Chapter 18
“YOU’RE UP, KIDDO,” JILLIAN says, punching my shoulder on the way back to her desk.
Since learning of their secret relationship, I’ve found that the easiest thing to do is simply avoid speaking to and looking directly at Jillian and Camilla. I have developed an irrational fear that they will take one look at my guilt-ridden face and instantly realize I know everything.
Well, maybe not everything. But I do know that they’re back together, and carrying around the weight of that secret is already giving me back pain.
I head over to the green couch that Maude sits on, waiting. She is kicking off her meet-the-writers campaign—only it has turned into a meet-the-staff campaign—and has slowly begun interviews. Michelle went first, then Jill, now me. There’s also a Polaroid camera on the table that Maude’s been using to take our photos. She said that Fatima’s working on some cute creative pieces to launch the segment on our social channels, and something about it embodying an “early two thousands scrapbook vibe” that I completely love.
“Jackie! Hi, get comfy. Just give me one second to finish this off.” She is typing on her laptop, her brown tortoiseshell glasses perched so far on the end of her nose I think they may fall off. I settle into the cushion, then wonder what to do with my hands. I grab a candy from the bowl and unwrap it. I realize too late that it’s grape flavored. I’m about to spit it back into the wrapper when Maude’s blue eyes flicker back up to mine. She pushes her glasses up her nose and says, “Okay. You ready to start?”
I smile through the grape-flavored pain. “Yeah.”
“Awesome! So for a little overview, this campaign is meant to introduce you to our readers. It’s not so much about the office or your role here, but rather the person behind the role. Does that make sense?”
My palms begin to sweat. It’s like when someone asks what you do for fun, and suddenly you can’t think of a single hobby of yours, so you end up sounding like the most boring human being alive.
“I think so,” I say, knowing the only interesting thing about me is an anonymous blog that I can’t speak about.
“Perfect. Let’s begin with something easy. Favorite chocolate?” Maude asks.
I find myself smiling when I say, “Twix.” It brings me back to last night in Wilson’s office. An unfamiliar warmth spreads through me, enough to fight off the air-conditioning that is—once again—blasting through the office.
“Jackie?”
It’s just something about the fact that he remembered. Maybe being the youngest daughter has gotten me so accustomed to a very specific type of invisibility. Like how chocolate-caramel ice-cream cake is my favorite for my birthday, but my parents constantly get me vanilla Funfetti every year, a flavor I know to be Julie’s favorite. Or when I was thirteen and my parents didn’t want to buy me new clothing, I created a sense of style that was a mash-up of my sisters. Being the youngest has always felt like taking scraps from everyone else’s life and gluing them together to make this secondhand version of mine.
So when Wilson put the stupid Twix bar in front of me and casually admitted to remembering this tiny, unimportant detail, it felt like someone was holding a magnifying glass, looking through it, and seeing me clearly for the very first time...
“Jackie? Everything okay?” Maude’s voice cuts through the memory.
“Sorry,” I say. Heat floods my cheeks, as if she can read my mind and see who it was stuck on. Or rather, who it seems to be stuck on more often than not lately.
“What was the question?” I ask.
Maude smiles kindly, ignoring the rabbit hole I fell into. “First concert you ever went to?”
“Oh, that’s easy—Shania Twain,” I say, calling up the memory. “I saw her as a kid with my mom and sisters.”
Maude smiles down at her laptop. “Jillian said the same thing.”
I risk a glance in her direction. Jill’s sitting at her desk with her headphones on, nodding along to whatever song she’s playing too loudly. Staring at her is the most uncanny feeling—like staring into a fun-house mirror, the kind where your reflection still looks faintly like you, but distorted in enough ways that you are unrecognizable.
For a short moment I wonder when our one-way path diverged in the forest, when we reached this impasse where we both decided to head in different directions. Jillian, with her relationship. Me, with my blog. When did sharing secrets turn into keeping them?
As the interview is wrapping up, I realize that Maude has left the heavy hitter for last. “Five years from now—where are you?”
I pause, waiting for that familiar heart-crushing feeling, like my bones are shrinking. And it’s still there, but it’s a lot fainter than I’m used to. For the first time, a question about my future doesn’t send me over the edge. Instead, I take a second to look around me—at this office, the women sitting in it, my desk, where I’ve sat and learned too many new skills to count. I still don’t have all the answers regarding my future, but it feels like I’ve found a safe place to explore a new side of myself.
“I don’t know just yet,” I say, “but I think I’m closer to figuring it out.”
The look on Maude’s face is an answer in itself. “I love that,” she says kindly. “And for what it’s worth, I know you will.”
After she snaps my photo, Maude dismisses me and calls to Fatima. Back at my desk, I pause my music the second Camilla drags a chair over and sits next to Jill.
“So, where do we stand?” Camilla asks, her brown hair skimming Jillian’s desk. I notice how closely they sit; how their bodies have this natural call-and-response. It’s so completely obvious now that they’re together.
Jillian closes her laptop with a huff, swiveling her chair to face Camilla. “Still no response. With all the messages pouring in, I wouldn’t be surprised if they never received mine in the first place.”
