Jillian sighed as she completed some paperwork at her desk. The kids had been gone for about thirty minutes, and she had a staff meeting in twenty. All she really wanted to do was go home. She felt tired. Run-down.
Old.
Holding her right hand up in front of her face, she studied it. The skin was looser than it used to be. Not wrinkled (thank god), not yet, but not tight, the blue veins more prominent than she remembered them being. For the first time, she realized she had her mother’s hands, no longer the strong, pretty hands of a young woman. Instead, hands that had seen better days. Hands that had a lot of miles on them, had done a lot of work.
Hands of a middle-aged woman.
Sliding open a desk drawer, she pulled out a makeup mirror and studied her face with the same scrutiny. It was true that everything started to go south as you aged. It seemed the outer corners of her eyes pulled down ever so slightly, the color not as bright as it used to be, crow’s feet frighteningly obvious. Her smile lines no longer disappeared when she stopped smiling; they were there all the time and they horrified her. When did that happen? She still had the dimples, of course, and for that she was happy, but even the texture of her skin seemed to have changed, freckles and blemishes much more apparent than they used to be, her smooth, clear, creamy skin—also her mother’s—a distant memory. Not for the first time, she wondered if her mother had had the same sense of worry, of near-panic when she realized she was no longer a young woman.
Jillian had never thought of herself as somebody who would dread aging, but as forty loomed just over the horizon, she had to fight the urge to turn and run, not that it would help. Angie had handled it with grace and a shrug, stating the simple fact that turning forty was “better than the alternative.” Of course, she was still stunning, and could be well into her sixties. The only adjustment she’d made was coloring her hair. The gray had become a bit too clear in her mid-thirties, so Angie simply had it colored every five weeks. End of story. Other than that, she still looked completely delicious.
Jillian hated her just a little bit for that.
Staring into the little mirror, she shook her head back and forth. My god, if I’m this much of a mess now, what will I be like when I hit menopause?
A knock on her doorjamb saved her from the tears welling in her eyes. It was Marina. “Hey, you. Ready?”
Jillian nodded, wiping her face quickly, shoving the mirror back into its place.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Marina studied her face as Jillian approached. “You sure?”
Jillian squeezed Marina’s upper arm in gratitude. “I’m sure.”
Clearly not convinced, Marina let it go. “I think the new gym teacher will be at the meeting.”
“Phys ed teacher. I don’t think you’re supposed to call them gym teachers.”
“Really? Why not?”
“I have no idea.”
Lindsey Page had soft brown eyes that were kind and a little bit smoldering. That was the first thing Jillian noticed about her when she was introduced at the staff meeting.
“Ms. Page comes to us from St. Augustine’s and will be taking over for Mr. Taft, given his heart attack and unexpected retirement.” Carl Ritter was vice principal: scrawny, balding, thick glasses, the kind of man you just knew was picked on as a nerd when he was a student himself. Now he was able to get his revenge by bossing around a new generation of kids, and he often did so with relish.
“Please welcome Lindsey Page, our new physical education teacher.”
Nods of welcome, along with hellos, went around the room as the meeting came to a close. Lindsey seemed to gravitate toward Jillian and Marina.
“Hi,” she said, her voice surprisingly low, a slight gravelly edge to it. “Lindsey.” She held out her hand to Marina, then to Jillian, as they introduced themselves.
“St. Augustine’s, huh?” Marina asked. “Bit of a change coming from a Catholic school.”
Lindsey chuckled. “Let’s just say I didn’t agree with some of their values.” Jillian’s gaydar immediately started clanging in her head, and she began to look for other clues as Marina and Lindsey shared Catholic school stories.
First things first: gym teacher. Always a check mark in the box. One corner of Jillian’s mouth curved up into a half-grin. A definite athletic build, maybe 5’6”, muscular and fit. Yes, very fit. Jillian swallowed, then chewed on the inside of her cheek as she wondered what sports Lindsey might play. Reddish brown hair pulled back into a casual ponytail. That threw Jillian a little bit until she reached up and wrapped a finger around the ends of her own long hair and admitted to herself that hair length meant nothing. Little if any makeup—not that she needed any with those big eyes and full lips. No nail polish, nails filed down neatly.
“And Jillian here teaches art,” Marina said, interrupting Jillian’s investigation.
