Chapter 11
eleven
I broke down and ordered a Nespresso last night because the thought of another week, especially this week, without early morning caffeine was horrific. Every time I looked at the counter, and it wasn’t there, I felt a pang of yearning. For good coffee, not my ex-boyfriend.
Which, despite my better judgment and the fact that I was riding the Good Guy high, made my spiteful side wonder about Chance.
And stalk him online.
At midnight when I couldn’t sleep.
More selfies.
With Ashton.
On a hike in Boulder Canyon. Chance doesn’t hike.
The list of things he’s allergic to that grow in the wild is longer than my arm.
We couldn’t even sleep with the windows open, because he got so stuffy he couldn’t breathe by morning.
His watery eyes and red nose in the photos told me he was smiling through the misery.
He looked thrilled to suffer in her company.
I didn’t know whether to feel bad for him or me.
The next post was them at the zoo in front of the penguin exhibit. Penguins are my favorite, and he knows it.
Yeah, fuck him. And his allergies. And his new life.
I unfollowed and blocked him. And to take it a step further, I blocked and deleted his phone number too. What began as a petty move, ended up feeling liberating. I should’ve done it a week ago.
It’s six thirty in the morning and thanks to the freakishly fast delivery gods, the scent of brewing coffee is invading my senses.
Considering I got a grand total of three hours’ sleep last night, I’ll need a few cups.
I’ve already showered and under-eye gel patches are in place to deflate the tiny loaves of rising bread dough that puffed up below my lash lines overnight.
While I’m waiting for my cup to fill with liquid pick-me-up, I open my messages, randomly clicking on a few.
505_Miss_Understood
Who’s the band? There hot!
I whisper, both in agreement and to correct grammar, “Yes, they are,” and scroll to the next.
i.love.beignets.more.than.my.boyfriend
Great photos! So happy I found your account!
Cute and relatable handle.
No Good Guy though; I’m sure he’s sleeping because it’s still early.
But there is an email response from the band, and my heart flutters again in my chest as I read:
Awesome, thanks for the quick response, Sophie! I’ll give you a call Monday morning.
Jess
I down the first cup black and ignore the second-degree burns streaking down my esophagus while I respond:
Sounds good. Any time after 9:00 works for me.
Sophie
That gives me a little buffer of time to decompress from the interview.
While I stir sugar into the second cup, pondering how life went from low-grade weird to category four in the span of a week, Lola shuffles in.
She takes the spoon and mug out of my hands, drops the spoon in the sink, inhales deeply, smiles with half-lidded but dreamy eyes, and croons, “Mama’s missed you, sweet thing.
” She hands the mug back to me after she drinks deeply and asks, “Did you sleep at all?”
I take a sip before I wobble my head from side to side.
“I didn’t think so. I heard you get up for a snack around two and again at six to take a shower.” She yawns wide and sorts through the pods before selecting dark roast.
“Why are you up? You don’t have to work today, do you?”
She never works Mondays, because she says people are assholes on Monday mornings and their energy kills her vibe for the week.
She shakes her head through another jaw-cracking yawn and hops up onto the counter to sit next to the machine.
“No, I was worried about you. I’m your hype girl; I’m here to cheer you on.
” Like a sloth on downers, she shakes a fist like she has a pom-pom in it and says, “Yay.” Half asleep, it’s not convincing.
“Hype girl, bestie, and kidney donor? You’re a one-stop shop.”
She flips me off but chuckles soft and low.
I needed this. I needed Lola.
“Thicker Than Water’s supposed to call this morning.” I can’t hide a smile.
“No shit?” The news has perked her up.
I pick up my phone, open the message, and hand it over.
She beams when she reads the short exchange. “Jess is the singer, right? Holy hell, you have to put it on speaker when he calls. I could listen to his voice all day long.”
“Will do. I need to do my hair and makeup, wanna help?” I ask because Lola’s better at it than I am.
She hops down without a word and returns with my blow dryer and makeup bag. “Sit,” she commands.
When she flips the switch on the dryer, nothing happens. I take it from her and bang it against the heel of my other hand until it hums to life.
She says loudly over the blasting air, “You need to retire this POS and get a new one.”
“I know.” I’ve had it for sixteen years and it hasn’t worked properly for the past two, which is no big deal because I always let my hair air-dry. I should get rid of it, but it was the last gift our dad bought me. She knows; she just doesn’t share my sentimentality.
