Diana in Love (Dirty Diana #2)

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

May slips into June and the last weeks of school push what was once a manageable but packed schedule into something more chaotic. I am so consumed with keeping the details and schedules straight—end-of-year parties, performances, soccer games, shuttling Emmy from Oliver’s house to my own—that I manage to make it so that I can’t think much more than a day ahead. Except for making summer plans for Emmy. After many back-and-forth texts with Oliver, we’ve agreed to let her go to sleepaway camp with Halston for a week, like she’s been begging to do.

But she’s so little, I insisted.

Oliver texted back pictures of happy kids in canoes and reminded me, I went there every summer for eleven years. And look at me!

…Exactly.

Ha ha. Too soon.

What if she doesn’t like it?

Her best friend and s’mores? She’ll be fine.

Then he texted me a long speech about independence and confidence that I think he cut and pasted from the camp’s website.

Okay, I finally agreed because I knew how badly Emmy wanted to go and the only thing in the way was how much I was going to miss her.

I follow the camp packing list to a T, buying her an extra bathing suit and labeling every piece of clothing going in her camp duffel. And today on my lunch break, with two days left in the school year, I race home to grab the watermelon slices that need to be dropped off at the school picnic by 12:15, sharp.

Running out the door, I spot Emmy’s ballet bag. I hurry to the car and dial Oliver. “Hey, it’s me. I forgot to give you Emmy’s ballet clothes for class this afternoon. I can leave them on your mat on my way to drop off fruit that needs to be at her school in the next thirty minutes or the world starts to fall in on itself.” I fake laugh at my own dumb joke, a weird fake laugh that I’ve heard myself using with him more and more since the night we almost slept together. It makes me cringe every time. Since that night, Oliver and I have kept our conversations focused on Emmy. Like we’d become so good at doing over the last few years, we avoid an uncomfortable conversation and pretend the evening didn’t happen, silently agreeing to slip it under the rug with the rest of our issues.

At his building, I pass two gorgeous women in barely there bikinis soaking in the sun by the pool. Is this who Oliver asks to borrow milk from when he runs out? I drop Emmy’s pink ballet bag on his doorstep and as soon as I turn to go, his door opens. “Diana?”

“You’re home?”

“Yeah. I’m just making coffee. You want some?”

“I called from the car. I thought maybe you were at an interview.”

“Want to come in?”

I take in his bare feet, his cutoff shorts, and a T-shirt worn so thin the collar is frayed. He looks handsome, well-rested, and tan, like he’s on vacation instead of standing in his own doorway on a Tuesday. “Come on inside.”

In his living room hangs a giant charcoal drawing of a bear. When did Oliver start buying art? “Where did you get…”

“I don’t have an interview today.”

“Oh. They’ve already hired someone?”

“No, no, they want to meet but…” He shrugs. “I don’t want it. It’s more of the same, I realized. Different office, different people, same shit.” He sounds like a broody artist on the verge of a creative breakthrough. Maybe he drew the charcoal bear. Maybe I shouldn’t pretend to be able to guess what he’s thinking anymore.

I follow him to the kitchen, where he grinds beans for our coffee and says loudly over the noise, “I actually haven’t been going on any of the interviews. I’ve been lying about that.”

“You haven’t been going on job interviews?” The grating noise stops. “Since you walked out on your job? Not a single one?”

“Nope.” He smiles. “But hang on, I do know what I’m doing. In fact, I’ve never been happier. Maybe you should quit that place too.”

My face prickles with heat as I watch him froth milk for my coffee. After several long minutes of watching him make an elaborate coffee while wondering how pissed I should be, he hands me a full white mug with a photo screened onto it. A picture of Oliver and Emmy at some kind of carnival I wasn’t invited to or even ever heard about. “Okay. So what are you doing? Borrowing money from your dad?”

It’s a low blow, but instead of getting defensive, he laughs a strange “as if” guffaw, and I think but do not say, What the fuck, Oliver, how is that funny? As if we haven’t ever borrowed money from them before, as if they didn’t help us with the down payment on our house years ago.

He picks up a printout from the kitchen table and hands it to me. It’s an MLS listing for a small Tudor home not far from here. Built in 1927, the description reads, it’s only had three owners and retains most of the original details. It’s charming, like something out of a fairy tale—large windows with diamond-shaped panes and a round front door like a small castle.

