From the Jump(5)
“How do you know if you haven’t gotten the license yet?”
“I’ve been charging people for shots and pouring it into their mouths from the bottle.”
“Deiss!” I force a frown, even though I can’t help secretly being a little delighted by his insubordination. I’ve always been jealous of the way he seems so unencumbered by the rules.
He offers a shrug in response. “No cups, no proof, right?”
I tsk my disapproval, but thanks to the arrival of our friends, I don’t feel obligated to verbalize it. They come in together, conspicuous despite the crowd. It’s probably Mac who draws the most attention. Men of his height and good looks tend to be noticeable, especially if you’ve seen his latest underwear ad. But it’s Phoebe, dark and willowy with an Afro that makes her look several inches taller than she is, who my eyes go to.
As always, she’s wearing mismatched pieces she’s likely uncovered at a thrift shop. They shouldn’t work to make an outfit, but of course they somehow manage to. She looks effortlessly cool, like she belongs on one of the pages of the magazine she writes for, the complete opposite of me and my carefully chosen neutrals and fresh blowout. I want to take a picture of the textures and patterns, the shocks of color, so I can study it and figure out how it all works together. It’s the kind of understanding that’s invaluable for my work in graphic design.
Next to her, Simone is a study in subtle elegance. Hers is a look that does not require dissection. It can be summed up in brand names and dollar signs. I know this because I’m like the version of her on a budget. It’s not something I’m jealous of, simply a fact. Even her flawless skin and gorgeous bone structure scream money.
“The Ice Queen and King Cagey are having fun without us!” Phoebe points an accusing finger at us, even as she beelines toward Deiss to tackle him with a hug.
Mac hurries behind her, wrapping his arms around me so that my face presses into his chest. Weirdly, he smells like cotton candy. He’s probably spent the afternoon in bed with some model who wears body spray designed for teenage girls.
“You feel good,” Phoebe says, patting at Deiss’s chest with one explorative hand while the other stays draped around his neck. “Have you been working out?”
“Have you?” Mac asks Deiss, seemingly delighted at his ex-girlfriend groping his best friend. “We should try picking a fight later to see if you hulk out.”
I look for some sign that he’s joking, but naturally, there isn’t one. Mac’s greatest quality is also his worst: he’s impulsive and enthusiastic about everything. It’s what makes him one of the few people brave enough (or just oblivious enough) to bear-hug me, a woman most people barely risk approaching with a handshake. But it’s also what makes him think of picking a fight with someone for an entertaining experiment. He’s not violent by any stretch of the word. He just hasn’t thought through the fact that fights involve both causing and receiving pain.
“Someone has to move all the boxes at the shop.” Deiss rubs his hand over his head from front to back so dark hair spills into his face. He’s trying to disappear, but it’s a useless effort. “Booker certainly isn’t going to do it.”
“That bag is gorgeous, Simone,” I say, attempting to help him out by deflecting attention. It’s an easy pivot. I’ve greeted Simone with compliments ever since freshman year when I learned it was the way of the sorority girls. Although, upon further inspection, I discover that her bag is, in fact, gorgeous.
“Isn’t it?” Simone leans in and kisses the air beside my cheek, leaving a cloud of C?te d’Azur in her wake as she pulls back. “I’m loving your new highlights. Honeyed blond is totally your color.”
“Thanks.” I expect her to recommend for the hundredth time that I try her salon (where Groupons are never ever accepted), but her gaze has already shifted from me to Deiss. Her eyes narrow as if they can x-ray-vision their way under his black leather jacket to the muscles Phoebe claimed to have discovered beneath. She has that look on her face that I recognize from freshman year—the look that says she wants to stuff him in a syringe and shoot him into her veins.
Eleven years.
I know Simone hasn’t been pining for him for all this time. That look of hers has appeared a lot less frequently over the years, especially since Deiss’s beard thickened enough to cover half his face. But I also know if Deiss ever went up for sale, she’d whip her black Amex out so fast, anyone it its path would be sliced to ribbons. She pushes around Mac to sit next to Deiss as Phoebe slides onto the stool across from me.
“So, updates.” Phoebe looks at me excitedly. “I need them.”
I blink, my stomach lurching beneath her attention. She probably thinks the idea of buying my apartment is exciting, but how does she know? I haven’t been able to talk about it to anyone because there’s no way to explain my fears without revealing my past. Did I call her in my sleep? Have we finally gotten so close that she just feels these kinds of things, like a twin whose foot aches when her sister kicks a soccer ball wrong?
“On Operation: Kale,” she prompts. “They loved it, didn’t they! I knew they would.”
My stomach lurches again before sinking like a stone. Operation: Kale. I can’t believe I wasted an hour of Phoebe’s time brainstorming ways to make my latest superfood assignment from Infinity Designs into something original. It was demoralizing enough when they sprinkled so many suggestions on it that it ended up as watered down as every other project I’d turned in this year. Now Phoebe’ll be just as disappointed as I was.