Chapter 19
19
Tatum
June busts open the door to the office, finding me in a pile of blankets, my eyes still crusted over with sleep.
“Let’s take a walk,” she says.
“It’s seven in the morning,” I tell her, still tasting the tang of last night’s drinks in my mouth. We didn’t have very many, but what we did have, combined with the adrenaline rush of the karaoke situation, has made it hard for me to get anything out of my system—alcohol, feelings, lingering dread about what’s happening back in Trove Hills without me.
I’ve now read the lyrics to “If I Told You That” so many times that if I’m ever thrust into another impromptu performance, I won’t need to look at the screen. I could even perform it like a spoken-word poem if necessary. Dawn would hate that. It would be amazing.
“It’s actually 10:53,” June says. My hands reach for my phone. She is, somehow, right. “Could you be ready in twenty?”
Her nervous energy is so potent it pulls me off the bed and into action. “Sure,” I say, moving with more intention than I expected.
By the time we make it to the door, June is looping circles around the entryway as we make sure that Salt doesn’t try to make a run for the exit once the door opens. She’s put on a monochromatic outfit, though it’s lavender, not orange. It’s an athletic set and matching ball cap, with ankle-high socks and a pair of vintage sneakers that have lavender accents on them too.
“Inspired by Hannity ?” I ask.
“You know it.”
“You look good.”
“Thank you,” she says, not meeting my eye. “I’m stressed about the investor meeting.”
She’s deflected my compliment, which should be a good thing. She’s not overwhelmed by us like I am. She’s overwhelmed by her meeting.
“Nerves are good,” I assure her, attempting to slide into a role I know well—Tatum the advice giver. “And we can take some pictures of you on the walk with some captions like ‘Dreaming of big things to come’ or whatever. Vanessa will be sweating.”
Invoking Vanessa is a pressure test. What does her name mean between us now?
After all, June has stopped maintaining the ruse on her Instagram. Gone are the solo shots with the pointed captions about enjoying New York alone. When we got home last night, she even tagged me in a story. Right when I’d almost been able to drift off to sleep, the notification came in. It was a picture of us from the bar, taken by Stevie and sent to June through DM. June even put the Whitney song over the story.
She has to feel what I feel.
She has to know.
“Who cares about Vanessa?” she asks.
I could kiss you right now , I think. I could press you up against this wall.
“I’m more worried about whether or not the investors will like my presentation,” she finishes.
“The presentation, right,” I say, putting my thoughts back on track. This is not about kissing. “You know, something that always helps me is to flip my worries on myself. Instead of asking what happens if it all goes wrong, I ask myself what happens if it all goes right. What’s the best-case scenario here?”
I almost never actually do this for myself, but it’s great advice to give someone else.
We’re out the door now, heading down in the elevator. “They agree to keep me on as creative director, and I’m still making the perfumes I want,” she says. “But I have real support behind me, and I don’t have to oversee every single step, down to the printing of the receipts and the tracking of the packages.” She looks at her reflection in the mirrored ceiling above us. I watch her there too, gazing at us from this height, seeing all the people we could become. She looks infinite here, prismatic. Only she could look flattering under these circumstances, so lovely and soft.
As we walk through the park, we run scenarios together, playing out all the ways the investor meeting could go. We’re good at this, just like we’ve been good at everything else we’ve tried. I think again of the kiss, wondering more than ever what it would be like if we just gave in.
Wondering if maybe—just maybe—it really is us.
“Do you feel ready now?” I ask her.
“I do, thank you. I just wish time would speed up and I could get past the meeting.” She squeezes my hand again, and it’s exactly what I need to urge me forward.
“I know one thing that might help with distracting you,” I say. “I finally figured what you can help me with. How you can pay me back or whatever.”
“Do tell.”
“I think last night, I couldn’t follow through with asking anyone out because I’m so good at talking myself out of things. If you let me, I can find the flaw in almost anything,” I say. “But I’m tired of trying to find what could be wrong. I’d rather figure out what could be right. So this is me going for it. This is me asking you.”
Her eyes crease into curious slits. “Asking me what?”
“On a date.”
She steps away, waiting for the catch. “You want to go on a date…with me ?”
“Yes,” I say, holding my ground, even as a nervous quiver begins working its way through my system. “I know you’re trying to learn the art of being single, so I obviously understand if it’s a no. I just…I had to ask.”
“I thought you said we’d be a bad idea,” she reminds me.
I’ve planned for this comment. I’ve read the Whitney lyrics like scripture. “I’m not so sure I believe my past self anymore. And I think my exact words were that we wouldn’t be a good idea. Which means maybe we’re a great idea instead.”
All her skepticism washes away, cleansed by the hope of my words. It’s in the way her eyes widen, her nose crinkling with delight.
In this shift, we linger on each other, a new gate of possibility suddenly opened up.
“Wait a second,” she says. “I asked you out first. I should get to take you out.”
I expected her to challenge me, but only on the concept. Not on the specifics. “I thought this was my favor.”
“You can cash in your favor later,” she tells me. “Because I’m the one who will be taking you out tonight.”
When my mouth opens to protest, she presses a finger against it.
“It’s not negotiable,” she tells me. “I’m going for a jog. See you tonight. You can get ready at Dawn’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Then she leans in, kisses my cheek, and takes off running.