Maybe Later(39)

I describe him from head to toe. His boyish grin, the soft dark hair that contrasts his eyes. The little frown that appears on his forehead when he’s thinking and deepens when he’s upset.”

“You really like him,” she says in a singsong voice.

“Obviously I like him, but I’m not sure how far things will go. We’re trying to take it slowly, but it’s hard when we have this off the charts chemistry coupled with a strong connection. There are certain things I can’t tell him.”

“There are things you don’t want to tell me,” she adds.

To this day, I don’t like to talk about my sister Amy. How she wanted everything for herself, and how I gave as much as I could because I was hoping that it’d make her happy. What would’ve made her truly happy was our parents’ love. It’s hard for me to admit I feel responsible for her death. And even after all these years, I still feel as if I lost half of myself with her death.

“Tell me if I have this right. He’s smart, hot, and you guys have amazing chemistry,” she says with a taunting tone. “So, what is wrong with him?”

“No guy who looks like Jack is single at thirty-four without a reason,” I declare.

“Meaning he’s a player or he’s married?” she suggests.

I shake my head. “In my professional experience, you don’t see married men spending Saturdays in the mountains.” Handling a company where I manage the calendars of at least seventy-nine male clients, I can assure her what most of them do. “That’s where they take the mistress during the week, and tell the wife they have a business trip.”

“I get the feeling you know someone who’s done that before.”

“Unfortunately, many,” I agree. This isn’t compromising anyone’s privacy, I’m not giving names. “You have no idea how many clients we’ve had over the years who say things like: ‘I’m going to the Maldives, but my wife thinks I’m in London on business.’”

“Assholes!” She looks up at the ceiling and sneers.

“Oh, don’t worry, most of them have gotten caught.” I can’t help but laugh.

“What did you do?”

“We made sure to send their corporate credit card bill to their home address.”

Her mouth opens wide and then she laughs. “You’re kidding me?”

“Nope, I’m super serious. I refuse to be used to cover that kind of shit.”

“I’ve always said it. You are evil,” she concludes. “It’s hard to find a good guy these days.”

“Do you believe Jack is one of the good guys?” I ask out loud. “Maybe my apprehension isn’t about him, but about me instead. I’m not an easy person. What’s he going to do when he realizes it?”

She rolls her eyes. “You are fun, smart, and kindhearted. You help a lot of people even if you don’t give yourself credit for it. He has to learn to love you along with all your perfectionistic tendencies. All of those quirks that you carry around like a security blanket.

She actually shows me a baby blanket and says. “Look at me, I’m Emmeline, and I’m terrible, so stay away.”

I groan. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you advertise your flaws in a neon banner over your head, then say, ‘here I am so inadequate you don’t want to get close to me.’”

“Well, that’s the best way to keep away undesirable people.”

She ignores me, continues folding clothes and asks, “When is your next date with this guy?”

“He said he’d call me on Monday or Tuesday, it all depended on his workload.”

“Got it,” she says popping her lips. “You’re his weekend mistress. Unless he has one for every day of the week.”

“Then I would choose to be the Sunday girl,” I input, taking my dishes to the kitchen.

“Why Sunday?” I hear her ask.

“Because then he could help me with all my errands and chores,” I joke looking at my house.

“There’s more proof that you’re diabolical.”

I can’t help but laugh. She’s been around me too much and knows me too well. “Diabolical and selfish.”

“You don’t have a selfish bone,” she corrects me.

“Speaking of bones, I have to go out for cat food, groceries, and maybe lunch. Say hi to Al and Simone, I hope she talks soon,” I say, changing the topic and getting ready to leave.

“She’s only four months old. Not all of us can say we started talking at nine months old, you freaking prodigy.”

“I had to be a prodigy or else I wouldn't get fed,” I defend myself.

“That’s hyperbole, right?”

“Who knows, I can’t remember my infancy. Anyway, I really, really have to go. Love you.”

“Love you back, girl.”





Chapter Nineteen





Jack


Sunday, May 1st, 11:16 a.m.



I never liked shopping centers. Or shopping for that matter. I always found it both useless and frivolous. Mom insists it’s because I grew up in the time of e-commerce. She’s not wrong, I prefer to click my way through a store, checkout in two minutes, all without having to interact with anyone as well as keeping everything private.