“Guilty,” Jillian replied.
Lindsey smiled at her, held her gaze for a bit longer than necessary. “I loved art in school.” She pressed her palms together and pointed at Marina and Jillian. “Well,” she said. “I should probably find my way back to my office and get my bearings so I’m ready for tomorrow.” With a sheepish grin, she explained, “I’ve never had to go there from here.” Her encompassing wave indicated the conference room, which had cleared out, the three of them left alone.
“It’s on the way to my room,” Jillian said. “I can show you.”
“Perfect.” That smile again.
They said their goodbyes to Marina and headed down the hall. As they walked toward the gym, Jillian scrambled to make small talk. “I have always been jealous of the phys ed teachers I know because they have the most comfortable working wardrobes around.” When Lindsey chuckled, Jillian asked, “How many pairs of sneakers do you own? Tell the truth.”
“Six.”
“Figures.”
“So, how long have you been teaching here?”
Jillian furrowed her brow. “Fifteen years!”
“Wow. You don’t look old enough.”
A slight blush heated Jillian’s cheeks. “I was hired right out of college.”
“That makes you, what, thirty-seven?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Well, you don’t look thirty-eight.”
Jillian laughed. “Thanks. I think. And you’re what? Twenty-five?”
Lindsey feigned being appalled, complete with a horrified gasp and a hand pressed to her chest. “I’ll have you know I am twenty-nine, thank you very much.”
“Baby.”
Lindsey arched one eyebrow, and Jillian laughed. “Is that eyebrow supposed to intimidate me?”
“Isn’t it? Damn it,” Lindsey said, the arch still there. “I need to work on that.” She looked up at the rooms. “I guess this is where I get off.”
Jillian rolled her lips in, bit down on them. “Mm hmm.”
“Thanks for walking with me.”
“Any time. Welcome aboard. I think you’ll like it here.”
Lindsey held Jillian’s gaze. “So do I.”
What the hell was that? Jillian asked herself over and over as she drove home. Why had she been flirty with Lindsey? Not that she wasn’t always flirty, but this had been intentional, very much so. Not good. Not good at all. Shaking her head to rid herself of the confusion that settled over her, she vowed to tread carefully around the new girl.
Jillian was not happy with her own state of mind recently, but she had no idea what to do about it. She growled with frustration as she unlocked the door and entered her house. As she tossed her keys on the kitchen counter, she briefly wondered—not for the first time—what it would be like to come home from work and have Angie already be there. She didn’t bother dwelling, though. She’d gone that route in the past, and the only thing it had gotten her was depressed.
“Where’s my girl?” she cooed as always, sifting through the mail, waiting for Boo to greet her. It took longer these days—her sweet dog was nearing fourteen, and she didn’t get around like before. Glancing at the envelope from the gas and electric company, she tore it open and scoffed at the total due, remembering when they’d lived in their smaller house and owed half of what they did now.
When Boo didn’t make an appearance, Jillian left the mail next to her keys and went looking. Boo’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be, and often she didn’t even hear Jillian come home.
“Boo-Bear,” she called as she entered the vaulted-ceilinged living room. Boo’s round bed was tucked next to the couch, and Jillian could make out her white butt, less on the muscular side than in her younger days and more on the bony side. As Jillian approached, she could see Boo’s chest rising and falling rapidly as she took quick, short breaths. She didn’t get up, but her brown eyes rolled slightly in Jillian’s direction.
“Oh, no.” Jillian dropped to her knees and placed a gentle hand on Boo’s side. The dog’s nub of a tail wagged ever so slightly. “Hi, sweetie. How’s my girl? You don’t look like you’re feeling very well.” Jillian kept her voice steady, her tone light. Boo was emotionally in tune with her, always knew when she was in distress, and Jillian didn’t want Boo worrying about her now.
Trying to ward off the dread and panic threatening to wash over her, Jillian found her cell phone in the kitchen and punched in number one to speed dial Angie. When it clicked to voicemail, she made a strangled sound and hung up, then returned to Boo.
Shay had prepared her for this as best she could. Boo was old. She’d been on medication for nearly a year, and at her age, her kidneys would most likely shut down on her at some point. She’d be lethargic, panting, but not in pain. So if certain measures had to be taken, Shay would drive right to the house. Jillian knew that the only way she’d have Boo put down was if she was in pain with no way to get better.
