Chapter 18
Ali
“The videos Wyatt Sinclair posted have gotten so much attention.” MJ was scrolling through Wyatt’s social pages from her place behind the bar at the Tavern.
Stacy, MJ, and I were sprawled across multiple stools.
This had become our routine following the weekly campaign performance meeting I hosted with Asher.
After the business was planned, reported, and celebrated—these people knew how to celebrate a job well done—the four of us girls would stick around and debrief other points of interest—mainly our love lives.
“I can’t believe People magazine picked up the story from his posts,” MJ practically squealed.
Lakeside had been like an orchestra already seated, instruments tuned, hearts open. All they needed was someone to lift the baton and bring the sounds together to make music. Somehow, that person turned out to be me.
I may have felt like the conductor, but it took each instrument to truly make Lakeside sing. And I was looking at a few of those well-tuned instruments right now.
We were building something here. A legacy—I hoped. One that had started well before my arrival—maybe with Gibby. And one that might just continue after I left. And for the first time in my life, I felt like I had a purpose.
I also felt like I had found an incredible band of friends.
“Whoa! Did he really get down on the ground like that in front of you?” Marjorie asked. I peeked around at the photo she was referencing.
“Yep. I helped pick out the stalk he has between his teeth.”
“I don’t think anyone is going to notice that detail. Who can look past those abs?”
“It was my idea to leave the shirt completely unbuttoned too.”
“Damn, girl. How did you resist that? No wonder Jake got jealous.”
“You never told us how that got resolved—with you and Jake.” Stacy never missed a beat. Always got to the root of a good story.
“Well, it got complicated. We both said some things. But ultimately, we made up.” I shrugged. No big deal, when it was a very big deal.
“And . . . how did you make up?” Marjorie tilted her head like Chic does when he’s trying to understand the humans around him.
“Was it in a bedroom? I hope you made him beg,” Stacy added salaciously.
“Oh my God. Ali! Did you have S-E-X with Jake?” MJ—too innocent to bring herself to say the word out loud—soundlessly mouthed sex.
“No. We did not have sex. Things haven’t progressed that much.” I paused, calculating how much to tell my new friends.
Female relationships were competitive, complicated, and easily ruined in my world. So while I did feel safe with these women, I still found myself pausing before speaking. Calculating the risks of sharing too much. Sussing out potential betrayals.
Where I came from, women were measured against one of two archetypes: One who never made mistakes, who never got caught with chipped nail polish or last season’s handbag, who never showed her emotions or shared her secrets.
If you couldn’t keep up, you were pitied or exiled.
The others were women who, like my mother, were instinct-driven, floaty, and effervescent.
They seemed to flutter above all that perfection and tension.
They made chaos look ideal. Like freedom.
But they were also unpredictable and undependable. Boundaries were optional.
For a long time, I’d thought the latter were the lucky ones. The ones who had it all figured out because they managed to thrive outside all the uncompromising conformity that seemed to enclose and trap a woman.
Turns out, they both exist with the burden of confines. Even the wayward bohemians were in their own kind of cage—one that was ever-shifting, constantly changing, fast-moving. A different form of instability and fear.
Building relationships here with women like Marjorie, MJ, Stacy, Betsy, Sheila—they were undoing everything I thought I knew about womanhood.
And about sisterhood. They didn’t fit into the tidy categories I grew up with.
They were layered. Smart and funny and opinionated and flawed all at once.
They were complicated in ways that made them interesting, not threatening.
What I’d witnessed and felt getting closer to these women was enough to make me question everything I ever thought about myself.
“We did kiss, though,” I said, deciding to reveal my hand. I knew I wouldn’t tell them everything. Most of it I would keep for myself.
“What!” My friends erupted with excitement. We were high school girls at a slumber party talking about boys—that was never my high school experience, but it was probably theirs. I was thrilled to be in it now, though.
“You had your first kiss with Jake and you’re only now mentioning it?” Marjorie asked.
“How was it?” Stacy asked.
“It was sweet. He’s . . . well, as you can imagine, very good at it. But, um . . . it wasn’t actually our first kiss.” I looked at three shocked faces.
“When, girl? Tell us everything,” Stacy said.
