“I did,” I say quietly hoping to teach her how to use her inside voice.
“I told you the margaritas were killer,” she laughs.
“You did.”
“Wait until you go to the Indian spot I want you to try.”
“No more spicy food,” I groan.
“My family is North Indian. Our food isn’t as hot as South Indians cook.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that. So is it a family-owned restaurant?”
“Yeah, my uncle owns one in London and here. They’re quite popular. He’s the only one from my father’s side of the family who moved to the states and isn’t in education, medicine or tech.”
“And you didn’t want to work there?”
“Why would I want to work in a sweaty restaurant for my uncle? You see me, right?”
Fatima is a total fashionista with flawless skin, long acrylic tips on her nails, and I’d be surprised if she ever wears the same outfit twice. Her appearance is important to her. Way more than mine has ever been to me.
“I’d love to shop your closet one day,” I say to her.
“You should,” she quips. “Now fix your blouse. The buttons are aligned wrong. John is in the conference room waiting for you.”
“Got it, thanks.”
If it wasn’t for the fact that I have a supervisory meeting with John an hour before my ten am session, I’d probably be late for the football player again. This time it’s not my head that’s pounding, but it’s my stomach that’s rolling from the countless margaritas and massive plate of loaded nachos I consumed last night at the Mexican place that Fatima has been raving about for weeks. Everything I consumed there was delicious, but more importantly, the drinks were strong and huge, and made me forget all about the mess I’ve made of my life. At least for a few hours.
“Morning, Kat.”
“Morning, John..”
John looks super serious today. He’s dressed in a familiar pair of brown slacks and a cream collared shirt, which is the outfit he typically wears for new clients and serious meetings. That’s how I know that this is going to be a tough hour.
“How have you been doing, Kat?”
I can feel his eyes slowly assessing my disheveled appearance.
“Um, good, really good.”
“Could you refresh my memory? When was your boyfriend’s funeral?”
Ninety-three days ago.
“A few months ago.”
“And do you think you’ve had enough time to grieve?”
“I think you’ve misunderstood, John. Aaron was someone I was seeing, and it wasn’t that serious yet. I mean, it was headed in that direction, but it wasn’t quite there. So…I wouldn’t say that I’m grieving. I’m just a little sad that someone lost their life so suddenly.”
“Someone?”
I realize John is questioning my use of the word as if it’s not personal enough, but that’s how I feel at this point. That Aaron was a stranger to me. A stranger who died before I ever really got to know the real him. The liar.
“Yes…someone so young.” I try fixing my blunder.
“Did you ever go to that grief counseling group I recommended?”
