We met when we were both freshmen in college, in the math lab, where I’d been tutoring, and she’d been failing. Yes, Jess has a weakness. She sucks at all things mathematical, especially algebra. I, of course, am the opposite, an algebra whiz, becausehello, my mother is a mathematician and would have it no other way. I was tortured with extra math homework from the time I could even understand one plus one equals two. I mastered everything my mother put before me, just to be allowed time in the garage with my father, where he made the science of discovery fun.
Tutoring had been my mother’s grand idea, not mine. Working at the lab meant dealing with people I didn’t know, and that was less than ideal. But I was still living at home, and my parents were paying for my education, which meant I did what my mother said or she and my father would fight. The blisteringly clear fact was that fighting led to my father’s misery.
Jess had sat down in front of me with perfectly glossed nails and shiny blonde hair, confidence oozing from her, while I was an insecure, basic girl with flat brown hair that had never seen a highlight. I didn’t have on makeup because I made a mess of it when I tried, and I sure couldn’t afford to get my nails done.
She’d reached in her designer bag, removed a book and paper before surprising me by saying, “Clearly, I’m an idiot.” She’d slid a graded assignment marked with a failing grade in front of me and added, “Here’s the proof. Can you fix me? And what do you want in return?”
What do you want in return?
That question had slipped inside me to that familiar part of my gut where I’d been keeping all the times my mother had made me pay for what I wanted, even beyond time with my father, by way of extra math homework. I’d felt bribed, held captive, and controlled. And, therefore, just that easily, I knew without ever being told that Jess might seem to have everything she wanted, but she paid for it, and not with money.
Jess had sucked at algebra, but she passed that class. And shortly after she and her father, who was a celebrity attorney on Nashville’s “it” list, had a blow-up. He kicked her out and stripped away her generous allowance. She didn’t know how to live without money and luxury, and I did. She needed me, and I’d been happy to escape my homelife right along with her. We’d gotten a cheap apartment together, jobs waiting on tables, and for just a few years, she and I were poor college kids, living la vida local, as she’d called it. And that became the title of her column at the magazine.
Then and now, we’re an illogical pair, truly. She and I do not make sense in any way, but here we are, many years later, an apple and an orange, sitting next to each other. Her parents died in a car accident the year we graduated. Mine are still alive. Jess has a large social circle, but she doesn’t let a lot of them past her walls. Just me, really. True to the opposites we are, I don’t have a social circle at all, and by choice, but I choose to keep her present.
The bartender reluctantly tears himself away from the spot directly across from Jess, and almost instantly our Diet Cokes appear.
“I read your column today,” I admit readily. I’m truly one of her most faithful readers. I love the way she covers everything to enjoy about Nashville, from the fashion and luxury homes to the scandals and dirty laundry. It’s such an authentic mix of life in this big city. “Oh my God.” I rotate to face her, shoving my glasses up as they slide down my nose. “Was that a true story?”
The story, part one published today, is of an aspiring singer here in Nashville who met a well-known country music star and became the protégé of a certain music producer who invited her to the “casting couch,” so to speak.
“It is,” she says. “I met her. I corroborated the story.”
“Are you going to name names?”
“My editor won’t let me,” she replies. “Which I’m furious about, of course. Come on, the #MeToo movement should create a little more courage than cowardice. She just wants me to drag it out as a miniseries and end it with a warning about morality and protecting oneself. The magazine is afraid of being sued.”
“That kind of stinks,” I say, aware that any story of a woman being abused hits home for Jess. She was a victim of her father’s depravity herself, years ago, before I knew her. She hides it all beneath the glamour, but this story really allows her an outlet. Not that she seems to need one. Ever. At all. “But I still think the message is an incredible one,” Iadd. “With your readership, it will make an impact. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about it.”
The guacamole appears in front of us. “Would you like to order?” the bartender asks, speaking to Jess and Jess alone.
She glances at me. “What was it I got last time?”
“Enchiladas verde with beef that’s well done,” I say. “For both of us. Hold the sour cream.”
He flicks me a look and then gives Jess a nod before lingering a bit too long, but Jess doesn’t seem to notice. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it was going to run for a month. They moved it up without telling me.”
“Still, you didn’t tell me when you were researching it.”
“You always say you like to be surprised,” she argues, “and speaking of surprises, I did something for you last night.” She grabs her phone and punches a few buttons. “This, my dear, is the hottest new dating site. I put us both on it.”
“Oh no.” My hand goes up. “Never, ever, in this lifetime.”
“It’s for an article I’m writing. Two single girls, one dating app. I won’t use your name.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“I went to that library conference from hell for you. You can’t do this for me?”
“Are you really going to use that against me?”
“It was hell.”
She’s right, of course. There was literally a three-hour speech on library safety that included a slideshow about proper boxing techniques that made me, she who loveth all things books and libraries, fall asleep. On her shoulder. It would have been embarrassing if anyone had noticed.
“What do I have to do?”
“Like I said, I set-up your profile and—”
