Pressing on, she says, “Joe, how can you not remember them? She had five boys before the Good Lord finally gave her a daughter.” She does the sign of the cross to thank God on Deirdre’s behalf for her long-awaited girl.
Talking out of the side of his mouth, my dad mutters, “I didn’t know her husband was a lord.”
I stifle a laugh. “Anyway, Ian’s little sister Audra just finished law school, so he asked me to help her find a job.”
“And the firm she’s at gave her a teapot and some treats?” my dad asks, peering at my phone.
“Let me see that,” my mom says, taking it from me. “Now, that’s a right lovely pot, but why are they giving them away? Is it some sort of perk? Because if it is, I would love a pot exactly like that on my next birthday.”
Her birthday is in six months, but in her mind, it’s never too early to start reminding people. I take my phone back. “No, I got her a job at one of the hotels I represent.”
“Doing what?”
“Front desk, it looks like,” I say scratching my head. “She must be knee-deep in student debt to need two jobs.”
My phone buzzes again.
(212) 555-7373: I DID sneak the pastries home. I feel terrible about it, but I figured they’d have thrown them out and, since wasting food is a sin, I thought you’d be okay with it. I only kept two and gave the rest to a homeless man at my subway stop. Do you think I did the right thing?
Me: Umm, I guess so. You didn’t happen to take the teapot, did you?
(212) 555-7373: No! I’d never do something like that.
Nuts. I guess I’ll still have to shop for my mom. My mom peers over my shoulder. “Tell her I say hi.”
Me: Good. Mary says hi.
(212) 555-7373: Really? She knows who I am?
Me: Of course. She’s a big fan of your whole family.
(212) 555-7373: Wow. My mind is blown. Tell her hello from me.
Me: You bet. Have a great night and good luck tomorrow.
Chapter Three
Jen
I have this vision in my head of God sitting in his heavenly living room chatting with Jesus’s mom. How in the world can Mary be a huge fan of my family? While I appreciate the sentiment, I can’t imagine it. My dad is a workaholic lawyer who made zero time for us while I was growing up, and my mom is a bitter, neglected housewife who always thinks it’s wine-o’clock and loves to make inappropriate comments about the pool boy to rile up my dad. Oh, and they’ve basically disowned their only daughter for not following along in their illustrious footsteps.
What exactly is Mary a fan of? I ultimately decide it’s because They—the deities from above—have a more refined sense of forgiveness than I do.
While climbing the rickety stairs to my fourth-floor walk-up—in the decaying brownstone I call home—I marvel at how my day has turned around. Not only do I seem to have an “in” with the Big Guy himself, but I got a great job, and a plate of free pastries. I told God I only kept two, but I really kept four. Guilt burns away at me, so after kicking off my shoes and flipping on the lights, I pick up my phone to confess.
JFlan: Hey, it’s me. I just thought you should know that I lied to you. I kept four of the pastries, not two, but I can find someone in need to give them to if you’re mad about that.
I don’t point out that up until this morning I would have considered myself someone in need. I mean, obviously God knows that.
GOD: Um, no, that’s cool.
JFlan: I just want to play this all on the up and up. I mean, here you are totally taking time out of your busy schedule to help me and you know, I don’t want to upset you.
GOD: I’m sure the pastries were meant for you. Maybe in the future you could pay it forward.
JFlan: What a great idea! I totally will, too! You probably already know this about me, but I’m a big proponent of karma. You know the whole, “Whatever you sew, so shall ye reap thing?”
GOD: Sow.
JFlan: Sow what?
GOD: It’s “whatever ye sow,” like sowing a seed into the ground. Not “sew” like making a dress.
JFlan: That makes more sense. Hey, I know what a busy guy you are and while I’m having a hard time believing you’re taking a special interest in me, I’m really grateful. Oh, and I’m also sorry about that voodoo charm. I’m throwing it away right now.