“I’m flipping it. It doesn’t need much. New paint, new kitchen, and baths. Tear up the carpet and pray for hardwood floors kind of thing. But the wall paneling and ceiling beams are all original.”

“Flipping it? With who?”

“I bought it out of probate for dirt cheap and I’m doing most of it myself. I picked up my tools from my parents’ garage. Remember that old sawhorse? I was sure my mom had thrown it out. And the power washer. She kept her word and held on to all of it. It feels so good to get back to work. With the help of a few YouTube videos.”

“YouTube videos?”

He smiles and takes the flier from my hands. “Diana? Why are you only responding in questions?”

“Because I am catching up, Oliver.” I let out a long, slow exhale. “Or trying to. How did you pay for this house?”

“Deep breath, Diana. I’m going to put it all back.”

“No…” The blood drains from my face. “From our account?”

“Yes, ours. And I only touched my half, which I’m going to double. Just give me six months.”

My half? We haven’t even halved yet. Have we?

“I’m so confused, Oliver. You didn’t think to ask me first?”

“Diana, our assets are on their way to being divided anyway. Right?”

The color rushes back to my face. I blush with the shame of my avoidance. But I’m not the only one who has been avoiding talking about our separation. So why does it all look so carefree on him?

“It’s going to work,” he says. “Turns out, I’m really good at this.”

His relaxed lean against his kitchen counter in his bare feet and his stupid fucking shorts are making my blood boil. I’m sweating in a beige suit on my forty-five-minute lunch hour.

“How do you know?” I snap. “Anyone can watch a YouTube video.”

“Ouch.”

“You don’t think I should be pissed? We have one paycheck right now. Mine. And then you tell me to quit my job when it’s the only job we have?”

“Because maybe there’s something out there that might make you happier. I was really confused, Diana. For so long. Doing what everyone around me wanted me to do. But I finally found something I love.”

The hair on my arms raises in a kind of cold fury. “How nice.”

“I thought you would be happy for me.”

“When were you going to tell me all this? If I hadn’t come over today?”

“Okay, but I am telling you now. And I would have—”

I want to scream, but instead my voice comes out like a hiss. “Is this some kind of HGTV midlife crisis?”

Oliver rakes his hands through his hair the way he does when he’s trying not to get frustrated. “I get that you’re pissed. But, Diana, of the two of us, you have to admit, I’ve always been the one who managed the finances. When we met, you were broke—”

“I think you should stop talking.”

“Diana, c’mon, it’s not like I’m not really good with money.”

“Because you were fucking born into it —” My rage is coming so fast and thick, the words get stuck in my throat. “No.” I shake my head. “Not right now. I’m late. To drop off fucking watermelon.” I immediately regret adding the watermelon detail. It sounded more potent in my head.

My rant is followed by a very nondramatic exit. Instead of slamming the door, I put my mug of frustratingly good coffee in his sink, and then Oliver holds the door open for me. He quietly follows me to my car.

Neither of us says a word until I’m sitting in the driver’s seat. My car is hot and smells like rotting fruit. “I have to go to work,” I tell him, placing an emphasis on “work.”

He leans against the open window. “Please come and see the house. If you could see what I do, you might change your mind.”

—

That afternoon, I’m back at my desk for less than thirty minutes when Allen sticks his head in. “Petra just called. You two must have really hit it off.” His smile is somewhere between his sympathy half smile and a genuinely happy grin. “She wants to meet with you in Paris and discuss her relationship with our firm.”

“Petra?”

“Those were her words. She said since you were meaning to make the trip to Paris anyway…”

“Oh, I mentioned maybe going—” I hadn’t left the country since Emmy was born. Oliver and I had made plans to travel to Europe, but they were always postponed by work or the cost of a new hot water heater or needing a new roof. The idea of getting on a plane and landing in Paris makes me want to tackle Allen in a bear hug.

“Right. Of course.” Allen winks, picking up on my excitement. “You should go. Petra needs to make someone jump through a few hoops for her and she’s chosen you.”

“Okay, that’s great. Thank you.” I don’t know whether to be grateful to Petra or unnerved that she’s interfering in my life. I choose grateful.

When Allen lingers in the doorway, I ask him if everything is all right.

