“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” When Mr. L looked ready to argue with this mumbled protest, Libby hurried on. “I’m not saying I would say no… necessarily.” She drew out the sentence, stalling for time.
Mr. L leaned forward.
“At least, not at this exact moment.” Certainly not without talking to her friends, in case they had some idea how to get her out of this with minimal blowback.
“I think we are back to yes, no?” He made a circling motion with his finger.
“No! No yes!” Libby didn’t totally blame him for losing track, considering the number of negations she’d thrown out while also trying really hardnotto sound like she was shutting him down. How was she still this bad at spewing nonsense after all those months as Lillibet?
She opened her mouth to try again, but at that very moment Jean burst into the room. “There you are!”
Libby leaped to her feet. “Coming!”
“But—” Mr. L began.
“Hold that thought. We’ll circle back to this soon.” Libby flashed what she hoped was an ingratiating smile before racing out of the room so fast there was probably a trail of cartoon smoke behind her feet.
Jean was half a step behind, her instinctive sense of drama (and when to flee the scene) kicking in without prompting. They hurried past the bedroom from which Hildy’s laughter floated, light and delicate as a flute solo. Libby tried not to be bitter. It wasn’t Hildy’s fault she had a boyfriend who liked her for herself, as opposed to her citizenship and general lack of resources, especially of the educational and orthodontic variety.
When they were safely inside Mr. L’s mother’s dressing room, which Jean had claimed as her command center, Libby pulled away.
“Why are we skedaddling?” Jean asked. “Did you plant a bomb in there?”
“He wants me to marry him.”
Jean’s bark of amusement died out when she saw Libby’s expression. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
“I guess he hasn’t dealt with morning Libby. Did you remind him you can’t cook?”
“Nice.”
“Sorry. It’s an unexpected twist.”
Libby dropped onto the chaise longue. “Exactly what we need right now.”
“So he is into you? Because he barely looked at the Me-mas centerfold.”
“Hard to believe, considering my nips were flashing like a fricking lighthouse.”
“Exactly my point,” Jean said, ignoring the sarcasm. “He wouldhave been more titillated if I’d done a portrait of one of his faucets.”
“It’s not me personally. He needs a warm body, and apparently blond hair is a bonus.”
“Ah.” Jean knew how Libby felt about being valued for her appearance—and only that. “Remember when your mom was like, ‘You know she won’t always look that way.’ I still don’t know if the message was,Don’t feel bad, mousy one,orDon’t get attached to having a cute friend, her days are numbered.Like, are you her mom or her wicked stepmother?”
Looks had always been a big deal to Libby’s mother, to the point that their relationship could be divided into phases based on how she felt about Libby’s appearance at a given time. Stage one: Libby is a cute-enough kid to make a flattering accessory. Stage two: Libby is all awkward angles and acne, a warped mirror for her attractive mother. Stage three: Libby finally grows into her height, only now she looks like a younger model of her mom, with longer legs. And the last thing Rachel Lane wanted was a living reminder of her age.
“She’s a mystery,” Libby said, with a lightness she didn’t feel.
“I think the word you’re looking for is monster.” That was one of the unsung roles of a best friend: giving voice to the things you couldn’t let yourself think, much less say.
“Maybe we should introduce her to Mr. L. She’d set him straight.” Though it didn’t sound like their hypothetical arrangement would outlast the oft-mentioned day when Libby’s metabolism crapped out.
“Hold on, there, blondie. Let’s think this through.” Jean paced back and forth in front of the dresser. It was a new habit; there wasn’t enough floor space at their apartment to get a decent circuit going. “How can we make this work to our advantage?”
“Besides the twenty large he offered to pay me?”