GOD: You don’t need to tell me that sort of stuff. Listen, while I encourage you to reach out anytime, I really do need to go right now. I’m late for dinner.
Who in the heck does God have dinner with? I have so many questions …
JFlan: Oh, totally! I’m sorry to keep you. You don’t need to respond to all my messages but is it okay if I keep sending them? It makes me feel really connected to the bigger picture, you know what I mean?
GOD: Um … sure.
JFlan: Wait. If you’re having dinner now, does that mean we’re in the same time zone?
GOD: Yeah, I’m right here in Hell’s Kitchen. Signing off now.
Holy Mother of Pearl! He’s in New York?! And in Hell’s Kitchen? Couldn’t that be considered fraternizing with the enemy?
Opening a sleeve of Oreos that I’ve been keeping for a special occasion, I worry I might have ticked God off by being too needy. How does that saying go, “God helps those who help themselves?”
A knock on the door startles me out of my concerns. Looking through the peephole, I see my neighbor and good friend Zay Lopez standing there. Well, I see the top of his head, anyway. He’s only four foot eleven. Opening the door, I usher him into my apartment. “Hey, Zay! Wait until you hear what happened today.”
I met Zay when I moved into my building. He lives right across the hall from me and is a computer programmer. He’s a bit of a hermit who works from home because he’s too shy to go into an office. I think he’s embarrassed by his diminutive stature, which was the result of some glandular thing he was born with.
Plopping down on my sofa, my friend says, “I hope it’s good news because I could really use some.”
“Oh, no. Bad day?” I don’t want to jump right into the whole “texting with God” thing before he has a chance to unburden himself.
“Not a good one,” he says, making a grabby motion toward the Oreos in my hand. I toss them over and watch while he dumps several onto his lap. “You know that cow Shelby that I work with?”
Shelby, the cow, is Zay’s nemesis who always mentions in company email threads that Zay should be working in the office and not from home. “What’s she done now?”
“She’s convinced my boss that I need to start coming into the office at least twice a week.” He explains, “I ran downstairs to get my mail the other day and didn’t respond to her text immediately. She’s taken my transgression to a higher power.”
Sitting down next to my friend, I snatch a cookie off his lap. “Oh, no. What are you going to do?”
He shakes his head mournfully. “Unless I want to leave the apartment to stand in the unemployment line, I guess I’m going to have to go into work.”
“That sucks, but maybe it'll be good for you,” I tell him, trying to sound confident. I’m always trying to get Zay to walk the dogs with me, but he’s not interested. I’m not sure he’s even left his apartment in the past year.
“Good for me like a live grenade to the head,” he grumbles. “What happened to you today that has you so excited?”
“Wait until you hear!” I pause long enough to know I have his full attention before saying, “God texted me this morning.”
Zay looks side to side like he’s searching for a hidden camera before asking, “God? Like ‘the’ God?”
As I nod my head wildly, he says, “Jen, I know you’re a little out there sometimes, and to be honest, it’s one of the many things I like about you, but”—he reaches over to take my hand—”I don’t think you’re getting enough protein.”
“What does protein have to do with anything?”
&
nbsp; “Protein,” he starts to enunciate his words much slower and louder, like I’ve aged eighty years in the last minute and won’t be able to understand him otherwise, “Keeps the brain from atrophying.”
Jumping to my feet, I yell, “You don’t believe me!” Then I grab my phone off the counter and find my God thread before handing it over. “He texted me this morning while I was doing a headstand—which, I’ll have you know, is just as good for the brain as protein.”
Zay reads through the texts, muttering things like “His name is Gabe?” and “Come on, his mom says hi?” Finally, he looks up from the screen. “Who is this, really?”
“I know this sounds nuts, but I think it could really be the Big Guy.” I lower my voice out of reverence and point at the water stain on my ceiling. “I didn’t program that name into my phone, and his first text showed up right after I asked the Universe for a sign that things would work out for me. Like immediately after. I told him I needed a job, and …” I snap my fingers. “He got me one at The Asher Hotel. Just like that. I didn’t even have to fill in an application. The manager said if I was a friend of Gabe’s, I was hired.”