“Sure.” He lowers his voice. “Things at the firm this year…It would be helpful to us. To me. If you could get this done with Petra.” Since we’d met, Allen has never shown any kind of vulnerability in front of me. He’s never asked for my help once. Standing in my office doorway, he looks ten years older.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Terrific.” He perks right back up. “I’ll have Cindy help with flights. And we’ve already prepared some decks to review before you leave.”

—

The next day, on my lunch break, Liam meets me at the mall and is quickly crestfallen when we beeline for the luggage store. “Who shops on an empty stomach?”

“I do.”

He sighs and trails me into the store. It’s clean and brightly lit, suitcases lined neatly against every wall. Liam is L’Wren’s stepson and like a little brother to me. I still haven’t told L’Wren about Liam helping me with Dirty Diana. He’s the only one in Rockgate whom I’ve told about Dirty Diana, and when Alicia and I needed extra help figuring out how to build a website, he was the perfect, least judgmental person to turn to. When I’d first asked him, he beamed. “I get it, entrepreneur to entrepreneur.” He’d gestured around the basement (L’Wren’s basement, which he was old enough to move out of years ago) to the piles of bloody prosthetics and special effects he creates and sells online. “You need to scale the ambition, and there’s only so far you can push that boulder up the hill on your own. Right?” Liam is creative and messy, and since the day we met each of us has had an overwhelming desire to bail the other out.

“Can I assist you?” A man with an Italian accent, wearing an impeccably fitted gray flannel suit, appears before us and introduces himself as Enzo.

“She’s looking for a suitcase…” Liam helps me out.

“Of course, do we know what size?”

“Something I can carry on.”

“For international travel. She’s going to Paris.”

“Oh, magnifique. ” Enzo smiles. His hair is thick and dark and his eyes a deep brown. He rattles off details about the luggage all around us and Liam nods along. Enzo pulls out different models, and I try not to get too distracted by the way his elegant fingers clasp and unclasp each one.

He asks me about my trip and I tell him I’m going there for work. He nods and says, “and some fun,” then writes down the name of his favorite cafés and a bar that his best friend from grade school runs. I tell him I’ll definitely check it out. For a moment I get lost, picturing sitting at a Parisian bar next to Enzo.

“Diana? Sage or terra-cotta?” Liam is asking.

“It’s perfect.”

They both laugh, asking “Which one?,” and my cheeks burn.

“Sage.”

“She’ll take it.”

“Wonderful! Let me get us a brand-new one from the back.” When he turns, Liam raises his eyebrows and smiles. I roll my eyes. But I’m caught.

“Give him your number,” Liam whispers, and I dig my elbow into his ribs to shut him up. “What?” he says innocently. “He clearly likes to travel. He’s Italian. ”

Enzo reappears. “Here we are.”

“Diana loves to travel.”

I shoot Liam a look.

“Oh yeah?”

“Do you travel a lot?” Liam asks him, and I blush a deeper shade of pink.

“Every chance I get,” Enzo says. “A perk of being single.”

Liam beams like bingo and I dig for my wallet.

—

In line for pretzels, Liam sighs. “God. That was embarrassing. You need to freshen up on your flirting.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

“I know, I was being generous with my word choice. I don’t know what to call that awkward dance back there.”

“Shut up.” I laugh.

We sit at a sticky table and I try not to imagine which corner of the food court it was that Oliver and the pixie-haired lady first met.

“Want some?” Liam tears off a piece of his cinnamon sugar pretzel and offers it to me.

“Liam. Entrepreneur to entrepreneur”—I see his eyes twinkle—“do you still think it’s possible to slowly build out Dirty Diana ourselves?”

Liam and I are both aware of our roles—that I’m the finance person and he’s the one with cinnamon sugar on his chin—but he’s also full of creative ideas and he knows that right now I’m not really looking for an answer, only a bit of support, the kind of good-natured encouragement that he gives wholeheartedly.

“I’m way ahead of you. Yes. And you’re going to love my new layouts. I modeled one with a monthly subscription in mind. But. You’re going to need more content.” He takes another bite, then finishes off his lemonade. “I get it. Why you’re going to Paris.”

“I’m going to Paris for work.”

He smirks. “Sure. Okay then, I get why you’re asking about expanding the site.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“You should have something of your own. Sure, to possibly make some cash. But mostly so your soul doesn’t shrivel up and die on the baking-hot suburban sidewalks of Rockgate like the souls of so many women in lululemon leggings before you.”

