“You are so handsome.”
I look up to see Sabrina crossing the room. She straightens my tie then smooths the lapels of my suit jacket. She’s been awfully touchy-feely since we arrived at the studios in New York, and I’ve had one hell of a time not stepping away when I see her hands reaching for me. Then again, it seems like there have been cameras on us since we got off the plane, and I know she’s giving this charade her best effort.
“Thank you. You look really . . . nice, too.” She does. If I hadn’t once thought of her as my lover’s daughter, I might even say she’s hot. Long legs, pink-painted lips, and curves on modest display in her pink dress.
She steps forward and loops her arms behind my neck. “Thank you for doing this,” she whispers. Then, even quieter, “But if we’re going to make this work, you need to stop staring at a picture of another woman.” She presses even closer, and, rising onto her toes, brings her mouth to my ear. “And when you touch me, you need to act more like you’re touching your lover and less like you’re touching your grandmother.”
I press a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I think they’ve seen enough of us touching, don’t you?” I ask between clenched teeth.
She steps back, but her smile holds a warning.
“They’re ready for you now,” one of the network’s employees announces. “Go ahead and take your seats. Ina will be out in a minute.”
Erin arranged for our interview to be done with Ina Turnstall, national morning news personality known for her tearjerker interviews, and she coached us on how to best capitalize on what that audience responds to. We ironed out the details of a couple of key stories and a plan for fielding unexpected questions. It wasn’t unlike being prepared to testify in court.
We’re ushered into a big room where a couch and a couple of chairs are set up around a coffee table under the blaze of a dozen spotlights. The seating arrangement is one of those psychological games journalists like to play. Where will we sit? A chair each? One on the couch and one on the chair? Together? Close or with distance between us?
Sabrina squeezes my hand and directs me to the couch, though I’m smart enough to know this is the right choice without her leading me around like a puppy on a leash.
We don’t have to wait long before Ina arrives and takes a seat in a chair across from us.
“Thank you so much for joining us,” Ina says.
Sabrina beams. “Thank you for having us.”
“I’m so excited we get to hear your big news with our audience first.”
I look to Sabrina. What big news?
* * *
Liz
Someone pounds on my apartment door, and my first thought is Sam.
But no. Even if I thought he’d come looking for me after what happened Saturday night, he wouldn’t be here now. He has a televised interview at the WCBF network studio in approximately thirty minutes.
The pounding comes again, and I groan. In addition to the guy next door, I also live across the hall from a very nice, caring, thoughtful, and nosy old woman. If I’m not out of bed by eight on a Saturday morning, she’s knocking on the door to make sure I’m still okay. If I run late for work one day, she knows it. She’ll ask me as I get home that night, “Did you get reprimanded for being tardy?” And then of course there are her concerns about my love life. Or lack thereof . . .
My guess is that Mrs. Louise is bringing me dinner. She thinks I’m too skinny. And it’s true, I guess. I’ve dropped some weight since I moved here. It’s not that I don’t know how to cook for myself—I can pop a frozen pizza in the oven as competently as the next girl—but I’m not hungry. Food does nothing but turn to ash in my mouth. I subsist mainly on coffee and the doughnuts that seem ever present at campaign headquarters.
With much reluctance, I go to the door. Last time Mrs. Louise brought me dinner, she sat at my kitchen table and watched to make sure I ate it. It was a broccoli casserole made with quinoa and black beans and spinach and carrots, and lots of healthy things that on their own might be good but together were kind of more than I could stand in a single day. The idea of another supervised dinner makes my stomach lurch in protest. Honestly, there are two kinds of eaters in this world: the kind who prefer Cheetos and daiquiris, and the kind Mrs. Louise cooks for. Since my idea of making healthier choices is choosing the strawberry Pop-Tart over the chocolate, it’s safe to say I fall in the former category.
With a sigh, I walk to the door. I’ll just tell her I already ate. I feel bad lying to her, but I would feel worse pretending I wasn’t here. She’s as lonely as I am.
I open the door without checking the peephole, but instead of Mrs. Louise, I see my best friends and sisters standing on the other side. Cally, Nix, Maggie, Krystal, and Hanna are all waiting with smiles on their faces.
“Surprise!” they chorus.
“You guys! What are you doing here?” My eyes burn with sudden tears. I’ve missed seeing them every day. I took that for granted when I lived in New Hope.
“Well,” Hanna says, “if you won’t visit us, we’ll visit you.”
“We missed you,” Maggie says. “And we need to know what happened when you wore the fuck-me dress.”
Nix lifts bags over her head and grins at me. “We have food, and we have booze.”
The girls file into my teeny apartment and make their way to the little kitchen. They’ve been here before. They helped me move in when I found the place on the first of the year, and they’ve come by a couple of other times too. But they’re right when they say I don’t come home often. It’s been more than five months since I moved to Indianapolis, and other than my panicked trip for wardrobe assistance on Saturday, I visit only when another lecture from my mom sounds more painful than the possibility of running into Sam.
