I look to my left.
“Is that a cake bar?”
She pinkens. “Declan just had a new customer come by.” She names a celebrity chef you’d gasp to hear mentioned. I do.
“She brought an assortment of desserts from her new line that Anterdec will be using in all their properties in North America. Elite member guests will come in to their hotel rooms with a tray of these, a bottle of sparkling water and chocolate-covered strawberries.”
“Any tiramisu?” I joke.
“Only in petit fours form, and no rings attached.” She taps on the glass between us and the driver and off we go, headed for the Financial District. As I look back at my office building, it feels like walking out of a Brazilian favela.
“Seriously. Any job openings at Anterdec? Because I would jump ship like the rat that I am,” I say, then stuff a little square of cake perfection in my mouth.
She smiles, serene and composed. She’s like a Shannonbot.
“Oh, my God, is that pistachio mint?” I groan.
“With a touch of amaretto.”
“I think I just orgasmed.”
“Wouldn’t be the first one in this limo,” she sighs.
My mouth goes dry. “Um, thanks? Didn’t need that visual.”
“Speaking of orgasms,” she says, ignoring my comment, “what is going on with you and Andrew?”
My mouth turns into the Sahara.
“Did you have to ruin a perfectly good moment of stress eating by bringing up Andrew?” I whimper.
“Sorry. But yes, I do. What are you hiding about him?”
She’s so good.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Rage. An unexpected wave of red fury fills me, wiping away the taste of the divine in my mouth and replacing it with a stark bitterness that fills me with despair.
And anger.
I don’t get angry. It’s not what I do. Not, at least, with my friends and family. All my life I’ve been the person who rationalizes and organizes and thinks and plans and plots her way out of emotional messes. I sob quietly in the shower or slink off to let my angry tears come out in vents, but this?
This kind of rage comes after the pressure cooker can’t contain it. My inner world is about to become spaghetti stains on the ceiling.
I’ve never, ever directed it at Shannon. We’ve known each other since elementary school and I can count on one hand the number of fights we’ve had. And by “fight” I mean terse words that end with tearful crying and two spoons and a pint of ice cream.
Okay...two pints.
“Isn’t your perfect life enough for you?” I hiss, regretting the words instantly even as they come out of me. I sit back and straighten my spine, knowing the inevitability of the moment makes whatever I say all the more odious. I can’t stop this. It’s an avalanche that has been triggered by her gunshot—the word liar—and now here it comes.
Watch out below.
“What—what do you mean?” she stammers. “I was just—”
“You have everything,” I whisper through my clenched teeth. “You have it all. And I’m happy for you.” My mouth is set in a way that makes the muscles in my face that run along my temple feel like flat pieces of tense wood that can move.
“I really am. This isn’t about that. It’s about...me.” I realize how true that last word is as Shannon looks at me with open, caring eyes and a wary expression. Making eye contact goes against everything in me. I’m a live wire. There is no one in the world I can say this to.
Except my bestie.
“Is it about dumping the Turdmobile off on you? Because I’m so sorry.”
I give her a hard look. “Ha ha. No.”
“This is really about Andrew and your mom,” she says with a sigh.
“Now that’s a sentence I never expected to have directed at me,” I reply, completely stumped. The wind’s out of my sails. Only Shannon can do that. “What do Andrew and my mother have to do with each other?”
“You always call yourself a fixer,” she says, reaching out to touch my shoulder. Her eyes are so warm, so calm. The Shannon I’ve known for years has her edges smoothed off. She’s coiffed and possessed, and I love her for not yelling at me or rejecting me. Being able to tell her how I really feel means so much more than I think I even understand.
“I am a fixer.”
“But who fixes problems for you?”
“Me.”
“Exactly.”
I frown. “What’s your point?”
“That is my point.”
“And...”
“You fix your mom’s problems. You fix client problems. You came to the rescue and fixed my problem with Declan nearly two years ago. Andrew isn’t a problem you can fix.”
“I’m not following you.”
“He’s maddening.”
“Okay, that I can follow.”
“He’s unpredictable. He keeps kissing you but never calling. Declan says you confuse his brother.”
“I confuse him? Talk about projecting.” A thrill runs up my back, spreading warmth and some salacious throbbing to places that really need more of a pulse. “Wait. Andrew talked to Declan about me?”
“Yes.”
I feel like a breathless eighth grader. Ah, hell. I am a breathless eighth grader.
“And?”
“You’re not Andrew’s type.”
“You mean because I don’t charge by the hour?”
She lets go of my shoulder and gives me a glare. “He’s my future brother-in-law. Don’t talk about him like that.”