Don't Say Goodbye

by Bridget Essex

  But was Max much different? Max had followed the money, too, albeit in a more guaranteed way by “working for the man,” as Jo so often derided it.

  They’d both wanted stability. Just in different ways.

  “Maybe I’ll never know what I’m meant to do. Maybe I’m not really meant to do anything,” said Max then, shrugging. It sounded like such a sad statement, but she hadn’t said it that way. It was just fact. Maybe she never would know what she was meant to do, and would that really be such a bad thing?

  She knew it would. From Fiona’s expression, a little pained and a little worried, she knew Fiona thought it would be a bad thing, too.

  “Oh, crud,” said Jo, reaching into her pocket for her cell phone. It was making an insistent beeping sound. “I’m so sorry, guys, I really have to take this,” she grimaced, standing and sliding smoothly out of the booth, turning her back on the both of them as she began to walk toward the front door. “Gary? Yeah, it’s Jo. Look, about the Manchester order…” She strode quickly away from the table, and let herself out of the diner to talk in the little entryway.

  “She’s been working extra hard lately,” said Fiona, glancing after Max, but while the words were soft and understanding, her gaze betrayed something hurt. She fiddled with her fork and knife for a moment before looking back up at Max. “You’ve known her for a long time. Is she always so…so…” She waved her hand, blowing air out of her nose in slight impatience.

  “Focused?” said Max, glancing after Jo herself. “Yeah, she’s always been…pretty focused. She’s a hard worker. That’s why she’s so successful.”

  “Hm,” said Fiona, her mouth pressed together, her eyes distant. She breathed out, glanced up at Max, then, fully present. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to make it seem that I’m frustrated with her. I’m not. I just wish…” She took the napkin, opened it carefully and spread it on her lap. She didn’t finish the sentence.

  Now that Max and Fiona were alone, Max was becoming aware of how her skin seemed to prick whenever Fiona gazed at her. When Fiona shifted, crossing her legs the other way under the table, the toe of her shoe brushed against Max’s leg. “Oh, I’m so sorry—was that you?” said Fiona, her head to the side as she gazed at Max with bright eyes.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Max, realizing that as she said it her voice had gotten lower, deeper. She cleared her throat. She reminded herself for the thousandth time that she wasn’t a hormonal teenager.

  There was just something about Fiona. Something about her long fingers as they cupped the curve of her own cream-colored chin. Something about the intensity of her cool, green gaze that seemed to spark between them. The corners of her mouth turned up into the most fetching smile, and when she chuckled just then, it came out with such a lightness that it made Max’s heart rise in her chest, beating much too fast.

  “Look at us. Both of us are Jo’s widows to her business,” said Fiona, leaning back in the booth. She propped her elbow on the top of the seatback and tried to subdue her smile. “While we’re waiting, tell me more about you, Max. You’re very important to Jo. And I know she has very good taste. I’d love to learn more about you.”

  Max gazed up at Fiona through her lashes and was surprised to see that Fiona was not gazing into her eyes. Fiona’s glance raked over Max, over her mouth, over her own neck and shoulders, down to her chest. She could not be imagining this. Fiona was giving her the once-over. Wasn’t she? Max sometimes had trouble with reading the signals of another woman (sometimes she thought she really was a little hopeless), but there was no way possible that this could be misinterpreted as Fiona’s gaze came back up again, settling firmly on Max’s mouth. Max licked her lips, suddenly so self-conscious she wasn’t certain what to say.

  Max must be wrong. Fiona was dating Jo. Fiona wouldn’t be looking at Max, plain, drab, boring Max who was such a dull, brown bird compared to these brightly plumed creatures. These amazing, vibrant women who had their own businesses, who answered to no one else. Who had followed their dreams and were making something splendid of their lives. Max was nowhere close to either of them, and she knew that.

  “Max…” began Fiona, her voice low, but Jo pushed through the diner’s door, making it chime with the jingle bells hung on the doorknob. She shut it closed behind her and trundled over to the booth, shaking her head as she slid into it with a sigh.

