I hold the frozen high heel over the sink, sawing at the stain with a knife, my cell phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. "It's not working, Mom," I say, dropping the knife in a huff.
"You put it in the freezer right away?"
"Yes!" I growl, shoving the shoe back in next to the ice. In my defense, all I can think about is Frank's chronicle punctuality and that the office opened an hour ago.
He should've read my article by now.
And since I haven't heard from him it means it's time for plan B—consign the designer pumps.
"Bring it to Berkovitz's Dry-cleaners," Mom says. "They're old friends. I'll give them a call and tell them you're coming."
"Thanks, this has been a crazy few days."
She lets out a loud exhale.
"Mom?"
"Your father sent you a postcard."
Oh? That's not good.
"I guess he doesn't know your new address so he just mailed it here."
I grab the left over bag of Lay's Wavy potato chips from the cupboard and wander over to the couch, sitting cross-legged and picking at a knot on my pink fur booties. "Did you read it?" I ask.
She lets out a breathy laugh. "Of course I read it." I can tell by her tone that she's rolling her eyes. "He's in Brazil with Mandy."
"Mandy? Haven't heard of that one." The words escape before I realize their weight. Mom doesn't need to be reminded that he cashed in his pension, left her with a pile of debt, and is travelling the world with an assortment of women. "Sorry, I—"
"It's fine. I'm fine," she says.
"Okay." I twirl my fingers, trying to think of something to change the subject. "Hey, how's the shop?" It's been so long since I've been home, or at the family cleaners. I wonder if Mom got the motor on the clothing rack fixed or if she's still spinning it by hand.
"It's a lot of work for one person," she says, "especially someone trained in astronomy. But I'm managing."
Managing—that's such a reclusive thing to say. "Are you getting out with friends, Mom? Taking advantage of being young and single with an empty nest?" And now I sound like Chelsea.
"Ha! I passed young when my daughter got engaged." She coughs realizing she's breached the forbidden subject. "Besides I got another cat, a kitten this time, Orion's his name. Those little monsters need a lot of attention."
"Another one! How many is it now, three?" I open the chip bag and pop one in my mouth—I missed breakfast and it's almost lunch, still I could get used to eating these everyday for a brunch snack.
"Five." She clears her throat. "But who's counting."
I smile, and my eyes fill with tears, thinking about my beautiful mother and how alone she must feel. "I miss you, Mom."
"I miss you too, sweetheart."
The phone beeps letting me know I have another call. "Someone's on the other line. Talk later?"
"Sounds good sweetie, bye."
I hang up to see Chelsea's face on my screen. My heart sinks a little. I was hoping it was Frank.
"Hey Chels."
"So. About last night."
Right, last night. I'd almost forgotten about her scheming to get Brooks and me back together. I've been too busy stressing about the article.
"You can't just spring an ex on a girl like that."
"I know, I'm sorry." I can tell by the waver in her voice that she means it. "I just hate seeing you like this. You haven't been happy since you moved to New York."
"I'm happy. I—" I can't think of anything to prove I'm happy, "besides, I never needed a man for that."
"It wasn't just any old man, Ava. It's the man, Brooks."
My father was the man once to my mother too. She gave up her university research job for him. I'm not prepared to give up my dream to work for the Woods family cleaners.
"I know," I sigh into the phone, "listen Chels, I can't see him. It's too hard and I'm not ready. I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm not sad, I'm just dedicated to my job right now." I hope I still have a job. "Think of my work as my boyfriend."
"You're the only girl who can say that sentence and mean it."
I chuckle. "I do mean it. Writing is my dream job—"
"How fun is it to cuddle that dream in bed at night?"
"In order to cuddle you need to sleep. I don't sleep, I write, remember?"
"You also don't see your BFF enough."
"Oh, do I have one of those? And here I thought I had an apartment crashing, hot boy flaunting, dream crusher of a friend."
"Aha!" she shouts. "So you admit he was hot!"
I laugh, which prompts her to continue.
"That hair right? It suits him."
"Yeah, it does. He looked good." My cheeks heat at the thought.
"Cuddle good?"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Don't go!"
"If you promise you'll drop operation Brooks and Ava."
"Brava is what we call you two in the singles group thread."
"I hope you're joking." I rub my forehead to keep the frown lines from setting in.
"I would never joke about singles group. Speaking of, everyone's talking about that dip. They want to know the recipe. Do you still have it?"
"Yes, I have it. You guys aren't actually discussing my dating life on your thread, are you?"
"Could you email it to me, I'd like to share it with the group."
