On Saturday afternoon, after depositing Herbert at the wildlife rescue, I arrive at Picnic for Paws wearing a blue gingham sundress that’s too heavy for the ninety-degree weather. It’s a fact I don’t realize until sweat has pooled in my armpits, leaving me with two highly visible stains, and I tug at the layered cotton as I scan the sprawling backyard belonging to zoo donors Frank and Alice Forrester. The Forresters, owners of central Ohio’s largest luxury-home-goods empire, have hosted Picnic for Paws for a decade, and they have the event down to a science. To my left, a throng of people exit the catering line, their plates loaded with burgers and savory baked beans. Across the lawn, families with young children spread picnic blankets on the grass in front of a portable stage, sipping rosé and lemonade from plastic cups as a cover band belts out a folk rendition of “Baby Shark.”
I take a deep breath and adjust my name tag, on which I scribbled HI, I’M LUCY. ASK ME ABOUT GORILLAS! But since my handwriting sucks and I ran out of room toward the end, it looks more like HI, I’M LACY. ASK ME ABOUT GIRLS! Even though the whole point of keepers attending fundraisers is to chat up donors and charm them into writing the zoo fat checks, I’d rather listen to six straight hours of “Baby Shark” than field any questions. Because, unlike my fellow keepers, adorably button-nosed Lottie and smooth-talking Jack—who once got a Columbus Blue Jackets player to donate five grand to an exhibit redesign project after three minutes of small talk in a Starbucks line—I’m a horrible schmoozer. At my last fundraiser, a 5K for cheetah conservation, I went into excessive detail about bonobo mating habits when a runner asked a simple question about the primate reproductive cycle.
“Bonobos engage in sexual activity like you wouldn’t believe,” I’d rattled off to her while poor Phil died slowly in the background. “Group conflict? They have sex. Excitement about a new feeding area? Sex. Sex, sex, sex. And in virtually every partner combination you can imagine!”
The runner, her face beet red when I’d finished explaining how long bonobo sexual relations typically last (about twenty seconds, which is pretty much on par with my college boyfriend Roger’s performance), did not ask further questions. Nor did she donate a single dollar to Ape House.
The memory makes me want to chuck my name tag into the nearest bush, but before I give in to the temptation, I spot Phil waving at me from the face-painting station. He’s sporting a Hawaiian shirt with pineapples so neon yellow they make my eyes hurt, and his young daughter bounces on her toes beside him, a Popsicle in one hand and a stuffed tiger in the other.
Shit. I want him to see me mingling with donors, not standing around like an antisocial party pooper.
“Ultrasound machine,” Phil mouths, giving me an encouraging nod. He motions to the rows of blankets and picnic tables, then rubs his fingers together in a show-me-the-money gesture.
I wave back and return his nod. If we meet this year’s funding goal, we’ll be able to purchase a new cardiac ultrasound machine for Ape House. And if I solicit enough donations to help, Phil might reward me with my desired promotion. I wipe my palms on the folds of my dress and search for an unsuspecting donor I can corner. I might lack Jack’s charisma or Lottie’s disarming sweetness, but I can do this. I can fundraise without scarring anybody with bonobo sex descriptions.
I have to.
Wishing I was at Ape House with the gorillas instead of surrounded by middle-aged rich guys in Ray-Bans and Sperrys, I spot one of those very guys approaching.
“Hi!” I greet the man brightly, trying to channel Jack’s easygoing manner. “Do you have a moment to hear how your donation to the zoo can support gorilla heart health?”
My words come out in a rushed, awkward tangle, but the guy thrusts his hands into his pockets and smiles at me anyway. Maybe he’ll be charmed by my nervousness. Maybe he’s a Forrester heir, a prince to the throne of Columbus home goods, and he’ll be so impressed by my dedication to my work that he’ll whip out his checkbook and make a generous donation.
“Um, actually,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses as he gives me a bashful smile, “can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“I think that way,” I say, pointing. “But if you can spare a moment, the information I want to share with you will only take a—”
“I, like, really need the bathroom,” Sperry Sunglassface interrupts, his easy smile fading fast. “Too many IPAs, you know?”
Dammit. I hope this guy and his stupid boat shoes fall straight into a Porta-Potty. Sighing, I motion farther down the lawn. “Just past the popcorn bar.”
He flashes me a relieved grin before he trots off. “Thanks, Lacy.”
Screaming internally, I put on my most determined smile and stroll past the ice cream stand, trying to engage picnic goers in conversation. I’m unsuccessful except with a petite woman in aquamarine yoga pants, who listens for ten seconds before turning the tables and trying to recruit me for her multilevel marketing scheme.
“You seem to have a real girl-boss attitude,” she says, slipping her glossy business card into my hand. “I’d love for you to join my team.”