“Oh, Jen, you poor naïve thing. You’re being scammed.”
“What could possibly be the motive for someone to pretend to be God just so he or she could help me out?”
Zay does not look convinced. Instead, he starts typing.
JFlan: Hey GOD, this is Zay, but I’m assuming you already know that. Can you please tell me why you’ve taken an interest in my friend?
GOD: …
GOD: …
GOD: Hi, Zay. Um, I’m helping because, you know, it’s good to help people.
JFlan: I could use a little help.
GOD: Shoot.
JFlan: I need to grow four inches by Monday. Any chance you can make that happen?
GOD: That’s not really my specialty, but have you looked into elevated shoes?
Chapter Four
Gabriel
“I thought we agreed, no cells at the table,” Alexis says, letting her shoulders slump. She sighs heavily and takes her medium-length blonde hair out of the bun she wears to work every day. A rapist she represented once told her never to wear ponytails because it makes it too easy to grab a woman. Since then, she keeps her hair tucked tightly to her head when she goes anywhere alone.
Alexis shakes out her hair and rubs her scalp with an exhausted expression that says not tonight. This has been her standard vibe for a few months now, not that I’m bothered by it. She’s been under a lot of pressure since she made partner which has resulted in her working crazy long hours. To be honest, watching her go through it makes me less sure I even want to become a partner. If it means giving up everything you enjoy, I’m not entirely convinced it’s worth it.
“Sorry,” I say, turning my phone over. I pick up my fork and resume eating the Alfredo chicken penne Alexis threw in the microwave when I got to her apartment in Chelsea.
“Something big going down with the Bulgari case?” she asks, slicing a cherry tomato into quarters. Alexis cuts her food into the tiniest bites imaginable which means it takes forever for her to eat anything. She says it’s why she can stay so thin and I’m sure, like most things she professes an opinion about, she’s right. “Did you tell Phillip my idea for countering the breach of fiduciary duty claim?”
“Not yet,” I say, popping a noodle in my mouth. After chewing and swallowing it, I add, “It’s a smart move, but we’ve already got the guy over a barrel. I don’t need to go for the jugular at this time.”
She gives me a disapproving look which makes it clear she’s irritated. There’s nothing she loves more than going for the jugular. Well, except talking shop with me, whereas over the years, I’ve grown weary of it. When we first met, it was a huge turn-on. The only thing law students want to talk about is law. It’s a competitive thing, each of us desperate to prove we have the most superior legal mind in our class. Alexis won every debate with her unrelenting passion and her fiery responses. I used to be riveted by her ability to keep every detail of each case we studied at her fingertips, ready to be discharged like machine gun fire when necessary.
She’s still trying to prove she’s the smartest one in the room, even when it’s just the two of us. Even when it comes to my cases, which is a little … annoying, since she’s never practiced hospitality law herself. I don’t want to sound ungrateful because I know her heart is in the right place, but still …
My phone buzzes again. This time, I pick it up and mute it, before setting it down on its screen again.
“What’s going on?”
Shaking my head, I say, “I told my friend Ian I’d help his little sister find a job. She just graduated from Fordham. But I’m starting to regret it. She seems a little needy.”
“Ian … is he the one with the stupid leprechaun on his head?” she asks, wrinkling up her nose. I almost laugh, thinking of how much Alexis and my parents actually have in common. “That’s Liam. You met Ian at my thirtieth birthday party. I grew up with him. He’s a plumber now.”
Alexis shakes her head. Oh, dear Lord, don’t tell me we’re turning into my parents already.
“He’s the one who spilled beer on your shoes.” I should not have brought that up. It’s been two years and she’s still mad.