Jillian tried Angie again. A quick glance at the clock told her it was almost five. When she got no answer, she dialed the reception desk and was told she’d missed Angie by about fifteen minutes.
“You should try her cell,” the receptionist suggested helpfully.
“Wow. What a great idea.” Jillian was pretty sure her sarcasm was lost on the girl.
Hoping Angie was on her way home, Jillian went back into the living room. Boo hadn’t moved, her breathing still shallow. Jillian stretched out next to her, lying down so she could look at Boo’s face, into her brown eyes. She’d always felt such a connection to her dog, and this moment was no different. She knew exactly how this was going to go.
“Hey there, beautiful. How’re you doing?” Boo’s pink tongue lolled out the side of her mouth. Her breath was awful. Jillian didn’t care. She kissed her right on her black nose, which was alarmingly dry. Boo’s nub of a tail wagged gently.
“You’re getting ready to leave me, aren’t you, sweetie?” The crack in her voice was beyond Jillian’s control, and her eyes filled. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s okay, baby girl. I know you’re tired. I’d keep you here with me forever if I could, but I know you’ve got someplace you have to be.” Her tears spilled over, rolling freely down her face as she told her dog everything that was in her heart. “You have been the best dog any girl could ever ask for. I want you to know that. You’ve taken such good care of me, and I will love you forever.” She stroked Boo’s head, her velvety ears, her strong neck. Boo kept her gentle eyes on Jillian’s and Jillian held Boo’s gaze, watching closely for any sign that she was in pain. “I’m right here, Boo-Bear. I’m right here.”
From her spot on the floor, she stretched for her cell and dialed Angie’s number again.
I can’t do it right now.
That was the first thought that ran through Angie’s head when she saw Jillian’s number come up on her phone. She hit the button to mute the ringtone and motioned to the bartender as she dropped the phone into the inside breast pocket of her blazer.
Hope peered over enough to see who was calling. “Do you think it’s smart to ignore the phone call of your significant other?”
“No.” Angie took a too-large slug of her beer. “But I’m sure she’s calling to ask where I am or what time I’m getting home, and she’ll have that tone. That attitude that makes me feel like the worst partner in the world. And I just don’t want to deal with it right now.”
They sat on barstools at JAM—the latest incarnation of the local lesbian bar—for the Happy Hour specials. Dollar drafts, two-dollar well drinks from four to seven on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. What did knowing the Happy Hour prices and schedule by heart say about her? Angie ignored the thought.
Hope was gazing around the bar, probably noting the changes since she’d been there last with Angie. Gone was the upper class, polished-wood look. In its place were sharp angles, frustratingly low lighting, and house music. The clientele was decidedly younger, much less business-like.
“Christ,” Hope muttered, “this place changes names more than I change my underwear.”
“The curse of the lesbian bar,” Angie replied. “Nobody can keep one open and make money. When will they learn? Bars are for boys. Lesbians don’t go out much. Though I have to admit I love that I can breathe.”
“And that you won’t go home smelling like an ashtray.”
“Amen to that.” There’d been big controversy and many an uproar from bars and restaurants when New York state had passed a law banning smoking in public places, but Angie loved it. She abhorred the stench of cigarette smoke, hated how it clung to her clothes and hair so that even when she got away from it, she couldn’t get away from it. “I remember ten years ago,” she said. “You couldn’t even walk into a bar for three minutes to look for somebody without having to throw all your clothes in the wash and take a shower.”
Hope nodded her agreement. “I do feel a little sorry for the smokers, though, especially in the winter when they’re all huddled outside around the ashtray like a bunch of outcasts.”
“I don’t. It’s a filthy, dangerous habit, and this is a new era, for god’s sake. They should all know better by now.”
Hope hit her with a look. “Somebody took extra Harsh Pills this morning.”
Angie blinked at her, then laughed. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “I can’t help it. I’m in total bitch mode lately. I hate everybody.”
“Honey, I invented bitch mode.” Hope held up her glass and they clinked.
“I don’t know what’s going on with me.” Angie took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Everything annoys me. Everybody bugs me. I just want to crawl in a hole.”
“Who’s bugging you?”
“Everybody.”
