Oh hell.
Now what had I done?
“You’re…seeing somebody?”
Oh God.
I should tell her I’m bringing a girlfriend. Pretty much all of my friends would be down with a free trip to NYC and a stay in my father’s fabulous brownstone, and Lord knew, he had the room to put up another person (and I didn’t question this because, no way, other than me, he’d allow anyone else to stay at his pad—I was an introvert who disliked crowds, he was an extrovert who seemed only to put up with (barely) the entirety of humanity not including a few of his close friends who already lived in New York, so they wouldn’t need a place to stay—so absolutely no cousins or friends or errant aunties were going to mess up his sanctuary with their presence).
I did not say this.
I said, “Yes, I’m seeing someone.”
“Who?” she demanded.
“Someone from work,” I lied.
“Is it…oh my God.” Her voice turned breathy. “Are you dating Judge Oakley?” Before I could say no, she continued, “I thought he was hot and heavy with that girl, the daughter of Genny and Tom.”
Like she knew Imogen Swan, America’s Sweetheart, and Tom Pierce, one of the greatest tennis players in history.
Though, since she existed in circles that included (even if peripherally, the rich folk were an incestuous bunch in NYC) Jamie Oakley, Judge’s dad, who I knew was an acquaintance of my dad’s, and Jamie was pals with Tom, maybe she did.
“No, not Judge. He’s definitely with Chloe.”
“Hmm,” she sniffed. “Then who?”
It never would get back to him, and later, to explain why he didn’t show, and in his place I was bringing a friend, I could say he was busy, doing good work to save the children of the world, I announced. “Rix. John. John Hendrix. But he’s called Rix.”
“Rix?” Again the unpleasant tone. “What’s he do?”
“Like I said, he works with me.”
“What does he do, working with you?”
“He’s the Director of Programs.”
“Is that important?”
“Well, he and I are on the third line down from the top on the organizational chart.”
A moment’s pause, probably Blake trying to think if she’d ever heard the term “organizational chart” and if she remembered what it meant.
I would gauge both were a negatory when she asked next, “Where did he go to school?”
God.
We’d entered an interrogation zone because she thought I was making him up.
I was, kind of.
But I wasn’t.
“He didn’t go to school,” I snapped. “He became a firefighter right out of high school and continued to do that, getting on the Hotshots team. Tragically, he had to stop doing what he loved when the wind turned, he got caught in a fire, a tree fell on him and damaged his lower legs to the point he had to have both of them amputated. So, even though he often uses his prosthetics, I hope your ceremony and reception are at places that are accessible, mostly because that’s the law, but also so Rix can be comfortable.”
This was greeted with more silence.
“Anyway, dinner is simmering, and I need to check on it,” I carried on. “So it’d be great if you could get Cathy to fill me in on everything so Rix and I can make plans. And I hope it goes without saying, I’m honored to be in your wedding party.” Gag. “But I completely understand if you want one of your friends to be your maid of honor. I know Mum and Dad have a certain sense of propriety, but it’s your wedding and you should have things as you want them to be.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” she stated. “My girls get it.”
Whatever.
“Well then, good. I’m happy for you.” Gag times a thousand. “And I’ll see you next month. Don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything from me.” That was gag times a million.
“It’s in hand. See you next month. And I cannot wait to meet this…” a very ominous pause before she finished, “Rix.”
Ugh.
“Bye, Blake. And congratulations.”
“Ciao.”
And she was gone.
I took in a deep breath.
My phone rang again.
Dammit!
It was that local number that had now called three times.
Since I was over it, whoever it was that was calling, added to my sister, my mother, my father, the fact I’d have to figure out some good reason why my “boyfriend” couldn’t show at something as important as my sister’s wedding, and the bottom line, the truth being I didn’t have any boyfriend at all, I had no one like that who could be a buffer for me and what was to come next month.
In other words, I was in the perfect mood to take a call from a telemarketer for the sole purpose of telling them to stop calling me.
This I did, starting the process by biting, “Hello?” into my phone.
A brief hesitation then, “Sounds like your weekend isn’t starting off right,” came at me in a gravelly voice I knew and loved and recently decided I hated that I loved it.
Rix.
Rix was calling me.
My first inclination was to clam up. I could feel my palms getting sweaty, my heartbeat picking up, and even if he wasn’t right there, I felt heat hit my cheeks.
Not to mention, this surprise attack meant my belly experienced a super-powered flutter.
My second inclination was to remember walking out of the loo after Dani’s pep talk, ready to do my best to flirt, catch Rix’s pass, see where that might lead, only to see instead that he’d moved on from me and then the next time I saw him, he insulted me.
Gravely.
So I did not clam up.
I demanded, “How did you get my number?”
“How do you think I got your number?”
“Is that an answer as to how you got my number?”
“Judge. How else?”
Of course.
Judge, who would want his only two directors (so far) to get along.
“Okay, then how can I help you?” I asked.
“How can you help me?”
“You called me, Rix.”
“I called because some shit went down this week that we should iron out, you’re avoiding me, this isn’t a situation that can be avoided since we work together, so I was going to ask if you wanted to meet for drinks so we can sort things out.”
God, disaster, drinks with Rix. I knew that firsthand.
“Though, I’m not gonna do that considering you’re acting like I ran over your puppy when we just had a couple of misunderstandings that you gotta grow up and find your way to get over,” he concluded.
I stared at pine trees wondering how I could forget that the awesome guy I’d been crushing on for forever was actually a huge jerk.
Then, when my head did not explode like I thought it was going to, I asked, “Just find my way to get over?”
“We flirted a little at a bar, not on work hours, no big deal, Alex. It happens all the time.”
Um.
Ouch.
He wasn’t done.
“And then I misinterpreted your behavior toward me, and for that, you got my apologies. It was uncool. But I hope you can look at it from my perspective and see that it wasn’t that huge of a leap.”