Chapter 3
SAVANNAH
Calliope’s Column
Why sex doesn’t have to involve love…
“Delete.” I tap the backspace loudly, over and over until the page is blank again. “Why I suck at writing sex columns,” I say as I type the words into the headline. With a roll of my eyes and delete that too. Stating the obvious won’t save this column.
When I arrived this morning, I found a calendar invite from Cat, my boss, in my inbox. The subject of the meeting she scheduled for Monday? The Calliope Column. The writing is on the wall. If I don’t come up with something brilliant before then, she’s gonna can it.
Josie showed me the ad revenue from the last quarter, and my low numbers mean it’s more difficult to attract ads. If the numbers don’t change there’s no softening the blow, I’ll be out of a job.
“Fuck.” With a red painted nail between my teeth, I bite down. I can’t lose this job. Unlike my friends, I don’t have family around to help while I’m in flux. I left home at eighteen and never returned. My mother calls me for money after she spends all her earnings at the casino or the bar.
One would think a woman who’s worked in a casino for twenty five years would know that the house always wins. She swears the money she spends is an investment because eventually one of the big spenders at the tables will fall for her and then she’ll be set for life.
Maybe if she had even one redeemable quality, outside her still slim figure and oversized breasts, someone would be interested in more than a weekend.
I certainly couldn’t spend more than a couple of days in her presence. Fortunately, she doesn’t guilt me into coming home for the holidays or anything like that. Oh no. She’s always got plans and in the four years I’ve been in Boston, she hasn’t made the trip to see me once.
My apartment might be small, but rent is high in this city. Without this job, I’d be lucky to hold on to it for three months.
Unease swirls in my stomach, making the food in front of me a bit less desirable.
Nope. We’re not going there. I cannot return to Vegas.
“What am I going to write about?” I say aloud.
“What a great question.” Josie pops up on the other side of the half wall of my cubicle, a bright smile on her face. “And I happen to have an answer.”
One thing I love about Josie is even though she grew up around immense wealth, her style doesn’t scream traditional Jolie like every other girl in this office.
Most of the women here are the definition of a pick me girl.
They wear the most expensive designers and go broke doing it.
Josie, on the other hand, loves thrifting.
She couldn’t care less who made a piece, as long as she likes it.
Right now she’s wearing tight purple leather pants few people could pull off with a cream fringe vest over a black leotard.
Her strawberry-blond hair is pulled to the side in a loose French braid and the pretty freckles dotting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose act as a better blush than any I’ve seen on the market.
I wave her in to my cubicle. “Don’t just stand there, talk!”
Every bit of wall space around my desk is covered. One wall has an oversized calendar where I keep track of every plan Addie makes for us. And her games. Since it’s her last season in the PWHL, we’re even more dedicated to go to as many as we can.
The opposite wall is adorned with Post-its in a variety of colors, each with a random idea written on it.
I glared at each one when I sat down this morning, frustrated that not a single one sparked any kind of motivation to write. The other wall is plastered with pictures of me with the girls over the last few years.
The newest addition is a photo of the four of us jumping off the pier in Monhegan, Maine. It’s from this summer when we stayed at Sutton’s parents cottage for a long weekend.
It’s taken from behind, and my ass is ginormous in comparison to the other girls, but still, I love the image. The water as ice cold even in August but Sutton had acted like it was warm.
Josie hops up on the edge of my desk, tugging her oversized turquoise bag onto her lap and pulls out a photo album. “Last night after you girls left I was searching for a book in my dad’s library and I came across this.” She holds up the green leather album and wiggles it.
“What is that?” I roll back a couple of inches. “Listen, I know they aren’t biologically your parents but if that is like a couples boudoir photo shoot or something, then I’m gonna side eye the shit out of you.”
She scowls. “Ew! That’s—” She shakes her head, closes her eyes, and blows out a breath. “You know what I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer, pervert.”
I shrug. “Listen, I don’t believe in yucking anyone’s yum but that would be—“
“Gross!”
I snort. I love riling her up. “Plenty of women our age would kill for a shot with Daddy War.”
Seriously, the man is a Bolts legend. Not only was he the best captain the team’s ever had, he’s got his wife’s name and their wedding date inked onto his hand.
