Page 8 of Meet Me on Greenwood

"I know where you are. I need you back at the office."

"So, you can tell me how you’re going to sell my company off for parts. No."

Maise went quiet long enough that I had to check to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.

"Boondoggle," she said at last.

My hands tightened on the phone. It was the code word we'd developed back in college—the only one that would make me drop what I was doing and she knew it.

"Maise, no!"

"I am invoking our pact. Boondoggle. Now get back here."

I sighed hanging up on her without another word.

"I’m not doing it, Maise!" I said storming into my office. It was in its usual chaotic form with coffee cups stack high on plaques and awards. I pushed back the company sign that had fallen onto my office chair, then peered briefly at the logo—a cloud with the words House of Helen beneath it. I'd named the company after my mother, but the longer we stayed open, the more I felt the weight of it. I leaned the sign against the wall, out of sight. There was no point in hanging it if the operation was going to fall apart, anyway.

"You threw me to the wolves in there," I said. "What was that?"

Maise didn't answer right away. She went straight to my closet, moved the stack of diplomas I was too sentimental to throw away and too unbothered to hang, and pulled out the bottle of Hidden Gem whiskey I'd received for my birthday. She poured a glass and set it in front of me.

"That's celebratory whiskey," I said, eyeing it. "Please tell me you have good news."

"I need you to sit down and drink that."

Her tone stopped me cold. Maise and I had known each other since the first day of freshman year at Johns Hopkins. We were lucky enough to find each other among the handful of Black students in our class. I went to medical school, she went to law school, and somewhere in between we became the kind of friends who told each other the truth even when it hurt. I knew her tones. I knew this was something serious. She’d even used our secret word, the signal that it was time to drop everything and listen. It wasn’t invoked often, the last time being right after Maise accepted a marriage proposal from her on-again, off-again ex-boyfriend. Thank goodness she’d seen reason.

I took a sip of the whiskey before sitting down. I wasn’t all that fond of drinking, but if I was going to drink, it needed to be the best, not that bullshit Andre had plied that intern with.

After a moment, she said, "I got a call from your sister Bri."

"Why is she calling you?" I said, annoyed though I knew why. My twin sister and I were so different. When our mother passed, it caused an irreparable shift and we barely spoke to each other now.

"Your father has died."

My breath caught, my brain unable to process what she’d just said. Died? What did that even mean. That man was invincible.

"He died," Maise continued, speaking faster. "It was peaceful, in his sleep. They found him in his office." The last part she said with genuine sadness, her voice shaking. "I’m sorry Gema."

I was quiet for a moment, trying to understand. The words were simple enough—five of them, four letters in the worst one—but they refused to arrange themselves into anything I could comprehend. He died. It sat there, like I'd lost all grasp on the English language.

"But I talked to him yesterday," I said. "For his birthday. He sounded fine."

As if that mattered. As if the universe owed me an explanation for the gap between fine and gone. I heard myself say it again, quieter this time, like repeating it might make it make sense—like grief was a math problem I just hadn't worked out yet.

Father and I weren’t close and hadn’t been for many years, especially after his wedding to one of my high school friends. The union wrecked the little connection we had. He’d chosen her over me, but that wasn’t new. Everything came before his children—his job, his judgeship, his country clubs. A new wife wasn’t so different. But even so, I still cared for the man and called him a few times a year.

I took another swig from my glass, not tasting it, just needing my hands to do something other than shake. Maise poured one for herself and sat on the edge of my desk, close enough that I could feel her waiting for me to cry, or speak, or fall apart in whatever order made sense to me. I didn't know which one came first.

"Does that mean I have to go to Oklahoma?" I asked.

Maise took a sip, bristling at the taste of the whiskey. "What is wrong with Oklahoma? Gives you a chance to wear your cowboy boots again."

"Not everybody is running around in cowboy boots," I said trying to catch my breath. "It’s just like here—" I said unbuttoning the top of my blouse and unclasping my bra so I could breathe.

"Given the frantic call I got from Andre today," she said pointedly, "I think you could use some time away."

"Did he tell you she is an intern?"