Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
The phone almost slips out of my hand as I try to answer.
When I do, I’m afraid it’s too late, that she may have disconnected.
“Hello?” I ask, then glance at my screen to make sure I didn’t press the End button.
“Hey,” she says.
Holy shit.
That one word.
That one syllable.
Her voice sounds so familiar and so the same that it feels like a glass of water after a trek through the desert.
Such a relief that I’m afraid I might choke on it.
She always had this cool, raspy voice that I envied.
Whenever we filmed ourselves as teenagers or recorded for no reason on GarageBand, and we often did, she always came across like young Stevie Nicks and I sounded like preteen Kermit the Frog.
“What’s up?” she prompts.
I can tell she’s annoyed.
I glance at Kiera.
She’s chewing on her thumbnail and watching me anxiously.
“Can we meet up?” I ask.
She sighs.
“What is there to say, Meg?”
So much.
So, so much.
“To be honest, I don’t know why we’re fighting and—this would be easier if we got together and talked.”
My nervous system is electrified.
It’s like I’m a teenager talking to the boy I’m crushing on, but a hundred thousand times more intense.
“I’m too busy to think about doing that right now. I don’t have the energy. We’ve talked about everything and I don’t want to go back through it again, I’m not… I… don’t want to… yeah, I guess I don’t want to.”
Those words crush me, and I have to remember to keep breathing.
I’m torn.
It will sound too fantastical to remotely try telling the truth.
I mean, it’s beyond belief to even me.
But I can’t accept not seeing her, obviously I can’t.
“Meet me for a coffee or something. As soon as your mug is empty, you can go. I promise.”
I cross my fingers for the lie, an old habit clearly brought back by the fact that I’m talking to my teenage friend for the first time in over a decade.
I would sooner tie her to a chair than let her go after only one cup of coffee.
Especially with the way she drinks any liquid put in front of her.
We once got Frappuccinos and snuck them into the movie theater, and her straw was sucking whipped cream off the bottom of the cup before the title credits had rolled.
She was drinking a venti .
I mean seriously.
“Fine,” she says.
“One cup. Tomorrow. I’ll meet you at Joy’s, yeah?”
“Okay, what time?”
So eager.
“Well.” She sighs.
“You’ll probably want to do something like noon.”
“I probably will?”
“Unless you’ve magically become a morning person.”
I don’t want to wait.
“There’s no chance you want to come down to, uh”—I search for the memory of the name—“Dinner Party like… right now, is there?”
My stomach feels oily as I wait for her answer.
“Ah come on, Meg, I’ve got the kids and Theo will be home any minute. We have very different lives , remember?”
I don’t know quite what she means, but she could not be more right.
Even so, I’m a little stuck on the fact that she says it in a way like she’s quoting me back to me.
Also, kids?
I’m like a cartoon doing a double take way, way too late.
“You have kids? ” I accidentally blurt.
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I see Kiera looking mortified for me.
“Okay, that’s very funny, Meg, but—”
“No, sorry, bad joke.” I shrug at Kiera who is blushing a hard Irish red at the secondhand embarrassment.
“Tomorrow it is,” I stumble, “and noon sounds good. Unless earlier is better. I can do whenever.”
She’s also right about the fact that I never used to want to do anything before noon.
But to see Aimee I’d wake up at the crack of dawn.
I’d do anything.
Even if I wasn’t used to rising painfully early and running on fumes these days.
Besides, I must be jet-lagged, but adrenaline or pixie dust or something else has me feeling awake and raring to go more than usual.
“Noon it is. I need to go to the market anyway.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
“Right, see ya.”
I can’t bring myself to hang up, so I let her do it, leaving the phone at my ear for a few seconds extra to linger in the moment.
Eventually I take it away and stare at the screen.
The contact photo, as I noticed briefly when I saw her calling, is an old photo of us.
One I do remember.
Us in my bedroom in front of my collage wall where I’d pasted magazine cutouts of all the movie stars and characters I wanted to be.
We’re in our cast T-shirts from our high school’s production of Brigadoon and I remember the night well enough to recall that it was when we developed our truly revolting habit of pouring melted cheddar cheese and butter over microwaved popcorn.
“What did she say?” asks Kiera.
“We’re meeting tomorrow at Joy’s? At noon? Where is that?”
“It’s the coffee shop I mentioned. It’s just that way.” She points behind her, a left out of the shop.
“You can’t miss it.”
I let out a breath I feel as though I’ve been holding since I answered the call.
“I can’t believe I’m going to see Aimee. I can’t believe I have to wait to see Aimee.”
“I thought you said everything’s good with her in your other life .” She puts quotes around the last words, blue eyes narrowing at me.
“Why are you so eager to see her? Crippling codependence, or are you not telling me something?”
I hesitate a second too long and then say, “The codependence one.”
“For a great actress, you’re a terrible liar.”
I roll my eyes theatrically, though flattered by the part that was a compliment.
“The point is, I’m seeing her tomorrow.”
She nods.
“Well, that’s good. I’m glad she was willing to see you.”
“Why is she so mad at me? Was it really that bad, whatever I did?”
“I don’t think you did anything.” She shrugs.
“I think you two don’t get on anymore. I told you.”
I want to tell her this is impossible, but know that strangely I have much less information than she does.
Kiera tuts and comes over to me, seeing my anguish, and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Why don’t you put on some music you like? That always makes you feel better, eh? Maybe have some chocolate?”
An uncharacteristic urge to cry gives way to laughter.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“You sound like you’re talking to your doddering old grandmother or something.”
She nods stoically.
“It does feel a bit like that, doll, yes.”
I put on an old Nat King Cole album, reinforcing the role, and spend the next while wiping down every surface, cleaning all the glass, and re-smelling all the candles.
“Looking Back” starts up and I try not to listen too hard to the lyrics.
If I do, I might feel like crying again.
“Do I have money?” I ask.
“I seriously want to buy one of these candles.”
Buying stuff has always been a good coping mechanism for me.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Why not?”
“I’ll show you later. It’s about closing time anyway, so I’m going to count the cash drawer, which should be easy since Cillian was our only customer today.”
“Is it always this slow?” I ask.
“Sometimes, but it doesn’t matter much. Fia’s as rich as God and this is a fun little hobby for her. Plus we do lots of events in the back and we sell a lot around the holidays and weekends.”
“Who works when we’re not here?”
“A couple of college kids. Whoever needs a part-time job. There’s always someone looking to pick up a shift. All those starving art students.”
“Wait, did you say closing time?” I look at the clock on the wall.
“I feel like we just got here.”
“That’s right. Why do you think I’ve worked here so long? Hours are longer on the weekends, but then everybody comes to the tastings and things and it’s sort of a fun atmosphere, so it’s all right. Sometimes Danny, my brother, comes and plays the guitar.”
I can hardly see how I would ever complain about this job.
Given where I come from and how busy and stressful my life has been lately, this has felt positively meditative.
But I’m probably looking at it through Holiday Goggles.
Seeing everything as if it’s some sort of utopia, when in fact, it’s simply a welcome break from the norm.
“Ah well. All right, the Brilliance finale is on soon and I have sweatpants to get into and snacks to put in bowls, so let’s move it. I placed an order next door for some shepherd’s pies, we can take them home and toss ’em in the oven to keep them warm. But more importantly, it’s time to find out if you’re really having a psychotic break, or if you truly are from another planet.”
“Not another planet. Same planet.”
“Time travel then.”
“Same time.”
“Another— Feck it, let’s go.”