She's avoiding the question.
"Chels! I need you to respect that I don't want to see him again." I do want to see him, that's the problem. I need to keep my focus now more than ever. "Promise me, you'll drop this. That you will all drop this."
"Fine," she huffs.
"Fine what?"
"I promise to drop it. But you should know I think you're making a big mistake."
"Maybe so, but it's my mistake to make."
The phone beeps again and I glance at the screen. It's the number for MAGi. "Chels, it's Frank. I have to take this."
"OMG, is it about the article? What does he want? I'll hold," she says.
I'm too nervous to argue her. "Okay, just a sec." I switch lines and take a deep breath. "Good morning, Frank—"
"Why aren't you at the office it's almost lunch?"
"Oh? I, uh," I glance down at my pajamas, I really should get dressed soon, "I have the evening shift today. I—oh god, you don't think it's good."
"I won't lie to you, Ava. The article isn't good."
Tears flood my eyes, but I hold them back and take a breath, leaning into the armrest for support, and gripping the bag of Lay's Wavy chips so tight my knuckles blanch. "What does this mean for me?" I stare at my pink boots, waiting to hear the words that will turn my life upside-down.
He clears his throat. "Probably a promotion, but I want to make sure you can keep this momentum—"
"A-a promotion?" I blink and try to remember back over the conversation. I must be missing something. If this is a joke, it's a sick and twisted one.
"The article scored all fives with the focus group," he continues. "The readers are going to love it!"
"But—you said it wasn't good."
He chuckles. "It's great Ava, this is some of your best work."
"I—I—" I hug my knees to keep from shaking.
"Listen, I talked to the higher-ups and they liked your piece enough to suggest a feature series on easy party recipes that you can whip up with ingredients you have on-hand. They want to call it, Delicious Dilemmas."
"Feature?" My own feature. And not just one article, a whole series!
"I need the next write-up first thing tomorrow," he continues.
"Tomorrow?" The room starts to spin, I'm certain I'm going to throw up. I have to find a recipe, cook it, stage a shoot, and write the article in one day—an impossible deadline.
"Hand in another like this, and I can get you the cover."
"The...cover!" I fall back into my pillows. This isn't real life.
"Oh and Ava?"
"Yes?" I manage.
"There was a guy in some of the photos that caught the attention of the focus group. Make sure there's more of him in the next few articles. There's talk of making him the cover model."
"Him?" I gulp, thinking back to all the guys from Chelsea's singles group. There were three, and two of them I can't remember. The one I can remember is the last one I want it to be.
"I'm emailing his picture to you now."
I stumble off the couch and rush to my room, hitting the spacebar like a maniac to wake up my screen. I click on my notifications, opening the email from Frank. The picture slowly loads from the bottom up. When it gets to the guy's chest, I realize my worst fear is in front of me. I'd know the way that shirt pulls across those broad shoulders anywhere. It's Brooks, and I need him for my job.
The Friends theme song plays from the other room. In my haste I must've hung up on Chelsea. I go to my phone and collapse back into the sofa as I answer. "Sorry Chels."
"So?" she says, drawing out the vowel.
"He loved it." I sigh.
"Hm." She clicks her lips. "Why do you sound petrified? I thought that's what you were hoping for."
"He...he wanted—"
"What? What does he want?"
"Brooks," I rush.
"Your editor wants Brooks to write the article? That's weird."
"No, he wants Brooks in the pictures with the food."
"Ah, that makes more sense, he's pretty to look at."
"Chels, you aren't helping. What do I do?"
"I guess you call Brooks and invite him over for food."
"I can't do that!"
"You're so dramatic." She laughs. "Do you have another choice?"
"No," I sigh, popping another chip in my mouth, and talking through my mouthful. "This is so overwhelming. How will I have time to find a recipe, go grocery shopping, cook, plan the shoot, and write the article? I can't even focus now that I know I'll see Brooks again."
"Well, I can't help you with Brooks, but I can help you with the food."
I sit up. "What do you mean?"
"One of the girls on the singles thread posted a recipe that was inspired by the Lay's Wavy potato chips last night—deep fried dill pickles."
"Fried pickles? That's actually pretty good." I'm starting to get excited.
"She posted some pics and they look delicious. I remember you having pickles in your fridge. Do you still have chips?"
"Yep. About half a bag." I take another one out and pop it in my mouth. "Well almost half."
"Awesome," she says. "You also need peanut oil, flour, garlic pepper, cayenne pepper, and ranch dressing."
I sit up straighter, thinking over the ingredients. "I have everything but cayenne pepper."
