THE ONLY THING saving me from curling in a ball and crying is the promise of meeting up with my friends. We call our little group Foof…Fresh out of fucks. It’s a sort of ridiculous name for a bad-ass group of entrepreneurs, engineers and queens of the Steel City.
I feel so at ease when I’m with them, like I really don’t have to pretend or put on a fake smile or any of that. I can actually free my fucks with these gals…and I need that, because everyone else claws at me, demanding attention I can’t spare and hurling mean words at me if I say as much.
As often as we can, Foof huddles up in the event room of our friend Esther’s bar, Bridges and Bitters, and these meetings are my recharge. Esther bought an old building in Lawrenceville and transformed it into the most amazing spot. She went for a speakeasy feel, with reclaimed wooden everything and these cozy settees. But honestly, we could meet on a milk crate by the river and I’d still walk away energized from these women.
A few days later, and I’m still reeling after I chased off Mr. Grumpy Teacher from our meeting and stumbled through the rest of my interview with the guy from Forbes. I definitely appreciate Esther’s vintage velvet furniture as I collapse in a heap.
“That bad?” She arches a dark brow at me as she moves some furniture around the room to get ready for the rest of Foof to arrive.
I drape a wrist across my forehead. “If I had a corset on, I’d be asking you to slice the laces.” She pats me on the shoulder and heads back up front to mix a batch of cocktails for us. My friends shuffle in, some of them excited about their day and others looking like they want to join me tying one on.
Logan links arms with her sisters-in-law as they make their way in. As they all chat about life, I sit up and rest my elbows on my lap, propping my forehead against my palms. “I wish I could have a do-over,” I mutter.
“Tell me about it.” Celeste Sheffield, actual grandma and the oldest member of Foof, sits next to me, patiently waiting for me to spill my guts.
I take a deep breath, thinking back over the wretched day, from the annoying call from my dad to my magazine interview not going well. I bite my lip, trying to decide the worst part of it all. “I told a middle school science teacher I didn’t think young students would gain much from touring Vinea,” I tell her. “So now this guy thinks I think his students are too stupid, because of poverty.” Celeste pats my leg in a motherly sort of way I really appreciate.
“I was just so overwhelmed with the Forbes reporter there and thinking about how much work it’ll be to prepare for going public. Who has time to prep for a bunch of tween visitors? But I guess what I said came out wrong and AJ took offense.”
Celeste swirls around the ice in her drink and looks at me. “What if you called and explained? Said you realized your mistake? You could extend your invitation to the students after all.”
I cringe. “Ugh. Apologies are the worst, though. Like, now this guy is going to know I say dumb things when I go off book.” Men thinking I’m stupid is a big, fat trigger for me after living with the Colonel. He’s so domineering and immersed in a hyper-macho military world. Everything has to be precise with him. Language, thought processes, all of it. “Can I make Logan call?”
Logan laughs and shakes her head, wagging a finger at me. “I just run the numbers, boss. You’re the one with your name on the building.”
It’s true. My name is on the damn building. So why do I feel like such an imposter all the time? I’ve spent my entire life trying to fill someone else’s shoes…I got thrust into that role after my mother died. I didn’t mean to start a company in my free time from my dorm room, but I did. Now, ten years along the way, I’m on the cusp of going public with my business-baby and I can’t drum up the ovary power to call someone and apologize?
“Gah. Fine. I know, I know. I’ll call him and grovel.”
“That’s the winning spirit!” Esther winks as she slides me a glass of something magical.
“What’s this yummy drink?” I stir the liquid with the sprig of rosemary she stuck in the glass. Esther uses the Foof meetings to test out her new concoctions before adding them to her cocktail menu each month.
“I think I’ll call this one Atonement.” She waggles her eyebrows as she takes a sip. “It’s tequila reposado, Amaro, lime, pineapple and some simple syrup.”
“I only know what half of those mean,” I tell her. “But it’s damn good.”
“Repent and find out,” she tells me and shrugs. “Since when do you care what some man thinks of you?”
I always care. I bite my lip and look around the room. I can’t let any of these women know how terrified I am of disapproval, of failure. No, that won’t do at all. Gotta keep faking it. I’m a go-getter, damn it.
“Okay, okay, I’ll call him. Sheesh.” I take another sip of the drink, which is not quite a margarita, but is tart and sweet and smooth all the same. It tastes classy. Sexy. I stand up off the settee and wander into the hall. The quiet music Esther has playing in the bar creates a nice ambiance. It’s loud enough that you can hear it, but still have a conversation with someone.
Like, say, a smoldering, grouchy science teacher I insulted earlier today…
I roll my eyes at myself for being nervous to call him and pull out my phone. Shane is a terrific manager of community relations, and I’m sure they sent me notes on everyone who was at Vinea today. Sure enough, there’s a contact list in my inbox. They even made it clickable, so I just have to tap the name AJ Trachtenberg and the phone starts dialing.
It rings. And rings again. And rings some more. I take a sip of my Atonement. God, Esther really makes a damn good drink. Finally, the voicemail picks up and a low voice seems to growl at me. “This is AJ. Leave a message. I’m unlikely to respond.”
I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it, hanging up before I can reconsider.
Was his voice that sexy earlier today? Or am I just drunk on Atonement? Who says that on their voicemail message?
I toss back the rest of my drink and set my glass on the bar. Gah. I have to call him again. But…then I get to hear his voice again… Should I waste my time leaving him a message if he doesn’t pick up? Is this effort wasted? I tap redial and it rings ten more times. Ten freaking times before I hear the smooth baritone. The phone beeps at me, and I stammer into it. “Hi. Hello, Mr. Trachtenberg. This is Samantha Vine from Vinea. I was hoping I could talk to you about what we discussed earlier today. About your students. I mean, I would love to welcome your students to Vinea….You caught me a bit off guard earlier…”
I realize I haven’t yet actually apologized, but can’t decide if that’s something I should even do over voicemail when he’s unlikely to respond. I sigh. “Anyway, I’d appreciate a call back so we could talk about this further.”
I hang up and slap myself in the forehead, groaning, before I walk back into the room full of my friends.