“Not me,” Hope said, her tone teasing.
One corner of Angie’s mouth quirked up. “Not you.”
“Jillian?”
“Especially Jillian.”
“Work?”
“God, yes.”
Propping her elbow on the bar and her chin in her hand, Hope groaned. “I know. Me too.” They each sipped their beers. A few moments of silence went by. “I think a noncompete is coming,” Hope stated.
Angie made a face. “You think Jeremy’s got that up his sleeve too?”
“Guelli was too naïve to ever put one in place. Which was a dumb business move. Plus Keith probably wouldn’t have signed one anyway. He’d want the freedom to take his customers with him if he decided to leave.”
“I heard they don’t stand up in court. I read a couple different articles. You can’t keep somebody from making a living.”
With a half shrug, Hope said, “I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible, but who wants to pay a lawyer to deal with all of it? Most people just sign and hope they never want to change jobs.”
“No way Keith signs. He doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to, and he brings in so much money, I doubt Jeremy could afford to fight with him about it. There’s too much business to lose.”
“Keith is the only one with that kind of clout.”
Angie studied Hope’s face. “Hopie, you bring in a nice chunk of sales. Don’t sell yourself short. So to speak.”
“I know. But I’m expendable. Aside from Keith, most of us are.”
Angie wanted to argue, but knew Hope was right. They were all good salespeople, but Keith was the only one bringing in over seven figures in sales. Any of the rest of them could be let go, their clients divvied up among those that remained. Before she could offer any kind of defense, Hope shocked her.
“I’m thinking I may go before the noncompete is introduced.”
“What?” Angie stared at her. “You’re quitting?”
“I haven’t told a soul, so I’m swearing you to secrecy.”
Angie continued to stare.
“I’m serious, Angie. You can’t say anything.”
“You’re going to leave me?” Angie’s voice was small, almost childlike.
Hope held up a hand, palm out, as if stopping traffic. “Okay, cut that out. That is not something you’re allowed to do. That, I cannot take.”
“I can’t believe it.” Angie ran a hand through her hair. “I mean, I get it. But I can’t believe you’re thinking of leaving.” It was true; she did get it. She totally got it. But the idea of being left at Logo Promo without her closest ally was a tough one to swallow. She drained her beer and signaled for another, making a face at the music, which suddenly seemed way too loud. “God, I hate this house shit,” she muttered.
Hope’s eyes were on her; she could feel the weight of them. Forcing herself to not be selfish, she asked Hope, “Where are you thinking of looking? Will you stay in ad specialties?”
With a grimace, Hope replied, “I’ve been doing this for more than twenty years. I don’t know anything else.” She ordered a refill and told Angie, “Steve over at Star Promotions offered me a job there. Higher commission cut. No noncompete.”
Angie studied her for a moment before saying, “So, you’re not thinking of leaving. You’re leaving.”
Hope nodded, looked away.
“Fuck, Hope. When?”
“I’ll tell Jeremy at the end of the week.”
“He’ll want you to go immediately, you know. No time to collect any ‘company secrets.’” Angie made air quotes. The idea of the ad specialty business having company secrets was ludicrous. Anything anybody wanted to know about their products or clients was readily available on the Internet or in the phone book.
“I know. I’m taking a week off. I’ll start with Star in two weeks.”
“God, this is moving fast.” The bartender set an upside-down shot glass in front of Angie. “What’s this?”
“From the woman at the end of the bar. Dark hair. Leather jacket.” She left to attend to another customer.
“Somebody just bought me a drink. How cool is that?” Angie lifted her glass in salute to the woman and mouthed a thank you.
“How the hell does she know you’re not with me?” Hope asked with annoyance. “That was ballsy. I’m insulted.”
“Apparently, you’re not taking very good care of me,” Angie said, feeling just a bit lighter than before. Despite the facts that the woman was not at all her type, and also, crossing that bold of a line was not something she’d ever be capable of doing, it was nice to have somebody look at her with interest and a twinkle in her eye rather than irritation and disappointment.
“Well, Casanova,” Hope teased. “I suggest you drink that up and get your ass home because your phone’s been lighting up like a Christmas tree the whole time we’ve been here. I can see it through your pocket when you lean forward.”
Angie sighed, realizing with dismay that she did not want to go home.