Intercepted (Page 15)

“Girl, I know you’re new, so I’ll clue you in.” Naomi sits a little taller and zooms in on Brynn. I’ve already been clued in, so I mouth the words along with her. “I tell the best stories . . . all the time.”

I can’t take these girls anywhere.

“Naomi ‘The Best Storyteller’ Harris, got it.” Brynn draws a checkmark in the air in front of her.

“Got that right.” Naomi takes a deep sip of her Diet Coke. “Where was I? Oh yeah. So they’re all staring at me like I’m the enemy intruder until Courtney bangs that stupid glitter gavel on the table and all at once their heads swivel toward her like good little soldiers, and she starts the meeting. Throughout the entire meeting, every time she’d mention anything about the advertising or funds raised, I’d call out, ‘Marlee got so many donations,’ or, ‘Didn’t Marlee do a great job on the design?’ Basically, I just mentioned your name at every opportunity I could find.

“And then . . .” She bounces in the seat so hard, it sends my chest into the metal edging of the table. “As soon as she hit the gavel for the final time, I paid my bill, stood up, and said, ‘See you next Tuesday, Court. Oops. I mean Wednesday,’ winked at her, and walked away.”

“Shut up!” Brynn and I shout at the same time and startle the two women chatting at the table next to us.

“I know, right! It was so good!” Naomi falls back into her seat as if she just finished running a marathon. But, to give her proper credit, she talks so fast and gives such exaggerated hand movements, it really is like she’s leading a mini Zumba class.

“I’m not sure if I’ve told you lately, but I love you,” I say. Because when your girl drops a not-so-subtle see (C) you (U) next (N) Tuesday (T) to a group of women talking shit about you, you’re obligated to divulge your feelings. #FriendshipRule183

“I know.” She looks at me. “But as many times as you’ve had my back, I figured it was about time I had yours.”

“Shit.” Brynn’s gaze flickers between me and Naomi. “I need to hang with you guys more often.”

“Ain’t that right, boo?” I ask the question I’ve asked Naomi hundreds of times.

“True.” She raises her glass in the air and we cheers just as our waiter returns.

Nobody orders a salad.

Eleven

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I’d really do well to remember that in the future.

Grayson, my Uber driver with an awesome knit hat and glasses with no glass, drops me off in front of Naomi and Dre, who I texted a few minutes ago letting them know I was almost there. We walk in together, like proud polygamists, while Dre, under the extreme pressure of Naomi, tells me I look beautiful.

The second we enter the building, I run smack-dab into Mrs. Mahler, the over-Botoxed, slightly eccentric wife of the Mustangs’ owner. She’s one of the lucky few who get a free pass out of the meetings, but a front-of-the-line pass to the events.

“Marlee, my love! Courtney told me you wouldn’t be coming tonight,” she says, her voice laced with the rasp that never leaves because of the cigarettes she’s always smoking out of her long, gold cigarette holder.

“She must’ve heard wrong, because here I am.” I frame my face with my hands and curtsy.

“And I’m thrilled you are, darling,” she says. She takes a long pull from her cigarette, even though there’s signage everywhere saying the venue is smoke free. “You did such a phenomenal job putting this all together. You know, even Mr. Mahler came to me discussing this year’s fashion show. Your marketing skills have been so effective, one of the boys from marketing thought he was being replaced.”

She’s leaning in conspiratorially, which would normally make me cringe—I can’t deal with close talkers—but she’s telling me gossip that’s wrapped with compliments for my work, and I spotted Courtney watching us in the corner. Since Courtney wants to be Mrs. Mahler and she hates me, every time I laugh at something Mrs. Mahler says, I direct my smile and gaze Courtney’s way. She’s redder than a tomato and working so hard on scowling, she might just succeed. I bet Chris’s dad will be on the receiving end of a phone call requesting more Botox tomorrow.

“Oh you’re kidding! That’s so funny and good to hear. I’m so glad you like my work and that the crowd is even bigger than I anticipated,” I say, and I’m not lying. I might not be as desperate as Courtney to be in Mrs. Mahler’s good graces, but I’d be insane if I said I’m not over-the-moon thrilled for her to like me and my work. Between her and her husband, they have connections I could never even dream of.

“Yes, darling. You did a wonderful job. I know that Courtney girl is trying to take credit for your work, but I wanted you to know that we all know who’s really behind tonight’s success.” She throws a wink my way before she waltzes across to the room to one of her friends.

I look to where Courtney was standing, only to see she’s been joined by a few of the other wives. And if I’m not mistaken, which I’m not, they have flipped the script on me and all the sly looks and evil laughter are now being sent my way. They must not realize they conditioned me for this treatment during the meetings. I smile, then turn on my heel to go search for Naomi . . . and booze.

I find Naomi and Dre by the bar, guarding an empty barstool I’m assuming is for me, and try to make it there as fast as I can without running. I’m so close, I can almost feel the leather barstools sticking to my thighs under my too-short dress, when a cold, strong hand grabs my wrist and stops me in my tracks. I turn around slowly, praying I’m wrong, but knowing I’m right, and look into the eyes of the last person I wanted to see.

Well, the last two people I wanted to see.

And so now, instead of being snuggled next to a bottle of tequila, I’m face-to-face with Chris and Ava, who’s wearing my ring and making my slutty-to-me dress look conservative.

“Chris.” I try to sound like a bitch, but bitchy has never been my thing and instead I just sound kind of constipated. “Ava. Nice to see you outside of emails and with clothes on.”

Correction, kind of with clothes on. I’ll never understand these see-through dresses women wear. What’s the point of the fabric if I can still see your underwear?

“What are you doing here, Marlee? And why were you talking to Mahler’s wife? You better not try to fucking sabotage me because I won’t take you back.”

Pretty boy say what?

“I’m sorry. You must have me confused with another girlfriend who dumped you, because the one you’re talking to right now has no interest in ever getting back together with you.” I turn to Ava and look to her hand. “Nice ring. I remember when Chris gave it to me for Valentine’s Day a couple years back. It looks great on you though.”

So maybe I’m catching on to this bitchy thing after all.

The smile she was wearing starts to fade at the same time her cheeks brighten, but instead of directing her angry gaze at Chris, she aims it at me. Like I’m the one who gave her stolen jewelry. Don’t shoot the messenger.

“Bitter doesn’t look good on you, sweetie.” Her voice is so high-pitched I wouldn’t be surprised if she has been solicited to lend her voice to a dog-calling app.