I squatted next to Dillon and waited for him to instruct me.
"Put them in alphabetical order," he said. You didn't mess with Dillon's process unless invited.
I held up an erotic novel in my hand. "Marley's going to have to do some editing."
Dillon sighed, taking the book from me. "Not that those two need any more stimulation."
"I know."
"They all love each other so much," Dillon whispered, as we watched the last of the very prolonged goodbyes taking place.
"It sucks."
"I thought it would inspire you," Dillon said, making his third stack.
"Don't get me wrong, Dills. I'm happy they're happy, but it's all a little too … "
"Like living in a love story."
"Yep, that's it, right there." Dillon understood me. We had bonded over our ‘leave Miley Cyrus alone' campaign.
"So, anything else up today?" Dillon asked, curling one of his perfect shiny locks around his fingers.
"I have my hair appointment with Christoff."
Dillon huffed, adding a dramatic eye roll that went on far too long not to ignore.
"What?"
"His real name is Christopher and he's a nutjob."
"Well, maybe he's eccentric, but he is the most well-known stylist outside of New York or Los Angles. I've waited six months for this appointment."
Marley and Stevie joined us. "You got a Pat Monahan fetish, Little Bird?" Marley asked me.
"Huh?"
"You've been listening to this song all week."
"It's just been in my head lately."
"Have you picked your outfit for tonight?" Stevie asked.
"I think I'll wear my black mini dress with the halter straps. It's classy but sexy."
"That's a good choice."
"What's tonight, sweetheart?" Mom asked as she joined us. The four boys were playing a miniature golf game a few feet away from us. It was funny how much they emulated their fathers.
"Preston is taking me to the new French fusion restaurant downtown."
"Fancy," Stevie said.
"I think he's going to ask me to move in with him."
"Billie, you should stay here longer and save up some more. You can live with us as long as you want. Rick and I both love having you," Marley said with such force that it seemed more of a plea than a suggestion.
"Thanks, Marley, but it's not just that I want to get out. I think we're ready for the next step. You know?"
"Are you sure about this?" Mom asked.
"Yes."
"Like, sure sure?" Stevie prodded.
"I know you guys don't like Preston."
"We never said that," Marley said.
"Speak for yourself," Stevie mumbled.
Dillon put a hand on my shoulder. "He's kind of stiff … but not in a good way."
I crossed my arms and leaned my back against the shelf. "Don't be coy with me."
"You can accuse us of many things, but being coy is not one," Stevie said.
"I get what's going on. Preston doesn't fit in with the boy's club around here."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Stevie asked.
"Simple-Rick, Damien and Adam are best buddies. Dillon fits in too, but they never gave Preston a chance-and neither did you guys."
"That's not true," Stevie said. "They've tried. This isn't about him fitting our family."
"Then what?"
"It's about him fitting you, Little Bird," Marley said. "Sometimes you see things that aren't there."
"Like I'm crazy?"
"No, babe, you're a true romantic. It's part and parcel," Dillon said, shoulder bumping me.
"That's not true."
"Jimmy Graves," Stevie whispered. "You said you were going to marry him, remember?"
"I was eight."
"Exactly my point. The boy gave you a chocolate cupcake and he became your kryptonite."
"We lived in a vegan household. Chocolate was my kryptonite."
"You know what we mean," Stevie and Marley chimed in unison between their laughter.
"Girls, that's enough," Mom said. "This is Billie's life. She's an adult and capable of making her own decisions." And that could have been the end of it, except she turned to me with that mom look-the one that said ‘I'm about to throw a special nugget of wisdom and you'd better be ready to catch it'. "You'll know when it's true and right."
"How?"
"Because your craving for chocolate will be a fleeting memory compared to your craving for him."
Chapter Three
I waited at the café table for Corinne, who had surpassed fashionably late by half an hour. Corinne Van Sickle owned Midwest Woman, a magazine made solely for women of the Midwest with their goals and dreams in mind. At least that's what our mission statement touted. Somehow, those goals and dreams always involved losing twenty pounds or finding the perfect eye makeup. My suggestion to broaden our scope by featuring women with unique stories was finally being heard. Last week, I'd turned in an interview with the first female CEO of a major auto manufacturer.
Corinne finally arrived, her shiny black hair pulled back in a severe knot. "Billie," Corinne said, carefully setting her fake Louis Vuitton purse in the vacant chair between us. Then she bent toward me, giving me an awkward air kiss. "I'm sorry I'm late."
Corinne fancied herself the Midwest version of the boss from The Devil Wears Prada. The fact that she made no secret she wanted to emulate the character spoke volumes about her personality. The truth of the matter was that she fell miserably short of her goal, as she had neither the talent, the ambition nor the footwear for any such endeavor.
"Don't worry about it, Corinne. Although I am nervous why you wanted to meet me on a Saturday." The waiter came by but she waved him away.
"Aren't we eating?"
"This will only take a minute. Billie. I meant to do this on Friday, but I forgot. I was having a blonde moment." Then her eyes rolled over me in a slow, judgmental sweep. "I'm sure you understand." She laughed at her joke, and I did my best not to grimace. She was my boss, after all.
"Is this about my article?"
She sighed. "We're not going with it."
The disappointment jabbed at me. Yet another rejection to add to my long list. "I thought you liked it."
"Woman doesn't need the word man in it? That article?"
I nodded, swallowing down my anxiety.
"Sweetheart, we don't run that kind of stuff for a reason. Women don't care about other women's accomplishments. They don't look for inspiration in the boardroom or the classroom. They're busy looking for it in the bedroom or the bathroom mirror. That's where we come in."
"I don't believe that."
"I know, which is exactly why I'm firing you."
"You're … you're firing me?"
She let out a deep breath. "Thank goodness that unpleasant business is over. I should go, dear. I have lots to do today and can't afford any more blonde moments."
I swallowed down my hurt and anxiety, keeping my expression focused. "I need more of an explanation."
She sighed, picking at her high-gloss polished nails. "It didn't work out. I would say it's not you, it's us, but the truth is … it is you."
"Excuse me, but I'm having a complete bitch moment … I'm sure you'd understand. You complimented my work."
Her eyes widened slightly before her lips formed a sneer. I had never spoken to her this way, but the shock was too great. I'd always thought I was a good employee, one who met every deadline and completed all tasks with integrity and optimism, despite how bitchy my boss was.
"I hired you because you're a pretty girl, who matched the look of the magazine."
"You didn't hire me because I have a degree from Columbia, won the Heartland Association Award for young writers and have several glowing recommendations from professors?"
She waved her perfectly manicured fingers through the air. "That's just a nice byline we can add under your photo-window dressing. I figured you'd write the kind of pieces we were looking for, not these articles about empowering yourself. Certainly not the sob stories about Female Gendercide and climate shift."
"Those were popular features."
"Perhaps, but it certainly doesn't fit our theme. Our magazine is a guilty pleasure. You seem to have forgotten the pleasure part. I wanted to mold you into something great, but the truth is, you're just not a go-getter. Do you know what the opposite of go-getter is, Billie?"
"A stay-releaser?"
She narrowed her eyes at me so fast I saw a crack in her foundation. "Go ahead and make a joke about it. The most popular article we did last year was Ten Signs He's Cheating on You and the second one was How to Keep Your Man Happy. That's what our readers want. Because in the end, woman does need the word man in it."