The typing bubble appears and disappears like it's having an existential crisis. Appears again. Vanishes. This is not filling me with confidence about the upcoming conversation.
My stomach does that thing where it tries to escape through my throat.
Then my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, which makes my heart attempt to exit my body via emergency protocols.
Unknown: Hi Savannah, this is Xavier. Emma gave me your number. Do you need a ride from the bus station when you arrive?
I drop the curling iron. It hits the bathroom tile with a clatter that probably sounds like gunfire to my downstairs neighbors, leaving what's definitely going to be a security-deposit-eating burn mark. Perfect. Just absolutely perfect.
Xavier. Dr. Xavierdore Blackwell with his perfect penmanship and his concerned-professional voice and his mint-scented composure that used to make me feel like a walking natural disaster every time I tried to help him organize his medical supplies.
I stare at the message until the words start doing a little dance across my phone screen, my reflection showing half-curled hair and the expression of someone who just saw their ex-boyfriend's name attached to perfectly polite text punctuation.
Me to Emma: Why is Xavier asking about bus station pickup duty? Are you not coming to get me?
Emma: Shit, I forgot to tell you.
Me to Emma: Don’t make me regret coming.
Emma: Please come! He volunteered to pick you up. So thoughtful of him, right?
Me: Answer the actual question, Emma.
Emma: Don’t kill me!
I throw my phone onto the bathroom counter and pace to my bedroom, then to my closet, then back to the bathroom to rescue my hair situation. My vanilla bourbon scent sharpens with anxiety, filling my tiny apartment with notes of stress-baking and impending romantic doom.
The curling iron has cooled down completely. Because naturally. Because the universe decided that today is National Make Savannah's Life Difficult Day and didn't bother sending me an invitation.
Me: I’m going to kill you. What is it?
Emma:…
Radio silence. A typing bubble, which in Emma-speak translates to "I'm hiding something massive and you’re going to kill me.”
I plug the curling iron back in and dig through my makeup bag for concealer, the industrial-strength kind that could probably hide a crime scene. Maybe if I use enough foundation, I can convince people I'm a competent adult instead of a womanwhose life is held together with bobby pins and increasingly desperate optimism.
My phone buzzes again.
Xavier: I don't mind picking you up at all. What time does your bus arrive?
Polite. Professional. Exactly the kind of clinical courtesy that used to make me want to reorganize his entire medicine cabinet while screaming into pillows. The man could make "have a nice day" sound like a medical diagnosis for terminal politeness.
I type and delete approximately seventeen different responses before settling on something that won't reveal my complete emotional upheaval.
Me: Bus arrives at 3:47 PM on Friday. Are you absolutely sure it's not too much trouble?
Xavier: No trouble at all. Looking forward to seeing you again.
Of course he is. Xavier approaches social obligations with the same methodical precision he uses to organize prescription bottles. Unlike me, currently standing in my bathroom holding mascara and staring at my phone like it might spontaneously develop the ability to explain men.
I attempt to apply mascara without permanently injuring my eyeball. It's surprisingly difficult when your hands are shaking from caffeine withdrawal and pure emotional terror.
Back to the bedroom, where my professional wardrobe is spread across my bed like evidence of my declining financial situation. I grab my burgundy blazer, the one I bought back when I still believed success was inevitable instead of a myth perpetuated by people who don't understand the wedding industry. The fabric is starting to show wear at the elbows, but from a distance it still looks expensive. Fake it till you make it, right? Right?
Emma's silence feels like the calm before a Category 5 hurricane of complications I'm spectacularly unprepared to handle.
My work clothes fit exactly half the suitcase, which tells you everything you need to know about my current circumstances. Three blazers, four blouses, two pairs of dress pants, one skirt that still fits after my stress-eating phase last month, and the black dress I wear to evening events when I need to look successful instead of desperate. Not exactly an extensive collection, but weddings require looking polished, and yoga pants don't exactly scream "trust me with your special day."
