“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to Charlie and Sadie.” Both of them know about my night with Rafe by now. “They’re not going to judge me, but–”
“They’re both in happy, healthy relationships. I saw Charlie and Lance picking out baby clothes the other day. It was so adorable, it hurt,” Tabitha says with a twinkle in her eye that tells me she’s joking. “I actually got cramps in my ovaries. And then they went into overdrive, and I nearly mounted the mailman. The one with the comb-over and bad teeth.”
“Oh my God, same,” I laugh. “I love how they are together, but when I went with Charlie to pick out paint colors for the nursery, I almost bought a can of baby blue and some wallpaper decorated with tiny elephants.”
“I know, right?” Tabitha squeals, and we both giggle. Already my chest feels lighter. Meeting with T was a good idea. “My uterus is dialing my brain, asking when I’m going to give my mom grandbabies.”
“Doesn’t your mom call and ask you that?”
“No.” Tabitha grimaces. “She asks if she can set me up with some weak-chinned, New York City hedge fund billionaire. And when I refuse, she laments that I quit my modeling career. According to her, the fashion runway afterparties in Milan are the best way to meet a sugar daddy–my term, not hers.” She hooks her arm through mine as we cross the street. “What about your mom? Does she drop hints about who you’re bringing home for the holidays?”
“No. My parents still want me to go to med school and become a doctor like them.”
“What about your business?”
“They don’t believe in my business dreams.” Mémère was the only one. “But I’ve got a chance to make it work.” I tell her about Rafe’s job offer and the high salary he’s paying me.
“Alrighty then,” Tabitha says after a pause. “So what’s the problem?”
“It’s Rafe. He’s an asshole. He’s also…”
“Really, really fine?” my friend says with a devilish grin.
“Tabitha!”
“What? I can’t look? He is.”
“He is.” I bite my lip. “And we…” I can’t say it. I catch her eye and blush.
“Oh, I see.” Tabitha holds out a fist to bump mine. “Get it, girl.”
“It’s not that simple.” The whole story comes rushing out.
“He left?” Tabitha practically shrieks.
“Yes…but…” I find myself wanting to explain more. To defend Rafe. “He told me things…” I hesitate because I don’t want to share Rafe’s business. “He opened up to me, Tabitha. He told me about his childhood, how he took care of his brother, why he joined the military.”
“Then he ran.”
“Yes.”
“Like the scared man-boy that he is.”
“He’s not a man-boy. He’s all man. He’s been through a lot, Tabitha. I don’t want to share deets, but let’s just say he has suffered a lot of trauma. A lot. And getting close to someone probably triggers him.”
“Sounds like he has relationship PTSD.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’m not one to judge, either. But boss/employee relationships…”
“I know. Bad idea.”
“I might have a little trauma of my own, watching my mom seduce her bosses. Her married bosses.”
“Yikes.” We walk another block in silence.
“So what are you going to do?” Tabitha asks.
“I don't know. I like this job.” Do I get another job? Can I get another one as good?
“If you keep the job, what are you going to do about Rafe?”
“I don’t know that either.” Do I forgive Rafe and ignore him? Can I ignore him? “I don't regret sleeping with him.” For a little time, he'd taken my mind completely off the mess of my life.
“You can always catsit,” Tabitha swings her long, straight hair out of her face. “That's what I do when funds get low.”
“No thanks, I’ll leave that to you.” Tabitha has a carefree spirit, and I’ve never known her to hold a traditional job. She pays her bills through a combo of selling her craft art and cat sitting and dresses in the groovy vintage fashions she finds at estate sales and fixes up.
This afternoon she’s in bell bottom jeans and a crop top under her vintage coat, and her outfit manages to be fashion forward in the most retro way possible. Tabitha always has good timing. If she wanted she could sell her clothing creations online and build a big business, but when I mentioned it to her years ago she wrinkled her nose and told me all that work didn’t sound like a good time.
“Aren’t you cold? I’m freezing.” I rub my hands together.
“Not really.” She shrugs. Her coat’s hanging open. “I’m hot blooded.” She digs in her oversized macrame bag and pulls out a scarf. “Here. Early Christmas present. I knitted it myself.”
“Thank you.” The scarf is a classic cappuccino color that will match everything I own. Tabitha loops it over my head, and it settles around my neck like a cloud. “My God, is this cashmere?” I finger the soft fringe.