  “I’m sorry about that, Fiona, Max…it was Gary, and he’s been having a rough time lately with all the orders we’ve been getting for…well, you don’t want to hear me talk shop.” Jo glanced sidelong at her date and gathered up Fiona’s hands into her own, kissing Fiona’s knuckles.

  But Fiona wasn’t looking at Jo as Jo’s lips brushed over the back of her hands.

  She was staring at Max, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes bright and sparking.

  The pressure behind Max’s eyes pressed insistently, her headache in that instant becoming so overpowering that she could hardly see straight, and she stood suddenly, reaching into her wallet in her purse, taking out two twenties and setting them on the table. “I am so, so sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m getting a migraine. I’ve been getting it all day, and it’s just…it’s going to be a bad one.” Though it was the truth, it sounded flat, even to her own ears. “Please forgive me, both of you. It was so, so wonderful to meet you, Fiona,” she said, choking a little on the words, even as Jo and Fiona hurriedly slid out of the booth, standing awkwardly together as they both nodded, trying to express sympathy and wishing she could stay with murmured words that Max couldn’t make out clearly.

  Fiona impulsively stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Max’s shoulders, pulling the taller woman to her with surprising strength as she hugged Max warmly. “You take care of yourself, okay?” she whispered into Max’s ear. The heat of her breath made Max shudder, and she knew that Fiona had felt that shudder as she took a step back, as the embrace broke, and Fiona glanced up at her with wide eyes.

  “Likewise,” said Max, shrugging into her denim jacket, and then somehow, miraculously, she was out in the cold December evening, so chill that it made her shudder as she staggered as if intoxicated around the corner to her car. She fumbled with the keys and the lock and was sitting in the driver’s side before she’d even registered what had happened.

  She turned the car on, and it rumbled to life, just as the radio began to play “Jesse’s Girl.”

  “…why can’t I have a woman like that?”

  In tears, Max switched the radio off, and pulled out into traffic.

  Chapter 2: Invitation

  “You look like your dog ran over your cat, totaled your ride and then shot himself,” said Sam companionably the first time he passed her cubicle the next morning. Max breathed out for a long moment, massaging her temples as she cast a withering glance in his direction.

  “I just call it like I see it,” he said, setting an unopened can of Coke down on her desk and pulling a chair from the next-door empty cubicle over to hers. He sat down in it, leaned back and crossed his ankles with all the finality of a man who was going to stay in that exact spot until Max told him what was the matter.

  She bit her lip and sighed, fiddling with her mouse for a long moment while she considered him.

  “Last night was a disaster,” she said then, tugging off her headset and running a hand over her head and through her messy ponytail. “It was just…I mean, it was seriously a first class disaster.”

  “What happened?” asked Sam with sympathy as he tabbed open his own can and took a swig of Coke.

  “I mean, for starters…” She trailed off. For starters what? Fiona was more beautiful than Max could understand? Fiona was more wonderful than any woman Max had ever had the pleasure to meet?

  Max wished with all of her heart that Fiona was with her, and not her best friend?

  It was utterly terrible, that thought, and deep down (really deep down), Max didn’t wish that at all. Not really. She was happy for Jo, incredibly happy. Jo had dated
so many women, but hadn’t given any of them a chance to get close to her after she’d had her heart broken so completely by Alexandra all those years ago. She deserved, so, so much, to be happy, and she hadn’t been in such a long time with anyone. And Max knew that Fiona was just the woman to make Jo happy, was, in fact, the woman perfect for the job.

  “For starters…” prompted Sam, his head to the side, one eyebrow up over his glasses.

  “I mean…the woman Jo’s seeing. Fiona. She’s just…she’s just great…” Max spluttered, spreading her hands and trailing off again. She wasn’t certain what to say. “She’s just--”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Max…”

  “What?” said Max miserably, placing her arms on her desk and her forehead on her arms with a groan.

