Chapter 2
And then there were two, forever us two.
“I wish we knew her more in college,” I say, nodding my head toward the glass door closing behind Sierra. “That would have been so interesting.”
Quinn shakes her head. “I don’t. Do you remember her back then? She was wild. And we were the opposite. There’s a reason we never spoke. She was queen of that crew.”
I smile. That crew—so crazy in college, but mostly moms now, like us. Even the cool kids grew up. It’s hard to reconcile the Sierra of old with the supermom, competent business owner, and woman of deep faith we know today. I would’ve loved a front-row seat to her transformation.
I check my phone and see I need to leave for my meeting soon.
Dang it. For a moment, I forgot about my hair disaster.
God bless these friends for getting through breakfast straight-faced.
I motion at my head, reminding Quinn of the situation.
“Be honest.” I level my gaze at her. “Do you really think I can salvage this?”
She swallows a smile. “You want the truth?”
“Please.”
She leans to the side and rummages through her purse. Voilà. Clamping and unclamping, she presents a jaw clip, a puppet in her pretty hand: “I am your only hope,” it says. “You’re lucky I’m back in style.”
I lean over, giggling, and snatch it. “Thank you. Your honesty is a treasure.”
“Just give me a cut if you close this Colton deal. I’ll take a massage at the Montage, thanks.”
“Done.” I twist my locks into the claw, swiftly here at the table. Relief. I even feel chic and professional. Problem solved, appetite sated, I flip through my mental files for any last stories to spill. Then I realize: I need to tell someone. Namely, Quinn. I glance down and poke at a blueberry.
“Uh-oh,” Quinn observes. “You just climbed so far inside your own head. What is it?”
“Nothing,” I say, setting my fork on the table before propping my chin in my hands. “Well, yes.” I hesitate. “There’s . . . something.”
“Go on.” She leans back. “Is it Reid?”
“No.” Or is it? “Reid is great.” Mostly great. “I—gosh. It’s so weird saying this out loud. But you’re the only one who can possibly get it.”
Her brows spike. “Spill it! You’re making me nervous.”
I pick up my phone and swipe to Facebook. I open the message and pass the thing over like it’s on fire. “Holden Locke.”
It’s all I need to say.
Not that she can’t see the name and picture for herself. We aren’t Facebook friends, he and I, no way—but he managed to slip like a salamander into my DMs anyway.
Twenty. Years. Later.
I watch her read the message, annoyed that I remember it almost verbatim:
Hey you! Long time. Can’t believe you’re almost 40. Have you skied the Matterhorn yet? I assume the years have been good to you. You look more beautiful than ever. Just wanted to say happy birthday.
Quinn shoots a hard gaze up at me. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“The nerve. Why? Just—why? I thought he was married.”
“His profile says single,” I explain systematically. “We’re not friends, but I did check, because I thought the same thing. Divorced maybe? Probably. He is so . . .”
“Annoying? Pathetic?”
“Affirmative.”
She doesn’t say the obvious: Hot. But in that young bad-boy way, the kind you outgrow like a bad trend.
Or at least, you try. You try really hard.
And then you find yourself super angry when it tries to come back.
Holden types are magnetic, sure, but they’re not the guys you want next to you at 3 a.m. when both infant twins are screaming.
The worst part of all was the charm. Not so much a personality trait as a blood type.
It’s obvious from Holden’s profile picture, even now, that his vibe has stayed squarely on brand with the Holden I dated in college.
I met Reid not long after our breakup, but still.
I’m becoming more annoyed by the second, remembering the way Holden decimated my capacity for healthy emotional regulation for the better part of two years.
Quinn shrugs. “Maybe he was high when he sent it.”
I lean in. “Or drunk?”
“Or panicking at his own midlife crisis.”
The check arrives. “Maybe he’s sad,” I offer graciously, grabbing the silver tray.
“Obviously he’s sad,” Quinn agrees, pointing to the bill. “I’ll Venmo you, by the way. But who cares about him? I’m mad, like seriously.” She holds up my phone. “Do you want me to—”
“Yes.” I tip my head with permission. “Thank you.”
She puts her dexterous, surgically trained fingers to the best use they’ll see all day. Delete, block, goodbye. The kind of doctor-friend we all need. She slides my phone back to me. “Done.”
“Do you think I need to tell Reid?”
“I think only you know that.”
