Me now, and her now.
There’s a long pause.
“I don’t know, Meg. Maybe.”
I nod. It isn’t a definitive answer, but it’s an honest one. For both of us, probably.
“But if it is true,” she says, “then we ought to change it. We ought to learn to be friends a different way. Because I love you, and I miss you so much.”
My eyes well with tears. “Me too, Sib.”
Sibby scoots closer to me and for a while we sit quietly, her side pressed up against mine while I force myself to eat. The to-do list looms, and my heart is still broken. But maybe a tiny bit less so now. Maybe Sibby and I are strong enough to form and forge something new. To change.
“Okay, though,” she says. “The second phone linewasa good idea.”
I snort. “It was. I’ll call after I’m finished eating.”
And I think we both feel pretty glad that we don’t have to doallthe changing today.
A few hours later, I’m hugging Cecelia goodbye in the small entryway of her townhouse, still sniffling in spite of my best efforts. By this point, my eyelids probably resemble throw pillows, but at least some of the tears I’ve shed over the last hour have been tears of relief, because Cecelia—generous, wonderful person that she is—has forgiven me.
After I’d finished my breakfast, I’d gotten serious about dealing with the thingsI’mactually in control of in this awful situation, and this confrontation with Cecelia had been right at the top. Thankfully, she wasn’t working today, and had eagerly agreed to my request to meet, offering up her own place—as though she could sense that I was cautious about being out.
It hadn’t been easy, apologizing to Cecelia—no excuses, and only explanations insofar as they helped her to understand how all this had happened. I’d told her that I would do whatever I could to help her repair any fallout for the shop; I’d reassured her that I would answer for any work I had done while I’d been working for her. I would accept if she never wanted me in the shop again.
And I’d thanked her for all that she’d done for me, for trusting and believing in me. I’d told her I was sorry to have let her down so completely.
“Oh, Meg,” she’d said, her eyes soft and mischievous. “I don’t mean to be ironic, but . . . listen, you made amistake.”
Still, Cecelia has a business to run, and together we make some decisions about how best to minimize the damage. As awful as it is to consider, I’ll avoid the shop for a while, at the very least until the dust settles, and maybe for longer. If Cecelia gets calls from past clients, she will gently remind them that I was employed as an independent contractor and have sole responsibility for the work I produced. She will send them to the contact form on my website, and when she can, she’ll give me a heads-up about anyone who she thinks might be particularly irate, though thankfully, there’s been nothing that extreme as of yet.
“This doesn’t mean we won’t see each other,” Cecelia says, squeezing me one more time before pulling back. “Come over next week, and we’ll all have dinner.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Meg,” she says firmly. “You’re more to me than the letters, okay?”
I swallow back fresh tears at this kindness, barely managing a genuine nod and smile.
When I step out onto the street, I pull out my phone, sending a quick text to Sibby to let her know I’m on my way. She’s still back at the apartment, and has insisted on staying for a couple of days to help out, asking Elijah to drop off a weekend bag for her. While I’ve been at Cecelia’s, she’s been doing some preliminary handling of my e-mail backlog, deleting anything from reporters and flagging messages from clients that I’ll need to reply to soon. After I get home, my plan is to reach out to Lark, bumped up in the confrontation-priority queue after I spoke to Lachelle on the way over to Cecelia’s. “What do I have to be mad about?” she’d said. She’d encouraged me to remind Cecelia that all publicity is good publicity before telling me I owed her my whole sob story over vegan cocktails.
Even though I should probably stash my phone and leave it alone until I get back home, I can’t help checking out the cache of newly missed calls, and as I walk I listen to—and mostly delete—voice mails. The problem with the second phone line idea, I’d realized, almost as soon as I’d gone to set it up, was that it wouldn’t relieve me of the compulsion to check constantly for something from Reid, who might be trying to reach me from a different number.
Except he hasn’t.
Maybe I could try to call . . . the FBI?I’m thinking, ridiculously, as I press delete on yet another garbage press inquiry.How does one call the FB—
I stop in my tracks when I hear the beginning of the next message, which is so entirely unexpected—not even on the confrontation list—that I don’t even pause to listen to the whole thing before dialing the number back.
“Meg!” Ivonne’s voice is high and excited when she picks up after only a half ring. “I’m so glad we were able to connect. I tried calling you yesterday from the hotel, but your phone must have been blowing up!”
She makes it sound as if this is the greatest thing, one’s phone “blowing up.” One’slifeblowing up.
“Uh, yes.” I swallow, then try again, attempting to be more cheerful. I thought I was finished at Make It Happyn, and now I might need this job more than ever. If they want whimsy, I guess I’ll find a way to give them whimsy.
I offer an empty, false laugh. “Yeah, definitely! It’s been wild.”
Wildly terrible. Wildly devastating. Wildly heartbreaking.
