1
“Annabelle, please tell me you are not meeting Jeremy at the Top of the Hub for your annual un-anniversary celebration,” Sophie Vasquez, my former college roommate, life partner in all shenanigans, and best friend forever, said.
“Fine, I won’t tell you,” I muttered into my cell phone. My breath came out in a plume of steam in the freezing February air.
I was walk-jogging because I was late. Little-known fact, I, Annabelle Martin, am always late. As my father liked to say, “Sunshine, you were born late.” He’s not even joking. According to my mother, I was two weeks late and wouldn’t leave the womb without an eviction notice. Having since learned that life is hard, I think in utero me was onto something.
In my defense, my lateness is not on purpose. I’m not trying to be rude, it’s just that my comprehension of the human construct of time is marginal at best. Like, I know that it takes at least twenty minutes to walk to the Prudential Center from my studio apartment on Marlborough Street, and while I had every intention of leaving twenty-five minutes ahead of time, I got sidelined by an idea for a sketch because of the way the moonlight shone through my windowpane, making patterns on the floor.
As an artist, I’m constantly distracted by the details that most people can filter out. Shapes, light, shadows, the subtle nuances that make up the world around me, I’m in their thrall. Naturally, my quick sketch made me late, and now it was fifteen minutes until I was supposed to be at the restaurant, and I was running through Back Bay in the frigid winter cold, in high-heeled boots, with my thick wool coat flapping behind me, no doubt looking like a crazy person.
“Belle, this is such a bad idea,” Sophie said.
“Why? We do it every year. It’s tradition.” My tone was defensive because I knew how Sophie felt about my relationship with my first ex-husband.
Yes, you read that right. First ex-husband. And yes, I am only twenty-eight and have two ex-husbands. I’ve had a few people give me side-eye over this fact, and I even had one woman accuse me of taking all the men. Yes, she did! I told her she owed me a thank-you for vetting them for the rest of womankind. Honestly.
I mean, it’s not like I wanted to be a twice-divorced twenty-something. It’s just that life stuff happened—big bad life stuff—and my coping skills in my early twenties had not been awesome. Besides, I’m impulsive, and when I’m in love, I’m sooooo in love, I lose all sense of reason. Clearly.
Considering her tone, I supposed I should have let Sophie’s call go to voicemail, but when your bestie calls from Arizona, you answer even when you know she’s going to challenge your life choices. I heard the distinct sound of water in the background.
“Soph, if you’re calling me from a swimming pool, I’m hanging up on you,” I said.
Laughter greeted me. “I’m not,” she said. “I swear I’m not.”
A suspicious splash punctuated her words.
“You are such a liar,” I accused. I hurried down the sidewalk, feeling the bitter wind sweep in from Boston Harbor.
“Technically, it’s a hot tub. What gave it away?”
“Splashing.”
“Sorry,” she said. She didn’t sound a bit sorry. “How’s the weather there? Another blizzard on the way?”
“It’s Boston in February,” I said. “Cold, gray, and sad. It’s just horribly sad. In fact, I think I have a case of seasonal affective disorder brewing.”
“Aw, that is SAD, poor Belle,” she said. “You should come visit me in Phoenix. It’s a delicious eighty-two degrees without a cloud in the sky.”
It was two hours earlier in Phoenix. While she enjoyed daylight, I was navigating the early dark on one of those painful thirteen-degree days where your snot freezes solid before you can blow it out your nostrils.
“Why, yes, I’ll have another margarita,” Sophie said, obviously not to me. “Thank you.”
“I hate you. You know that, right?” I asked. I adjusted the purse strap on my shoulder as I jogged the final stretch to the Prudential Center, known locally as The Pru.
“Well, I think you’ll hate me less when you hear why I called,” she said.
I stepped on a patch of ice, and my heel slid out from under me. I fought to keep my balance, pulling a hamstring in the process. “Ow! Shit!”
“How about I explain before you start swearing?”
“Sorry, that wasn’t meant for you. I slipped,” I said. Now I was limping, which I’m sure was a fabulous look for me. “I’m almost at the building. I might lose you in the elevator.”
“Then I’ll be quick,” she said. “I’m calling to offer you a job as the creative director in our company.”
“But your company’s in Phoenix,” I said. Sophie and her husband, Miguel, owned a graphic design firm that was quickly gaining national attention. This was no small offer.
“Yes.”
“You want me to move to Phoenix?” I stopped walking. The bitter wind pushed me up against the side of the building.
“Yes.”
“Phoenix, Arizona?”
“Yes.”
“But . . .”
“Just hear me out,” Sophie said. “You’re the most talented graphic designer I’ve ever known, an absolute trend visionary, and we desperately need you here. Phoenix is in a boom, and we can top the money you’re currently making as a freelancer. Think of it as an opportunity to shake up your life a little bit.”
“I wasn’t aware that my life needed shaking,” I said. It did, but I didn’t want to admit it because . . . pride.
“Oh, come on, Belly, come to Phoenix.”
For the record, Sophie is the only person on the planet allowed to call me “Belly,” because when we were roommates at the Savannah College of Art and Design, she held my hand when I got my belly button pierced. We shared a bond of bad decisions that was stronger than steel.
I tried to picture myself in the Southwest. Couldn’t do it. She used my stunned silence to press her point.
“You’ve been freelancing for five years,” she said. “Don’t you want more stability?”
“No.” Yes.
“A pay raise?”
“Maybe.” Definitely.
“Retirement? Benefits? Paid vacation?” Check, check, check.
I sighed. It came out as a limp jet of hot breath in cold air. She was making solid points. I had no rebuttal. I went for avoidance. I pulled my phone away from my ear to check the time. “I have to go. I’m going to be sooo late.”