The Status of All Things (19 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“I have a date,” my mom announces when she appears on my doorstep the next morning, just minutes after sending me a cryptic text that she has something very important to tell me
in person
. Her lips are squished together, declaring this news as if she is telling me something impossible has happened, like she’s just seen a potbellied pig flying across the sky.

That was fast.
I had wished for my mom to meet someone just the night before. As I’d laid in Max’s arms, I’d thought of her—no doubt sitting at home in her oversized mahogany leather chair, watching
Law & Order
reruns with her hands cupped around a mug of Earl Grey tea. It was like she’d given up on love the second my dad left—like a dancer who retires after an injury, too scared to get hurt again. So after Max fell asleep, I’d made the wish for my mom, hoping this one wouldn’t backfire.

“Tell me everything—
immediately
,” I say as I pull my mom by the wrist so she’s standing inside my entryway.

We walk out onto my patio, my mom closing her eyes and exhaling as she sinks into one of the Adirondack chairs.

“So,” I say, sitting across from her and kicking my bare feet up on an ottoman, the June sun already hot despite the fact that it’s early in the morning. “Start at the beginning and don’t leave anything out!”

When my mom had knocked on the door, I’d been about to put on my Nikes and go for a run before work, hoping Max would see it as a sign that I was taking a more active interest in something he loved. And who knows? Maybe once the endorphins kicked in, I’d be more ready for the long day ahead—one that included the Calvin Klein photo shoot for the neon underwear campaign. But as soon as I heard why she was there, I’d chucked my cross-trainers into the corner, deciding this conversation was going to take priority.

Since I was a little girl, I’d always been like a sponge, absorbing my mom’s emotions. If she was having a bad day, I’d inevitably have one too, her testy tones and stinging observations easily rubbing off on me. If she was in a giddy mood, I’d catch that too, almost like it was a virus flying through the air. And when she was lonely, I could feel the ache in my gut so strongly it was as if I was also going through it—even last night while my head was resting on Max’s chest, I’d felt that familiar twinge in my stomach that had prompted me to take action.

My mom pops her eyes open and starts talking. “Well, you know it’s Thursday, and Thursday mornings are always busy, and I was on my driveway just about to get in my car to go to The Coffee Bean to get my—”

“Iced blended?” I interrupt, anxious to keep the story moving along.

“Right—and then Bill came walking up.”

“Bill from next door?”

My mom blushes slightly.

“Bill who used to be married to Cheryl before she ran off with her personal trainer? That Bill?”

“That’s the one,” she says, the corner of her lips curving into a shy smile.

“And what did he say?” I ask, as I think of Bill, who has lived in the pale yellow house next to my mom’s since back when my dad was still residing there. Bill, who used to grill out in his backyard, the smell of whatever steak he was cooking wafting into ours, always popping his head over the fence to ask if we wanted some. Bill, who once helped me change a flat tire in the pouring rain on a weekend I was home from college. Bill—of course. Why hadn’t I thought of him before? As I watch my mom’s face light up as she speaks, I realize that she had.

“He just, well, I thought he was going to make small talk like he always does and honestly, I was a little irritated he was holding me up because I needed to get to yoga right after I got my coffee.” My mom giggles. “And then he just asked—asked me if he could take me on a date. That after all this time, why hadn’t we?” My mom shakes her head. “Kate, honestly, it took me a full minute to even register what he said and—his face, you should’ve seen it. His cheeks were blotchy—red spots, you know—and sweat was trickling down his forehead.”

“So? Don’t leave me hanging here. What did you say?”

“I don’t know what came over me, but I said,
sure, why not?
right there in my yoga pants with hardly any makeup on!”

I watch my mom’s eyes dance with anticipation, her cheeks flush, and I realize I can’t remember the last time I had seen her look happy. Sure, she’d smiled. Of course she’d laughed. But authentic happiness? I couldn’t recall.

“So when are you guys going out?” I ask.

“Tonight!” my mom squeals.

“Who
are
you right now?”

“I don’t know.” My mom pauses to stare at a hummingbird that’s landed on the branch of my orange tree, its tiny wings fluttering frantically. “But whoever this person is,” she says, tugging on her Lycra tank top, “she needs a new dress to wear to dinner!”

I reach over and impulsively hug her.
Thank you
, I think.
Thank you for making this wish come true.

“What’s up with your mom?” Max asks as he comes in the door from his run a few minutes later, having just passed her as she was leaving. His wet hair and the sweat dotting his face reminding me why we don’t run together—we’d tried once, but his pace had been too intense and my lungs burned as I barely spit out the words
I need to stop
now or I might die.

I fill Max in on my mom’s date as he makes his favorite power smoothie—beets, blueberries, ginger, apple juice, banana, coconut, and kale.

“Good for her,” he says when I’m finished, pouring his concoction into a tall tumbler.

I frown slightly as I watch him take a long drink, remembering the one time he talked me into trying it. As he pulls out his iPad and starts reading the latest news, I debate whether to ask if Courtney had reached out to him after I talked to her yesterday. I knew if I walked out of the kitchen now, got ready for work, and left the house without bringing it up, he wouldn’t either. It had been hard enough for him to tell me about Courtney’s kiss, and he would probably do almost anything to avoid talking about it again. But there was a nagging feeling deep in my belly and I had to know if she’d respected the line I’d so clearly drawn in the sand.

When I’d returned home Monday night, I’d been too emo
tionally drained to bring up the conversation that I’d had with Courtney. All I wanted to do was curl up beside Max, to lose myself in the joy of having him there with me again—not wanting her to occupy any more space in our minds than she already had. But as I stare at him now, the elephant in the room palpable, I know we can’t avoid it any longer.