I’ve heard rumors he has ink in honor of her elsewhere too, but I would never tease Josie about that.
Besides, I’m sure it’s just urban legend.
Who in god's name would tattoo their damn balls?
Josie pushes the album back into her bag and stands. “You know what, you don’t deserve my help.”
I lurch from my chair and clutch her arm before she can leave. “No, I’m sorry, you know it’s not my fault that I have diarrhea of the mouth. I can’t help it. It’s a disease.”
With a roll of her eyes, she plops back down. “If you weren’t so pretty I’d ditch you.”
I bat my lashes. “So my boobs and pretty eyes make me good eye candy? Is that why you put up with me?”
She barks out a laugh. “Something like that.” Setting the now open album on my desk between us she points to the first picture. “This is my parents' wedding album, creeper.”
As I take in the image, my heart lifts. “Awe, look at how young they were.” I spin the album and study the picture of Ava in a winter white jacket in front of city hall.
Daddy War is in a simple black suit. The sleeves of his Oxford are rolled, exposing his tatted arms as he cups her face and kisses her in front of a burgundy Rolls Royce SUV, with a license plate that reads Mrs. War.
I snort. “Fancy.”
Josie smiles softly at the picture, eyes glassy and brushes her fingers against the page. “That was the day that we became a family,” she says, voice filled with emotion.
I have to look away from her. I love her story, the miracle of how her parents chose her. But sometimes it’s hard to think about. Because no one in my life has ever chosen me.
With a forced smile, I lift my chin. I don’t need anyone to choose me. I’m choosing myself. “So why are we taking a trip down memory lane?”
Sniffing, she turns the page. “Because of this.” She taps a piece of paper that’s been glued into the album. It’s yellowed a little with age and is crinkled like it was balled up at some point but then smoothed back out.
“The Good Wife’s Guide,” I read aloud. I skim the article quickly, noting the illustration of a woman wearing a dress and apron, circa 1955, according to the date at the top of the article. She’s holding a plate of pancakes and wearing a blinding smile.
The ‘guide’ makes me twitch. It’s absurd. “Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives!”
My eyes practically bulge out of my head.
“Put a ribbon in your hair!”
Josie’s lips are twitching.
“Wait.” I stab the page with one finger. “Why is your mother’s signature at the bottom of this?”
Ava Warren. The words almost bleed into the page, the strokes wild.
Josie giggles. “I have no fucking clue and honestly, I almost don’t want to know—” She shakes her head. “Listen, things were volatile between the two of them back then. They did a good job of hiding it from us, but we all knew how much my mom couldn’t stand my dad.”
“But she’s so kind.” I shake my head and flip through more pictures.
There are years of memories documented here. It’s clear in every image that Tyler Warren has always been head over heels in love with his wife.
I glance back up at my friend. “What does this have to do with my column?”
She bites her lip, her eyes flashing with excitement. “I was waiting for you to ask. I think you should write an article like this—about dating.”
“I do write about dating.” Confusion washes over me. I love Josie but I don’t have time for riddles or brainstorming ideas that already aren’t working.
“No, you write about sex. You don't date.”
I tilt my head back and forth. “Okay, I'll give you that.”
“But you'd be good at it.”
My stomach flips, but I ignore the reaction. “Oh would I? And why is that?”
She scoffs. “Because you don't care.”
It’s a bit harsh, but I guess the truth can be sometimes. And once again, she isn't wrong, so I go with it. “You want me to write a column about how I don't care about the dates I go on or the outcome?” I frown. “I don't see how that's going to bring in ad revenue.”
“People our age are bucking traditional marriage and dating. They’re choosing to have kids with friends and live in mom communes instead of putting themselves out there.”
“Smart.” Smiling, I lean back and cross my arms.
“Not for someone like Sutton.” She flips back to the article and taps it. “There are no longer columns out there that focus on falling in love. No tips for how to spot the Jack asses and how to make relationships work.”
With a sigh, I throw out my hands. “Okay but I don't know how to do any of those things.”
She sits up like I’ve made her point.
I’m so confused.
“Right,” she says. “But we all know- because of Sutton- what not to do.”
Slowly, I straighten, my mind whirling.