“Resend it,” Camilla says without hesitating.
“I will. But I don’t have a good feeling about this one, Cami.”
I stare straight ahead at my laptop screen, pretending to be reading. Still, I haven’t been able to decide on how to handle this situation. With the planning for Kenzie, running the account, and working two jobs, it feels like I’ve barely had enough time to even process this whole interview fiasco.
“We have to get this, Jill. This person and their account is only going to get bigger. Now is the time to get in and be the first person to get the scoop. Imagine how big a deal that would be? If The Rundown was the first online mag to report on this?”
Jillian grins, captivated by the vision she’s spinning. “That’d be unreal.”
I find myself thinking that maybe I can find a way to make this work. Maybe I can make a fake email to use to contact Jillian. I can set boundaries for the interview and make it very clear that any personal information is off-limits. That I’ll only agree to do it on the condition that my anonymity be respected.
And then Camilla comes in with a sledgehammer, shattering that dream to pieces.
“What I want,” she begins, “is this to be exclusive to The Rundown . No one gets to interview the person behind the blog except for us. With this first article we build a relationship, ask easy questions that are relatively harmless. Then, when we’ve gained their trust, it’ll be easier to dig into the real story. Who are they? Why did they begin this blog? Where does this advice come from? I want to know every last detail.”
I can physically see the moment when Camilla places the world on Jillian’s shoulder, and Jill just sits there, trying not to get crushed by the weight of it. “I’m on it,” she says, her voice wavering the slightest bit.
When Camilla leaves to talk to Michelle, I sneak a glance at my sister. “Everything okay?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
“Great,” she grits out, fingers flying across the keyboard, eyes locked on the screen. “The owner of this social account won’t reply to my messages. Shit. I need this to work out.”
I see an opening and take it. “If it feels useless, maybe change direction? I’m sure there’s tons of other emerging internet personalities you can interview. The other day, I saw this account blowing up that’s just a girl reviewing every type of Oreos and ranking them best to worst.”
Jill manages a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks, but no thanks. It has to be this account, Jackie. You see how desperately Cami wants this. It’s the only way I’ll snag the promotion. I’ll just keep reaching out.”
I know that when I open iDiary , I’m going to have another message waiting for me.
This time, I know what to do.
Everyone slowly trickles out at five o’clock. As usual, Jill remains at her desk and Camilla in her office. I hang behind on the couch, waiting for Wilson to arrive. He sent an SOS text during my lunch break, shamefully admitting that he requires assistance to bring the gift basket to Kenzie’s house.
What if I slam the brakes and it flies off the seat? What if it breaks?
maybe try not to drive like a crazy person? is what I wrote back.
He’s such a damsel in distress.
Still, I lost the battle—potentially on purpose—and got roped into being the gift basket’s bodyguard. Though I suppose this is the job I signed up for.
When Wilson’s car pulls up outside, I wave goodbye to Jillian, who barely looks up from her laptop, and head out to meet the person who is slowly feeling less and less like my enemy.
“Hello, partner in crime,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat. I’m met with instant satisfaction when I realize that Wilson has the seat cooler running. For once, the leather doesn’t scorch my thighs.
“Hey,” he says, looking very polished in his usual getup. I can’t exactly pinpoint what it is, but something about him seems different today. Brighter. Happier, maybe. “And I’m not acknowledging that nickname,” he adds.
“Where’s the precious cargo I’ve been tasked to protect?”
He snorts out a laugh. “Behind you. Be careful , Jackie.”
I reach behind and ever so gently grab the gift basket from the back seat, placing it firmly on my lap. It looks as perfect as it did when we assembled it last night. “What if we scrap Kenzie and I keep this bad boy instead?”
Wilson actually pauses for one, two, three seconds. “No,” he says sternly, driving with one hand on the wheel, and we start the drive to Kenzie’s house.
“But you thought about it,” I say.
“I did not.”
I grip the basket when he goes over a speed bump. Wilson cuts me a glare. “ Be careful ,” he says.
“You do realize you’re the one driving?” I say. “And let the record show that you did pause.”
“Did not.”
I opt for a subject change. “How are you managing to leave Monte’s so often? Shouldn’t the boss actually, you know, be there ?”
Wilson throws his arm around the back of my seat, checking his blind spot before switching lanes. “Your coworkers are a lot more capable than you think,” he says, making a right at the traffic light.
He leaves his arm there, inches away from me.
I swear I can feel his fingers graze the back of my head.
I swallow. “You’re dying to get back there and make sure the place hasn’t burned down, aren’t you?”
“Very much so, yes.”
We pull into a residential area, and the car slows. The streets are lined with newly built homes, with towering arches and gray brick. A woman in a bright pink workout set is running along the sidewalk, her fluffy golden retriever following behind.
Wilson hasn’t pulled his arm away yet.
“Who is she staying with again?” I ask, trying and failing to recall the conversation we had about Kenzie weeks ago.
“Her aunt and uncle.” Something like nerves have crept their way into Wilson’s usually steady voice. “Her family lives in New York City,” he explains, “so she’s staying here for, well—I don’t know how long anymore.”