I look up to see Sabrina crossing the room. She straightens my tie then smooths the lapels of my suit jacket. She’s been awfully touchy-feely since we arrived at the studios in New York, and I’ve had one hell of a time not stepping away when I see her hands reaching for me. Then again, it seems like there have been cameras on us since we got off the plane, and I know she’s giving this charade her best effort.
“Thank you. You look really . . . nice, too.” She does. If I hadn’t once thought of her as my lover’s daughter, I might even say she’s hot. Long legs, pink-painted lips, and curves on modest display in her pink dress.
She steps forward and loops her arms behind my neck. “Thank you for doing this,” she whispers. Then, even quieter, “But if we’re going to make this work, you need to stop staring at a picture of another woman.” She presses even closer, and, rising onto her toes, brings her mouth to my ear. “And when you touch me, you need to act more like you’re touching your lover and less like you’re touching your grandmother.”
I press a chaste kiss to her forehead. “I think they’ve seen enough of us touching, don’t you?” I ask between clenched teeth.
She steps back, but her smile holds a warning.
“They’re ready for you now,” one of the network’s employees announces. “Go ahead and take your seats. Ina will be out in a minute.”
Erin arranged for our interview to be done with Ina Turnstall, national morning news personality known for her tearjerker interviews, and she coached us on how to best capitalize on what that audience responds to. We ironed out the details of a couple of key stories and a plan for fielding unexpected questions. It wasn’t unlike being prepared to testify in court.
We’re ushered into a big room where a couch and a couple of chairs are set up around a coffee table under the blaze of a dozen spotlights. The seating arrangement is one of those psychological games journalists like to play. Where will we sit? A chair each? One on the couch and one on the chair? Together? Close or with distance between us?
Sabrina squeezes my hand and directs me to the couch, though I’m smart enough to know this is the right choice without her leading me around like a puppy on a leash.
We don’t have to wait long before Ina arrives and takes a seat in a chair across from us.
“Thank you so much for joining us,” Ina says.
Sabrina beams. “Thank you for having us.”
“I’m so excited we get to hear your big news with our audience first.”
I look to Sabrina. What big news?
* * *
Liz
Someone pounds on my apartment door, and my first thought is Sam.
But no. Even if I thought he’d come looking for me after what happened Saturday night, he wouldn’t be here now. He has a televised interview at the WCBF network studio in approximately thirty minutes.
The pounding comes again, and I groan. In addition to the guy next door, I also live across the hall from a very nice, caring, thoughtful, and nosy old woman. If I’m not out of bed by eight on a Saturday morning, she’s knocking on the door to make sure I’m still okay. If I run late for work one day, she knows it. She’ll ask me as I get home that night, “Did you get reprimanded for being tardy?” And then of course there are her concerns about my love life. Or lack thereof . . .
My guess is that Mrs. Louise is bringing me dinner. She thinks I’m too skinny. And it’s true, I guess. I’ve dropped some weight since I moved here. It’s not that I don’t know how to cook for myself—I can pop a frozen pizza in the oven as competently as the next girl—but I’m not hungry. Food does nothing but turn to ash in my mouth. I subsist mainly on coffee and the doughnuts that seem ever present at campaign headquarters.
With much reluctance, I go to the door. Last time Mrs. Louise brought me dinner, she sat at my kitchen table and watched to make sure I ate it. It was a broccoli casserole made with quinoa and black beans and spinach and carrots, and lots of healthy things that on their own might be good but together were kind of more than I could stand in a single day. The idea of another supervised dinner makes my stomach lurch in protest. Honestly, there are two kinds of eaters in this world: the kind who prefer Cheetos and daiquiris, and the kind Mrs. Louise cooks for. Since my idea of making healthier choices is choosing the strawberry Pop-Tart over the chocolate, it’s safe to say I fall in the former category.
With a sigh, I walk to the door. I’ll just tell her I already ate. I feel bad lying to her, but I would feel worse pretending I wasn’t here. She’s as lonely as I am.
I open the door without checking the peephole, but instead of Mrs. Louise, I see my best friends and sisters standing on the other side. Cally, Nix, Maggie, Krystal, and Hanna are all waiting with smiles on their faces.
“Surprise!” they chorus.
“You guys! What are you doing here?” My eyes burn with sudden tears. I’ve missed seeing them every day. I took that for granted when I lived in New Hope.
“Well,” Hanna says, “if you won’t visit us, we’ll visit you.”
“We missed you,” Maggie says. “And we need to know what happened when you wore the fuck-me dress.”
Nix lifts bags over her head and grins at me. “We have food, and we have booze.”
The girls file into my teeny apartment and make their way to the little kitchen. They’ve been here before. They helped me move in when I found the place on the first of the year, and they’ve come by a couple of other times too. But they’re right when they say I don’t come home often. It’s been more than five months since I moved to Indianapolis, and other than my panicked trip for wardrobe assistance on Saturday, I visit only when another lecture from my mom sounds more painful than the possibility of running into Sam.