Diffusing my hair won’t take long, but she can’t wait until she’s done and it’s quiet. “Wanna hear what I think Thicker Than Water wants from you?” she shouts.
“I don’t think I’ve had enough coffee for that yet,” I say, in between swiping on some mascara and applying a little blush, so I look alive.
She shifts the chair and stands in front of me to continue working.
I look up at her. She’s focused on my hair, but I can see her imagination getting the best of her.
“A photo shoot, but not, like, a normal one. Just think, they fly you in on a private jet and put you up in a bougie hotel and then you get to stare at them with their shirts off for hours.”
I stifle a laugh. “They played in a dive bar to a crowd of less than a hundred, and they’re just starting out. They probably don’t have the funds to buy me a Greyhound bus ticket and put me up in a budget motel for the night.”
“Don’t throw shade. I’m dreaming big for you. And them. They have tons of new followers, and you’re an impresser now; that must mean something.”
I almost correct her, but I let it go because there’s no talking sense to Lola when she goes off on a tangent like this. “I’m not throwing shade. Let’s say you’re right. Why would they have their shirts off?”
“Because it’s a destination beach shoot and they look better in swim trunks.”
The laugh breaks free. “They’re a folk-rock duo. Why in the hell would they be posing for photos on a beach in swim trunks?”
She looks lost in a daydream. “They might live in California. This is my fantasy, and you’re ruining it. You’re fucking ruining it.”
The ridiculous conversation continues, and it’s a great distraction, which is probably all she was going for. So much so, that by the time she’s done, I’m more relaxed than I ever imagined I could be before this interview.
I’m watching the “Little Girl Gone” video and thinking about what Mabel said yesterday, with only minutes to spare before I need to log in to Zoom, when Lola returns. “You have to wear this.” She shoves her purple sweater at me.
“Lo, it’s already eighty degrees in here.” The morning sun is blasting through the front window and warming up the room like a greenhouse.
She shakes her head and pushes me toward the bathroom to change. “It’s my lucky sweater. Purple is associated with power, ambition, and wealth.”
“What color is associated with paying the rent, keeping the lights on, and food in the fridge? I think that’s more what I’m aiming for.”
When she meets me with a flat stare, I roll my eyes and pull the sweater on over the sleeveless top I’m already wearing because if I don’t, I’ll be late.
“And drink this.” She hands me a shot glass as I slide back into the chair in front of my laptop.
I sniff it and cringe. “Tequila? At seven in the morning? Are you fucking kidding me, Lo?”
“It’ll help take the edge off. It’s not like they can smell your breath.”
I shake my head and set it down. “Absolutely not.”
She picks it up and downs it.
When I raise my eyebrows, she says, “What? I’m an empath. This is hella stressful.”
I join the meeting two minutes early, but rather than waiting, I’m admitted by the host immediately. Which accelerates my anxiety. And my heart rate. This does not feel good.
My screen fills with a close-up of gleaming white teeth. The lips are moving, and by the time I connect my microphone, unmute my screen, and turn up the volume, I hear the voice midsentence. “—with me, we’ll only be a sec, Sophie.”
“Good morning,” I say and wait. I’m trying to smile, but I don’t know if the muscles in my face are cooperating. I probably look constipated.
Two seconds later, the teeth that could be a commercial for the stunning aftereffects of orthodontia zoom out to reveal a late-twenties man with flawless skin, full lips, long black eyelashes, and a perfect pompadour. He’s grinning at me. “Sophie!” he exclaims like we’re old friends.
“Nate?” I ask, but I know it’s him. I’m not sure if it’s his voice I recognize or the overall friendliness that oozes out of him.
He takes a seat, creating distance between himself and the screen, and waves.
My galloping heart rate slows to a steady trot, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Tan France?”
He clasps his hands, rests them under his chin, and tilts his head to the side to create a flattering pose. “I’ve heard that a time or twelve.” He flutters his lashes. “Say it again, I adore him.”
I can’t help the sincere smile that breaks free. “I love him too.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” He looks to his right and says, “She’s hired, Omar,” before standing and shifting the screen toward another smiling face in profile.
“Thank you, Nate. I think I can take it from here,” the profile says.
“Don’t touch anything,” Nate’s fading voice says sternly.
Hands upraised obediently pair with a deep, resonant chuckle as Omar replies, “Yes, sir.”