Chapter four
Tessa
Ipush through the coffee shop door already three versions deep into how I'm going to explain what happened between George and me. All three versions sound either too dramatic or not nearly dramatic enough.
My best friend, Callie is going to freak out about it, no matter how I tell her.
I've rehearsed the opening line twice on the walk over and discarded both. There's no clean way into this.
Callie isn’t here yet, so I sweep the room once and claim our usual corner booth before a stroller, laptop bag, or aggressively parked tote can beat me to it. I slide in, set my phone face-down on the table, and fold my hands in front of me like I’m about to be called into a very personal performance review.
The email is still on the screen. Even upside down, I feel weirdly aware of it, like it is giving off heat through the tabletop.
Callie arrives in a gust of cold air, still buttoned into her coat, and she takes one look at my face and holds up two fingers to the barista without breaking eye contact with me.
She doesn’t even sit down all the way before narrowing her eyes.
"You have the look."
"What look."
"The look where something happened and you've been anxious to tell me all about it." She drops into the seat across from me and starts unwinding her scarf. I open my mouth and she points at me. "Wait for the lattes."
The lattes arrive with a plate of chocolate chip cookies that neither of us ordered, warm and slightly glossy, still soft from the oven. Callie tips the barista, wraps both hands around her mug, and levels her full, undivided attention on me.
"Go."
"Well, a few days ago, George came to my desk."
Callie sets her mug down. "He voluntarily approached you."
"Yes."
"George Maddox left his desk, crossed the office, and came toyou."
"It's not that uncommon."
"I'm already suspicious."
I push through it.
"He wanted to discuss a proposal."
"Aproposal?"
"Not that kind of proposal, Callie."
She settles against the booth with the careful, effortful stillness of someone physically restraining themselves from grabbing me by the shoulders.
"He said he needed a girlfriend for his sister's wedding."
Callie stares at me.
One second, two, three.
Then she picks up a cookie, takes a slow and deliberate bite, chews, and says, with great composure, "Run that back."
I pull out my phone, open the email, and slide it across the table without a word. At this point the document can really speak for itself.
