“I know,” says Juliana. It doesn’t seem worth it to correct Shelly yet again. “I’m full of surprises.”
“We should go out!” cries Shelly. “We should totally go out for a drink. We should go to Poor People’s or The Oar. Phenomenal cocktails at both places.”
“Now?” asks Juliana dubiously. She glances at her watch. It’s 9:22.
“Not now!” chortles Shelly. She gives Juliana a light, jocular punch on the upper arm. “EvenIdon’t start drinking at ten in the morning.” Juliana tenses her arm, tenses all of her muscles. Shelly is coming really close to crossing Juliana’s threshold. Shelly purses herlips. “Eleven, maybe. But I meant some evening. Or afternoon. I’m pretty open. Or maybe I’ll come to one of your parties. I can’t believe I haven’t come to one yet.”
“Definitely come,” says Juliana insincerely.
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“When is the next one?”
“I’m trying to figure that out.”
“Well,here, let’s at least exchange numbers so you can let me know. Right?”
“Right.” Juliana hands Shelly her phone and takes Shelly’s from her, tapping in her number under the contact Shelly has already created with the name Jade.She changes it to Juliana.
“But right now, if you’re free, we should go get a coffee. Have you been to Joy Bombs yet?”
“What’s Joy Bombs?”
“Oh, girl. Youhaveto go to Joy Bombs! It’s one of my favorite places on the island. You ever had a mini whoopie pie?”
“No,” says Juliana again. She doesn’t want to get a coffee; she doesn’t want a mini whoopie pie, whatever that is. She is Juliana George, founder of LookBook, a person who has created something out of nothing. She has to answer to her board, and to her attorneys, and soon she’ll have to answer to the stock market, but she no longer has to answer to or worry about or feel naked and exposed in front of Shelly Salazar.
“I’ll show you! Are you free now?”
She can easily be not free. She could have a business meeting, a plumber coming, an online therapy appointment. Any of these would do. Or none of them; she doesn’t need an excuse. How many times in the past ten years has she reminded herself thatnois a complete fucking sentence?
But there is a part of Juliana that does want to show Shelly whatshe’s become—a part of her that wants to have the upper hand, and to make a fist with it.
“I have a little time,” she says. “I have a call at one, though.”
Shelly says, “Great! My treat.” She reaches out and impulsively hugs Juliana to her. Shelly smells like the ocean and like sunscreen and, inexplicably, like limes (breakfast margarita?). When she releases Juliana she holds her at arm’s length for a moment, considering her proudly, almost like a parent. “You’ll love this place, Jade.”
Juliana takes a deep breath. “Hey, listen, Shelly. Don’t call me that. Like I said, it’s Juliana now. Especially here, okay?”
“You got it.” Shelly makes a motion like she’s zipping up her lips. “If you ask me, Jade was a great name. Why’d you stop using it?”
Juliana will explain herself to nobody. “It’s complicated.”
“Juliana is pretty too. But your last name—?”
“Long story,” said Juliana.
“Got it. If there’s more to it than you want to say, girlfriend, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not sure if you remember this about me but I am a total vault.” She turns and begins to make her way down the trail, and Juliana, walking the twin tightropes between past and present, present and future, follows. Hopefully they’ll at least take separate cars.
They don’t take separate cars. Shelly insists on following Juliana home to drop off her car (“So I know where you live for the next party!”) and makes room for Juliana in her cluttered Corolla, sweeping a whole collection of items off the passenger seat. A lipstick without a cover, a lipstick with a cover, a Styrofoam takeout container that smells like vinaigrette, three dimes, a pair of tweezers, two empty nip bottles.
Joy Bombs, it turns out, is a cute little café in the center of Block Island’s small, bustling downtown. They each order a coffee, and once they’re seated at one of the tables Shelly leans in and says, “So,Juliana George, tell meeverythingthat’s been going on with you.”
“Since college?” says Juliana. “Everything?” A café worker, apretty, suntanned teenage girl, is cleaning the table next to her, maybe listening in, maybe not.
“Everything relevant. I gave you my capsule bio. Give me yours!”
