.
“Yes,” I replied slowly, before making a beeline to the oversized reading chair in the corner of the room. I tucked my legs underneath me as I got comfortable in the chair. “When my best friend gets hired to work with the Makeup Guru, we celebrate. Even if she’ll be working with her on a show that highlights the death of the feminist movement.”
We both chuckled.
“Do you remember how wasted we were when we celebrated?” Koko asked.
“We?” I laughed, shaking my head at the memory. “Do you remember that night at all? You were the one who got drunk.”
“I was so drunk,” she giggled again. “But do you remember how I kept saying that I was going to get you back once I was sober again?”
“Mm-hm. And the next day you told Ethan that I wanted to hook up with him.”
“No…” She stretched the word out longer than necessary. “Well, yes, I did do that. But that wasn’t to get you back; that was a favor. You need to keep Ethan interested and on your radar. He’s a catch!”
I closed my eyes and groaned. “When are you going to let that go? Ethan is my boss and we are just friends.”
Ignoring my protests, she continued, “So anyway, that was a favor, not retaliation. You’re welcome.”
“Ugh,” I grunted in exasperation, throwing my arm up and kicking my legs out. “When I get back to Los Angeles, I’m going to fight you.”
“So as I was saying, I knew exactly how to get you back for saying that I would be painting the faces of—.”
“Of women who possibly have Stockholm Syndrome,” I interrupted, finishing the statement with thinly veiled amusement. Unable to hold back, my head tilted upward and a deep belly laugh erupted out of me. “That was funny. I crack myself up.”
“It’s still funny… which is why I had to come up with the perfect way to get you back.”
I stared at my black tipped fingernails, focusing on a small chip I hadn’t seen earlier. “Faking this letter and this paperwork is pretty good,” I admitted begrudgingly.
“Wait, I haven’t even told you the best part,” Koko insisted between giggles.
“The best part? The best part was how good of a job you did with the legal jargon. Maybe you should’ve attended law school with me.”
The line went silent as my words hung in the air.
Shit. Here it comes.
“Well…now that you brought it up, are you ready to talk about the bar yet?” Koko’s tone shifted abruptly from flighty to serious, catching me off guard.
She wasn’t talking about Breakers Bar, the bar in which I worked. She was talking about the California State Bar Exam, the exam in which I skipped.
I frowned, shaking my head even though she couldn’t see me. “Nope.”
Koko made a grumbling noise from the back of her throat. But it wasn’t a judgmental noise. It was the noise she often made when she was struggling to hold her tongue.
I exhaled nosily in defeat as I slumped deeper into the chair. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate her concern, because I did.
“I just couldn’t do it. It’s—it’s hard to explain.” I lowered my voice so my mother couldn’t hear me if she was walking around. “My mom is here and I haven’t told my parents yet. But as soon as I get to the airport, I’ll spill.”
“Swear?”
“Swear. But you mentioned something about the best part?”
“Oh yes!” Her voice cracked before she broke into her gasping giggles. “The best part is that it’s real!”
I felt my brows crease in confusion as a smile pulled at the corner of my lips. “What? I can barely understand you.”
No matter what, the loud gasping screeches of Koko’s laugh amused me without fail.
Okay. I pulled the phone from my ear with a rueful smile. It’s a decent prank, but it’s not that funny. I shook my head.
“Hello?” I called out, hoping to get her back on track. “What are you talking about?” My stomach plummeted when the realization hit me. “Did you steal this from work? Kumiko! I know I gave you shit about it, but this really is a great opportunity for your career. Don’t get fired over this.”
For whatever reason, my warning just made her gasps turn into a wheezing, choking sound.
I rolled my eyes, trying not to be amused by her. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Koko.”
“No, I didn’t steal it. The letter is real!” She explained between pants as she calmed down.
I froze. The word ‘real’ echoed in my head as I struggled to pull what she meant from it. Part of me knew, but I needed confirmation. “Real? What do you mean it’s real?”
“My goal was to submit a packet for you to be a contestant and then post the response letter up at Breakers to get everyone in on the joke. Just being on the set this early, I already know they send out ‘thanks but no thanks’ letters and confidentiality agreements. I should’ve waited for you to get back so I could’ve seen your face! But I had waited too long already for this day so I had the package forwarded to your parents’ house as soon as it arrived here.”
“So you’re saying that the package is real?” I jumped out of the chair and marched out of the bedroom toward the living room. “No, no, no. You’re bullshitting me right now. There’s no way. The paperwork said that I passed the background check. There’s no way it could’ve gone that far without…”
My sentence trailed off.