  “Oh, my God, you like her,” said Sam, mouth open in astonishment. “Hell. I haven’t seen you get that look in years, but I still remember it! The last woman you had it for was Valerie. Remember Valerie?”

  Max blinked. “I had this look for Valerie?”

  “Hey, we all make mistakes,” said Sam with a wide grin as he pat Max’s arm and straightened in his chair, the wheels creaking under him. “But seriously, you’re attracted to her, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I…” Max had never been good at lying, and the blush making her cheeks flame was probably a very good indicator that yes, absolutely, she was attracted to Fiona.

  “Well,” said Sam, leaning back in his chair, the thing creaking now ominously beneath him as he pushed back, propping his shoes on the edge of Max’s desk. She’d told him so many times not to put his feet on her desk that she just didn’t have the energy to tease him about it again. “This…is bad,” he said, setting his can of Coke on the desk next to hers and clasping his fingers over his stomach. “I mean, Jo’s pretty into her, right?”

  “Sam, there is no way that this is bad, because there’s no real problem. I’m not about to steal Jo’s girlfriend, thanks ever so much,” she said dryly, shoving his feet off the desk. He grinned at her and crossed his ankles again, propping his heels on the edge of her trashcan instead. “I mean, I wouldn’t have a chance in hell—”

  “So you would if you could.”

  “Don’t be a jerk,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “Jo’s happy for the first time in ages, and I’m happy for her. I would never take that away from her. Even if I could.”

  Sam considered her for a long moment before he stood and wheeled the chair back into the next cubicle. He ducked back in, picking up his can from her desk. His eyebrows were up as he considered her. “I like Jo, Max…don’t get me wrong,” he said then, leaning against the half-wall of her cubicle. “But I’m kind of partial to you, and I’m loyal. So. I wish there was a solution to this. A solution that made you happy.”

  It was a sweet sentiment, and it made Max smile a little. Sam was a good guy, for all of his little quirks. “That’s nice, Sam. I appreciate it.”

  “And if you want something to help you forget about this little mess, I’m more than happy to set up with a really gorgeous looking gal. See, I have this cousin—”

  “You’re always pushing that cousin on me,” said Max, laughing a little as she wrinkled her nose, but it sounded hollow. “Don’t worry about me,” she said with false bravado. “I’ll be all right. I’m sure there’s a woman out there who’s meant for me.”

  Sam studied her for a long moment before he nodded, turned on his heel and walked down the hallway without another word.

  He didn’t have to say what he’d been thinking.

  Max had been thinking it too, after all.

  What if the woman who was right for Max was Fiona?

  God, what a mess. She buried her fingers in her hair and pressed her forehead against the cool surface of her desk, taking deep breaths.

  It didn’t matter. Fiona was Jo’s, and that was that.

  And everything in her that cried out against that fact just needed to shut up. Now.

  ---

  By Friday, Max had moved through all of the stages of grief and had come out the other side into the Land of Guilt, as she was jokingly calling it. With time and distance between her and meeting Fiona, and not being confronted with that captivating, beautiful woman in anything but a memory, Max felt utterly terrible that she’d ever felt a shred of attraction for Fiona. What kind of friend was she? Jo deserved a truly loyal friend, someone who wasn’t going to drool all over her new significant other. A friend who would be purely happy for her because she was happy. Wasn’t that what friends were for? And hadn’t they been friends for decades, almost all of their lives? God, Jo deserved a hell of a lot more than this.

  Their friendship was worth much more to Max than anything else in the world. And Fiona had always been off limits, anyway.

  And Max needed to stop thinking about something that could not possibly be.

  Max always hated Fridays, contrary to almost everyone else in the rest of the United States, and probably the entire globe, because on Fridays in the Wellworth Marketing Center, everyone had to do outbound calls.

  Outbound calls were what Max thought Hell probably consisted of, if she’d believed in Hell. She was given a very long spreadsheet from her superior that contained a list of names, addresses and telephone numbers, and then depending on what client they were working for that week, she went down the list and called each number, offering the person such varied things as insurance, magazine subscriptions and delivery denture cream.

