“Does she singlehandedly provide air conditioning when they’re out in the field? Because that woman is cold as ice. Disney should have cast her instead of Kristen Bell for Frozen.” They all look at me like I’ve poured battery acid on top of chocolate mousse. I can take a hint, so I slurp coffee and take deep, knowing breaths.
“I heard she can make or break a new restaurant,” Amanda adds, continuing to ignore me, her attention on Amy and Mom. “There was that little Asian fusion place in Wellesley that she went to and a picture of her appeared on The Hub. BAM! Now you can’t get a reservation for weeks.” Mom, Amy, and Amanda all nod soberly, as if acknowledging Jessica’s power.
Pffft. I can go to any restaurant that Consolidated Evalu-shop has a contract for, munch on half a cockroach in a Cobb salad, write up an evaluation, and get the health department to condemn it in forty-eight hours flat. Now who has the power?
“Do you follow her on Twitter?” Amy gasps. Both of them nod—both! My mother can’t figure out how to juggle two different open windows on a single screen on her MacBook but she has a Twitter account? And follows my ex-boyfriend’s snotty girlfriend?
“A tweet that mentions a stylist or a product means insta-success for that person,” Mom gasps. “Look at my hands.” She holds them out as if we’re supposed to admire them. They look like…hands.
“Nice moisturizer!” Amanda squeals. They are speaking in Aramaic as far as I am concerned. I am not fluent in spa-speak. I think I am missing the part of my brain that most women are born with, the one that can tell the difference between cerulean and aquamarine, or between beige and taupe. Once they start talking about moisturizers and alpha-hydroxy acid bases and foundation creams, I might as well take a long nap because it’s like they’re speaking some foreign language I’ve never even heard of.
“She’s a Botoxed Barbie with a superiority complex and no sense of boundaries,” I blurt out, looking in desolation at my empty coffee cup. I need more. Nineteen more cups and I’ll be closer to human. And I still have to go to work.
Is it seriously only Tuesday? Yesterday feels like it lasted a week. Greg should give me the day off for landing the account. I should call in sick for the level of stomach-churning experiences I faced. I slip my head under the covers and fake-pretend to ignore them all. Like that would ever work.
“Meow!” Amy says. Chuckles looks up and sneers at her like she’s an American trying to speak French in Paris.
“What?” I demand, mouth muffled against my comforter. What’s catty about what I say? “It’s the truth.”
“Did she make a pass at Declan?” Mom guesses. Damn. How does she do that?
“No!” They all stare. “Okay…yes.” Declan. The feel of his jaw against my cheekbone. The way our bodies touched and I could inhale his essence. The push of his h*ps into mine as our skin tingled with anticipation. I just…
“Did he accept it?” Mom asks. Her words say one thing, but her pleading eyes say, Farmington Country Club wedding. PoshTots. Beacon Hill in-law apartment.
“He didn’t think she was worth one iota of attention,” I say, distracted by my own pleasant tactile memories, memories quickly fading away as Mom’s question makes me remember the rest of the night. Steve had huffed off, but given me a gesture, using his hand to create an old telephone, held it to his ear, and he’d mouthed, Call me.
Bzzzz. We all jump. My phone.
“Jesus—that thing has been buzzing all morning,” Amy groans. It’s about an inch away from falling off my nightstand.
I come out from under my bed fort and grab my coffee mug, wiggling in the air between me and Amy. She laughs and grabs it. She really is my new best friend. Amanda can suck it. Whoever brings me coffee gets my loyalty on this fine, post-Declan morning where I am bombarded by meddling people who know more about Jessica Coffin and moisturizer cream performance on veiny hands than they do about the new healthcare law or campaign finance reform.
Twenty-four new text messages. TWENTY-FOUR. Whoa. I am never that popular. Who did I blow last night?
Chapter Two
I cringe. Oh, God. What if I really did…?
Fifteen text messages are from Steve:
How long have you been dating him?
Was this a one-night stand?
Do you miss me?
I miss you.
I miss Chuckles. How is he?
Things ended badly and I think we need to talk.
Jessica was joking about that bank account thing.
I’m not into Jessica at all.
Are you exclusive with him?
How are Marie and Jason? Jason still golf on Saturday mornings?
I forgive you.
I shouldn’t have ended things like that.
I’ve changed.
You haven’t changed a bit. And I like that about you.
Please call me.
Seven text messages were from Mom:
Don’t forget condoms.
But if you do, there are worse things than getting knocked up by a billionaire. Think of the child support payments.
Your father’s having bad gas. Don’t marry a man with an irritable bowel.
But a billionaire with an irritable bowel is an exception.
Does Declan have a brother for Amy?
If you get to fly in a helicopter, have sex in it. Mile-High Club. Whee!
I am on my third Lime Rickey and your father says I need to stop thinking about billionaire grandchildren.
One is from Amanda:
Stop thinking about Steve.
One is from Declan:
I’m bringing “both” to your place on Friday. Six o’clock. See you then.
My mind scrambles to remember the day. Tuesday. It’s Tuesday. He attaches a picture of strawberries the size of my fist, dipped in chocolate. Dark and milk. But not white, which is a sign from the universe that he is The One, because white chocolate is the jackalope of chocolate.
I read all of these aloud to my pity groupies, who suddenly can’t pity poor Shannon with the sad little life. How do you respond to knowing I’m being pursued by Steve the Ladder Climber and Declan the Almost-Billionaire Hot Guy? They look confused.
I want to kill all of them except Declan. When did Chuckles become the good person in my life?
“You guys sent me these texts? Seriously?” I grouse.
Amy rushes back to the bedroom but calls out behind her, “Not me!” The espresso machine begins hissing. So does Chuckles. He gives Mom and Amanda an evil eye that makes old Italian grandmas flinch.
“I was worried about you!” Mom argues.
“You’re getting a turkey neck, Mom,” I snap.