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“When are youleaving me?” I say.
Jo bites her lip but doesn’t answer.
“Two weeks,” Alex says, putting Jo out of her misery.
Two weeks?No, no. Clearly, she hasn’t thought this through. “Britt can’t take over for you,” I say. “She always does Med season.” Almost every photo Britt posts is of her on either theSerendipityor theTalisman, the superyacht she works on in the Mediterranean Sea after wefinish charter season in the Caribbean. The woman is only on land four months a year. I nudge her with my elbow. “Tell them,” I say.
Britt rests her head on the table and mumbles, “Screw Med season.”
As I look from Britt to Jo, the cartwheels in my chest become back handsprings. “You’re drunk,” I tell her. “You’re all drunk!” I look at Britt and sigh. “But she’s the drunkest. Seriously, she needs to hydrate.” I make her sit up so I can shove the straw in her mouth.
Jo worries her bottom lip, and I realize my reaction is hurting her. I take a slow breath and tell myself I can walk this back. I can still save the post-charter-season celebration and Jo and Alex’s big announcement. I can be Jo’s better friendandher best friend.
“I’m just teasing,” I say. I force a smile on my face I’m not sure Jo buys. “You’re my past, present, and future best friend. I’m happy for you, Jo. Really.”
It’s true. I’m happy for Jo, even if I’m nothappy.
Jo grabs my hand from across the table. “You don’t have to worry about you and me, you know. Just because I won’t be around at work doesn’t mean—”
“I’m not worried!” I squeeze her hand before letting it go to fidget with my empty shot glass. “I never worry. I don’t know how. We’re on land, and on land, I only know how to have fun.”
“And are you happy for me?” Alex says. “Getting my own place. Lifelong dream coming true and all.”
I squint at him. “Depends on how many cheese Danish I get out of it.”
Alex tilts his head as if lost in thought. “How about two dozen?”
“Make it three and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I say.
“Done.”
Jo rolls her eyes. “Three dozen cheese Danish? That’s all I’m worth to you?”
I shrug. “They’re really good cheese Danish.”
Jo drops her gaze to her drink. “And you’re fine with this. Really?”
I don’t know if I’mfinewith it, exactly. It’s not like I have any other choice. I don’t love the idea of not having Jo at work anymore, but I don’t actually expect her to plan her life around me. “I’m not finenow, but I will be.”
I hope I seem calm on the outside, because inside, I’m freaking out. I have always known my emotions are bigger than most people’s. Years of gymnastics training helped me to develop the discipline necessary to keep them in check, a useful skill when your job requires catering to the whims of the wealthy. Normally I do better than this. But Jo and I have been through everything together over the last six years. Now she has Alex and his fourteen-year-old daughter, Greyson—a real family to go through everything with. I know Jo and I will still be best friends, but things are changing, although I was perfectly fine with how they’ve been. I thought I’d at least have her at work, even if her life outside of it became a bit more complicated. It never crossed my mind that she’d quit, that one change would ripple outward, washing over everything.
Too much, I think. I need to step away for a minute. I force Britt to sit up and move out of my way so I can escape the booth.
“Where are you going?” Jo says.
“I’m getting champagne, of course,” I say. “This is a celebration, is it not?”
Jo looks at me for a moment, but she must believe me, because the hesitation on her face eases. “Thanks, Nina.”
“Don’t thank me,” I say. “I have plenty to celebrate myself. Like the three dozen cheese Danish in my future.”
When I leave the table, I don’t go to the bar right away. Instead, I prowl the perimeter of Mitch’s, running a hand over the dozens of dollar bills that jump out at me from the mess of photographs on thewalls. What a shame to leave all this money here, stuck but still valuable. I look around the pub and wonder how much money has been left here. I certainly hope Mitch doesn’t plan to use it as his retirement fund. It seems a rather risky investment strategy.
A corner of the Polaroid of me, Ollie, and Jo jabs into my skin. I face the wall and discreetly adjust the photo inside my bra. As I do, I spot a dollar bill that’s been defaced to make George Washington look like a zombie. When I reach out to touch it, the dollar is so worn, it feels like fabric beneath my fingertips. I think of how good it felt to rip that photo from the wall, and without checking to see if anyone is watching, I tug at the thumbtack pinning Zombie George in place, then fold the dollar in half and stuff it into my bra beside the photograph.
Maybe I should feel bad, but I don’t. It feels good to take something for myself, something that would be useless otherwise. It’s what I love about thrifting. One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure. I put the thumbtack back in its place and scan the wall again. Perhaps I’ll grab a few more. Instead of returning to the table, I’ll have the champagne sent over and I’ll disappear. I’ll go down the street to the gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes even though I haven’t smoked in years.
“One charter season without me, and you turn to a life of crime?” a familiar voice says from behind me.