  Thankfully, this day was not the delivery denture cream client. Max always felt guilty about selling people things that they didn’t necessarily want, but selling these things to older people who already didn’t have a lot of money lying around for non-necessities (and delivery denture cream was very, very much a non-necessity), made her feel particularly evil.

  No, today they were working with a client who sold insurance to small businesses. So Max was not actually calling people, as such, but businesses. It was a distinction, though small and seemingly meaningless, that gave her a lot of ease. Businesses usually had money, so if she could convince some poor person to get that insurance for their business (as if they wouldn’t already have insurance, she’d first groaned when they’d taken on the client), it’s not as if it was coming out of someone’s pocket. It was coming out of a business’s pocket. And that, to Max, was almost ethical.

  Ethan’s Vacuum Repair Shop had said they’d call her back with an answer (which was a very polite way of saying “no.” Max marked the line on her spreadsheet with blue—which meant no). Gro Green had actually sworn at her and hung up the phone. She marked the line with blue. The Livingston County Thrift Store had laughed and hung up the phone. Another blue line. In the entire spreadsheet, there was only one pink line—meaning a yes--and that was because they actually already used that insurance company.

  Max closed her eyes and breathed out steadily, working her jaw. She was so tired and she couldn’t wait for the end of her shift. She was fantasizing about what she’d have for dinner. She’d probably get take out. It was Friday, after all. And then she’d open a new bottle of wine, and…

  She scrolled down in her spreadsheet, the automated caller cycling through the numbers. The phone was ringing before she even saw the spreadsheet’s line declaring the business, address and phone number.

  Max blinked. She gulped down air and sat up straighter in her chair.

  Florabella Cupcakes.

  Fiona’s shop.

  “Florabella Cupcakes, Fiona speaking, how can I make your day better?” came a bright voice on the other end of the line.

  “Oh, my…oh, my God,” spluttered Max. “Fiona?”

  “Max?”

  Fiona remembered her voice.

  Fiona remembered her voice.

  Max grappled, trying to spin together the last few remnants of her composure. The script that she’d been given to say to every prospective client flew out the window. “My…my goodness, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m
actually calling on behalf of my company…we have a new client…” She trailed off, unsure if she should continue or if she was, in fact, blathering and not making any sense at all. “I’m supposed to try to sell you insurance,” is what she half-mumbled, then.

  Fiona laughed into the phone, that beautiful, warm, throaty laugh that sounded like bells ringing happily in some quaint little European town. “That’s funny that you would get my number. What a small world, right?”

  “A very small world,” Max muttered, glancing at her computer monitor that was beeping an angry red at her. Big brother, aka the Stupid Software (as Max called it), knew she was going off script and was prompting her to try and close the deal, because it assumed that if she veered off script, it was because she was very, very close to closing the deal. But, as usual, the Stupid Software was wrong.

  “I actually already have insurance,” said Fiona, regret tingeing her voice. “I’m sorry. Am I screwing up your quota?”

  That surprised Max. That anyone would care about her quota was a surprise, in and of itself, but how warm Fiona’s voice was…well, that was another kind of surprising all together.

  “I’m doing okay with my quota—don’t worry,” said Max, fiddling with the cord of her headphones.

  “Listen, I’m so sorry about your migraine…are you feeling better today?” Fiona’s sweet voice seemed to curve toward Max like a finger, beckoning her. Max closed her eyes, massaged her temples, and swallowed.

  Yes. The migraine that she’d used as an excuse to leave the dinner. That migraine.

  “I’m doing much better, thank you so much for thinking about it,” she said in a low voice as a co-worker walked past the entrance to her cubicle.

  “I was so sad to see you go…I would love so, so much if you came by for a cupcake sometime. Maybe today? Or, you know, tomorrow, or Sunday, or…” Fiona laughed as she trailed off. “My treat. Cupcakes are great for headaches. Has anyone ever told you that?”