Chapter 3
3
Lucy
present day
Holy shit.
“Nat. What is that?”
Silence. Nothing but wide smiles, stifled giggles, and silence .
I realize now that this FaceTime call isn’t a simple video chat. One my sister texted me about the night before with a sudden urgency to be available the next day at 2:30 p.m., 5:30 p.m. her time, all while she told me, “I just want to see your face.”
Stifled giggles continue to fill the silence. “What do you think it is?”
“I—is that…?”
More giggles. “An engagement ring?” Said engagement ring chooses that moment to reflect off the lights in Nat and her boyfriend of three years, Hayden’s, apartment from her left hand. Like someone dramatically sprinkled a handful of glitter in front of the screen to time it with my stunned reaction. It’s fucking gorgeous .
I nod vigorously. “Nat!” I squeal. “When did this happen?”
Nat turns to Hayden and grins. “Last week,” she answers, her gaze swooning in Hayden’s direction. “After Hayden’s grand opening. We closed up for the night, and before we left, he asked me to marry him in his empty restaurant. He’s been hiding this baby in his pocket for a few months.” Her eyes twinkle with the far-off look of fairytale princesses, matching the one on Hayden’s, while he looks at my sister as if she’s the world.
“You guys!” I whine, letting the last word stretch for a few seconds. Hayden leans down to give Nat a tender peck at her temple, and my insides melt a little. My sister’s getting married! “I’m so happy for you two!” I cry, and my voice cracks with a sledgehammer full of emotions.
“Is that Lucy?”
I hear a familiar voice at the same time both Nat and Hayden look over their shoulders. They lean toward the outer edges of the screen as Hayden’s old roommate, Dexter, pokes his head in between them.
“Hey there, stranger,” he calls in that low, throaty voice of his that can keep chocolate in a constant state of gooey softness.
The screen starts to wiggle, looking like Nat’s laptop is being moved from its current position to elsewhere. I can see the entire span of the room, parts of the ceiling, and what looks like a blurred kitchen sink before the movement stops and I see Dexter, his hands braced against a countertop with a lopsided—and pleased—smile.
“How are you?”
I lightly scoff, turning my face away before letting a smile slip. Dexter’s tongue pokes out and swipes across his lower lip, and that smile I couldn’t hold back is joined by an eye roll. “I’m good, Dexter.” My voice loses all of the sweetness and bounce it carried when I was talking to my sister.
“You changed your hair. ”
My hand lifts, my fingers raking through my short hair, a vast difference from when it was a shade darker than blonde and almost at elbow length when I first met him three years ago. Now, I’ve gone back to my natural dark color and had it cut to a near bob, stopping just above my shoulders.
“The bleached hair was getting a bit much to manage,” I explain.
“It suits you.” The corners of his mouth curl upward, and his eyes narrow in on mine, as if there isn’t a screen and thousands of miles between us.
That smile, the one that says, I know what you look like when you come , is enough to make my mind spiral in about ten different directions. Sure, he knows what I look like when a body-rattling orgasm rips through me. And sure, I know the sounds he makes when a similar sensation tears through him too. But that was ages ago—three years, to be exact.
I lower my voice, leaning a little closer toward the screen. “Thank you, Dexter,” I whisper, unsure of where my sister and her fiancé are. Whether they’re standing elbow to elbow with Dexter or in the other room, I can’t chance them hearing the guilt and secrecy oozing from my voice.
“What are the odds that I’d be here, visiting my old roommate, when you happened to be talking to Nat?” he teases, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. “Seems like fate had plans for us.” His voice isn’t hushed or discreet like mine. In fact, it’s the complete opposite. He might as well have a sign taped to his back that says I’VE SLEPT WITH THIS WOMAN.
“Can I get my sister back, please ?”
I jump at the same time I see Nat’s thoroughly irritated face from the corner of the screen. Her small hands fling over him as his shoulder lifts to fight her off.
Dexter slaps her hand away. “We’re talking.”
“We were talking first!” Nat argues. I see her hand coming out from behind Dexter’s waist to finally get a grip on the laptop before it’s snatched out from under him. The screen starts to shake, and I get a close up of Nat’s chin and nostrils. She walks into the only room in her small New York City apartment and closes the door behind her before sinking into an unmade bed. “Ugh, finally!”
“What’s Dexter doing there anyway?” I ask, hoping I sound nonchalant. Maybe I should tack on a question about the weather or mention the random Yahoo! News article I read about the dangers of skipping your nightly floss routine to hide my impatient curiosity.
“I think he misses Hayden,” she answers. She takes a quick peek over her shoulder. “He won’t say it, but after Hayden moved out of his place, he’s been randomly popping his head around here. I think he feels a little lonely even though he says he likes his privacy. Says he’s been walking around naked a lot.” She cringes.
“Oh.” That’s a little… sad . “So…”
“So?”
I roll my eyes. “Nat! You’re engaged!”
