LILLIAN
While waiting outside Fran’s office, my ankles crossed and tucked under the stiff chair like a kid outside the principal’s, I read the news on my phone. There was an article about a lawsuit the Marina del Rey boat owners were filing, and I fished David’s card out of my purse to forward him the article. He had mentioned keeping a boat in their slips just outside the coffee shop.
I started to write the email, then realized my mistake. I couldn’t send him something as Lillian Smith. Not when I had introduced myself as Taylor. I swapped methods and picked up the card, looking for his cell number. There was only a WhatsApp number, and I recalled him tapping it as he handed it over and asking me if I’d used the messaging app. As Taylor, I had laughed, because of course I had. And honestly, I did use WhatsApp, with Mike, who had always been paranoid that Apple was somehow reading (and cared about) our text messages.
I opened the app, checked to make sure my username on it was still just my phone number (no Lillian reveal there), and started a thread to him. I pasted the link, then composed an accompanying message that was as unflirty as possible.
Thought you’d find this interesting, though you probably already know all about it. - Taylor (from the coffee shop)
Before sending, I read it twice, testing the tone in my mind. It was good. Not suggestive or flirty. Appropriate for a married mother. Though ... would Taylor send something different?
Yes, of course she would. Taylor would send a flirty pic, probably one from an exotic vacation, along with a fun message, not a boring article. I opened my camera roll and scrolled through the albums. Thanks to Mike’s fear of flying, most of our vacations were in dull locales like Bryce Canyon or the Sequoia National Forest. I opened our Lake Tahoe album and found a photo of me floating in an inner tube. It was by a spit of island, and the waters around me looked straight out of a Caribbean brochure. In it, I was wearing a red one-piece and white sunglasses and was laughing at something that Mike had said, right before he snapped the picture. I copied it and attached it to a new text to David.
You taking your boat out soon? I’m floating here—no, that was stupid.
Just wanted to say hi.Also dumb.
Hey coffee twin. How’s Fresno?
Not bad. We had laughed at our identical coffee orders (pumpkin spice with almond milk), so he would be reminded of who I was, and the picture would help. He lived in Fresno but spent half his time in LA, one of the few items he’d shared while he was busy asking questions about my fascinating life. I—
“Lillian?”
I looked up to see Fran standing beside me, one freckled hand on her hip, today’s outfit a brilliantly loud orange pantsuit set off by blueBirkenstocks and a yellow scrunchie that did a poor job of containing her auburn pin-screw curls. “Hey, Fran.”
“Come on in.” She held open the door, and by her brisk tone and pursed lips, I could sense how this was going to go.
I hesitated, then stepped into her office. She closed the door behind me, and the click of the lock was as sharp as a guillotine blade, snapping into place.
CHAPTER 17
LILLIAN
That evening, I rested my chin on the bar top of Perch, my beer so close that the curved glass gave me the viewpoint of a goldfish. “She’s such a bitch,” I said morosely. “It’s the New York in her.”
Sam squeezed my shoulder and gently pulled me upright. “Hey, at least you weren’t fired.”
“Might as well have. She spoke to me like I was a child.” I puffed out a frustrated breath. “I don’t know what she expects, with the garbage leads they give me. Like, what the fuck?”
What the fuck?was Jacob’s newest catchphrase, and I was warming to it. It rolled off the tongue in a reckless fashion that appealed to my Taylor Fortwood side, which I was thinking of embracing. My coy message to David had been a smashing (Taylor seemed like she would have saidsmashing) success, and we’d texted back and forth a dozen times, with plans to meet for a second coffee later this week when he was back in Los Angeles.
While secretly messaging a man was a relatively tame rebellion in the general scheme of things, it’d given me an almost giddy high, one I had needed after my bleak employee review.
“Okay, but sheisn’tfiring you,” Sam confirmed, smoothing down the silver skinny tie that intersected the middle of his pale-purple dressshirt. He looked like he was ready for a photo shoot, and I had the sudden urge to run my hand through his perfectly coiffed hair and mess it up.
“No, but they’ve been laying off people. I can’t help but feel like the whole review was just documentation for when they fire me.” I propped my sandal on the closest barstool and looked around. Okay, so Sam was properly dressed. I was the one who was sticking out, my pale-blue capri pants and cardigan great for a lackluster employee review but about three rungs short for this martini and olives crowd. I watched a woman teeter by in four-inch heels and a minidress that showed way too much thigh. Was this the type of place I’d have to frequent if I were single? Could I avoid serious effort and still lure in a keepable guy? A guy like David?
“... which raises the question of contentment.” Sam paused and crooked a brow at me.
I’d zoned out. I nodded as if I knew what he was talking about.
“You feeling okay?” Sam peered at me with concern.
“I’m fine.” I glanced at my watch. “I can’t stay here long. Jacob has a thing at school that I’m supposed to go to.” An assembly for parents to discuss the growing drug use problem among students. Talk about a yawn fest. “One more drink. Maybe two.”
“Fun stuff. Is Mike meeting you there?”
“Not sure.” I pulled a short menu from a glass holder in the middle of the bar. There were only four items, and I couldn’t pronounce any of them. “I’m starving. We should have met for dinner.”