Chapter 6
thorny privacy hedge
Hannah
Happy Thursday to me. A day I’d slotted to spend entirely on hashing out details for the children’s hospital fundraising gala—the job I’d much rather be doing at the moment.
Instead, I’m running interference between a cosmetics company (i.e.
my client) and a snooty twenty-year-old who, unfortunately for me, has half-a-million followers who care greatly about her opinions on lip gloss.
The number of fucks I absolutely do not give about lip gloss would probably get me fired if my client ever found out.
But this is the job, I remind myself. Protect my client’s brand, spin the narrative.
It’s been hours. Zoom calls, an inbox flooded with emails, impromptu meetings with our in-house social media team to hash out content ideas for my client to offset the non-brand-friendly mayhem currently trending.
My butt is growing into this desk chair, I’m convinced of it.
The purse at my feet chimes. I retrieve my phone to see Mom flashing on the screen.
Since our brunch on Saturday I’ve tried my best to respect her wishes. We’ve spoken on the phone every day, but I haven’t asked for an update on her pain level. I demanded to spend the evening with her a measly one time in the past four days and her answering scoff was only half serious.
I know she’s calling to discuss my blind date tonight which is the last thing I want to talk about right now. Or ever. But I need a break from anything lip gloss or lip gloss adjacent.
“Hi, Mom.”
She’s halfway through this conversation in her own head when she starts in. “Don’t forget to wear the sundress.”
“Hello to you too?”
Mom tsks. “Hi, Hannah. Blah, blah. How’s your day going? Blah, blah, blah, blah. Have you been outside yet? It’s really hot. More blahs. I had a bagel for breakfast, thanks for asking. Blahbity, blah, blah. Wear the sundress!”
“Maybe you should marry this sundress.”
“If pastels and floral print could get me laid, I’d consider it.” My head falls back on a groan. “But no bother, I don’t need help in that area.”
Red blazes across my cheeks. My mouth falls open. I’m silent. Mom is dying. Laughing. She’s dying laughing. Although, I clock the mental death humor as something she’d be proud of.
“You should see your face right now, baby girl.”
“You can’t see my face right now.”
“Oh, yes I can. You came out of my vag remember? I know all your faces.”
“I actually don’t remember, and I’m starting to think there was a mistake at the hospital.”
A newborn baby swap is the only logical explanation as to why my mom gets more action than I do.
Any other possibility, I don’t want to entertain the thought.
Richard Adelson pops into my brain without invitation—the bastard—and a full body shiver courses through me.
My fifty-three-year-old cancer-ridden mother has a boyfriend.
I do not have a boyfriend. My fifty-three-year-old cancer-ridden mother has sex. I’m not having sex.
God, save me from this conversation.
“So, “ Mom starts. “You, the sundress. Cute guy, maybe order a drink and—”
“You know I don’t drink on the first date.”
She rolls her eyes. Yeah, I know her faces too. “One drink won’t kill you.”
“No. No alcohol on the first date is a non-negotiable.”
“Fine, stick to your rules. I trust your judgment, just have an open mind, okay? Don’t decide you hate him before you even step foot in the restaurant.”
My shoulders sink. That’s fair. “Yeah, okay.”
The line goes quiet. I imagine Mom poised on the other end about to drop some deep philosophical, poignant thought about finding happiness, taking life by the horns, something carpe diem-esque. Instead, she says, “And wear the sundress.”
I snort. “My god, Mother.”
“Wear it.”
“Fine!”
“Promise.”
“I’ll wear the damn dress, Mom. It better be made of unicorn cotton and leprechaun thread.”
“It’s not, but you look beautiful in it.”
I huff. “I can’t believe my own mother is pimping me out.”
“Pimping you out? I didn’t say a word about your tits and ass, I said it looks beautiful on you. Get your head out of the gutter, young lady.”
If I were a meme, I’d be Justin Timberlake staring blankly straight into camera.
I repeat. God, save me from this conversation.
“And now you’re Timberlakeing me,” Mom accuses.
“Am not,” I lie.
As though the heavens have opened, Kristen pops her head in my door, onyx curls bouncing on her shoulders. She spies the phone at my ear and begins to retreat. I snap aggressively to keep her there. Save me is the message I hope I’m conveying with my saucer eyes.
She nods, message received as she clears her throat loud enough to interrupt my mother’s ramblings about “now go have fun” and “please, don’t call me.”
“Mom, Kristen’s here and we’ve got an emergency meeting. I gotta go.”
“Liar,” Mom sings.
“Hmm? What was that? Hanging up now, okay bye.”
I press the end button and bang my head on the desk one, two, three times.
Kris laughs. “That bad, huh?”
My head dips to the side. I peer up at her with one eye. “Is Daniel a unicorn?” Her brows pull together. “Leprechaun?”