I try not to smile too big as I help myself to Liam’s pretzel, ripping off a generous piece. The hum of the lunchtime crowd fills the silence for us, until finally I say, “It really is a work trip. Allen’s paying.” I take a bite and think of calling Jasper while I’m there.

Liam tips back in his chair, seeming to read my every thought. “Yeah, for work.”

—

On my way home that evening, I call Alicia from the car. Alicia and I talk most mornings but today we missed each other. We’ve been friends since our twenties and lately she is also the driving force behind me making something—anything—out of the Dirty Diana interviews, as we’ve come to think of them. I think she wants me to get lost in something creative right now, especially so I don’t brood over Oliver.

“Paris! Paris, France?”

“It would be easier if it was Paris, Texas.”

“Do you need an assistant?”

“For what?”

“Literally anything. I’ll wash your delicates in the sink. I’ll drive you around town. I’ll edit every single Parisian fantasy. I’ll give you my fantasy! Just take me!”

“This is a work trip. Alicia? I hear you typing. Are you buying a ticket as we speak?”

“Diana. I literally found a cheddar goldfish under my boob this morning. I think I need to get away. We can make it a Dirty Diana work trip.”

“Not Dirty Diana. I’m meeting a client.”

“Got it. Dirty Diana is still the side hustle. Oh…cheap flights out of Dallas.”

—

“This Sunday?” L’Wren steals a glance at me from the driver’s seat as we carpool home from a school meeting.

“It’s a work trip, L’Wren.” There is something in “work trip” no one wants to hear.

“Exactly. You’re meeting with one important client, right? Is that going to take five days? Two dinners at the most. Then what will you do? I know Paris like the back of my hand.” She speaks quickly, hardly taking a breath. “It’s perfect timing. Halston and Emmy can have a sleepover at Oliver’s on Sunday and then he can drop them at camp on Monday. He wouldn’t mind, would he? Probably better than us dropping them and getting emotional just watching them go.”

She’s only been to Paris twice, but compared to me, she does know it like the back of her hand. “An old friend from Santa Fe is coming with me.”

“Alicia?”

“Yes.” I worry the news will hurt L’Wren’s feelings, that I’ve invited someone else.

But she smiles brightly and says, “Can’t wait to meet her. You know I get along with everyone.” This is not true, but I love that L’Wren thinks it. “We’ll have a great time.”

“It’s a work trip.” I throw it out one more time, for my own amusement now.

“Of course. But I need out of Dallas for a minute. Not like, oh fun, Paris, can I come? It’s more than that.”

Her voice hitches.

“L’Wren…”

Her eyes well with tears and she pulls off the frontage road and turns the engine off in a 7-Eleven parking lot. “If I don’t go to Paris with you, I might sleep with Arthur. Multiple times.”

“Oh, L’Wren.”

“I can’t even think about it, but it’s also all I think about. How is this possible? I wish I’d never met him.”

I undo my seatbelt and rest my hand on hers. “Are you and Kevin in a bad spot?”

“It’s the same. He’s the same. He doesn’t notice how distracted I am. What does that mean?”

“Kevin has always been a bit distracted himself. With work, I mean.”

“Well, I need a Parisian distraction now.” She wipes her eyes and prepares to get back on the highway. “I’ll put us up in the very best hotel. We’ll have some girl time. I could really use it, Diana. You’d be doing me a favor.”

L’Wren had been doing me favors since she took me under her wing back when Emmy was in pre-K. She told me where to enroll Emmy in school, she got me into all the best after-school activities, and she advised me which parents to avoid in the carpool lane. I would have been lost without her.

“Sure. The more the merrier.”

—

When L’Wren drops me at home, I’m glad there isn’t a single light on, so the house can just suck me into its darkness and I can hide in here awhile. I feel my way down the hall, my hand gliding along the walls all the way up the stairs to my bedroom. I lie on the bed and think about all the things I should do—edit new interviews and finish a painting, fold the laundry, sign up for Emmy’s soccer season, pay that one online bill that never charges my credit card on file.

In the bathroom, I strip off my clothes and shower in the dark. I slip into bed and search for old streaming episodes of Petra’s show and spend the next three hours watching her and Mitch. They sign up for a cooking class and learn how to make waffles. In the next episode, she teaches him how to drive stick. In between antics, they agree they don’t want children and lie in bed talking about what the future might look like: She wants to go to Cuba, he wants to try fly-fishing. The sound of their light disagreements lulls me to sleep.