She laughs, tilting a shoulder toward her cheek. “Miss blushing bride.”
“I know it’s only been a few days, but any plans for the big day?”
She sits up straighter, her hands splayed in front of her with her game face on. “Nothing official yet. But…” She pauses. “We’re thinking Hawaii.”
“Hawaii?!”
She nods. “Hayden’s aunt has connections with the hotel she manages in Indiana, so we can get a pretty good deal on the venue and rooms. And we thought it would be nice to have a honeymoon doing a little island hopping. Plus, it’s the perfect excuse to keep the wedding small. I don’t want to make a big ol’ fuss about it, and this way, we only invite the few people willing to make the trip.”
I smile endearingly. “That actually sounds kind of perfect.”
“Right? It’ll give us a chance to take a nice vacation together. You, me, and Carmen.”
“Yeah. ”
“I miss the three of us just hanging out,” she adds. “I hardly see Carmen anymore since I moved out. And the only time I get to see your face is during these FaceTime calls.”
“Has Carmen been picking up extra shifts again?” I ask, curious about our oldest sister, who’s a quick trip across the bridge away from Nat.
She nods. “It’s always something with that hospital. If they aren’t short-staffed, then there’s some big trauma that keeps her long past her shift.”
I laugh. “Helping sick people. It’s almost like Dr. Marquez signed up for it.”
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t be complaining. She’s, you know, doctor-ing. But I just miss us .”
“I miss you guys too,” I tell her, wishing I could place a reassuring hand on her arm through the screen.
“How are things in Seattle?” she asks, her face lifting through a sad smile.
“They’re fine,” I tell her. “You know, same same.”
“Are you at work?”
I peer over my shoulder, looking at the wall behind me bedecked with various coffee-related decor. A hand-drawn image of coffee beans to my right. A cross-stitched frame with the words “More Espresso, Less Depresso” to my left. “Yep, I’m on my break.”
“And you chose to spend your ten minutes of freedom with me ?” she asks with a sweet smile.
I laugh. “You said it was urgent,” I tell her. “So what did Mom and Dad say? I bet Mom already set an appointment to go dress shopping with you. You better get out the tissues.”
She rolls her eyes. “They’re next,” she answers. “And don’t remind me. I love Mom to pieces, but her dramatics can be so over the top sometimes.”
“Hmm,” I hum, tapping my finger to my chin. “I wonder if that’s where you get your dramatics from? ”
“I am not dramatic,” she tells me. “I’m just… expressive .”
“Sure.”
“Have you talked to Mom recently?” she asks.
“A few days ago,” I tell her. “She told me about this job listing in my area she found off Craigslist. Who still uses Craigslist?”
“Mom, apparently.”
I scoff. “C’yeah. Anyway,” I continue, “as soon as I read ‘must be bilingual in Farsi and English,’ I deleted the email she sent me. I don’t even think she reads the job description at this point. As long as they’re in Seattle, she just zips them my way.”
Nat laughs before her smile fades. “I talked to her last week. She, uh, mentioned something about an internship?”
My entire body freezes. “What?”
“I mean, she didn’t go into detail, but she just briefly said you told her about it last month? From UW? She said you wanted to apply, but she convinced you it might not be the best idea right now.”
“Oh, that,” I say, holding back the deep sigh of relief from my chest. “Um, yeah. It was this internship at a photography agency. They’re handling this huge ad campaign and filling some of the entry-level positions with interns. UW sent me the email to apply since I’m an alumni, but…whatever.”
“That wasn’t even your major,” she points out.
I nod. “I know,” I say, brushing off the tightness in my throat with indifference. “But I took some art electives in grad school, just for fun, I guess, so I think they thought I might be interested.” I start to gnaw on my lower lip, hoping my nonchalance is believable.
She nods. “You know, she’s just worried about you. After you got fired last year, she’s focused on you finding a job. You know, like a real one. No offense. ”
I wince, recalling the sit-down I had with Ted from Human Resources informing me I was being “let go” from the marketing agency I’d been working at for two years, blaming the mass layoff on budget cuts and the current economic climate. I thought I was getting a raise or a promotion for all of my hard work. Or even a new desk chair. Not a cardboard box to fill with the contents of my desk. And I certainly didn’t think those months of unemployment following my walk of shame out of the office would lead me right to Mr. Bean’s Coffee and Tea and the bright Help Wanted sign in the window. “I know,” I tell her.
“She said she doesn’t want you getting your hopes up on an internship with no promise of a secure job. At least for now, you have Mr. Bean’s. She doesn’t want you to give that up since…you know, there isn’t much else right now.”
“Yeah, she—she said that.” I couldn’t disagree with my mom. But still, her reaction shocked me. My mom, and my dad, never tried to snuff whatever dreams and ambitions my sisters and I held in our hearts. When Nat wanted to take up figure skating at eight years old, my parents bought her her first pair of ice skates, only for her to ditch the dream of joining the next Winter Olympics a month later. They never got upset, always reminding us we don’t know what we want until we at least try.