“I can’t say for sure.” She says it slowly like she doesn’t quite know what puzzle she’s solving.
“You know I haven’t actually met him, right?
Only seen a picture of his face? He works with John and that’s all I know.
But I’d like to think my husband wouldn’t set you up with someone short.
” A pause. “And I’d hope if he was Irish, John wouldn’t leave out that detail.
” Another pause. “Is that what you’re asking? ”
A tired chuckle that sounds more like a cry tumbles out of me. “It’s not, but thanks anyway.”
“Okay,” she announces, pulling me out of my seat. “Time for a block walk.”
I find a fresh pep in my step. “Yes! Please!”
Kris retrieves two strawberry suckers from the stash I keep in my bottom drawer while I slide my feet back in the stilettos I’d tucked underneath my desk.
Our midday pick-me-up routine couldn’t come at a better time. Fresh air, girl talk, and a sweet treat to distract me from messages about lip gloss and my lackluster love life.
Kristen and I became fast friends six years ago when I got hired on at Hawkley House Public Relations out of college. She’s a couple years older than me, but we quickly bonded over our shared affinity for sugar and designer heels. We’ve been besties ever since.
The welcome warmth of the July sun hits my face when we spill out onto the sidewalk.
A major perk of the firm’s offices being plopped in the middle of downtown Boulder is the extra wide strolling paths flanking either side of the street.
Scattered trees planted in breaks in the concrete add to the small-town charm and provide much needed shade in the heat of summer.
Blocks of artsy shops and eateries around every corner, it’s a people watcher’s dream.
Kristen pulls the sucker through her lips with a pop. “So, how is Lydia?” She smirks over her Dum-Dum.
“Mom is being Mom. She gets a boyfriend and suddenly it’s blind date guy for me or bust.” I slide my sucker to the opposite cheek. “All I wanna do is go home and crash in my sweats over a pint of ice cream.”
“But you can’t do that,” she retorts matter-of-factly.
“I can’t do that because of the aforementioned blind date.”
“With Daniel.”
“With Daniel,” I parrot.
She studies the traffic before launching into the crosswalk, me in step beside her. “Well, if he isn’t won over by your personality, I think your enthusiasm should do the trick.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a catch.” My phone pings with an email and I type out a quick reply.
“What are you gonna wear?”
I sigh, dropping the phone to my side. “Mom wants me to wear my pink sundress.”
My friend hums in consideration. “Sounds like Lydia. I don’t know though, I think you should show up all corporate badass in what you’re wearing now.”
I look down at my cap-sleeved black pencil dress with the hem grazing my lower thigh.
A long line of buttons runs the length of my neck to the top of the center slit on the back of my legs, though they’re only for show atop a functional zipper—never making that mistake again.
Paired with my Jimmy Choo pumps, it definitely doesn’t meet the typical first date vibes most women go for.
It’s less delicate spring flower and more thorny privacy hedge.
We sidestep a mom with a stroller as I slurp my mouth around my sucker again. “See, this is why we’re friends, Kris.”
“I got you, babe. Go in there screaming I’m your worst boardroom nightmare, bitch and freaking own it. Daniel should know exactly who you are from the get.”
I chuckle. “What do you even know about this guy, anyway?”
She pops one shoulder. “Honestly, not much. He started working at the firm a couple months ago. John says he seems cool. And I know you don’t wanna see his picture, but I promise he’s good looking.”
I know it’s a weird rule, but if I see a guy’s picture, I’ll get in my head and look for a flaw. It helps me keep an open mind.
“Has he seen a picture of me?”
“He has,” Kristen says with knowing smile.
I hurl a fist in the air. “And he didn’t cancel. Winning.”
The truth is, I haven’t dated much the past few years.
And the super secret truth is, no matter how hard I try not to, I compare every romantic prospect to a certain handsome soldier from way back when.
It’s ridiculous and illogical and entirely unfair to these poor unsuspecting men, but my brain—and my eyeballs—can’t seem to get the message.
But tonight, I’m going to try. I’m really going to try.
My phone pings again, and I slow my pace to type out a response.
Kristen pipes up next to me. “I’m gonna run in for a latte. You want?”
I shake my head. “I’ll wait out here.”
Chin to my chest, eyes intent on my keyboard, I mindlessly stroll a few doors down and back, wearing a path into the paved-brick sidewalk. Just as I hit send, my phone rings. I blow out an exhausted breath, accept the call from my assistant, turn around, and begin the loop again.
“Hey, Olive.”
“Mrs. Upton with Up Cosmetics is on the line. Do you want me to tell her you’re out or should I patch the call through?”
My neck cracks from side to side. “Go ahead and patch her through.”
I paste a placid smile on my face and fill my lungs with air. The line clicks. “Mrs. Upton, what can I do for you?”