Over the course of our seven-year friendship, Koko and I told each other everything. We shared our L.A. apartment and we stored all of our personal information in the same safe. Koko knew almost everything about me. She could’ve easily filled out the necessary paperwork.
Gripping the thick stack of papers, I returned to the bedroom. The door closed with a louder bang than I anticipated. “You illegally acces
sed my personal information and forged documents in order to submit an application for me to compete on a show that I don’t watch and don’t believe in to get me back for joking on you?”
The question was met with immediate silence.
After thirty seconds, Koko cleared her throat. “Too far?”
“Hell yes!”
“Are you mad?”
“I’m mad that I’m now associated with this crappy show and there’s a paper trail and electronic proof floating around. I’m mad that if I want to get elected to the Supreme Court, someone is going to pull out the list of applicants to The One and I will lose my bid because this clearly displays poor judgment.”
“But are you mad?”
“Am I mad that you’re a diabolical bitch? No.”
I had to hand it to her. She waited two months for her prank to come full circle. That’s a hell of a commitment.
“I wish I could’ve seen your face when you got the letter. I can almost visualize you noticing the title and then climbing on your soapbox about the sexist undertones of the show and then the shock of realizing that you applied to be on it. Are you going to write a strongly worded letter about the selection process?” Koko joked.
“Ha ha,” I replied without any inflection in my voice. My eyes kept scanning the paperwork.
“Thousands of women enter and only twelve get selected to participate on the show. Well technically twenty-four but twelve are eliminated before the big cocktail party with the eligible bachelor. And there was less than a one percent chance that you’d get selected because of how many people apply so I felt like you were safe from actually being too attached to the show. They may not even keep it on file. I just wanted a letter or email that had your name and that you applied to be on The One.”
“Like I said, diabolical.” I looked at the congratulatory letter once more before dropping the stack of papers on the desk and pressing my fingertips into my forehead. “But there’s just one little problem with your plan though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not going on this bullshit show and I’m going to burn all evidence that could link me to it.”
“No!” Koko shouted, making my ear ring. “I’ve waited two months for this! I earned this Zoe Elise Jordan! And I heard that at the bottom of the letter, they actually say ‘Our bachelor is looking for the one Zoe…and it’s not you.’ Please, please tell me it says that. Please.”
I let out a puff of air. “That’s not what mine says.”
“What does it say?”
“Mine says ‘our bachelor is looking for the one Zoe…is it you?’ And then a hefty stack of papers asked me to give up my right to privacy and go parade around on this demeaning show so that I can compete against other women for the affection of a man I don’t know.”
“Wait, what?”
“I’ve been invited to be a contestant on the show,” I clarified, running my free hand down my face. “I’ve been given a week to decide. Well, a week from when they mailed the packet.”
“Oh. My. God!”
I pulled my phone away from my ear, but the damage to my eardrum was already done.
Her words became garbled and then she continued, “Are you going to do it? You have to do it! When do you have to get it back to them?”
Glancing down at the paperwork, I skimmed the paragraphs until I found what I was looking for. “Tomorrow. By close of business.”
“You have to do it!”
I started pacing from one side of the room to the other. “I most certainly do not. That’s a big hell to the no.”
“I know you’re not a risk taker, but just think about it. If you win, you get prize money. That prize money, depending on when you get sent home, would be more than enough to pay for us to go on a shopping spree or for us to go to every Beyoncé and Rihanna concert on the West Coast.”
I stopped in my tracks, trying not to laugh. “So in this scenario, I, alone, whore myself out on TV and we, together, spend the earnings if I win?”
“Or if you don’t like those suggestions, it would be more than enough money for you to reapply to take the bar exam.”
My lips pursed. I walked right into that.
Before I could respond, she rushed on. “We would get to see each other all the time. I’m going to be there every day except Sundays. We can’t go that long without talking! The location is incredible. You’d be staying in a mansion with a pool, a hot tub, a steam room and a relaxing place to read. And, most importantly, the eligible bachelor is Julian Winters.”
We were both quiet for a second. She was likely waiting for a reaction, but I was waiting for clarification.
“Julian Winters?” I asked, starting to pace again.
“Yes!”
My eyebrows came together, perplexed. I threw my hand up in the air. “Who the hell is that?”
“Julian Winters, the music producer.”
As a music lover, I was still stumped. “I have no clue who he is or why you thought I’d care.”
“Well, he’s a song writer and a music producer and he’s totally your type. He kind of looks like that Resident Assistant we had a crush on freshman year. And he was caught up in that copyright infringement lawsuit with that socialite, Janna White. I can’t think of the song now.”
