After I push enter to “Complete Your Order” and I get the “Purchase Confirmation” email a second later, I wait for the guilt of my purchase to rush in, but it doesn’t. I must believe the lies I’m telling myself, because I don’t feel guilty and can’t wait to get my new camera.
But suddenly I don’t want to wait for my camera to arrive to start my new endeavor. I close the photog books and stack them on the coffee table and then stretch and rub my back, sore from the campout on the floor. How long was I down there anyway? I check the clock. It’s past midnight—I’ve been playing for hours. I touch my bruised bottom gingerly, which has been aggravated by the hard floor. But it’s healing. Like me.
It’s late, but I’m energized. I grab my cell phone, which has an excellent digital camera, and head into the night to practice composition and my new real obsession for my new fake persona.
∞∞∞
“Wake up!”
Someone slaps the desk in front of me, and I jerk awake. It’s Blaire, thank goodness. I’m mortified that I’ve fallen asleep at work, but I’ve seen her do worse. Much worse.
She laughs when I look up at her. “You’d better be glad I’m the one who caught you and not goose-face Ronnie.”
“What are you saying about goose-face Ronnie?” Ronnie says from behind Blaire. Blaire visibly gulps. She’s not wrong, though. With Ronnie’s jutting lines of gray and black eye shadow, she does bear a striking resemblance to a goose.
Blaire turns to our boss and offers an impish grin. “Oh, I wish you hadn’t heard! I was telling Marissa you were going to be goose-faced with all the vodka I was going to give you for Christmas.”
I can’t help but be at least a little impressed with Blaire’s ability to lie. I wait to see if Ronnie buys it. I can see her turning the phrase over in her mind, perhaps weighing calling Blaire out on her lie versus how much top-shelf vodka Blaire will have to fork over to make it true.
Decision made, Ronnie slaps a file into Blaire’s hands. “I can’t wait to see how many bottles of Grey Goose vodka you buy me. It’ll take me a lot to get goose-faced. A lot.” She turns on her Ferragamo heel and leaves us
As soon as Ronnie is out of earshot, Blaire says, “Well, that’s gonna cost me.”
“Yes, it is. And what good did it do you? None.” I lean back in my chair. Sometimes Blaire has the impulse control of a naked mole rat. They’re a thing. I’ve seen them in their habitat at Zoo Atlanta. Very impulsive. Very naked.
“I’ll figure it out.” She was playing it off, but it was bothering her more than she was letting on. She was probably worrying she’d have to spend half a paycheck on vodka.
“Oh, I sent a friend request to that old French friend of yours on Facebook.”
I sat up and my chair snapped upright. “Giselle?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“She’s not French.” At least I don’t think she is. I hadn’t made up my mind about all of her personal history yet. I knew she was in California for second and third grade for me and lived in Germany last. I didn’t want her to have an accent because they’re tricky to pull off, and I didn’t think Lexy could produce one accurately, over and over again, without even a retake. All of her performances would be done live. But Giselle could always be French by birth. Except I’d just said she wasn’t.
“I mean, she might be,” I correct, “but she doesn’t have an accent or anything. Why are you friending her?” I should have been keeping better tabs on Giselle’s Facebook account instead of falling asleep at my desk this morning. I won’t have to worry about Blaire getting fired since if I keep going like this, I will be.
Blaire rolls her eyes and collapses into the only other chair in my cubicle. “She’s the hot new thing, right?”
“I guess.”
“Kya called me last night and asked me what I know about her.”
“She did?” Kya called Blaire? I’m their friend in common. They don’t usually talk to each other without me. Is Kya seriously pimping for Tarek?
“Was Kya trying to get you to get Tarek a date with Giselle?”
Blaire narrows her eyes at me. “No. Why would she?”
I frown. “I don’t know.”
Blaire shakes her head and leans back. “No. It was strange. She asked questions about Giselle like how long you’d known her, and if you’d ever mentioned her before.”
My stomach twists into a knot. So my best friend is so suspicious and distrusting of me that she calls my other best friend to investigate me? “That’s weird.”
“I think she’s being immature.” Blaire sounds self-satisfied in this pronouncement. She has cause to be—she’s the one Kya is always pointing to as being immature. Because she is.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because I think she’s jealous of her or something. For being your former best friend.”
“But she’s not jealous of you.”
“She wouldn’t be, would she?”
“Why not?”
She crosses her legs and swings the top one back and forth, pointing the sharp toe of her fancy shoe. “Because I’m your best work friend. Work friends don’t count as much. Everyone knows at work you’re a captive audience. Friends you make outside work count more.”
I think about that. “So that means you don’t like me as much as your other friends?”
She shrugs. “You can’t go by me. I don’t have any other friends. Oops! There goes Troy. Gotta go.”
Blaire trots off in her beribboned high heels, and I quickly get onto Giselle’s Facebook account.
Tarek hadn’t written to Giselle since he’d sent that picture of the sunset. Even though it was contrary to my plan for him, it made me respect him a little bit more. A very little bit more. How Kya could have a brother who is such a pig is beyond my imagination. And I have quite a good imagination. Whatever evil villain toxic sauce had gotten into Tarek’s bottle, I was glad it had spared Kya.
But maybe Giselle had let Tarek stew in desire long enough, and it was time she threw him a bone. So to speak.
Giselle Bisset
Thank you for the picture of the sunset. You have a good eye. Do you enjoy photography?
Tarek Oliver
Thanks for the compliment to my eyes. The rest of me isn’t bad either.
I groan aloud. Seriously, Tarek? I continue reading.
Just kidding. I do enjoy photography, though I’m not an award-winning expert like you are.
Kiss-ass.
Maybe you could give me a photography lesson sometime.
And there it is. Sure. That’s what Giselle should do. Because that’s what award-winning photographers like to do on their day off—teach photography to amateurs who are really just trying to get them into bed.
I write him back immediately.
Giselle Bisset
No, I’m not a good teacher. I lack the patience. But you should take a class if you’re interested, or do some reading and practice. With the technology on the market now, it’s easier than ever.