“Like I said, it’s complicated,” Porter repeated in a low, hushed voice, mirroring my tone.
“Feel free to order the porterhouse steak if it’s tonight’s special. It’s great here.” Rhodes chuckled at his terrible dad joke and handed Porter the same drink he had ordered for himself: an old-fashioned. The drink order felt like my father’s hint to put me in my place, old-fashioned and quiet at Porter’s side.
“I’m going to go tell the hostess we’ll be four instead of seven tonight.” My mom delicately hopped off her barstool, careful not to dribble a sip of her gimlet. “I’m sure it won’t be too complicated for them to change our reservation.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Mom. Most things aren’t as complicated as they seem,” I deadpanned, determined not to be silenced but coming to understand that perhaps relationships were, in fact, more complicated than I had believed them to be.
Chapter Twelve
Present
As I tentatively step inside, the old-school shop bell rings louder than I’m expecting it to, and I duck behind a mannequin half my size to avoid calling attention to myself. Unsure what to expect out of a store called Jock and Jill, I’m thankful no one looks over at me like I’ve confused an athletic store for Williams Sonoma. As I peek out from behind the mannequin, a man about my age, in a full business suit despite the August heat and sporty setting, is striding toward me, all loose limbs and forward momentum. As he’s about to body-slam into me, he grins, turns on his toes, strides back down to the other end of the store, and begins to hop up and down, taupe jacket flaps bouncing against his nonexistent backside. I’m jealous of this random guy’s level of confidence that he’s willing to pogo dance in public to test out new running shoes.
I see an enormous black stopwatch clock with orange digital numbers and a sign below it that saysCountdown to the Sacramento Marathon. I don’t think I’ve counted down to anything other than watching my old buddy Royce Williams on TV as the ball drops on New Year’s Eve in Times Square. Three of the four walls of the small store are covered in all types of sneakers, about twelve across and twelve down. My eyes follow the rows and columns, pausing on words likeTempo,Race Flat,Peak Climber,Olympic,Legend. Nowhere do I see a sign under a shoe that saysTo the Corner.
Maybe I should have brought my mother with me. She would have surely lunged for the packet of a raspberry-colored gooey-looking product calledClif Bloks, mistaking the package for gummy candy. I could have used her blatant shoplifting as an excuse to get us out of here and back to the food court where we both would be more comfortable. Instead, because Dr. Kwan gave my lab report a failing grade, I’m standing solo in the middle of this foreign store, the result of a late-night Google search, spurred on by my blood failing me in a test that yielded a sky-high LDL score. I guess my cholesterol qualifies as aPeak Climber.
Not ready to face the wall of endless sneakers, I walk over to the less intimidating shelf of colorful accessories. Neon-yellow shoelaces. Cute. Visors with wide brims, good for the skin. No need to add skin cancer to prediabetic. Water bottles with motivational sayings likeDon’t Stop When You’re Tired, Stop When You’re Doneare stacked in a pyramid almost as tall as I am. No wonder they aren’t selling; that sounds like terrible advice.
I pick up something that looks like a fancy deodorant stick in attractive fuchsia packaging and bring it to my nose. Smells pretty good, a bit like baby powder, and I wouldn’t mind trying something new after a lifelong loyalty to Secret. Examining the decidedly feminine packaging, I see it’s called Butt’r.
Apparently, the stick is not for under your arms where, until this very moment, is the only place I thought one would go. It’s for between your butt cheeks so that on long, hot, sticky runs, you don’t chafe your ass. I’m no stranger to inner-thigh rub, but I didn’t know butt-crack friction was a thing. I can’t help but think of Chap and wonder if his tight buns need Butt’r. I put that stick right back on the shelf. Next to the hot-pink Butt’r display is a similarly shaped bright-yellow item declaring itself to be Butt’r’s sister product: Butt’r for the Udd’rs. I protectively cross my arms over my chest.
I look over my shoulders, right, then left, making sure I remain invisible, and I snap a picture and send it to Quinn as an electronic olive branch. I haven’t talked to my best friend in almost a week, the air between New York and Sacramento chilly since Quinn called in a panic to tell me that in an occurrence of early-morning sabotage, Thomas had called her on his way into his London office to ask if he was invited to Alice’s wedding. Quinn had stumbled in her 4:00 a.m. brain fog and replied, of course he was coming. I told her in the clarity of daylight that she now needed to call him back and say, “Uh, no, I made an egregious predawn lapse in judgment,” but she said she couldn’t. I insisted,Oh, yes, you could.
Turns out, while she invited Thomas to Alice’s wedding behind my back, Alice had already laid the groundwork by reaching out to Thomas behind both our backs to tell him, no matter what we said, he had to be at her wedding as her godfather. Thomas had thrown me under the bus and told Alice she was the daughter he wished he’d had, but that I had put the kibosh on his dream of having another child after being saddled with two rambunctious boys under four. Alice had broken down in sentimental bridal tears over Thomas’s declaration of devoted love, and, well, here Quinn and I both were: Alice’s two biggest fans, who now wanted to kill her.
In a petulant long-distance fit that started with my declaration that Thomas was only Alice’s godfather because he was attached to me and morphed into a rational concern that she would want him to walk her down the aisle, I had hissed at Quinn, demanding to know if it was her expectation that I be civil to Thomas. Her exasperated answer was that the best revenge would be acting like I don’t give a shit that he is there, and that yes, she expected me to act like the grown-up I am. Quinn stipulated that I had five months to figure out how to make it five hours in the same room as my ex-in-waiting. Spoken like a woman who has never been divorced. Quinn was one of those people who got along fabulously with all her former flings. A trait I could argue is a friendship redflag. But it was Quinn, so of course she has managed to bypass the batshit craziness of breakups.
I waited, holding my breath that something would follow the three dots after I sent my text. Since the invention of cell phones, this was the longest either of us had gone without talking to one another. I absolutely could not lose my best friend the same year I lost my husband because of said bastard.
12:56 p.m. (Quinn)
HA! Where the hell are you?
Thank God.
12:57 p.m. (Callie)
I don’t want to tell you.
12:58 p.m. (Quinn)
Then it can’t be good because you tell me everything. What are you doing?
What I’m doing is trying to turn over a new leaf, so I’ll hopefully be a whole new tree by Alice’s wedding when I’m forced to come face-to-face with Thomas.
“Can I help you?” asks a spritely sales associate, eager to please as she shifts her hips in order to stretch while offering me her expertise.
I put my phone in my back pocket. “I don’t know,” I answer, my eyes darting around the store filled with one type of customer: runners.
“Most people who come in here are looking to buy some sort of sneaker. Is that you?”
“I ... I think so?” I draw out slowly, unsure if that’s my final answer. Maybe they have a shoe called the Indecisive?
“Hey there, Callie. Good to see you.” I could listen to Daphne’s voice all day. It is melodic and chimes like she doesn’t have a care in the world, even with thirty-three patients who are out to lunch and twelve staff she manages who I’m sure wish they were. Especially when they are dealing with my mom.
“Hi, Daphne.” I peer around the corner into the living room where Daphne usually has my mom dressed and ready for her outings with me on Mondays around noon. Helen is not there.
