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“Sure. What do you think about that woman who works at Steve’s on Saturdays?” Ali wants to know.
So much for changing the subject. Maybe I will hire Brooklyn.
***
Deadlines. I loathe deadlines. My one major regret about signing with a publisher is the imposition of deadlines. Doesn’t anyone pay attention to words? Dead. Lines. Nothing about the word inspires confidence. I think I’ve become more disorganized since all these impositions started. Trust me, the impositions go hand in hand with the inquisition. I have Ali for the role of High Inquisitor in my life. I find calls from my friendly yet eager publisher frustrating. Yesterday, Nell, she’s my representative, called to see how I was doing. That’s naked code for, “when will you be finished?” Good thing she can’t see the gestures I make on the other end of the call. I always finish on time. It annoys me when she “checks in.” To make things worse, I spent twenty minutes looking for a page of hand revisions I made last week. I hate to admit Ali has a point. I am my worst enemy sometimes. I open my email. I groan. My email is more disorderly than any piece of furniture I’ve ever owned. I can’t tell you my problem. I am intimately acquainted with the delete key. Apparently, not intimately enough. Click, click, click and delete until one email captures my interest. An email from none other than Brooklyn Brady.
Hi Carter,
I’m sorry it took me a couple of days to respond. I’m in London visiting a college friend. I looked over what you sent me and I’m confident I can help. You asked how long I think we would need to work together. That will depend on how many things you want to accomplish. I’ve found that some clients choose to tackle more than they first planned. Others stick to the basics and we part ways. I’ve attached an outline of ideas and my estimate of the hours and fees. I’d love to talk about this in person. I know that inviting someone into your sacred space sight-unseen can be an uncomfortable proposition. If you are free to meet sometime late next week, I would love to have coffee and answer your questions. Let me know and we can make plans. By the way, no one is helpless. I’ve worked with Jack. That should be my best recommendation. I look forward to hearing from you.
Best,
Brooklyn
Anyone who can get Jack Dixon organized is a superhero. If her work sticks, I might elevate Brooklyn to the status of a goddess. I drum my fingers on my desk. What could it hurt to meet Brooklyn? I open the document she’s provided and review her proposal. It’s reasonable. Not cheap. Reasonable. If she succeeds, it will be a steal. I look at the business card on my desk. The corner has a tiny picture of Brooklyn. I type in her website and visit the “about” page. There she is—larger. I imagine she is larger than life—larger than my life. That isn’t the most difficult standard to reach. Something about the glimmer in Brooklyn’s eyes suggests she possesses an adventurous spirit. I’m intrigued.
Brooklyn,
Thank you for your reply.
I glance at her business card again. I would like to meet her.
As I said in my first email, Ali speaks highly of you. Ali is also determined that I get some professional help. She has pointed out that I should be grateful I need an organizer and not a therapist. I suppose that’s a win in someone’s book. Not mine. But like therapy, admission is the first step to recovery, right?
I would love to meet in person sometime next week. You have my number. If we are considering working together, I might as well tell you that texting or calling is the best way to ensure you reach me. My schedule is open.
No. It isn’t. You are on a deadline.
Enjoy London. I haven’t been over the pond in a couple of years. Color me jealous.
Hope to speak soon,
Carter
And now I wait.
***
NOVEMBER 2nd
Ali loves to grill. When I say she loves to grill, I’m not exaggerating. You can find her outside in a snowstorm grilling dinner. Personally, I think she likes to avoid doing dishes, and the grill enables her paper plate addiction. Whatever the reason, barbecues are a year-round event at Ali’s. Another year-round event, or should I say, attendee is Jack Dixon. Ali thinks I dislike her friend. I like Dixon just fine. Just fine. He’s funny, good looking (in that dorky kind of way), and he’s always been a trustworthy friend to Ali. He’s also carried a torch for her for over twenty years. She denies it. It’s obvious. He’s constantly trying to impress her and me. There are times when I want to sit him down and say, “Dixon, Ali likes girls. What I mean by that is Ali likes to have sex with girls. She likes youjust fine. She isn’t likely to land in your bed or beside you at the altar. You need to move on.” But he knows that. I’m not sure Dixon will ever get over Ali. I feel for him. I do. For some unknown reason, he seems to view me as a threat. Why do people assume that if two lesbians are friends, they must want to sleep together? Allison Ramsey has been my best friend since we were twelve. I can say with total honesty I have never wanted to kiss Ali, touch Ali, or date Ali. Ali isn’t like a sister to me. I have one of those too. Ali is my best friend in the entire world. No one drives me to insanity as fast as Ali. No one is there for me quicker, and no one, no matter how much time passes, has my back more than Allison Ramsey. That goes both ways.
“Hi, Carter.”
“Dixon. How goes the war?”
“I was winning on Monday. By Friday I was forced into retreat.”
I laugh. “I feel your pain.”
“I heard from Brooklyn.”
I nod.
“Still reluctant, huh?” he asks.
“Not about Brooklyn,” I reply. “About anyone.”
