Tessa hit ‘Reply,’ and typed:
Ohhh, mannnnnnnnnn, I am so sorry, but end of August I’ll be out of
Her fingers stopped moving and tears started to gather in her eyes. I can’t say no again, Tessa thought. I’ll just have to keep it light until I get my head screwed on straight. She erased her message and started again:
I love hotdogs! You spring for the dogs and I’ll bring the Gatorade. I hear this was a particularly good year for Orange, unless you only drink Blue, in which case I’m not sure if I can continue our friendship. Blue is just so…gauche.
Meet at the lions?
Tessa
Tessa hit send before she could chicken out and wished her appointment at Athena’s Ground would hurry up. She had a life to get to and every minute she remained broken was a minute she wasn’t really living.
***
The address was hard to read. The paper Shawntay had given her was wrinkled from too much fidgeting. The street number was barely legible, the ink a smear of blue, thanks to Tessa’s sweaty palms. To say she was nervous was an understatement bordering on the absurd. Tessa was terrified.
The street surprised her. It was a tree-lined road, filled with what had once been large, stately homes. As the city had grown, residents moved aside and boutique businesses claimed the former homes. The one Tessa was interested in was in the middle of the block. It was a two-story, brick building with grass green window shutters and a wide front door, painted a rich cream. As a designer, Tessa approved of the aesthetic. As a potential patient, it reassured her…slightly.
A bronze plaque at the door said:
Welcome.
If you have an appointment, please ring the intercom.
If you do not, please call for an appointment.
No phone number was listed.
Tessa took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She’d done what every woman since Cleopatra had done in a crisis of courage; she’d dressed in ‘armor’: her best skinny jeans, a pink silk wrap-around blouse—one of her own designs, and her favorite Dolce and Gabbana jacket. She carried this season’s Prada over her shoulder and wore last season’s Jimmy Choo on her feet. And still she felt underdressed. Perhaps she’d have felt better in the Michelin Tire Boy suit.
Tessa pressed the intercom button and fought the urge to run.
“Good morning,” came a cool voice from the intercom speaker. It was female. “What is your name, please, and what time is your appointment?”
“My…” Tessa stopped to clear he throat. Her voice was shaking like a runaway train on very rough track. “My name is Tessa Donovan. My appointment is at 9:00.”
There was silence. An eternity passed—several seconds—and the intercom voice returned.
“Please come in,” the woman said. This time, her voice was melodious and warm. An obnoxious buzz signaled the front door was now unlocked. Tessa pushed herself through the door. The first thing she noticed was a large mahogany desk. It reminded her of the desk Mark had insisted they buy for the business. This desk was different though: it was staffed by a beautifully coiffed blonde.
The woman motioned for Tessa to sit. “That’s a lovely name, Tessa.” She said it with a warm smile and her soft green eyes sparkled.