Surveying my options, I decide that red is for attention and expected from someone like Jess, who always shines in the spotlight, but for me it looks desperate. What I do not want to do is come off thirsty two days after I nose-dived while standing at a podium in front of the board of directors for the library and a stranger in the back of the room, whoever he may be. However, white collects stains, and green is a Christmas tree.
I grimace and pull on the red, luxuriously silky sweater, which can only mean Jess paid way too much money for it. I suppose it’s a good thing I’m wearing it today, when I’ll be seeing her. I doubt anyone else will even notice.
It’s time to find out if I’m back to the uncomfortable comfort of being unseen and unheard again.
Despite my rushed exit from my loft, I manage to arrive at the bustling Coffee Cats a few minutes before Jess, claiming a spot in the ten-deep line. The woman ahead of me orders a vanilla white mocha, which strikes me as contrary as my need to remain invisible and also be seen—it seems meant to become my new drink. I order one with whip and nonfat milk, also rather contrary but highly appropriate. I also order Jess’s usual nonfat hazelnut white mocha with an extra shot of espresso, no whip, and no foam. She doesn’t try new drinks. People who know who they are and what they like don’t have to experiment.
Once I’ve claimed a table, I head to the pickup area, waiting for my order. In a rush of sweet-smelling perfume, Jess joins me in line, and as if she’s grabbing a page from my book, and me one from hers, I’m in color, and she’s wearing all black in the form of a sweater dress and boots.
“Sorry I’m late,” she breathes out, sounding flustered. “I’ve been trying to get an interview with a big music exec for weeks, and his secretary finally called me back. And no, I did not get the interview. She was a bitch. I’m not done trying, though. Do we have a table?”
“Back corner,” I say, motioning to the spot I’ve chosen.
“Always back corner,” she replies. “You are nothing if not predictable.”
“Predictable sounds pretty good after my last forty-eight hours.”
“Maybe we should be having Bloody Marys, not coffee.”
“Me and vodka would make my feet forget how to walk.”
She shifts her bag. “My bag is going to make me unable to move my arm at this point.”
“Go sit,” I say. “I’ll wait for the drinks.”
“You’re the best,” she declares, her eyes lighting. “You wore the red sweater. I love it on you.” She smiles brightly and, with that, strides away.
“Seven!” the barista calls out an order, and I realize we have four before us.
With that in mind, and my workday creeping up on me, I hurry after Jess, sliding into the booth across from her. “Our drinks aren’t even close to done based on the order they just called,” I explain, “and I need to talk to you about something before we both have to go to work.”
“Oh no,” she says. “What happened?”
“It’s not really an ‘oh no’ kind of thing. It’s a good thing, actually. My father has a really hot patent right now. It’s primed to change the energy industry to the point that some might try to buy it, just to kill it. He needs legal protection. Can you help?”
“Heck yes, I can help. I have a guy that looks after my parents’ money and investments. I can call him.”
I blink. Investments? I didn’t know she had investments. I mean, yes, her parents left her money, but I thought she never touched it. Of course, she does well at her job, and she makes killer money. I don’t know why this is bugging me, but it is. It does. Sometimes I think I know more about Jess than I do about myself.
But I didn’t know this.
What else don’t I know?
“This is exciting,” she continues. “And I know how badly he needs this to go well,” she adds. “And you do, too. I know you’ve been worried about him.” She grabs her phone from the table. “I assume this is urgent. I can make a call now.”
“Yes, please,” I say, and the sincerity in her voice and actions has me blowing off my ridiculous thoughts. I mean, of course she has investments. I’m weird and paranoid right now. That’s clear. I was even accusing the weeping willow of being scary the other night.
I almost laugh at my ridiculousness.
I’m about to tell Jess as much when I hear the barista shout, “Eleven!” which would be me, and a number is much better than being called “Girl.”
“That’s us,” I say, but I hesitate. “My mother doesn’t know about this, Jess.”
She sets her phone back down. “Why?”
“I told you. I think there’s trouble between them.” My lips press together. “Let me get the coffees. I really need caffeine. I didn’t exactly sleep like a baby last night.”
Her chin bobs. “I hear ya, honey. Get the coffee. I’ll make the call.”
