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Damn it.
Deep breaths. Stay calm. Josh said he would put the money back. He said he covered his tracks. He can do it with both transactions.
Can’t he?
Fuck.
Glancing through the windows to the balcony, I try to center myself. I’m grateful for the twilit sky and for the air I get to breathe, even if it is heavily scented with exhaust fumes. I’m grateful for all my goddamn plants because they sure as hell won’t have balcony herb gardens at Rikers Island or wherever they send us.
When my phone rings again, I half expect it to be the cops telling me they’re about to bang down my door and drag me away in handcuffs.
But Cleo’s name lights up the screen.
I answer it, relieved. “Hey, Clee.”
“I’m around the corner, heading toward JJ’s, and I demand you come down and have a drink with me. I haven’t seen you in two weeks and we’ve hardly talked.”
The familiarity of her bossiness is comforting. “Sure. I’d love that. What time is it?”
“It’s almost six. I have a proposition for you and I think you’re going to want to hear this.”
“A proposition? What kind of proposition?”
“I need to talk to you about it in person or you’ll never agree to it. Plus I haven’t seen you since you went out to your dad’s last weekend. I want to hear about how it went.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Let me guess. He wasn’t there.”
“Good guess.”
“I’m sorry, honey. The man is and always will be a shithead. Meet you at JJ’s in twenty?”
“Sounds perfect.”
I throw on a cute dress that one of my clients sent me. Pulling my hair up into a messy bun, I put on some mascara and lip gloss. I pull on some tall boots and wrap a pink silk scarf around my neck. Most of my clients know by now that I only wear natural fabrics and that I have a sort of bohemian-meets-Ralph-Lauren style with a wild-child-musician twist. I take a photo of myself in my full-length mirror and post it to Instagram, tagging the designer and adding a link to the dress on her website. How cute is this organic cotton mini dress?? Shop my outfit!
Another three grand into the Josh Goes to Columbia fund (if he doesn’t get thrown into jail first).
I force that last thought out of my head. I absolutely cannot mention this to anyone, and most of all Cleo. So I lock it into its own little compartment in my brain, next to the Move On From Asshole Father one, labeled Worry About Later.
Spring is definitely in the air and the streets are busy with people enjoying the city.
JJ’s is one of our favorite places to meet. It’s right around the corner from my building and it’s a funky little rooftop bar and restaurant with some of the best food in the neighborhood, which is saying something, since Soho is full of good restaurants and bars designed specifically to be Instagram-worthy and to generate the best reviews possible.
By the time I get to JJ’s, Cleo is already at our usual table. I can see that she’s ordered us a bottle of champagne that’s sitting in an ice bucket. Two glasses have already been poured.
“A whole bottle?” I lean in to give her a kiss on each cheek before sliding into the booth seat across from her. She knows I’m not much of a drinker.
“The occasion calls for it.”
“What occasion would that be?”
“Sam and I set a date.” She’s absolutely beaming.
“You did? When?
“We’re going to have a fall wedding. September in Vermont.”
