From the Jump(21)

“It’s fine,” I say. “I can figure out a place to stay after I get ready. Why don’t you go on the patio and I’ll be out as soon as I’m done.”

“No.” Phoebe’s shoulders slump, but to her credit, she manages to hold onto her smile. “That’s okay. I want to help. I’ll sit on the bed so I can talk to you while you’re in the bathroom.”

Her tone carries no judgment, but her words provoke a mental image that makes me cringe. There’s nothing wrong with choosing to get ready for the day if that’s what I want to do. But is it? Do I really want to spend my morning staring into a mirror when I could be on a patio with my best friend?

No.

The realization makes my breathing speed up. I know it shouldn’t, but the thought of being around people all day with a bare face and a poorly thought-out outfit feels like the equivalent of going into public with my breasts out and a fig leaf between my legs. It’s not vanity. It’s protection. But should I really have to protect myself against the people I love most in the world?

Again, the answer is no.

I look down at the t-shirt I dragged out of my bag last night and am shocked to discover words on it. On principle alone, I don’t wear novelty tees. The idea that I’d own one is ridiculous. I can’t imagine where Elena and I found it.

The thought of her name solves the mystery. The shirt was given to me the year she was my Secret Santa at work. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten. She laughed so hard she snorted when I opened it and read the words If you can read this, you’re standing too close. She tried to make me put it on, but I refused. It smelled like the plastic it had been shipped in. If I’m going to say no to prioritizing appearance over experience, I suppose her gift is the most apt uniform for my rebellion.

“Actually,” I say, “I’d like to see the patio. Just let me brush my teeth, and I’ll be right out.”

Phoebe squeals and runs for the door, and I head into the bathroom to face the music. As feared, my hair looks like a place birds might build their home. And without contouring, my cheekbones have all but disappeared. I must have slept hard, though, because the dark smudges that were under my eyes yesterday seem to have been erased along with my bone structure. I brush my teeth, run a brush through my hair, and take a deep breath before joining Phoebe outside.

It’s easy to see why she was so excited about the patio. It’s on the edge of a sharp incline, layering the exotic tropical trees and bushes so they stretch from ground to sky without feeling claustrophobic. The fronds sway in the breeze like they’re dancing to music. Phoebe is lying on one of the loungers, but I settle in a patch of sunlight at the small table in the other corner. The air smells green and wet.

“I can’t believe you made it,” Phoebe says. “How did you get the time off?”

“It turns out, in-house designers aren’t as essential as I convinced myself we are. We actually get vacation days, too.”

Phoebe laughs. “Who’d have thought?”

“Well, I’ve gone seven years without taking advantage of them, so clearly not me.” I know I could—and maybe even should—tell her the truth, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I need to figure out a game plan first, not for telling her but for successfully going freelance. Without a concrete strategy and breakdown of the numbers, I’ll look foolish.

“I should’ve come on one of these trips before,” I admit. “Although, apparently, I wouldn’t have been rooming with you. Is that not weird, you and your ex sharing a hut?”

“No.” Phoebe waves a dismissive hand, but there’s something in her eyes I don’t like. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” I choose my words carefully, not wanting to give her any reason to feel defensive. The problem is, while everyone else might think Phoebe and Mac’s six-year relationship miraculously wrapped up with no hurt feelings, I was the one she ended up crying to about it. She probably didn’t intend to—it took a large part of a bottle of tequila to loosen her tongue—but she did. And while she started out the night insisting it was mature of Mac to admit to wanting to see other people (translation: sleep with all the models who were suddenly his coworkers), she ended it declaring she never wanted to see his stupidly gorgeous face again.

My heart still breaks remembering her confession. But that was also one of the most terrifying nights of my life. If Phoebe couldn’t be friends with Mac, it would spell the end of our little group. And if I could’ve gone back in time and strangled the talent scout who spotted Mac wolfing down tacos at the Pink Cantina, sending him down the path toward gorgeous, scantily clad women, I would’ve happily procured a rope and gone hunting.

“You were together for a long time,” I say. “I could see how it might feel complicated.”

“It’s the fact that we were together for so long that keeps it from getting complicated,” Phoebe says with a breeziness that doesn’t quite ring true. “Mac and I always share a room on vacation. It splits the cost in half.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I say diplomatically.

She squeezes her eyes shut. “What could complicate it is the fact that I accidentally walked in on him getting out of the shower yesterday.”

“Oh, Phoebes.” My stomach sinks. “I don’t suppose you closed your eyes and backed out of the room?”