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She’s right, and thankfully, giving me shit as a friend and not as a client. Or former client, I guess, because though I met Taya when I was helping her professionally, she’s been my best friend for a lot longer at this point. She’s the wild to my structure, the free-wheeling to my safe and sound, and the wrecker of my best laid plans. Like going to the Americana Land offices today.
Getting home after sunrise is something I haven’t done since college, but this morning, I feel blissfully buzzy after the late night with Carson. I told myself, and Carson, that I’d take a catnap and be in for a day’s work as usual.
This call will likely change that.
“I know, Taya. I wouldn’t dream of skipping a call from you. I’d be too afraid it was your one call from jail and you’d end up stuck there without bail. All because I was sleeping in for once.” I let my voice go deep and sad, as though imagining her imprisoned overnight and it being my fault.
There’s a long beat of silence and then we both burst out laughing.
“I take it you’re not in jail, then?” I venture.
Taya makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “No, not this time, which you’d better be thanking your lucky stars for. But what’s with the sleeping in late? That’s not like you.”
Before I can answer, she squeals. “Ooh, were you out late working? Who fucked up so bad they’ve got you pulling an all-nighter? Let me pull up Twitter.”
I hear her long nails clacking away, likely on her laptop, as she searches for dirt that she would never find if I’d done my job correctly.
“Why do you assume it was work?” I tease. She snorts, her laughter growing to the point where it’s almost offensive. “Hey, it’s not always work.”
“Stop. Stop. You’re killing me, bitch.” She sobers, or tries to, at least. “Okay, okay.” She breaks down in a small fit of giggles again. “It wasn’t work. It was . . . book club? A charity gala? Something bougie like that with finger sandwiches or some shit?”
I pause, the words right on the tip of my tongue. I shouldn’t say anything about Carson to anyone, even my best friend. Especially since this is a convoluted mix of professional and personal. But if anyone would understand, it’s Taya.
I first met her three years ago when she burst onto the music scene virtually overnight. And suddenly, her coming-up story was something she needed to overcome. Her music agent called it ‘rough edges’. The truth is, Taya grew up nearly feral, scraping for every cent and fighting for every day she got, sometimes doing some shady things just to get by. I helped her face her history head-on, creating a narrative that she controlled so that she wasn’t blindsided by interviewers trying to shock her into a reaction they could label as ‘rage’ or ‘fury’. And if there’s one thing Taya is good at, it’s surviving, whatever it takes. And somewhere in that process, we became thick as thieves and both shared way more than we typically do with people.
“It wasn’t anything like that. It was . . . something else.” She knows me well enough to hear the telling weight in that pause.
“Errk. Do not say another word on the phone, Jayme. I’m calling because I need to see you today, so you can tell me in person when we’re sure there are no bonus listening ears.” The warning is threaded through the words, a sign of how far she’s come since those early days when she said what she wanted and everyone who didn’t like it could go to hell on a speeding super slide of lava, right up their ass. And yes, that’s a literal quote from Taya to one interviewer she didn’t like.
But while I’m proud of her progress, I can’t see her today. I have to go to the Americana Land offices to help Carson with our planned approach to fixing things. “Taya, I can’t.”
“Did I ask? No, I did not. Because it wasn’t a question.” Her biting tone softens slightly, which is honestly more concerning. “I need to see you today. I need your help with something.”
Shit. Professional or personal, I can’t tell her no.
“Are you in town? Or close, at least?” I say hopefully. Maybe I can do a quick visit with her, help with her drama, and then hustle to the office to help Carson? I’m already replanning my day and resetting my goals I hoped to accomplish before crashing into bed tonight.
There’s a knock on my apartment door. “Taya?”
“Open up, bitch.” She starts laughing, knowing she’s got me by the short hairs. Not that I have any. My waxing appointments are pre-scheduled on a routine, the same as my nails, hair, and lashes.
