“Ms. Brinley, I just need a signature here. Blue or black ink is acceptable.” She pulls two pens from her messenger bag, offering me an onyx option or an admiral blue. I choose the latter.
I scrawl my signature without really looking. “Thank you, deary.”Oh, fresh hell. Did I just say “deary?”I meant it as cutesy, not cringey. I’ll just go fetch my bifocals and retreat to my rocking chair now.
But she smiles so warmly at me anyway. Perhaps the way she smiles at her own grandmother.Fuck.“And then this is for you.”
She trades me a thin tan envelope for the clipboard. It’s intimidatingly thin. The kind that screams a very to-the-point legal issue without enough explanation.Great.What now? Another supplier lawsuit? A trademark dispute? Maybe someone’s finally suing us for that time the runway collapsed at Fashion Week. In my defense, the structural engineer said it would hold.
It did not hold.
“Do you have any idea what this is…?”
She shakes her head. “Confidential of course. My job is just to make sure you received it.”
I nod along, waiting for the shoe to drop.Celeste Brinley, you’ve just been served!
“Thank you for the delivery. There’s usually a lunch spread on the main floor during this time. You are more than welcome to help yourself as a guest of ours today.”
“I saw it on the way in. There’s warm brie.” She pumps her brows at me, and for some reason I immediately like her. “But I can’t do soft cheese right now.” She splays a hand over her belly. “I’m about fourteen weeks along.”
The news of her pregnancy hits me like it always does—a physical sensation, as if someone has reached into my ribcage and gently squeezed. Not from jealousy. Not exactly. More like the feeling of pressing on a bruise you’d forgotten was there.
“Congratulations…I’m sorry, what is your name?” I ask.
“Raven.”
“Congratulations, Raven. That’s wonderful. Are you having a comfortable pregnancy so far?”
Greg shoots me a look before his eyes flicker to Raven’s belly, then away, his interest visibly cooling like a burner switched from high to off.
“Sort of. Actually, no. I’m sick a lot. Everyone keeps telling me to suck on peppermint and ginger, but nothing works. I’d do anything for a little relief from the nausea.”
“Vicks,” I answer instinctively. “VapoRub. Just carry a small pot around and take a whiff when you need it. Resets the senses apparently. My friend is a senior editor at The Belly. She wrote an article about menthol or peppermint for nausea.” I roll my wrist. “She told me a lot of women tried it and said it helped.”
It’s the most water-downed version of the story, but I’m not going to tell a total stranger that me and my best friend of twenty years had a massive falling out two years ago and haven’t spoken since. It’s time to call. It’s well past time to call. One of us has to break the ice and considering the fact that I was the asshat in our last fight, it should be me.
“I read The Belly. What’s her name?” Raven asks, with a peculiar interest that strikes me as unusual. “Your friend?”
“Whitney Trace. Although she writes under her pen name—Wren Tracie, if you want to look up the article. Ever heard of her?”
To my shock, Raven’s face crumples for just a moment before she composes herself. “No. Sorry.” Her voice wavers as tears well up and spill over, tracking silent paths down her cheeks even as she maintains a trembling smile.
“Are you okay?” I make a movement like I’m about to get up from my seat and comfort her, but perhaps that’s too forward. “Do you want to sit down?”
Raven sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve. “Hormones. I’m fine. I’m like this all the time lately.” She points to a few CAD sketches I have framed and mounted to the wall. “You’re very talented. And nice. I’m really glad I got to meet you. Both of you.” She briefly glances at Greg in acknowledgment before practically floating out of the room, clipboard tucked under her arm. I wait until the door clicks shut before speaking.
“You’re a pig.”
Greg raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I lean back in my chair. “I saw you checking her out. That girl is young enough to be your daughter. She probably has student loans and a Pinterest board full of future career goals.”
“Jealous doesn’t suit you, Celeste.” His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t take the bait. “I have another meeting. We’ll continue this later. I want to circle back to the expansion plans.”
“Can’t wait.”
He leaves without another word, and I’m alone again with Patrice and the Giacometti and the weight of everything incredible I’ve built by sacrificing everything I ever wanted.
I look at the envelope in my hands. I’d almost forgotten about it.
