The Villa(2)
But somehow, it just kept growing. Suddenly, her Insta- gram had thousands, then hundreds of thousands of followers. She stopped writing for Stefanie’s site and took a job at Salon, then the Cut, and then there was a book deal. Things My Mama Never Taught Me hit every bestseller list there is, and before I knew it, Chess was famous.
And honestly, she deserved to be. She was good at this stuff. I’ve read all her books and watched all her videos, including her big TED Talk that has something like twenty million views on YouTube. I’ve also spent a lot of time wondering how someone you once played Barbies with can now be talking to Oprah—at Oprah’s damn house, no less—telling women how to get their lives on the “Powered Path.”
I tear off another hunk of bread.
My life is most definitely not on the Powered Path these days, and if I’m honest, that might be part of the reason I don’t like Chess that much anymore.
Well, that and the fact that she’s now—I check my phone—thirty minutes late.
Just when I’m starting to think I should go ahead and order, the door of the café opens, and she breezes in, tall and very blond, a whirlwind in shades of white, one hand already lifted in greeting as she shoves her giant sunglasses on top of her head, a pearl-gray leather bag slung over one shoulder. She’s always like this, perpetually in motion, her body seeming to move in ten directions at once, but every gesture somehow graceful, fluid.
Heads turn when she enters, but I can’t tell if that’s because people recognize her or if it’s just her—that energy, that glow.
I stand up too fast to hug her, my thighs hitting the edge of the table, ice rattling in the water glasses, and then I’m enveloped in a cloud of Jo Malone perfume.
“Emmmm,” Chess says, hugging me tight.
And even though I was thoroughly irritated with her just a few seconds ago, I instantly feel that familiar warmth in my chest. She’s the only person who ever calls me “Em.” I’ve been Emily to everyone my entire life except her, and hearing it drawled in that low-country accent she’s never lost brings back all the good memories—the years of slumber parties, driving in her car with the windows down, scream-singing with the radio, sitting on her couch at her beach house on Kiawah Island, giggling over glasses of white wine. A million things that immediately outweigh her perpetual lateness and make me feel guilty for ever thinking anything bad about her.
As she pulls back, Chess studies me, putting one cool palm against my cheek. “You look better,” she says, and I manage a smile, patting her hand before returning to my seat.
“I feel better,” I tell her as I sit down. “Mostly.”
I brace myself for more questions, and given how sick I’ve gotten of talking about my health over the past year, I’m already formulating a way to brush her off, but then Chess spots her book on the table, and gives a pealing laugh.
“Oh my god, did you bring that for me to sign?”
Her green eyes are bright as she sinks into her chair, slinging her bag over the back. “I would’ve sent you one, you know.”
It’s stupid to feel embarrassed around someone who has held your hair back while you puke, on multiple occasions, but my face goes a little hot as I wave at the book.
“It’s my mom’s,” I tell her. “I made the mistake of telling her I was seeing you today, and the next thing I know, this is in my mailbox with a Post-it.”
Get Jessica to sign this, please! She can make it out to me. (Deborah.)
Chess snorts now as she picks up the book. “Classic Deb,” she says, and then once again, she performs one of those magic acts of hers—pulling a pen out of that enormous bag, signing the book, signaling to the waiter, ordering a glass of wine, all as she scrawls her signature across the title page.
Sometimes I feel tired just watching her.
Handing the book to me, Chess leans back in her chair and pushes her hair away from her face.
She looks different these days, thinner and blonder, but I can still see the girl I met the first day of fourth grade at Johnson Elementary, just outside of Asheville. The girl with a splash of freckles across her nose, big eyes and wide cheekbones, who’d leaned forward and conspiratorially whispered, “I’m glad I’m sitting next to you.”
It’s funny how such a little thing can form a lifelong bond.
“So, how’s your writing going?” she asks as the waiter brings her wine. I’m sticking with iced tea, still on a handful of medications that I don’t want to mix with alcohol, and take a sip before answering her.
“It’s okay,” I finally say. “Been a little slow getting back into it after … everything.”
Everything.
It’s the only word that can sum up what a complete and utter shit show this past year has been for me, but it still comes nowhere close to touching it.
Career stalling out? Check.
Health suddenly terrible for no reason that any doctor can figure out? Check.
Husband deciding to leave after seven years of seemingly happy marriage?
Fucking check.
It’s been over six months since Matt left, and I keep waiting for all of it to hurt less, for it to be less messy, less … I don’t know. Clichéd. Humiliating. My mom actually asked me the other day if I was thinking about moving back in with them, and given the state of my finances—between a late book and an increasingly expensive divorce—I’d actually started considering it. Chess watches me now, her brows drawn together, and then she pulls her leg up, her heel on the edge of her chair, her arms wrapped around her knee, a position I’ve literally never seen anyone contort themselves into in a restaurant. I guess once you’ve pulled the same move on Oprah’s couch, you can do what you want.