Josie points at me, her smile painfully bright. “See, it's brilliant. We've watched our best friend try and fail at finding a relationship over and over. But what if you showed her that she isn’t the problem. It's what she's doing.”
“A column on how not to date,” I breathe, my wheels already turning.
She purses her lips. “Or a how to in reverse.” She hums, trying that idea on for size. “You do everything wrong and in turn help your readers avoid these common mistakes.”
“And Sutton,” I say, letting the idea really percolate.
Josie snaps the album closed, her job here done. “And Sutton.”
“So I date a bunch of guys, do what she does, and get dumped, repeatedly.” I shrug. “Works for me.”
“Yes. A ‘it’s not him, it’s you.’” She tilts her head and scrunches her nose. “Kind of.”
I giggle, amusement washing over me, and pick up my pen. “That’s the title.” Quickly, I scribble it on a hot-pink Post-it.
It’s not him. It’s you. (Kind of).
“Yes!”
I nibble on my lip. “Okay, but I need a list of things she’s done wrong over the last few months.”
“Give me a bottle of wine, a pad of paper, and a couple of hours, and I’ll fill a notebook full for you.”
I cough out a laugh. “What if she gets mad?”
“Sutton?” She scoffs. “The girl doesn’t know how to hold a grudge. That’s another one of her faults. She forgives too easily.”
I shake my head. “That’s her personality, not a fault.
And it’s admirable. We’re just tougher on people.
And I can’t fake who I am.” I tap my pen against the sticky note, thinking.
“This will be good. I’ll just do some of the things that people regularly do wrong in dating like inviting someone they just met to spend the holidays with them. ”
Josie laughs. “Right. Or talking baby names the morning after you first sleep together.”
Without my permission, a gasp escapes me. “No one does that!”
Josie’s green eyes go comically wide. “Tell that to Kyra.”
“Who’s Kyra?”
She lets out a long breath. “The girl I was sleeping with a few weeks ago.”
I shake my head, smiling. “What names did she like?”
Head dropped back, she groans. “Brighton. And Binx.”
There’s no stopping the cackle that leaves me. “Binx sounds like a cat.”
She waves her hand. “Whatever, the point is, I liked Kyra until she jumped the gun.”
I wince. “Maybe she just liked you.”
She only shrugs. I may not date but Josie does. In fact, she dates enough for the both of us. Sometimes men, but mostly women.
“Then there’s the constant texting,” she says, jotting down notes as she goes. “The insecurity, jealousy, possessiveness—“
I throw up a hand. “Possessiveness can be hot.”
She puts a question mark next to it. “Fine, not hot possessiveness. Like when you want to go out with your friends and he or she freaks out or guilts you into staying home instead. Yeah, my friends are hot, but the insecurity isn’t.”
Giggling, I pull my shoulders back. “Was Kyra jealous of my boobs?”
She eyes my tits and scoffs. “Everyone’s jealous of your boobs.”
I glance down at them and grin. “They are fabulous.”
“You think you’ll really do this?” she asks, steering the conversation away from my fabulous rack.
I survey the title on the Post-it, then the blank document on my screen.
It’s not much but it’s a hell of a lot more than I had before she came in here.
Besides, helping Sutton learn how to date could be considered a public service at this point.
I can’t listen to her crying over another loser because she did something so egregiously wrong that I actually have to tell her it’s her and not him.
Next time she meets a guy, I want her to know precisely what to do, and what not to do, so a guy will stick around long enough for her to decide whether he’s worth it.
Also, it kind of sounds fun. More fun than having dinner with the retirees in the apartment below me. And much more fun than reminding them over and over that I’m not interested in dating their second cousin’s great-nephew.
“Yeah, I think I am.”
Josie claps her hands and bounces in place. “Yay.” She hops to her feet. “You better get ready for your interview with Sienna but don’t forget we have the holiday party at Camden Snow’s this weekend.”
“Right, how could I forget,” I tease. It’s probably the most exciting event I’ve ever been invited to.
Josie picks up her parents' wedding album and slips it into her bag, then sashays away. At the entrance to my cubicle, she peers back at me. “You never know, maybe you’ll find your first victim—I mean date—there.”