From the Jump(12)

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, despite all indications something better is required. “I didn’t realize . . .”

What? This is like a Sunday crossword puzzle in the New York Times. I didn’t realize what? That she needed more sympathy? That can’t be right. It will sound like I think she’s needy. That I wasn’t sharing? That’s too obvious a lie. Elena and I have worked with each other for years. If I hadn’t made the active decision to keep to myself, some personal details would’ve naturally slipped out by now.

“You know what?” she says before I can solve the riddle. “Just forget about it. I don’t know why we’re talking about this. It’s obviously not the time. You’ve had a crazy day at work, and the last thing you need to be thinking about is me and my silly insecurities. Go. Have a fun night and leave all of this behind you.”

“Elena,” I say as she backs away.

“We’re fine.” She offers a reassuring smile and waves me forward. “I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“No.” Apparently the word has still been hovering on my tongue, eager to be repeated. “Please don’t go.”

Elena stops, looking at me questioningly, but I have no other words lined up for release. The momentum I had in the meeting has dissipated, but I summon it back. Forget what I’m supposed to say or do. What do I want?

“I didn’t know how to respond to your sharing,” I say, closing the gap between us, “because sharing isn’t something I normally do. With anyone. People can’t take advantage of your weaknesses if you don’t expose them. But it’s recently been brought to my attention that I don’t have to always do what I’m supposed to. And I think I want to . . .” I can’t bring myself to say share. It sounds too cheesy. And I’m not even sure it’s true. I’d like to stop holding everything in, but I don’t actually want to stand here on the sidewalk spilling my guts like a drunken teen outside a football game.

“You want to what?” Elena prompts.

“Do more things I’m not supposed to do.” As far as declarations go, it’s not exactly specific, but it sends a thrill through me nonetheless.

“Yeah?” Elena grins mischievously, her eyes sparkling. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.” I shift uncomfortably on my heels. “Just . . . things.”

“Come on, Olivia. Name one thing off the top of your head that you’re not supposed to do.”

I aim for the top of my head, but the omnipresent growl of my stomach weighs down the expedition. “Eat. My trainer has banned all sugar, dairy, processed foods, and anything fried from my diet.”

“And you want?”

“All of the above.” My mouth waters at the thought. Donuts. Pizza. Cookies. Potato chips. So many things have been off-limits for so long.

Elena laughs, clapping with excitement. “Please tell me you also want company. Everyone knows calories don’t count when you’re eating them for a friend. It’ll be like breakup ice cream but without the tears.”

I flush that she’d refer to me as a friend after all the ways I’ve unknowingly offended her. “You still want to hang out with me?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve never wanted to hang out with you more.” She grabs my hand and starts pulling me down the street. “Where should we start?”

As I totter after her on stilettos, a terrible thought occurs to me. My suits are so perfectly tailored that even an extra glass of water can make them feel tight around the waist. It’s an outfit for eating lettuce or nibbling on a carb-less nutrition bar, not decadence.

“I have to change,” I say. “Can we go to my condo first?”

“Are you inviting me into your home?” Elena’s mouth drops open in exaggerated shock. “Olivia Bakersfield, you are opening up.”

I roll my eyes to cover my uncertainty. But after four years of working together, I finally manage to get out, “You shouldn’t call me Olivia. My friends call me Liv.”



* * *



—

“Ice cream and liquor? Are you sure?” I push open the door to my apartment, placing the keys in the delicate rose-gold leaf on the floating shelf.

“Baileys was specifically created to go in milkshakes,” Elena says. She follows me in. Like mine, her arms are laden with the bags of alcohol and junk food we’ve picked up at the bodega down the street.

“Cat Stevens is not going to be pleased. He hates it when I use the blender.”

I cross to the kitchen, drop my bags on the island, and pull the blender out anyway. One of the bags topples over, sending Doritos and Oreos and candy bars sliding across the white countertop.

“Who’s Cat Stevens?” Elena pulls the ice cream out of her bag and slides it toward me.

“My cat.”

“You don’t have a cat,” she says with unwarranted certainty. She doesn’t even look around for one as she says it. “I’d have seen pictures.”

“Clearly, you wouldn’t have.” I find a grapefruit spoon for the ice cream because I don’t have a proper scoop.

“There would be cat hair on your clothes.”

“You think I’m the kind of person who would choose a cat that sheds?” I’m a little offended by the thought of it. “He’s probably hiding under the bed from us. Feel free to try to lure him out.”