Best Friends Don't Kiss(9)

“It’s fine, Mom.” Honestly, it’s not fine, but I can’t not let it go. I have a best friend waiting for me next door so we can get to our Halloween party. His patience is usually pretty great, but I have to imagine it runs out at some point.

“You promise you’re not mad at me?” she asks.

“Promise, Mom,” I lie. I’m still mad. Totally mad, but I loathe making my mom feel uncomfortable. “All is forgiven.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” she mutters, and I don’t miss the way her voice softens with relief. “And, Ava?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget to let Callie know you’re not going to be attending.”

“Wait…what?” I question. “Why do I have to be the one to let her know? Pretty sure that’s your job.”

“What was that, honey?” she asks. “You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”

“Mom, I know you can hear me. You’re on your house phone.”

“Ava? Ava? Hello?”

“Mom, be serious. Your house is nowhere near any tunnels.”

“Ava, honey, I can’t hear anything you’re saying right now!” she exclaims, continuing this insane charade of making weird noises into the receiver so I think we have a bad connection. “I’ll call you later, okay? Don’t forget to let Callie know about the reunion. Love you, sweetie!”

Click. And just like that, she ends the damn call.

Fracking hell, Mom!

With a roughness I’ll likely regret later, I toss my cell down onto the kitchen island and groan so loudly, it echoes off the walls.

I didn’t need this in my life right now. Ughhh.

I pace back and forth as I mentally roll through my options.

One, I could demon-dial my mom until she agrees to fix this mess—her mess.

Two, I could just ignore it altogether but risk having to see and/or hear from Callie Camden during the two weeks I’ll be in Vermont for Christmas and Kate’s wedding.

Three, I could call her.

Or, four, I could get on Facebook, finally accept her stupid friend request that’s been sitting there for years and send her a message letting her know I won’t be helping with—or attending—the reunion.

The child in me wants to ignore it entirely and just forget this ever happened, but the adult in me knows that option four is the easiest, most responsible way to handle this circus. Obviously, I know that an even adultier decision would be to call her, you know, like a grown adult woman would do. But I am undeniably childish at heart. And nonconfrontational. And keyboard warrior-ing the shit out of this thing seems like the only option I’m willing to withstand.

Facebook app engaged on my phone, I scroll to my friend requests and locate Callie’s at the bottom of the pile. A moment later, I have a message box pulled up, and I type out a quick, succinct message.



Hey Callie,

I got the invitation in the mail for the high school reunion, and I just want to let you know that I won’t be able to help plan the event. I believe my mother told you I would have time to help, but my schedule is downright crazy these days. So sorry for the miscommunication.



There. All set.

I’m one tap away from closing out of the message box when bubbles appear on the screen. Before I know it, a new message from Callie sits in front of me.

Shit.



Callie Camden-Baccus: Aw, that’s no fun. I was really looking forward to catching up with you! Your mom says you’re, like, working as a secretary at a museum now or something. I was super excited to hear all about it!



Oh, for fuck’s sake, a secretary?

Mind you, I have zero issues with that career; it’s a very noble job to keep someone else organized and on top of things, but I worked insanely hard to move up in my current career. Like, backbreakingly hard, to be honest.

Pettiness and anger flood my veins, and I can’t stop myself from responding.



Me: Actually, I’m not a secretary. I’m one of the main art curators for the Met.



Apparently, she has more to say too.



Callie Camden-Baccus: Oh, that’s so cool! I bet that job is tons of fun! But I’m sure it’s also hard for someone like you, who moved to New York with plans of being an artist. Don’t let that get you down, though, Ava! Everyone back home doesn’t think of you as, like, some failure or anything. We all know it’s VERY hard to make money off art and are still super proud of you. ? ?



Jesus Christ. I was definitely being too nice with the Jackie the Ripper comment.

I exhale a painful breath and stare up at the ceiling of my kitchen. Following my artistic passion has been a bit of a sore spot since I graduated from Columbia, and Callie’s backhanded comments are like salt in an open wound.

Truthfully, I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in over a year. I’m just…I don’t know what I am. Scared? Lacking confidence? Not talented? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s been a lot easier to focus on other artists for the time being.

A sick lump feels like lead in my stomach. How is it possible that, all these years later, Callie Camden can still get so far under my skin?

I try not to be a bitter person; I really do. And I make a point to never hate anyone, but damn, leave it to Callie to make that feel like an impossible task. Another message pops up in the thread, and like some kind of masochist, I make myself read it.