I smile with a sudden gust of gratitude for my husband, despite our lack of connection lately. He knows how devoted I am, to him and our family.
At least, I hope he knows. Mostly I miss feeling close to him, I decide.
His thick beachy hair, melty half smile, broad chest, and clean scent like the ocean and sandalwood.
Hard worker, best father, great surfer. Safety and trust and just enough playfulness.
Have we slipped into roommate mode lately?
Sure. Are there longtime married couples who don’t?
I’d genuinely like to know. I really do miss him, I realize.
He’s been in New York for four days on a business trip for his company, White Rock, a big asset management firm.
Buildings, investments, and stone. Solid and steady, like him.
And unlike man-boys barking up the wrong freaking palm tree of girlfriends past.
Bananas only here.
Bye.
“And this”—I gesture proudly to the screen at the head of the white oak conference table—“is our vision for your future estate.”
The image shines as brightly as the star couple before me.
I like to end with the drama, the most resilient visual—usually the rendering of a home’s kitchen or main living area—paired with images of the facade, along with the primary suite.
I prefer to leave on a note of impact, pizzazz, my brand’s special touch, which I’ve worked so hard to build—one that will leave prospects hungry to live in the gorgeous space I’ve presented.
Unable, from this moment forward, to envision their life anywhere but inside my creation.
London provided me with specific dreams for their palatial home, which will span three lots and a full acre, a rarity in any Southern California beach city.
She wants elements of the French countryside, Napa influence, and contemporary coastal style—and for the home “not to feel brand-new” once complete but decidedly lived-in and loved.
She envisions, for instance, diverse woods and paintings by her grandmother grounding the house. Nothing too uniform. Textures and time.
I’ve never once had a client request a new design that feels old, but I’m embracing the challenge, feeling invigorated.
Their faces suggest we nailed the presentation.
I hope my face doesn’t give away how much we needed to.
My project manager, Ellie, tosses me a confident look. Her brunette bob frames her lovely features, a cautious smile, and her oversized square black glasses.
We wait.
Colton speaks first, leaning back. He folds muscled arms across the torso of his blue button-down. He is super blond, eyes icy blue as his shirt, his teeth a crisp flash that has earned him some ad time.
“I love it,” he says. “Wow. It feels . . .”
“New but lived-in?” London gushes. “You did a phenomenal job. I’m obsessed.” Her chocolate hair billows with butterscotch highlights. She’s supermodel striking, all brown eyes and pillowy lips.
“I am so glad to hear that,” I say, so proud of the business I’ve built on a dime and a dream. And a whole lot of Instagram. We’re a small team of four, but we get it done.
And I’m gaga over this office space we created, finally in our own suite after five brave years in cafés and my living room.
We have one office for me, four cubicles, and this meeting room.
Light oak floors, rich but neutral upholsteries, white-paneled walls.
Rattan chandeliers, open shelves. It’s a dream.
The catch? We can’t stay here past the end of the year if we don’t start booking more jobs.
Not to mention, I might have to look at cutting our already very thin staff.
It’s proving pricier than I imagined, the burden of rent and utilities, and I need the volume to match the new costs.
I haven’t told my team, but I’ve been putting most of my salary back into the business for the past six months.
We need this major project—and the ones that will theoretically spark from it. I’m not yet letting myself freak out over how we’ll possibly manage our family life—mortgage, tuition, groceries—if my business goes belly-up. We’re in so deep at this point. We’re not panicking yet, but we’re prickling.
Please, God. I’m not above begging you for this job!
The couple exchanges a glance, and I try my Sherlock best to decipher it. At last London clears her pretty throat. “We are so thankful for your time—and for all of this,” she says. “We have narrowed it down to you and one other designer—local, just a little closer to home.”
Shoot. Gigi McGowan. I know it. Fresh out of FIDM and onto the scene. Fast-moving. LA based. Internet famous, more so than me. And young. I stay cool. “I understand completely,” I fib.
“We hope to make our decision by the end of the week,” says Colton.
London’s lips press into a line, and she looks like she wants to say more.
I shift and cross my wrists at my waist, hoping I’m the picture of patience, because I really do have all day for them.
All my life if they want. This would be the biggest project I’ve ever landed.
By far. It would bring my little endeavor into another stratosphere, not to mention keep the lights on.
“Can I answer any final questions for you?”