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Seeing Maggie’s name at the top of my list is enough of a balm that I muster the energy to get to my feet. It’s only just past nine, but I’m running on fumes.
My phone buzzes just as I strip off to take a shower. I flip the water on before I read the incoming text.
Maggie: This week is really bad for me. I have an event this weekend, then I’m headed up to Seattle for Thanksgiving with the family, and then I have that huge event the next day. I might be able to do coffee or lunch? I just don’t think I can do a whole evening until after Angela’s party.
Angry at, well, everything, I toss my phone on the bed before getting in the shower. I scrub at my skin, as if I can scrub my anger away. Why is the universe, karma, whatever, out to get me? First, Maggie crashes into my life and I do everything I can to keep her from getting a toehold. And now that I’ve admitted defeat, instead of her filling all the empty spaces I’d been ignoring in my life, circumstances mean I won’t get to see her again for far too long.
I finish up, the heat and water doing little to wash away the stress of the last twenty-four hours. There’s more messages waiting for me on my phone when I look again.
Mom: Hey, honey, I was just talking to Jackie and I think that it might be best if we plan to do Thanksgiving at your house this year. I know we were going to do it at ours, but it makes more sense for us to come to you, that way Greg doesn’t have to be in the car or anything. Do you think he’ll be able to manage the trip to your house by then?
I type out a quick affirmative and start a mental list of what I’ll need to prep if we’re hosting Thanksgiving here. Maybe Greg will be up to climbing the small hill, and we can do it in the tasting room so we have a little more elbow space. I mull it over while I open the next text.
Sydney: Will you murder me if I get Olive a guitar for Christmas? Or maybe an art easel?
Me: As long as it’s not a drum kit.
Trust my sister to pick out the noisiest or messiest gift for Olive. I pull on a pair of sweats and a shirt, grabbing my phone as I head to the kitchen to finish cleaning up the mess from baking.
Normally, baking with Olive is the perfect distraction from my worries, or people who are annoying. But tonight, it didn’t work. I finish cleaning up while thinking about what I want to say to Maggie.
Your smile is like the air I breathe. How can I possibly go that long without it?
Everyone in my life drains my energy except you. I don’t think I have enough battery to last until I see you again?
Even seeing you for five minutes would be enough to get me through this week.
Flipping my phone over in my hand as I mindlessly scroll through Netflix, the right words elude me. Finally, I settle on a message that feels close enough, even if it’s not exactly what I wanted to say.
Me: I’ll take whatever I can get if it means I can see you.
My phone buzzes steadily with messages from my family, chosen and biological, while I try to watch some Great British Baking Show. Irritation builds in my gut with each message that isn’t from Maggie and each text that results in more tasks that I’m being volunteered to accomplish.
Don’t I get a say in who I spend my energy on? How did I become the default “fixer” in the family? When did everyone else’s problems become mine?
And how do I choose between my family, my daughter, and the woman who might just be stealing my heart?
Maggie
“Excuse me?”
I choke on the salmon mousse canape I’d shoved in my mouth at the tap on my shoulder. Turning back to face the room from my corner near the kitchen entrance, a pair of women stand in front of me, watching me expectantly.
Coughing, eyes watering, I point to my left. “Restrooms.” More coughing, more desperate attempts to suck air in through my nose so I can speak. “Down the hall.”
Damn the chef and his flaky laminated dough—another flake of pastry catches in my throat. I drop my hands to my knees as I try to control the coughing. The bright pink Betsy Johnson heels in my line of sight don’t move. Great, what do these women want?
While I pull air in through my nose, I rack my brain for what else they might want with me. Did one of the servers get handsy? Is the bar out of champagne? Did a reporter get inside? Should I have hired more security?
“Can I get you some water, hun?” Someone with a very thick southern accent asks. The nude pumps beside the Betsy Johnsons shift, catching my eye. I focus on a small scuff mark on the side of her shoe while I take one last breath.
“No. I’m alright.” I swipe a finger under each eye and sniff. “Sorry. What can I help you with?”
So far, Angela and Scott’s engagement party has gone reasonably smoothly. Considering it’s the day after Thanksgiving, I had less trouble booking staff than I expected, and I only had one no-show server. Ophie and I left Seattle later than I wanted, but the drive home was easy.
If only I could have seen Kel, instead of the stilted texts we’ve been sending all week. My period still hasn’t arrived, but I’ve been too busy and scared to take a test. Instead, I’ve been vacillating between terror, excitement, and tears whenever I think about if I’m pregnant or not.
I smother another cough as the women share a glance. The Betsy Johnson’s belong to an average-height woman, her dark curly hair and deeply tanned skin glowing in the soft lighting. She’s wearing a black pantsuit with a Barbie pink corset underneath. The overall look is stunning, especially with the gold hoops and rings she’s wearing as well. She’s holding hands with a tall, lithe woman whose naturally red hair is cut into a bob with a deep undercut on one side. The flowy sleeves of her jade green body-con dress billow as she swirls the drink in her free hand.