When Phil gives me a thumbs-up from across the lawn, I wave the card at him in celebration. Poor guy probably thinks I netted a hefty fundraising promise, and I’m not about to rain on his parade. Finally, after a dozen more people reject my awkward attempts to talk about gorillas, I spot Elle and her husband Nadeem strolling past the children’s bounce house. Elle, wearing a violet dress with polka dots and gladiator sandals, looks like she stepped right off a Pinterest board. Nadeem, in a white button-down and lavender chinos, is no slouch, either.
I resist the urge to break into a sprint as I hurry toward them, relief flooding me.
“Hi, Lacy,” Nadeem greets me. “Why should I ask you about girls?”
I groan and cover my name tag with my palm. “Don’t start.”
“Holy crap, Luce,” Elle says, doing a double take of my outfit. “You didn’t even try to wear your work clothes!” Her tone holds the same amazement a proud parent would use when describing their child’s first steps, and a warm blush creeps over my cheeks.
“Did you really doubt me that much?”
“No,” she replies, her tone too firm to be sincere. “Of course not.”
“Yes,” Nadeem confesses. “She packed an extra outfit in case you showed up in khaki.”
I can’t blame her. The gala for the giraffe blood bank wasn’t the only event I showed up to with dirt on my boots and hay in my hair.
Before I can respond, I’m engulfed by a pair of arms from behind, and I turn around to find my other best friend Sam wrapping me in a hug.
“Lucy in a dress,” she marvels, releasing me from the embrace. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Sam, wearing a bow knot hat and a coral romper that complements her caramel skin, looks like she just stopped by on her way to the Kentucky Derby. With her enviable cheekbones, expert smoky eye, and silky dark hair that ends at her waist, she’s the kind of flawless pretty that I can only dream of achieving.
I glance from Sam to Elle to Nadeem, suddenly feeling like a wilted dandelion in a garden of roses. “How do you guys always look like you’re straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad?”
Nadeem grins and tilts his head toward Elle. “It’s all her. Before we started dating, I owned exactly three pairs of pants. Two of them were stained jeans. Besides, I don’t think there are a ton of Indian guys in Ralph Lauren ads.”
He lifts Elle’s hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to it. When they first started dating, I never guessed that it would lead to marriage. Civil engineer Nadeem, with his lean frame and quiet steadiness, was so different from the guys Elle usually dated—fast-talking, peacoat-wearing consultant types who used a lot of hair mousse and were never clear about what they consulted—that I thought it might be just a fling. But when Elle got bit by an ornery goat during a shift at the petting zoo, Nadeem rushed to meet us at the ER like she was getting open-heart surgery instead of a few minor stitches.
That’s how I knew he was the real deal. And now, six years later, their little family of two is about to become three.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Elle.
She places a hand on her belly. “Okay, I guess. But if we get any closer to the catering tent, I might lose my breakfast. Nobody warns you that morning sickness lasts all day.”
Ugh. I add food aversion to my list of reasons for staying childfree.
“Speaking of the catering tent,” Sam says, adjusting the brim of her hat to block out the sun, “I saw you making the rounds with donors over there, Luce. How was it? Did you sweet-talk anybody into pledging a million dollars?”
I roll my eyes. Sam, the zoo’s assistant director of communications, could probably sweet-talk the teeth off a great white shark.
“Please. I gave more directions to the bathroom than information about gorillas.” I relay my failed attempts at inspiring donations, including my painful interaction with the woman who tried to rope me into her MLM.
Sam laughs. “Just promise to name a baby gorilla after anybody who donates enough money. That always works. Why do you think the zoo has a koala named Dilbert Dort?”
“Dilbert Dort?” Nadeem repeats, his mouth dropping open. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“I’d name a gorilla after Voldemort if it got me the senior keeper job,” I say with a shrug. “Hell, I’d rename myself Dilbert Death-Eater Dort if it meant I got that promotion.”
Sam nudges me with her elbow. “You’re a badass keeper, Luce. I don’t think you need to change your name to impress Phil.”
Sam’s one of the most impressive people I know, so her compliment means a lot. At thirty, she’s one of the youngest leaders in the communications department, and during her off hours, she runs a blog that features workplace tips and career advice for professionally minded women. We’ve been friends since I asked her for a tampon two years ago in one of the employee restrooms, and not a day goes by that I’m not grateful to my mistimed period for bringing us together.
“It’s not your fault that public speaking makes you nervous,” Elle adds. “Besides, you’ve gotten way better. Remember your first Critter Chat? You fainted before you even introduced the gorillas.”
“I hit my head on the Rock statue,” I recall, cringing. “I was lucky I didn’t need stitches.”
“Well, forget the public speaking and the fundraising and everything that stresses you out,” Sam says. “Because next week, when On the Wild Side starts production, you’ll have a brand-new opportunity to shine.”
