13. Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Chase: Distract me
I t’s Friday evening and I’m sitting in my office; most of the staff has gone home already. Only one day until the big party, and I’ve spent most of it being ordered around by Chelsea. Long story short, she’s about to have a panic attack.
It’s because she wants the whole thing to be perfect. Our dad has high expectations, and rather than just realizing that those expectations can never be met—which is how I think of it—she’s doing everything in her power to meet them. The thing is, no one actually knows what my dad’s hoping for; he’s only said he wants it to be fun. And that maybe we should have a clown. That part is definitely not happening—Chelsea has her limits.
I also think the three of us are a little on edge because June is coming. It’s adding a big dose of awkward to the whole experience.
Maggie: Distract how?
Chase: I have no idea. I was just considering distracting myself with some alcohol and thought I would text my old friend Maggie instead.
Maggie: Old friend?
Chase: Well, early 40s is kinda old.
Maggie: Goodby e
Chase: Wait! I’m kidding. Don’t leave.
He sends me a GIF of a dog with sad eyes.
Maggie: We’ve moved to GIFS now?
Chase: I got desperate
Chase: Tell me what you’re doing.
Maggie: Finishing stuff up for the party tomorrow.
Chase: How’s that going?
Maggie: Well, Chelsea is freaking out.
Chase: And Devon is probably doing nothing.
I stare at my phone. What did I text my mom to make him think that? I mean, he’s not wrong. Chelsea has been running around like her hair is on fire, and I’ve been doing her bidding while Devon has contributed a big pile of nothing.
He did come into my office earlier and tell me that he’s not bringing anyone. Which means I’ll also be on babysitting duty tomorrow, to keep him away from Robin. Hannah can fend for herself.
Although, if I let Devon go after Robin, then maybe whatever is going on with Dawson … Nope. No. I can’t do that.
Chase: Crap. Supposed to be not remembering.
Maggie: That’s right. Curious, though, how did you figure that out? What did I say?
The thing about thought dumping is it’s just that: thought dumps. There’s no rhyme or reason to them. I said things that I would say in a journal, never expecting anyone to read it. I don’t recall all the things I texted to my mom. Or how many times I wrote to her. I couldn’t remember unless I went and looked back through the texts … and I don’t like doing that. It brings up too many feelings, too many memories. It’s a hard thing for me to do.
Chase: Wasn’t those exact words.
Maggie: What was it, then?
Chase: I feel like I’m in trouble.
Maggie: You are.
Maggie: Fine. It’s not your fault you happen to own the number I was sending texts to as a form of therapy.
Chase: Now that I’m on the other side … I get it.
Maggie: Do you?
Chase: It’s not something I’d do … but it makes sense to me now.
Maggie: So what did I say about Devon?
Chase: It was a combo of things you wrote, I guess. I just picked up on it. You said something about a Chad that he hired and then didn’t bother training.
Maggie: Are you sure you deleted my texts?
Chase: I did. Scout’s honor.
Maggie: Are you a scout?
Chase: No
I snort laugh at my phone, shaking my head.
Maggie: You still owe me some gossip about you. I feel like you know all this stuff about me and I still don’t know much about you.
Chase: I’m working on it. I will get you some dirty stuff.
Maggie: Please don’t make it dirty .
I send him a gagging emoji.
Maggie: How about we start with some basics. Where do you work?
Chase: How do you know I have a job?
Maggie: I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.
Chase: I’m in the FBI
Maggie: I don’t believe you
Chase: CIA?
Maggie: Try again
Chase: I work for SurveyWave
I’ve heard of that company. Kind of a big deal around here. They have a lot of employees. A few of my friends from college went on to work there.
Maggie: And what does SurveyWave do?
Chase: Online survey tools
Maggie: Right. I mean, I should have gathered that from the name.
Chase: Ever taken a survey online? Or when you were at school?
Maggie: Of course
Chase: We design and implement those. Where did you go to college?
Maggie: ASU
Chase: Chances are you used our surveys.
Maggie: What do you do there?
Chase: Sales. Just got promoted, actually.
Maggie: Congrats !
I send him one of those confetti emojis. And then feel stupid for sending it.
Chase: Thanks. Not as cool as your job.
Maggie: My job sounds cooler than it is.
Chase: I don’t know … all those fancy cars?
Maggie: I’m not into cars all that much.
Chase: You should just keep that to yourself. Especially at the party tomorrow.
Maggie: Yes, I’m fully prepared to talk about torque, camber, horsepower, and all that other car mumbo jumbo.
Chase: I am so turned on right now.
Maggie: Shut up
I laugh out loud, then look up and realize where I am, seeing the epoxy floors of my office, and the walls filled with pictures of my family and some of the adventures we’ve had. It’s weird when I’m texting Chase. It’s like I’m transferred to another place.
My phone beeps and I look down at it. But then I hear a sort of choking, strangled noise, and I look up to find a raging Chelsea standing in the doorway of my office.
“ARE YOU FOR REAL RIGHT NOW?”
The messy bun on top of her head has flopped over to the side, and her face looks as if it could catch on fire at any moment. Very Miss Trunchbull.
