What Grace really wanted to say was that Julie didn’t make her feel common. She’d made her feel invisible. Like she was nobody. But it was too pathetic to admit. Her vision blurred, but she shut her eyes and willed the tears not to form. She was so tired of crying. So tired of feeling sorry for herself.
Alix
I’m really sorry, Gator.
The use of the silly nickname despite Alix having her name forced Grace to smile even as she dried her eyes.
Alix
That must have felt like absolute shit. No one deserves that.
There were no empty platitudes. No attempts to fix it. Nothing but a little validation and empathy. It shouldn’t have made Grace cry. But there she was, desperately trying to stop the flow of tears like an ASPCA ad had caught her at the height of PMS.
Alix
The fucking weather. That’s straight to jail, do not collect your $200.
Grace laughed into her tissue even as she blew her nose.
Grace
Right?? Who does that? I think I’d prefer it if she ignored me. At least then I could tell myself she gave a shit. Like maybe it hurt her too much to look at me.
Alix
I bet she felt seeing you like a kick in the teeth. Some people are just good at hiding their feelings.
Grace
Lucky people.
Alix didn’t have a follow-up quip. Typing and deleting the same text a dozen times, Grace didn’t know how to keep the conversation going. She wasn’t ready to let the freedom of saying what she really thought go. Alix was so effortlessly conversational, but everything Grace came up with sounded so unnatural. Tired, and not ready to lose Alix’s attention, Grace was honest even if not clever.
Grace
What are you up to tonight?
The response came immediately, and Grace dropped against her office chair. Relaxed, without needing to put in a conscious effort.
Alix
Right now? Working and debating whether you work at a magazine or you’re a lawyer. My friends and I can’t agree.
Chuckling, Grace crossed one leg over the other and started typing.
Chapter Four
ALIX
Unfortunately for Alix,mornings at the bungalow always started with Phyllis clattering around the kitchen like she was auditioning for a local philharmonic’s percussion section. At sixty-five, Phyllis somehow had more energy before eight a.m. than Alix could muster with three Alani energy drinks injected straight into her veins. Phyllis puttered around in her battered Oakland Raiders sweatshirt, humming theJeopardy!theme while filling in her crossword, like mornings weren’t a personal affront to everyone else.
Alix staggered in behind her, hair damp from the world’s fastest shower, jeans half-buttoned, and a tee so rumpled it looked like she’d pulled it from the laundry basket. She collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table.
Phyllis lowered her glasses, looked her up and down, and said, “Well. You look like hell’s understudy.”
Alix groaned and let her forehead fall to the table. “Is there coffee?”
A mug slid across the wood toward her a moment later, two sugars, splash of oat milk, no questions asked. Phyllis might bust her chops, but she always got the order right.