“Max?”

“Yeah,” he answers without looking up from his iPad.

“So I talked to Courtney.”

He squeezes his eyes shut before quickly reopening them, the slight flexing of his forearms and straightening of his upper back telling me he was nervous about what I was going to say next.

“And I told her that our friendship was over.”

“And how did that go?” He looks at me for a brief moment, then quickly turns back to whatever he was reading.

“She took it pretty hard. Which is interesting, considering what happened. Seriously, what did she think the outcome was going to be?”

“It’s for the best,” he says definitively, and gets up to make coffee, turning his back to me.

“I agree—I just hope she realizes that.” I let it hang in the air. But he doesn’t say anything as he dumps the grounds into the cone.

“Did you hear from her last night?” I ask casually as I pour myself a glass of orange juice. “After I spoke to her?”

I think I see him pause for a moment as he grabs the pot by its rubber black handle. “Nope. Not a peep.”

“Okay. I just thought she might send one last text or something. You know, to say good-bye?”

I watch as he puts the carafe under the faucet and fills it with
water, his face registering nothing. “I don’t think I’ll hear from her,” he says with finality. “Except at work, of course.”

My expression hardens slightly at the mention of them working together, and then, as if sensing my apprehension—that I’m not sure it’s as simple as he’s making it sound, especially when I think of Courtney’s tears in the car yesterday—Max adds quickly, “I’m sorry about what happened, Kate. But you’re just going to have to trust me. Okay? I promise that nothing like that will happen again.” He leans in and kisses me softly. “Okay?”

I nod, deciding that I need to let go of the last of the uneasy feelings that are fighting so hard to break through to the surface. I think of Ruby and her observation that I keep switching my path. Was this what she was talking about?

• • •

“There you are!” Magda hisses at me as I walk across the soundstage at exactly eleven o’clock sharp, wondering why she’s acting like I’m late when I’m actually thirty minutes early.

“You okay?” I ask.

She pulls me away from a gaggle of makeup artists who are huddled over the latest issue of
InStyle
. “The client isn’t happy,” she whispers, the smell of her perfume so heavy it makes me cough.

I can’t use my gift of foresight to help me solve whatever the problem is because last time around, we didn’t have this photo shoot on a soundstage. Last time, Courtney had still been the lead on the Bright Below the Belt campaign and had convinced the client to shoot on Figueroa Street in downtown LA despite the fact that it was way over their budget and included getting a ton of permits to close down the very busy street. The idea was to have the male model walking in his neon underwear in
a sea of businessmen in three-piece suits. The caption would read:
The suit doesn’t make the man. It’s what’s underneath it that defines him.
Which, of course, had a double entendre that was just the right amount of racy to capture a person’s attention. And the ad had been a huge hit with the focus groups we’d shown it to. But after Courtney was taken off the account, then subsequently left the company, the executives at Calvin Klein got nervous, calling a meeting with Magda and me to “restrategize” the shoot, the doubt in their eyes strong as I’d tried to convince them why they should spend the thousands of extra dollars Courtney had so easily convinced them to do just weeks before.

And so here we were on a boring soundstage and shockingly, the client wasn’t happy with any of the setups we’d pitched them. I sigh. Courtney would know how to fix this. But then again, we wouldn’t be in this mess if Courtney were here. I think back again to her hollow eyes as she sat in the passenger seat of my car, realizing our friendship was over. That the man she cared about had stepped away from her. She had doubled down and lost this time, the advantage of my hindsight too much for her to overcome. But hindsight was a curious thing—yes, you could make tweaks to your life, but if you did that, if you used it to right the wrongs, was it still your real life?

By the time I finally leave the photo shoot, my legs feel like they are filled with lead. I haul myself to the car and slouch down in my seat. It had taken every creative fiber in my body to finally come up with the idea, still playing off Courtney’s original plan but at a fraction of the cost. I could tell by the look in the executives’ eyes that they’d be finding another ad agency if I hadn’t. I’d pitched the idea that we set up a scene where our male model is having dinner with his beautiful date. She is
fully clothed but he sits across from her in his underwear. The caption:
We all know it’s not his clothes that make the
lasting impression. It’s what’s below the belt that really matters
. I had seen Magda blush when I’d played around with different caption ideas, each rolling off my tongue with ease. I simply smiled when Magda arched her eyebrow and squinted at me, happy that I’d handled the situation without Courtney.

My phone rings, startling me and I answer it when I see it’s an 808 area code. “Hey, Stella,” I say, forcing my voice to sound upbeat despite how tired I am.

“Hi,” she answers hesitantly. “You got a minute?”

“Of course,” I say brightly, leaning back and closing my eyes.

“Well, I got an email from Max.”

“Yeah? What did it say?” I try to imagine what he was adding to the list—a coconut stand or men dancing in loincloths?

“He said he wants to change everything back to the way it was originally planned,” she says, her voice low, as if she’s revealing a terrible secret to me.

“Really?” I ask, confused. Even though the thought of having my chocolate fountain and orchid centerpieces back on the wedding day made me smile, I also wondered, after all the effort I’d put into making the wedding more like what he wanted, why would he tell Stella to forget it?

“Change everything?”

“Everything,” she repeats.

“The linen pants?”

“Gone.”

“Pig?”

“Hasta la vista, baby.”

“Wow,” I say into the phone.

“You’re telling me,” Stella says, sighing loudly before adding,
“Kate, don’t take this the wrong way, but you and Max really need to get on the same page here or I don’t know what you’re wedding day’s going to look like.”

Long after we’ve hung up, I think about Stella’s words, realizing I’m now not sure what it’s going to look like either.