“Oh, right, him,” she says, her feelings immediately flashing across her face. “I still miss those shoes. I’ll never find suede in that shade of brown again.” She pauses to mourn the ruination of her footwear, before shaking off the traumatic memory. “Anyway, what’s this about his sister?”
“She graduated in the middle of her class at Fordham and is having trouble finding a good internship.” I take a slow sip of the new Sancerre from the Loire Valley that was part of Alexis’s wine of the month club. “I told Ian I’d help her out.”
“Gabe, you know I love how charitable you are. I mean seriously, you’re a saint,” she says, reaching across the table and placing her hand over mine. “But there’s no way you should risk your own reputation by sticking your neck out for some needy girl who probably isn’t even cut out for law. Middle of her class? At Fordham?” she asks, screwing up her face in disgust. “I mean, really.”
“What? Fordham’s a good school,” I say, feeling somewhat defensive on behalf of this weird stranger who’s been texting me.
“Look, you have to think about yourself, at least until you make partner,” Alexis says, slicing a penne noodle into three pieces. I watch, wishing that just once she’d take a normal bite of something. “After that, you can champion all the losers you want, but for now, be your own champion.”
“Okay, coach,” I say with a crooked smile.
“I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” She makes a mock-cringing face. I say mock because she knows exactly what she’s doing and she’s not sorry.
“Maybe,” I say. “But don’t worry. I know it’s because you care.” That’s what I tell myself anyway. I don’t think it’s so much that she cares as she really wants me to hurry up and make partner so we can finally become her vision of the power couple she needs us to be.
“I do care, babe,” she says. “Very much. You have so much potential and if those dimwits at Murphy, Norris, and Goldstein don’t realize it soon, you’re going to have to move on.” She pops the teeny noodle in her mouth and chews it with small movements of her jaw. When she swallows, she adds, “I know I keep saying it, but we could really use a mind like yours at Phibbs, Payne, and Lynch. And the money ...” She glances up and moans at the ceiling like she’s having some kind of erotic moment. Which is something I haven’t witnessed in months.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell her.
“No, you won’t,” she says. “You’re too nice to make it in criminal law.”
“Try not to see it as a personal flaw,” I tell her.
“It just feels like such a waste,” she says, deadly serious. She finally seems to notice the look on my f
ace because she says, “Sorry. I’ll leave it alone. I know you don’t like being told what to do.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, but we both know what I really mean is “Smart to stop there before we end up in an argument.”
Over the next couple of hours, we finish dinner and do the dishes while she tells me all about her strategy for the manslaughter case she’s working on. Then we watch an episode of The Investigation on HBO. She falls asleep about ten minutes into it, waking when the credits start to roll. “You can stay over if you want, but I really need to hit the hay,” she tells me.
I thank her for the offer but explain that I have to get home because I have an early meeting. We give each other a chaste kiss at the door, then she says, “Listen. I know how much you hate it when I try to give you advice and I don’t want to be a total Mary about it, but I’m serious about that girl you’re mentoring. Cut her loose as fast as possible, okay? Before she can mess anything up for you.”
My jaw clenches at the “total Mary” line. She says this from time to time because she knows how much I hate it when my mom sticks her nose in my business. Well, if anyone does it, for that matter. It’s one of the quirks a person develops when they grow up with a large close-knit family. But somehow, when Alexis brings it up, it irritates me more than any other time—especially when she’s doing the exact same thing she accuses my mother of doing.
I walk out into the hall, then turn and give Alexis the ‘back off’ look. “Listen, it’s no big deal for me to help her.”
She lifts her hand to my cheek. “Babe, we have a plan. You and me, right? We’re in this together but we’re getting … a little behind.”
This is exactly the kind of conversation I love having in a hallway. “You mean I’m getting a little behind.”
Letting her hand drop, she says, “Well, to be honest, I thought we’d be married by now. Clearly, you need to get your priorities straight.”
The Text God: Text and You Shall Receive ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 2) Page 3
