My three loves in life are baking, Bravo, and Broadway. I can’t help it if they all happen to come up in conversation.
My best friend hums to herself. “Okay, okay. So the non-date wasugh.”
“And humiliating,” I remind her. “He stared at me like I was wearing a lace thong as a headband when I suggested he come up.”
“Kennedy. Babe.” She sets down her coffee and looks at me seriously. “You are many things, but I’ve never known you to fall victim to embarrassment. Last month, you showed up to a client consultation with flour handprints on your ass because you’d been kneading dough and forgot to check a mirror. How did you handle that? By taking a selfie with it and posting it on your socials.”
A thread of amusement winds through me. “That was funny?—”
“Two weeks ago,” she says, holding up two fingers, “you accidentally sent a voice memo to our book club group chat where you were singing the entireMamma Miasoundtrack in the shower. Very enthusiastically and very off-key.”
“Everyone loved my performance and it’s hard for one person to sing duets.”
She leans forward, ticking off a third item with her fingers. “You tripped going up the stairs at the charity gala and your solution was to take a bow and ask for a round of applause. You showed up to coffee with me wearing mismatched shoes?—”
“They were both black.”
“One was a sneaker and one was a boot.” Her eyes dance with humor. “My point is, you don’t do embarrassment. You do ‘oh well, life is weird and messy, and I’m going to laugh about it and move on.’”
I trace the rim of my coffee cup and sigh. As much as I don’t want to respond, I know better than to think she’ll let it go untilI do. “I know, but he rejected menicely, Maya. Cameron doesn’t do ‘nice,’ which means he was being polite because it was a charity thing and didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”
“That’s—”
My phone rings, cutting off the point she was about to make, and I quickly fish the device out of the depths of my purse. I don’t recognize the number, but swipe to accept anyway. Good banter with a telemarketer may cheer me up.
“Hi, you’ve reached the Pleasure Palace, where your satisfaction is our priority,” I answer. “How may I assist you?”
Maya smacks her head, her face going pink with embarrassment even though she secretly loves my creative openings for spam calls.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m trying to reach Kennedy Caplan… with Crumb & Co.?”
Oh fuck a duck.
My heart plummets to the floor with asplat.
I just answered a business call with a greeting far more fitting for a sex shop.
My face flames, but in my defense, my business number isn’t publicly listed. I handle everything through email first, and once I’ve confirmed the order is legit, I call from a Google Voice line. Which means whoever this is has my personal number.
“Sorry I thought this was spam,” I squeak, giving Maya a panicked look. “This is Kennedy.”
“One moment please,” the voice on the other end of the call says. Calming music—the kind that’s supposed to be relaxing during a bikini wax, as if that’ll distract from the hot wax on your hoo-ha—flows through the phone.For two full minutes, I listen to it, though I consider hanging up three times.
Eventually, another female voice comes on the line. “Kennedy?”
I roll my eyes. How many times am I going to have to confirm my identity during this call? “Yes, this is Kennedy.”
“Amazing, this is Diane Weber with Starlight Soirées.”
My jaw drops and my hand shoots out of its own accord and grips Maya’s arm so hard she yelps. Diane Weber plans weddings for old-money families with ties to the founding fathers. The woman’s client list reads like a combination of Harvard’s biggest donors and the occasional Boston Blues starting pitcher. If there was a party planner mafia in Boston, Diane Weber would be the Don.
And she’s callingme.
Maya mouths, “Who?” at me repeatedly, each time with increasingly frantic hand gestures.
But I can’t respond. I’m pretty sure my soul has left my body. Why would someone who charges more for a single centerpiece than I make in a month callme?
“Kennedy? Are you still there?”
