by Beth K. Vogt
My outburst caused Harper to pull back. “What does that mean? Did you know something?”
“H-he mentioned something about the downsizing the day I was fired, but I—I couldn’t say anything. And I didn’t know who would be affected—never imagined it might be you.”
Harper sighed, accepting my answer. “Well, this gives me a chance to update my résumé.”
“Harper.”
“It’s just my life right now. Seems like it’s all about starting over.” She took another bite of pizza.
Wait.
“What aren’t you telling me?” My gaze fell on a small stack of moving boxes in the corner of her living room by the front door. “What are the boxes for? Are you going to declutter and get into the minimalist lifestyle? Maybe adopt a capsule wardrobe?”
Harper didn’t laugh.
Those boxes weren’t a joke. There was more change coming—and I wasn’t going to like it.
Harper refused to meet my gaze, concentrating instead on ripping up more cheesy bread. She was tearing up more food than eating it. “I don’t know how to tell you, Jilly. This is the hardest part—telling you.”
“Just say it.” I gripped the side of the coffee table.
“I’m moving.”
Now I was confused—but not chemo-brain confused, because I understood what my best friend had said to me.
“That’s even less funny than you trying to shrink all the clothes in your closet to thirty-seven pieces.”
“It’s not a joke.”
I pressed my fingertips against my temples, staring at her. “Harper . . . why . . . why would you even think of moving? Because the bank is downsizing? There are plenty of jobs here—”
“I’m not thinking of moving. I am moving.” Harper slumped back against the couch, her lips twisted. “Trent is getting married again. I kept wondering how I was going to survive in the same town, watching his brand-new happily ever after. I kept wishing he’d move—get transferred or something. And then I found out I don’t have a job anymore. That gives me the perfect reason to leave, to look for a job somewhere else. I want a change. I need a change, Jill.”
Zach Gaines might as well have walked in and interrupted Girls’ Night. Told me that he’d found a massive crack in the foundation of my house. Bad wiring and faulty plumbing were fixable. Losing Harper? How was I supposed to fix that?
There were no questions or doubts in my friend’s eyes. She’d already made up her mind—without talking to me about it. Probably because she knew I’d argue with her. Threaten to lock her in her room. Beg her not to go.
I took two huge bites of pizza, not because I was hungry, but to stop myself from saying all the negative things screaming in my head.
Harper’s move wasn’t some sort of attack against me or our friendship, but somehow her action pressed against the wounded part of my heart that reminded me I was never enough . . . where I was measured and found wanting.
I struggled to balance my lack with Harper’s need for more . . . her need for a new beginning.
Moments ago, I’d decided to support my friend. I needed to follow through. I closed my eyes and chewed some more, trying to summon up encouraging words. Positive words. Something other than “Don’t do this. I need you. Please, please, don’t leave.”
I swallowed and took a deep breath. “What’s your plan?”
Not the most enthusiastic start, but I’d do better next time.
“I know this is going to sound like I’m running home to my mother, but hear me out.” Harper half turned to face me. “I’m going to use my mom’s condo on the Outer Banks.”
“If you’re going to run away, that’s a great choice.” I forced a laugh.
“Believe me, I have greater aspirations than becoming a beach bum. I’ll be looking for a job, too. But this was the quickest exit route. And why not enjoy some walks along the shore while I reinvent myself, right?”
“It’s a good idea, don’t get me wrong. It would be an even better idea if I could go with you.”
“I don’t think Geoff would appreciate you running away from home.”
And now our laughter united, the sounds of a regular Girls’ Night. We were finding a reason to laugh, even if we were talking about Harper moving. Harper . . . the best of friends.
Oh, how I was going to miss her.
But not now . . . not while she was still here.
“You want help packing some boxes?” I wiped my fingers with a napkin.
“What?”
“I asked if you want to pack a couple of boxes tonight.”
“You trying to speed up getting rid of me?”
“No. Never.” It wasn’t fair for Harper to ask me that when I wanted to hug her and cry at the thought of her leaving. “But I do want to help you like you’ve always helped me. So let’s pack some boxes tonight. What do you want to start with?”
“Books?” Harper set aside her plate. “Books are easy.”
“Okay, we start with books.”
I had to laugh over Harper’s “Books are easy” comment as I drove home later. I’d had no idea how many books my friend owned. Nonfiction. Fiction. Mysteries. Romances. Biographies. As we tried to pack boxes, Harper would stop and reminisce about her favorite authors. Her favorite novels. Her favorite scenes. And then she’d hand me another book and my take-home pile would grow taller.
“I’m catching on to your plan. Give away more. Pack less. Pay less moving fees.”
Harper had laughed then.
But I cried all the way home.
WHAT WAS THIS? A staff meeting or a breakfast party?
Dr. Miller—Johanna’s new boss by way of stealing her promotion—had strolled into the conference room a few minutes after her, carrying a to-go carton of coffee and two large paper bags from a local bagel shop. Hadn’t the man heard of reusable bags?
With a quick greeting, he busied himself arranging a variety of bagels, plastic tubs of cream cheese, plates and utensils, and a large bowl of mixed fruit on a side table.