But this was different. Too much was on the line. My livelihood, my future. The stakes were higher. I wasn’t sixteen, carrying around my high school yearbook department’s loaner camera to take candid pictures of the student body. I wasn’t in college, taking a few photography courses to see if it was something more than just a hobby while finishing my graduate degree. I couldn’t be haughty or reckless about my future anymore.
“And, you know, maybe she’s right.” Nat pauses, reading the sullen dejection on my face as she tries to soften the blow with her gentle voice and cautious words. “I know you’ve always been into this whole photography thing, but maybe you can do that on the side. And if an opportunity like that comes up again, you’ll be in a better place to take it.”
But an opportunity like that doesn’t come up every day.
Which is why I applied for it. Against my mom’s wishes. With a big fat lie slapped on my face. Right alongside the emails from her and my sister backing my mom with heed and reason.
I didn’t think I’d get it. In fact, I assumed the mass email informing University of Washington students and alumni about the internship was more spam related instead of a purposeful and thought-out offer. But it wasn’t. And even though the extent of my photography experience in college was nothing beyond a few photography courses with a brief conversation with the professor about my art career, it was enough to get me in. And now, I’m starting on Monday, bright and early. In New York City, of all places.
There’s banging on the door through the screen, followed by a light jump from Nat and a set of loose giggles. “And there’s my fiancé’s boyfriend. I better go before Dexter flings my laptop across the room.” The door swings open just then, and Dexter hurdles toward Nat. “Dexter!”
The timer I set on my phone for my break dings just as the screen goes blank.
“Lucy.”
I look up from the small round table I settled at to call Nat and Hayden to see Mr. Bean, the owner of Mr. Bean’s Coffee and Tea, leaning over the counter to get my attention. “I have to leave a little early,” he tells me. “You’ll be okay until Vanessa gets here?”
“Sure.” I shove my phone into my back pocket, rounding the counter where the glass display and register sits, and take the next customer in line. I ring a few people up, pour various types of espresso drinks into disposable cups, and keep a watchful eye on the pastries in case I need to place a small Sold Out placard on the display. When the line dies down, giving me a moment to breathe, I reach for my phone in my pocket and open what I like to call my Anxiety Support Checklist on my notes app.
Email Elevate Media with the last of the HR paperwork before I start on Monday morning. Check.
Confirm my flight for Saturday at eleven a.m. out of Seattle International to JFK. Check.
Email the property manager for my new rental in Brooklyn to confirm the time of my arrival. Check.
Avoid running into my sisters while living in Brooklyn for three months.
Maybe if I invested in a wig or those thick-framed glasses with a plastic nose and mustache, I can check that one off. Spirit Halloween is open year-round, right? Or maybe I can order one off Amazon.
It’s in the bag. A flimsy one full of holes and a broken strap, but a bag nonetheless.
With the late afternoon lull in customer traffic, my tasks dwindle down to restocking wooden coffee stirrers and sugar packets with the sporadic flow of customer traffic. Vanessa finally walks in close to four, looking a little frazzled.
“Hey,” she says with an exhale. “Sorry I’m late.” She ducks her head to fasten her apron around her neck before clocking in.
“No worries.” I finish refilling the napkins and turn to her. “Mr. Bean took off. Something about his parrot’s vet appointment.”
“Maybe he’ll finally get him to stop singing ‘Rocket Man.’” We share a giggle before she adds, “You all ready for the Big Apple?”
“Physically? Almost. I just have a few things left to pack. Mentally? No.”
She laughs. “Is one of your sisters meeting you when you get there?”
“Uh, no,” I tell her hesitantly. “They, um, they don’t know.”
Vanessa jerks her head in my direction. “You didn’t tell them?”
I shake my head.
“Why not? ”
“I don’t know,” I tell her with a deep sigh. “I thought about it, but my mom already didn’t want me to apply for this internship. I don’t want them to accidentally slip and tell my mom. And I don’t want them to lie to her either.” I pause to look at her with a sad puppy dog face. “And I talked to Nat earlier. She thinks my mom’s right. She said it’s probably a good idea that I didn’t apply for it. Thinks I’ll just get my hopes up or something.” I bury my face into my hands. Even my sister thinks this internship is a bad idea.
“Hey.” I look up from my hands, and Vanessa has her chin in her palms, her elbows braced on the countertop, and her bright blue eyes peering up at me. “Just go and kill it. Break a leg or whatever. Worry about all of that family drama bullshit later.”
I smile, though my lips immediately turn upside down into a sad pout. Vanessa stands upright and clicks away at the register before it opens with a heavy clunk. She lifts the drawer tray, where a large white envelope with my name is buried under a mess of invoices, and carefully plucks it out and slides it my way. “Let’s hope this is the last time you get one of these from Mr. Bean.”
I glide my fingers over my last check. “Fingers crossed.”