Sam and the rest of the communications department played a huge role in getting our zoo selected for the show, and I can hear the excitement in her voice.
But once she meets the scowly Kai Bridges, she’ll lose that enthusiasm real quick. The thought of him makes my blood boil all over again, and I pat my purse to ensure my copy of Majesty on the Mountain is tucked inside. Once Phil finishes guiding his daughter through the picnic festivities, I’m going to show him the hard evidence proving that I’m right and Kai was wrong.
“The Wild Side crew stopped by the zoo on Thursday,” Sam continues, waving away a bee. “I met some of the camera guys and Kai Bridges’s co-producer. I heard that Kai stopped in, too, but I was stuck on a call with the mayor’s office. Selena from Marketing took him on a golf cart tour of the grounds, and she said she was so nervous that she almost crashed into the sea lion pool.”
“I wish he’d crashed into the tiger habitat,” I grumble.
Sam’s eyes widen, and I realize I haven’t told my friends about my tense conversation with Kai. I relay the entire interaction: his gruff, unpleasant attitude; how he insulted the name of the Critter Chat; and his disrespectful, offensive, and totally incorrect insistence that I was wrong about Dr. Kimber’s nickname.
“The worst part is, he made me look like an idiot in front of Phil,” I continue. “But look, I have proof that I’m right.”
I whip my copy of Dr. Kimber’s book out of my purse so aggressively that Nadeem steps back to avoid getting smacked in the face.
“I’m sure it was just a miscommunication,” Elle says. “According to Kai’s Instagram, he was in Nova Scotia last week supporting a research project on pilot whales. He was probably just jet-lagged and exhausted when he met you, Luce. That doesn’t excuse rudeness, but can a guy who’s that devoted to whales really be so terrible?”
Nadeem glances sideways at her. “You follow him on Instagram? You don’t even follow me.”
“You have three posts, honey,” Elle says with a shrug. “Besides, I care very deeply about pilot whales.”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Sam tells Nadeem. “Kai has his shirt off in half his posts, not that I’m complaining. Did you guys see his reel about rescuing that stray puppy in Texas?”
“How could I miss it?” Elle asks. “The puppy was so tiny, and Kai had her all curled up against his chest—”
“Okay, I’m with Lucy here,” Nadeem says, frowning at the dreamy look on Elle’s face. “He sounds like a major douche.”
At least someone’s on my side. I’m not surprised by Elle’s inclination to give Kai the benefit of the doubt, because she’s the sweetest person I know. The harshest criticism I’ve ever heard her give was to the universally panned Emoji Movie, which she scathingly described as “not the best thing I’ve ever seen.”
But I’m not her, and I don’t owe anyone a second chance.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe Kai’s not really the friendly, cheery, ‘Wowza!’-shouting guy he plays on TV. I think we should consider that he might be a run-of-the-mill asshole who built his career off riding on his mother’s coattails.”
“Lucy,” Elle chides, but I’m not finished.
“Maybe instead of the chummy stone-cold fox he pretends to be, he’s just a C-list celebrity with a bad attitude and lazy grooming habits. Honestly, when I met him yesterday, his beard looked a little bit like Tom Hanks’s in Cast Away. After Tom’s cargo plane crashes into the Pacific.”
“Luce, seriously,” Elle interjects, but I wave her off. We can’t all be adorable, polka-dotted-dress-wearing versions of Mother Teresa.
“All I’m saying,” I continue, drumming my fingers against the book’s spine, “is that we shouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be nothing but an overhyped, overpaid—”
“Luce,” Nadeem says with an edge to his voice.
I narrow my eyes at him. I thought we were on the same team here. Traitor.
“—egotistical moron,” I finish, my insult so cutting that Elle’s cheeks turn a furious shade of red.
“Lucy,” Sam hisses, looking at me like she’s about to smack me upside the head with her Sprite can. “Stop talking.”
I stop talking. Sam doesn’t sugarcoat anything. If she thinks my words are too cruel, then I’ve gone too far.
“Sorry,” I offer, the hardness evaporating from my tone. “He just really pissed me off.”
“It’s not . . . you don’t . . .” Sam gives me a mournful look, and I wonder if she’s just realized that the gingham pattern of my dress makes me look like a walking picnic table.
Elle clears her throat, and Sam stares at her Sprite like the label holds the solution to world peace.
“What is it?” I start to ask, but I stop after what, because Elle’s cheeks are practically scarlet, and Nadeem grimaces like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off.
“Shit,” I whisper, squeezing Majesty on the Mountain to my chest. I no longer need an answer to my question, because the sheer mortification on my friends’ faces tells me everything I need to know.
Kai Bridges, the overhyped, overpaid, egotistical moron, is standing right behind me.