I watch the way his brows form a knot between his eyes. It must be such a weird feeling, to go from knowing everything about someone to knowing nothing.
We pull up in front of a house where Kenzie’s baby blue Mini Cooper is parked in the driveway. When I look over at Wilson, it looks like he’s trying to steady his breath.
“Nervous?” I ask.
His smile is different from the few I’ve seen before. It’s timid, shy. Like he’s trying to tuck it away into the corners of his face before I can notice it. But he’s too slow. Or maybe I’m too quick, because I seem to have gotten really good at recognizing Wilson’s smiles and the way they seem to brighten his face like the sun after a storm.
“A little,” he whispers.
His hand is still on the back of my seat.
I feel the smallest sensation, like someone twirling a strand of my hair, and attribute it to the wind.
When I sneak a glance, all the car windows are closed.
“It’s Kenzie,” I say, scrounging up some shred of certainty. “The person you love. The person you’ve spent months of your life with. She isn’t a stranger you need to impress, right?”
His pink lips press into a straight line. “No. I guess she isn’t.”
I hand Wilson the basket, only because it seems I can’t stand to be touching it anymore. “Go knock on that door and hand her this. That’s all you have to do.”
“What do I say?”
I pause for a split second, taking in a moment so brief that I doubt he even notices. It’s the way Wilson sits there uncertainly, the way his fingers toy with the pink ribbon on the basket. The nerves ripple off his body in tsunami-like waves, but I can’t begin to fathom why. This is Wilson—the guy who notices, who pays attention. Who knows Kenzie’s allergies, the way she takes her tea, the color she paints her nails. I bet if I sat here and asked, there are a hundred more facts he could spit out about her, all while that faraway, blissful contentment paints his features with a lovestruck hue. It dawns on me that he’s nervous for no reason. There is absolutely no way Kenzie won’t take him back. How could she not? How could she lose this twice?
Sure, he’s a pain in my ass. And yes, he may take his job a bit too seriously, if not for good reason. But Wilson has good intentions. He isn’t impulsive or irrational. Every move, every word, is meticulously thought out—and Kenzie happens to be the lucky one who occupies most of his thoughts. He has put so much effort into getting her back that it actually stings my heart when I think about it too much.
Wilson is staring at me, his brown eyes peeking out shyly beneath a layer of thick black lashes.
“Say you miss her,” I answer, my voice heavy with an emotion I still struggle to place. “And that you’re thinking of her. That—that if she’s up for it, you should find a time to talk.”
Wilson nods, like he’s committing this to memory. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I think I can do that.”
He gets out of the car. When the door closes, my eyes meet the floor. I don’t know if I can do it. Watch him walk up the driveway, watch his hand knock on the door—
There’s a tap on my window. I glance up into Wilson’s eyes, this goofy grin on his face.
I roll the window down. “Wish me luck, Froggy,” he says.
I realize this is the pivotal moment. That speak now moment—where I’m sitting in the church pews watching their wedding procession, and I have one final chance to get up, say something, stop the future from unfolding the only way it can.
I swallow every word that hovers on the tip of my tongue and match Wilson’s smile. “Good luck, Willy,” I say.
He begins his trek up to the porch.
Even though I don’t want to, I can’t seem to look away. Not as he knocks. Or when the door is tugged open. Especially not when Kenzie stands there, her jaw wide-open. She takes the basket. She hugs him.
My phone buzzes with a notification from iDiary . I have new messages waiting. Finally fed up with putting off the inevitable, I open the app and dig through until I find the second message from Jillian. It just came in minutes ago. It says:
Hey! Jillian again from The Rundown. Checking back in to see if you’re interested in talking with us. Would love to learn more about this fantastic account. I’m sure your followers would love to know, too. Send me an email [email protected]. Thanks!
Hey Jillian , I write. Thanks for reaching out. Unfortunately, I’m not interested in doing any interviews whatsoever. Take care. I answer the message privately, for only her to see.
I can imagine her right now, hunched over her desk, desperately refreshing her browser, waiting for a response to come through. I can feel the excitement pulse through her chest when it does, then the way it dwindles down like a dying flame when she reads the response.
It could’ve worked out. We both could have won. But she had to pair herself with Camilla, the person who wanted to take a hammer and smash right through everything I’ve built for myself. I can’t let that happen.
I look back at Wilson, who is still hugging Kenzie.
Now, more than ever, I can’t lose my blog, too.
He walks back down the driveway toward me. I make eye contact with Kenzie and wave. Only she doesn’t wave back. Her eyebrows furrow together.
The door opens, and the car shifts beneath Wilson’s weight.
“How’d it go?” I ask. Now I’m the one who’s nervous.
“Great,” Wilson says. He leans back against the seat, lets out a breath. “She loved it. She agreed to meet up next week to talk before she goes back to the city.”
My voice shakes when I respond. “That’s amazing.”
He turns to me, bright with excitement. “Ready to plan the perfect date?”
It’s truly the last thing I want to do.
“You bet.”