“Did that myself.” He nodded to the fruit. “My wife always says that it’s time or money—and cutting the fruit took a little more time but was less costly.”
“Nice.”
So the man knew how to take his wife’s advice, save money, and use a knife. What did he expect, applause?
If she was going to survive the next forty-five minutes, Johanna needed to tone down her snark, even if it was internal.
As the pharmacy staff began to arrive for the first of Axton Miller’s “Let’s get to know each other” meetings, he asked each person their name. No “Hello, my name is” adhesive tags. Just asked the name, looked the person in the eye, and repeated it. Soon laughter and easy conversation filled the room. Johanna watched the clock, seconds and minutes ticking away as Dr. Miller chitchatted.
She was wasting valuable time at this rah-rah fest disguised as a meeting. Her coffee cooled in her insulated travel cup, and she ignored the bagels and fruit salad.
One moment the room was a mix of people mingling, and the next, Dr. Miller had brought everyone together around the rectangular table positioned in the center. Johanna didn’t even know how it happened.
“I’m excited to be here. I’m even more excited to finally meet each one of you. I know it’s early, so thank you for coming.” Dr. Miller’s gaze touched each person as if he were walking around the perimeter of the table instead of standing at the head. “We are a team. I believe in the power of a team. As Henry Ford said, ‘If everyone is moving forward together, then success takes care of itself.’”
Johanna choked on a sip of her tepid coffee.
Ten minutes and five quotes later, Dr. Miller dismissed the team. As the group dispersed, he waved aside several offers to help clean up and came alongside Johanna where she stood in the back corner of the room.
“I get the feeling you didn’t buy into everything I was saying.”
Huh. Maybe she’d misjudged him. Behind all that motivational “be the team” talk
, he was more astute than she gave him credit for.
“It’s not that.” And that wasn’t the truth. “You just do things differently than I do, that’s all.”
“How often do you hold team meetings?”
“I don’t . . . do team meetings.” She went to sip her coffee again, only to find that the cup was empty. “We’re a busy hospital. We know what we need to do and we do our work. I communicate through e-mails. Memos. It’s efficient.”
“Well, we’ll be changing that.”
And Dr. Miller also didn’t beat around the bush.
“Team meetings are important. They build up a sense of camaraderie. That’s one of the first things I want you to do—get team meetings on the calendar once a month. After these initial ones, of course.” Dr. Miller offered a warm “come on over to my side” smile that revealed not-quite-straight teeth. “I like to know when people’s birthdays are, too. And anniversaries. So we can celebrate them.”
“Celebrate how?”
“Give them a card. Have a cake once a month for all the staff who have a birthday.”
Now they were going to have birthday parties? Were they back in grade school? Was he going to incorporate show-and-tell, too?
She swallowed her laughter, along with the desire to ask, “Are you kidding me?” Instead, she nodded. “I can get that information for you.”
Because that’s what a good assistant pharmacy director did, according to Axton Miller.
“What about you, Johanna?”
His question stopped her from saying good-bye. “What about me . . . what?”
“Are you married? Kids?”
“I’m not married. No kids. I’m engaged.”
“Oh. If my wife were here, she’d ask if you’d set a date yet.”
“No.”
“So you’re newly engaged.”
“No. We’ve been together eight years. Engaged for three.”
That earned her a laugh, although she’d said nothing humorous. “Not rushing anything, I see.”
“Beckett, my fiancé, is in the military. His career has kept him busy—he’s been deployed. And I’m dedicated to my career, too.”
It was as if she were defending herself—her life choices—to him. She didn’t even know the man. Didn’t want to get to know him.
Didn’t like him.
Just then Dr. Miller offered her another wide smile.
She was liking him less by the minute. He wouldn’t be on the guest list for her wedding—maybe she should make that clear right now.
But instead, she asked him a question. It was only polite—and it turned the Q and A session back on him.
“You’re married. Any kids?”
“Yes, my wife and I have two children—twins, actually.”
Of course the man had twins. Having grown up with twin sisters, she knew no one ever ignored the fact that someone had twins or was a twin. For most people, twins were fascinating. And the man probably enjoyed all the attention.
“Twins?”
“Yes, fraternal twin boys. They’re seventeen now. Seniors in high school. They’ve kept us on our toes and wrecked our grocery budget. My wife says she’s ready for them to go to college, but I know she’ll miss them. We both will.”
“I imagine they keep you busy.”
She was over Dr. Axton Miller. He’d stolen her job. Touted slogans and talked “team” like some positive-living guru. And now . . . now he was the father of twin boys. The man needed to go back to Tucson and live his perfect professional and personal life far, far away from her.
“Family?”
Had he asked her a question? “I’m sorry?”
“Do you have family in the area?”
“Yes. Family. We’re all Colorado natives. Three sisters.” She wasn’t going to tell him that two sisters were identical twins. That one sister had died eleven years ago. She didn’t want more questions. Didn’t want sympathy. Didn’t want to connect with this man in any way.
“If you’ll excuse me, I need to go to the ladies’ room.”
