Gemma had catfished me with a fake Tinder profile.
I’m nursing some conflicted feelings over this because I wasn’t the victim of a personal vendetta; I was collateral damage in Gemma’s quest to keep the object of her affections single and available. Now that it’s over, I’m less surprised—a couple months before it happened, a guy loafing about the lobby asked me where the ATM was. While leading him there, we got to talking a little bit, just innocent chitchat, which culminated in his asking for my number. I was doing my job. Being friendly. I did not flirt with him.
But it definitely looked like flirting to Gemma, who, as it transpired, was casually dating him at the time. He claimed that she’d misheard him, that when he asked for my number he meant “what number of the month it was, like, on a calendar.” I told her I never gave him any of my contact information, and she said that she believed me, but if Caleb’s offering me a ride in his car was enough to make her pull some pictures of a random hot guy off the Internet and trick me into a long-distance relationship, maybe she still had some trust issues.
In Gemma’s defense (literally, she used this as a defense), she tried really hard to be a considerate fake boyfriend. Jack would “just know” when I was having a bad day and could benefit from a surprise delivery from my favorite takeout place. He played the ukulele, which I thought was so cute, and he was drop. Dead. Gorgeous. A giant who could probably crush pebbles between his fingers if he wanted, but he wore the sweetest smile and softest expression. My favorite picture “Jack” sent was a black-and-white one of him in formal wear, and when I envision my imaginary ex-boyfriend I still see him without color sometimes, like he belongs to a different era.
The longer our relationship went on, the more I wanted from Jack, and the harder it became for Gemma to keep the ruse up. I wanted to meet in person. I wanted more selfies of him. I wanted concrete plans. After a while it didn’t matter how gorgeous or supernaturally insightful he was (Gemma’s advantage of knowing me as well as she does was an awful, lovely, double-edged blade); I didn’t like that he wasn’t putting in as much effort as me. Didn’t he want to meet up, too?
Then Gemma met someone else, lost all interest in Caleb, and was tired of expending energy on this. She had to come clean. I feel terrible. I’m the worst person ever. Can you forgive me? I’m sorry I did it, but in a way it wasn’t all that bad because you were happy, weren’t you? You’ve been so happy these past few months! If you think about it, I gave you a gift.
She begged me not to tell her dad, but another housekeeper overheard the whole confession and told a pool attendant, who told everyone, and before I knew it I was shaking Paul’s hand and accepting a promotion. It was coded into Paul’s upbeat congratulations that the promotion hinged on my not making any waves. I’d keep to myself, and be sad in private, and it meant no more scrubbing wine stains out of carpets. Which was fine. Maybell Parrish doesn’t make waves. She doesn’t even make ripples.
As I wipe down the ice machine, I listen to the distant chime of a door opening up in the clouds. What’s your daily special? a patron asks. Mentally, I follow the sound.
A different Maybell smiles back at her customer from behind a glass case of pastries on display. Like me, she has round glasses with rose-gold frames and honey-brown hair growing out in a Rumours-era Stevie Nicks shag. She sports the same constellation of freckles on her upper arm that I do, and we both wear a dainty heart-shaped ring on our right index finger that our mother got us for our sixteenth birthday.
But this Maybell is smooth and confident. She has a devoted boyfriend, Jack, and an honest, authentic best friend called Gemma. No indentations on her lower lip from nervous nibbling; her fingernails are manicured, not the kind you’d hide in your pockets. Her fresh-from-the-oven donuts are famous in five counties. This Maybell Parrish knows how to stand up for herself and gets what she wants on the first try, her little corner of the universe protected by magic. She controls the weather, the conversation, the emotional mood, who stays in the café and who goes. Here, she is somebody.
Slipping away into the dream version of my life is sometimes a conscious decision. But frequently, I don’t realize I’ve been daydreaming until a loud noise jars me, and when I check the clock, I’ll find I’ve lost an hour. A whole hour, just gone. The more anxious or stressed or lonely I am in reality, the less time I’m inclined to spend in it.
It requires effort to resist spiriting away to my coffee shop. I choose to focus on a topic that will keep me grounded: Gemma. Enough time has passed that she isn’t embarrassed about the catfishing anymore. Now she thinks it makes for a good anecdote, spreading it around, adding embellishments as she goes. I’ve heard her tell Javier that Jack and I had even gotten engaged, which isn’t true.
I blink and center myself, ice machine drifting back into focus. I’ve moved past it and now I’m smearing Clorox circles onto the soda machine. The paper towel in my hand is soggy shreds.
“Excuse me?”
I turn wearily, knowing in my gut that I’m seconds away from being asked to fish a wedding ring out of a bathroom drain. It happens once a month.
It’s a woman in a pink tweed coat. She eyes my name tag and her face lights up. “Well, hello there!”
I offer her the most customer service-y smile I can muster. Please, please don’t tell me someone’s done something unspeakable in the elevator again. The restroom is right there across from it, for crying out loud. I’ll quit. I’ll legitimately quit, right now. “Hi. Can I get you anything?”
“Actually, I’m here to give you something,” she replies, stepping forward. A thick folder is tucked under her arm. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your great-aunt Violet is dead.”
Chapter 2
CONTACTING VIOLET’S RELATIVES HASN’T been easy. So many of you aren’t on speaking terms with each other!” The woman chuckles uncomfortably. “I tried a number listed as Julie Parrish’s, but it’s out of service.”
“Yeah, she has a new . . .” My throat is suddenly dry. I don’t know why I feel like I might break down—I haven’t seen my great-aunt Violet since I was ten. I swallow. “A new number. I’ll pass the news along.”
Not that Mom will care that Violet’s dead. She was mad at Violet while she was alive, and she’ll stay mad at her now that she’s dead.
“Maybe we should sit down,” she suggests.
I lead the way to a table situated outside a Tim Hortons on the first floor. The seats are riddled with puddles of pool water. No one ever pays attention to the sign on the water park’s exit to towel off before leaving.
The woman is probably in her late fifties, Afro-Latina, with silver threads in her curly black hair, which is pulled tight into a bun. “My name’s Ruth Campos. I was your aunt’s home health aide for four years, and she gave me power of attorney ten months ago. Right now I’m here as the executor of her estate.”