“Ohhhh, yeah,” I remembered, familiarity of the case and the names flooding my brain. “’Sweet’. That case ended her music career, didn’t it? I loved that song. I vaguely remember that he was the one who wrote it, but they settled out of court, right?”
“Yes. But do you know what he looks like now?”
“No… I just remember being fascinated by the case because—”
“I’m going to go ahead and stop you right there,” she interrupted, cutting me off mid-sentence. “We are not going to talk law right now. We are going to talk about you having the chance to bump uglies with Julian Winters. He is the—”
I frowned as I interjected, “The sheer fact that you said ‘bump uglies’ has disqualified you from giving me advice about anything in general, but sex specifically. You need to—”
A quick knock on the door followed by the sound of it being pushed open forced my sentence to end abruptly.
“Hi,” my mother greeted me as she poked her head into the room. Her bronzy skin glowed with a youthfulness most fifty-five year old women didn’t have. “Are you ready?”
I smiled and nodded.
“I’ll meet you in the car,” my mom whispered, closing the door behind her.
“I’m going to call you later. I’m about to head out with Mom before we meet Dad for dinner.”
“Okay, but search the internet for pictures of Julian and text me your thoughts.”
I chuckled to myself. “Will do.”
Slipping my phone into my back pocket, I quickly put on my socks and boots. Grabbing my grey and blue college hoodie, I pulled it over the white t-shirt and checked myself out in the mirror.
Wearing a hoodie that dwarfed my C-cup breasts and a pair of jeans that I remembered looking better when I purchased them, I was a sad, cold version of myself. Although my face and hair were flawless, my outfit was questionable at best. But I pulled on my heavy down coat that I kept in Virginia for my visits home and trotted out to meet my mother. I may not have looked like the fashionista that I was in L.A., but the unpredictable Virginia weather put fashion on the backburner.
On the way to the car, I pulled out my phone and searched Julian Winters. My eyebrows flew up immediately when I saw the piercing, grey eyes, short, sexy beard, and endearing smile. There was even a hint of a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt.
That can’t be him.
I was expecting some boring, cookie-cutter, clean-cut guy. But based on the first few pictures, Julian Winters was the exact opposite of boring. Between his looks, his wardrobe, and his career choice, he was interesting. There weren’t many photos of him looking directly at the camera. Most of the photos were of him writing or recording.
Successful. Bearded. Tattooed. With an amazing smile. I felt like I was checking off the top tier of my wish list. He’s definitely my type.
“What’s with the goofy grin?”
I looked up and my mother had rolled the window down. Opening the door to her BMW, I showed her the picture on my phone as soon as I slid into the seat.
“Nice.” She nodded in appreciation. “New boyfriend?”
I made a face. “No. Just some guy.”
“Mm hmm. Not the way you were just grinning.”
I rolled my eyes and pursed my lips to keep from telling her about Koko’s prank.
“Fine,” she continued. “I’ll leave it alone for now. There are more pressing issues.” She gestured to my bundled up state before she backed out of the driveway. “It’s a rather warm, early March night and you’re dressed like we’re going to a football game in the dead of winter. It’s not that cold.”
I looked at her purple pantsuit, multicolored scarf and black leather jacket. She looked warm, but fashionable.
“I’m a California girl now, Mom. Forty-five degrees might as well be sub-zero.”
Mom and I laughed, joked and talked as we ran errands on our way to our favorite Italian restaurant to meet Dad. As she told me about the pro-bono case she took on for a small business, I found myself completely riveted.
“…because giving up is the first step toward failure,” she concluded, using her favorite motivational line.
My stomach tied itself in a knot as I nodded in agreement.
She’s talking about her case. She’s not talking about me, I assured myself as she moved on to tell me about the items she ordered from Neiman Marcus.
Sometimes the line blurred where my mother ended and Elise Jordan the attorney began. My mom was a badass in the courtroom and in life. With her short black hair contrasting with her bronze complexion, she was beautiful. She dressed like she was going to a business meeting with a fashion company at all times. And although I was blessed with her skin tone, hair color, and shapely figure, my mother’s beauty extended beyond her looks.
My mom was fearless. She was the smartest person I knew and a fantastic storyteller. She was the youngest person to make partner at her firm and the first woman. She did mission trips to change the world. She volunteered her time to feed the homeless. She advocated for women in the workplace. She was well-traveled and entertained me with stories about her adventures before she had my brother and me. I’d spent my entire life wanting to follow in her footsteps.
The Fire Between High & Lo Page 27