With those words, she retreated to the bathroom again. She couldn’t spend the rest of her career hiding in the women’s bathroom, avoiding the new pharmacy director. After months of anticipating nothing but advancement at Mount Columbia Medical Center, her future seemed as limited as the stall she sat in.
That thought was enough to make her want to call it a day before work even began. Maybe declare a sick day.
She was comparing her life to a bathroom.
Perfect. Just perfect.
This was the perfect time for me to be at Memorial Park. Moms of little kids were still watching the clock, hoping their babies and toddlers stretched their naps out a while longer. Meanwhile, moms of school-age kids counted down the last precious minutes to run errands or finish projects before their kids started heading home or they had to queue up in the carpool line.
I’d left my car on the far side of the park, clipped Winston to his leash, and made my way to the lake rimmed with trees. Not too cold yet, despite it being late October. No wind, so the surface of the water reflected the trees like a giant’s looking glass.
But inside me? Harper’s announcement that she was moving had churned up my emotions as if multiple Jet Skis had crisscrossed the lake, barely missing each other in their antics.
I’d only ridden Jet Skis a few times during family vacations, but I always remembered the time Payton challenged Pepper to a race and then got too close, ramming the front of Pepper’s machine with hers, tossing Pepper into the water. She was unhurt, but that had been a costly accident, with Johanna yelling at them all the way back to shore like she was their mom—not that Mom was a yeller.
I kept my eyes open, as if by doing so, I could absorb the serenity of the scene in front of me. If I closed them, I was pulled into the tumult of my emotions.
Another text from Harper interrupted my thoughts—one of many she’d sent this week. Another one that I had to answer or ignore. Most had been ignored.
Some best friend I was.
How are you?
I stared at the text. It wasn’t like I could ignore her forever.
Good.
Me too. Thanks for asking.
I was going to ask.
I wasn’t sure if you remembered who I was. It’s been so quiet on your end.
Ha. Very funny.
I’m being serious.
A second later, Harper switched to FaceTime.
“Why are you calling me?”
“I was hoping maybe I’d catch you at a weak moment and you’d answer the phone. Let me see your face.”
“You’re such a comedian today.”
“Why are you avoiding me? And don’t say you’re not.”
I couldn’t argue with her. I had been acting like we were in middle school again, avoiding her instead of talking to her.
I leaned forward on the bench, cradling my phone between my hands. “I’m trying to figure out how to be okay with all this. . . .”
“You don’t have to be okay with it, Jill.”
“I can’t cry until the day you move. It could be months—”
“One month. Four weeks.”
The lake in front of me was still calm, but the invisible Jet Skis had just collided.
“That soon?”
“I have one more week of work. My office is mostly packed up.” She moved her phone around so I could see the walls bare of any photographs. Her diploma.
“And your house?”
“I’m getting ready to put it on the market. The good news is, it’s a sellers’ market right now. The bad news is, I met with the stager and they have all sorts of suggestions for making the house look good. Although I don’t have that much. . . .”
That I knew. The separation and divorce had stripped her of a lot of things, material possessions included.
“I can come over and help you.” And now . . . now I was offering to do the very thing I’d avoided since our Girls’ Night. Was I tryi
ng to create some sort of shock therapy? “You know where I am?”
“Home?”
“No. I’m sitting at Memorial Park, by the lake.” It was my turn to show her my surroundings, including Winston, who dozed at my feet. “Didn’t we have fun at the balloon liftoff Labor Day weekend? Remember the Yoda and Darth Vader balloons?”
“That was so worth getting up early on a Saturday.”
“Yeah. I loved watching the teams getting ready to launch the different hot-air balloons. So many designs and colors . . . seeing them sail over the lake.” I settled back against the bench. “We just didn’t know that you wouldn’t be here for next year’s launch.”
“I could always come back.”
“Can’t make promises . . .” I blinked away the tears. I wasn’t keeping my promise to not be sad while my friend was still here. “You’re moving, Harper. Not dying. I’m sorry. You certainly didn’t avoid me when we thought I might be dying.”
Harper gasped, caught between laughter and tears. “I can’t believe you just said that!”
“Am I right?”
“Well, yes.”
“Well, then . . . I’m sorry I avoided you this week. I’m just . . . going to miss you, you know.”
“I know. I’m going to miss you, too.”
I swallowed hard, tasting salt. “Okay. Now that we’ve faced that, can I come over tomorrow and help you pack?”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
“But I refuse to take any more books. Understood?”
“I can’t promise. You want to look through my dishes?”
“Harper, I’m not taking stuff home with me.”
“Oh, come on. There are some things I don’t want to send to the thrift store.”
Our banter settled into a normal rhythm again. I needed to figure out how to keep this up for the next four weeks. To laugh until it was okay for me to cry, even as fatigue settled heavier on my shoulders . . . slipped . . . and centered in my heart.
PAYTON WAS A NERVOUS WRECK—and all because she was hosting round three of our book club at her townhome.
“Will you calm down?” I debated stepping in front of her as she peered through the small glass window in her oven once again. “Why are you so worried?”