So I did. I told them about the real first kiss on the path after open mic night. Then I told them about the second kiss at the meadow.
And then I asked their advice about what to do next.
“What’s holding you back? I know Jake, and he is a new man around you. And you really like him too, right? So what is it?” Marjorie asked.
“It has nothing to do with Jake. It’s all me. I feel like I can’t start something when I know I’m going to have to end it when I move back to Chicago by the end of the summer,” I confessed.
“So you’re set on that plan still, huh?” Stacy asked.
“Well, yeah. I don’t really belong here.” I shrugged. “What? Don’t look so disappointed!” I tried to reassure my friends. “You’ll all get sick of me. I always tend to wear out my welcome eventually.”
They looked at one another, something I couldn’t put my finger on lingering in their exchange. Was that pity?
“Look, Ali, if you don’t like it here and don’t want to stay here, that’s totally okay,” MJ started. “But don’t think for one second that you need to leave to outrun inevitable rejection. Rejection from us. From Jake. From Lakeside. It’s not likely.”
“Oh come on. You don’t know that, MJ. I’m chaos.
I’m damn near destructive. I’m messy. High-maintenance.
Too much for some people. Not enough for others.
The way things are set up now, we’ll successfully deter GlennGlobal, and Lakeside will be left intact.
Safe from them and safe from me,” I explained.
“Blah, blah, blah! Ali, you always say that about yourself. Like it’s a mantra or something. Do you want it to be your whole personality? Do you actually want it to be true?” Stacy asked. “Because, girl, I’m calling bullshit!”
“I think what Stace is trying to say is . . . we don’t know who convinced you that you are all those things, but that’s not the Ali we’ve all come to love,” Marjorie said, softening Stacy’s statement. The others nodded in agreement.
“You’re not a storm or a wrecking ball, Ali. Your heart is so big, I find it hard to believe you’ve ever purposely destroyed anything.”
“I . . . I . . . I have . . . I can’t think of an example off the top of my head, but . . .”
“Ali, what if the recklessness you describe isn’t really you, but a reaction you have to survive and protect yourself?” MJ asked. Ever the counselor, I admired her ability to ask questions that felt like looking into a mirror. Into myself.
Suddenly, the story I’d worn like an identity most of my life wasn’t as clear.
I had just arrived at the market to start my shift. Today I planned to curate another wildflower-themed display in the store, in between checking out customers and helping Betsy with orders for the month. After such a heavy chat with the girls, I was certainly ready to tackle more mundane tasks.
The dynamic between Betsy and me had improved.
Oh, she continued to roll her eyes at my antics, but I could tell I had earned her trust and maybe even a little place in her heart.
She may have been three decades older than me, but she had a little girl inside her, just like the rest of us, who wanted to be inspired and adored, made to laugh, hugged, and championed.
I was proud to offer some of that to her.
As I clocked in and grabbed a freshly pressed apron from the staff hook, I heard a yelp and a crash from the front of the store.
“Betsy, are you okay?” I hollered as I started to walk to the checkout counter, assuming I’d find Betsy there.
“Ali! Help!” Her voice was weak. A little desperate.
I rounded the corner to find her sprawled on the tile floor with an array of canned goods rolling on the floor all around her. Her legs were tangled in the steps of a small stool.
“Betsy!” I heard myself shriek. “Oh my God. Are you hurt?” I knelt beside her.
“No. I’m great. Never better. Yes, of course I’m hurt!” She shifted her body to move and screamed out in pain.
“Where? Where’s the pain?” I asked.
“My hip. I fell hard on my right hip.” She panted, clearly trying to suppress the pain.
“Stay where you are. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No, no, I don’t think we need all that,” Betsy said, trying and failing to shift herself up.
“Yes, you do. You don’t want to make anything worse. Stay where you are. Did you hit your head?” I asked.
“What?”
“Did you hit your head? The 911 dispatcher is going to ask that.”
“No.” She sighed and lay back as I grabbed my phone from my apron pocket and called for help.
A broken hip and a fractured wrist. That’s what Betsy ended up with. The paramedics did a great job helping Betsy out of the pretzel she had fallen into and onto a gurney. She was cantankerous the entire time.