Will stares. “Hmm?”
“Between you and me.” I gesture between us. “You said you’re not normally like this, but I want to know what to expect. What will it be like?”
His eyes hold mine. “You’re in charge of everything. I’m only here to support your endgame. That’s what it will be like between you and me. You telling me what to do, and me doing it. You telling me where to go, and me going.”
My face flushes at the notion, but I say, “Good. That’s good.”
“Anything else?” he asks, blinking twice, eyelashes thick and long and dark.
“How long will you be in town for?”
“I can cancel my flight home and stay all week. I still have to fix your car, after all.”
I nod. “And yes, for the record, Iwouldlike a client referral.”
“No problem. Just one more thing.” Will takes another step forward, and my head tilts back to keep hold of his eyes. “I’m really big on communication.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Constant communication.”
“It eliminates misunderstandings and helps us get to the point.”
“Agreed,” I breathe.
“Great.” His eyes flash to my neck and move up again. “In that case, let me get your phone number.”
CHAPTER FIVE
When I get home early that evening, I collapse on the couch and google Zoe Grant.
I’ve done this a handful of times since graduating college, but never in the last few years. I gave up when I began to feel like a stalker with nothing to show for my efforts. I always thought it was odd Zoe didn’t have LinkedIn, but who was I to judge? I haven’t been on true social media since my senior year of high school—when I deleted Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook in one fell swoop.
But this time, the search results pull up something new: feature articles Zoe has written forThe New York Times Book Review.
I make a small noise of shock.
Zoe works forThe New York Times.Zoe’s awriterforThe New York Times.
It makes absolute perfect sense.
I pull myself off the couch and meander to the kitchen, reading her reviews. They’re smart, witty, incisive. She’s mostly kind, butoccasionally, I come across a sharp line of criticism that gives me full-body shivers, and my empathetic heart stretches out to those authors. I can relate; I’vebeenon the other side of a Zoe Grant criticism, and it’s usually so poignant, all you can do is bow your head and accept it while thanking her for thinking of you at all.
I pour a soda over ice and head back to the couch, still reading. The more I read, the easier it is to call forth what she was like.
My friendship with Zoe made absolutelyno senseon paper. She wrote short stories during study hall, had blue streaks in her brown hair but wouldn’t indulge in a manicure. I, by comparison, hadn’t shown a naked fingernail in public since age twelve and spent my study halls organizing my Pinterest fashion boards. During the first month of senior year, I remember Zoe—the new girl—scribbling furiously in a notepad all the time, like she was beholden to some sort of ticking clock. It wasn’t until I caught the wordprincesson her notepad followed by something likeElthiorthat I realized she wasn’t doing homework; she was writing fiction.
I pondered this all day and night, obsessing over what this princess of Elthior might dress like. Was she a utilitarian, warrior-type princess? Or did she prefer feminine ball gowns? What was the culture of fashion in Elthior? How expansive was the princess’s closet?
The next day, I worked up the courage to talk to Zoe for the first time. I asked if I could read her story—while her face bloomed tomato red—and then explained why. So I could draw the characters’ outfits.
Oh my gosh,Zoe said, clutching her notebook to her chest.You’re secretly weird too!Which might have been the first time I’d ever felt seen by someone my age.
I didn’t have any close friends and hadn’t for the duration of high school. My family spent every moment I wasn’t in school at Sea Island—a luxury beach resort in Georgia—where I kept the company of college-aged staff and wealthy adults who mostly talked about their real estate portfolios. During the summer betweeneighth grade and freshman year, friend groups formed, and I wasn’t invited to become part of one. I didn’t love sports, or drama, or band, and it didn’t help that freshman year, I started dating a senior (who took a shine to me because he’d known my older brother from the lacrosse team). I hung out with his friends until they all graduated, and he subsequently dumped me.
By the time sophomore year rolled around, I’d established an aura ofaloof, distant, other.Social media was being piloted that decade; I focused on my online persona instead. Crafting it, curating it. Which was addicting, and rewarding in doses, but it didn’t solve my truest dilemma: nobody actually wanted to be my friend in real life.
On the handful of occasions I got invited to something, there were so many inside jokes I didn’t understand. I was never good at making people laugh, voicing an opinion, getting others to open up. I’d usually just clam up and leave early, then go home and watch the fun play out online instead. It was social anxiety, through and through, but back then, I couldn’t name it so easily. Interacting with followers who liked me online was better. I could take the time to consider my words, analyze every detail of what I showed to the world.
I couldcuratemyself in a way people responded to positively.