The panic attack has officially begun.
“I was just texting Hannah,” I say. I set my phone on my desk, feeling like I’m about to be put in the Chokey.
I’m not about to tell her who I’m really texting. I don’t think I’ll ever tell her about Chase and how that all came to be .
She inhales slowly and calculatedly, her face reddening even more. “I can’t do this; it’s too much. I have mom brain, and I’m so tired, and no one is helping me, and nothing is working out. And once this is done, I still have Drives for Dreams, and I can’t do it all.” This comes out through gritted teeth. My ears appreciate the lower decibel, but it feels a bit more sinister.
“Chels, it’s going to be fine,” I say, trying to calm her.
At those words, Chelsea bursts into tears.
I walk over to her and guide her into my office, shutting the door behind her so anyone that might still be here can’t hear the breakdown happening right now. I walk her over to my chair and help her sit down.
“It’s not fine,” she says through her tears. “It’s a big dumpster fire.”
“What’s going on?”
She takes a few moments to gather herself, the tears streaming down her face. “The caterer we hired had to change one of the sandwich orders from beef to chicken.”
This sets off more tears. She’s basically now blubbering in my office chair, her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
I know it’s not the chicken that’s the problem. The sandwiches are just the finger food that surpassed Chelsea’s limit. This is a new thing, and I’m assuming a side effect from losing our mom. While high strung, Chelsea was always a champ with knowing where her limits lie. Since our mom died, I think she forgot where to draw the line.
I rub the upper part of her back in slow circles. “Chels, I think you need to go home and get some rest.”
The crying stops instantly and she pulls her face away from her hands and looks at me. “Are you on drugs? I can’t rest—I have so much to do! ”
That was clearly not the right thing to say. I’m for sure getting put in the Chokey.
“Okay,” I say softly, like I’m trying to calm a raging monster. “What’s left to do?”
“I don’t even know,” she says, starting up the blubbering again.
“Is there a list or something? What needs to be done?”
She sniffs. “Can we find another caterer to do the beef sandwiches?”
“Probably not,” I say.
I see the moment when she resigns herself to it. She does a full-body slouch in my black faux-leather office chair.
She sniffs again. “Maybe I should go to bed.”
“I think so,” I say.
“Wait—I need to mark where the cars will park tomorrow.”
“I can do that,” I say.
“But—”
“I’ve got this, Chels.”
She has a detailed map of where everything will go, so I’m pretty sure I can figure it all out.
“Okay,” she says so quietly I barely hear her.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.” She reaches up and wipes her eyes. “I’ll go home.”
After a few minutes of arguing over whether she’s actually capable of driving home, I pile Chelsea into her car and send her home with the strict rule that she go straight to bed, and then I text Mark for backup. I also text Chase and tell him why I haven’t written him back.
With no response from him, I go to the back of the shop in search of the black tape to mark the parking lot with.
As I open the door, I see that there’s a spotlight directed at a Mustang getting a full bright-red matte wrap. Dawson is at the front of the car, working on the hood, a belt around the waist of his coveralls with all his tools in it.
“Hi,” I say, giving him a little wave when he looks my way. It’s strange to see him in here by himself. Usually the room is bustling with people, lots of chatter and laughter as they work. It’s quiet in here, except for the faint sounds of music coming from a portable speaker near where Dawson is working.
He gives me one of those irresistible smiles of his, and my heart does this little pitter-patter thing. He’s taken, Maggie. You utter fool.
“What are you still doing here?” he asks.
“Just doing some last-minute stuff. Gotta mark where the cars on display are parking tomorrow.”
“Gotcha.”
“Is the tape—” I cut off, pointing over to the shelves on the left side of the shop where we keep most of the supplies.
“Yeah,” he says, then joins me over by the wall, showing me where it is.
I grab a roll and hold it in my hands. “Thanks.”
“Not a problem.”
“I’ll just,” I say, pointing to the door, indicating where I plan to exit. Like a moron.
Then I realize we’re alone. In the shop. Probably in the entire building.
“Why are you still working on that car?” I ask.
He looks at the Mustang and then back at me. “Chad,” he says.
I nod. “Right,” I say. “We probably should consider letting him go. ”
“I’d have to agree,” he says, reaching up and running a hand through his thick dark-blond hair.
If we get rid of Chad, will we have anything to talk about?
“Ready for the party tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yep,” he says, giving me a small smile. “I’ll be there.”
“Great,” I say. “Are you bringing Robin with you?”
Did I really just ask that? It’s like my mouth didn’t even communicate with my brain.
Dawson tilts his head to the side, the corners of his eyes doing a sort of crinkling thing.
“Uh … no,” he says. “I’ll see her there, I’m assuming.”
“Oh … right … I just thought …”
“We’re just friends.”
My mouth goes dry and I swallow. They’re friends? Really? How did I get that so wrong?
“Right. Gotcha. Good … to know.”
He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Now’s your chance, Maggie. Say something flirty. Be bold. Be brave.
“I’ll be there,” I say. Then I wave at him, with the tape (why? Why? WHY?), and walk out of the shop.
Way to chicken out, Maggie.