"I can bring some over. You focus on the article and finding a location to shoot."
"Chelsea, I could kiss you!"
"Save those for your boyfriend."
"You promised—"
"Your work boyfriend," she says monotone.
I smile and then my smile drops. "What do I do about the other one?" I whisper. "I don't even have his number."
"Oh my beautiful independent friend. What would you do without me?"
I tuck my knees into my stomach and smile. "Have more privacy?"
"For your sake I'll pretend you didn't say that. And because of my love for you I'll call everyone from last night and see if they can meet at your place again tonight."
"Everyone?"
"Yes, him too."
"Thanks Chels, I really do appreciate this." And I mean it, if it wasn't for her, I'd have some article on cooked chicken and a two-week severance package to my name. Now I have a potential front cover and a featured series. It's everything I've been working for, and I owe it to Chelsea. "You're the best friend a girl could—"
"I just shuddered. It's weird you being all sappy. Listen, I'll be over after work and I'll keep you posted on the group."
"Thanks," I say, hanging up.
I wander back to my computer to start the article, and after a few minutes of typing ideas an email notification pops up. I open it to find a message from Chels.
"A,
Left a note for the group, I'll let you know what they say. Also talked to Brooks. He sounded more surprised about it than you did. But he's in. Here's the recipe for date number two:
Ingredients:
– 1 cup LAY'S® Wavy Ranch Potato Chips, crushed
– peanut oil
– 3/4 cup all-purpose flour
– 1/2 teaspoon cayenne pepper
– 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
– 2 cups sliced dill pickles
– ranch dressing
Instructions:
1. Heat 3-4 cups peanut oil in a large pot over medium heat until a thermometer registers 375 degrees F.
2. In a large bowl, combine flour, cayenne pepper, garlic powder and crushed chips.
3. Pat the pickles dry. Toss the pickles in the flour mixture to coat.
4. Fry until golden brown, 1-2 minutes. Serve with ranch dressing.
5. Give your BFF endless foot rubs for how awesome she is.
Xo-C"
Something about date number two sticks with me. Chelsea might have sparked an idea for the article. I open my word doc and start writing:
The Delicious Dilemma of a Second Date: You know when you meet someone cute at a party and you can't stop thinking about them? Then they call and make plans to meet for your first real date. You don't want to come across as desperate, but you do want to impress them. So what do you make? Enter deep fried pickles battered in Lay's Wavy potato chips. It's playful, tasty and easy to eat anywhere. My suggestion; curl up on a couch and watch a movie. If you're lucky, your hands will touch when you reach for the next bite, or a spot of dressing will stick on the corner of your lips and they'll use their fingertips to wipe it away...
My buzzer rings. I glance at the clock. It hasn't even been an hour since I talked to Chelsea. I hop up from the computer and skip to the door, pulling my housecoat closer to my body. "Hey Chels, come on up," I say, pushing the button to open the front door.
While I'm waiting for her, I grab a glass of water and lean against the counter. There's a light rap, and the door slowly pushes open. Chelsea never knocks. I'm about to chuck my water at the intruder until I see it's Brooks.
"You!" I snap, jumping behind the counter to hide my pajamas.
"Good morning to you too," he says with a grin. He glances down my body, his smile widening at my boots.
"I thought you were Chelsea, you scared me."
He grabs my apron off the hanger and puts it on. "She said you needed help, so here I am to help."
I try to form a reply, but my mouth just hangs open.
"I'll cook, you write. I can take some shots of the food too if it helps." He holds up the camera bag slung over his shoulder.
I cross my arms to resist the urge to hug him.
"I'll just go print the recipe then." I say, pointing over my shoulder to my room and taking stuttered steps back. I can't shake the feeling of his presence, pulling at my core, begging me to return to him. He doesn't owe me anything, and after last night I figured he'd never talk to me again. But here he is, helping me do the one thing that drove our relationship apart...work.
Now that I think of it, it seems rather odd.
I stop in place and turn. "Why are you being so helpful?"
He looks up from wiping off the counter, and smiles. "You seriously don't know?"
I frown in question.
"How do I say this?" He rubs his wet hands on his shirt then runs his fingers through his hair. "Ava, I came back for you."
"What?" I blurt, wrapping my arms around my stomach to hold my emotions in.
"We have something special, and our time apart made me realize that I'm not done fighting for us yet."
"Oh."
He walks around the counter, and all I can focus on is the way his hair hangs in front of his eyes. He stops, just inches away. I tighten my grip around my stomach as his fingers reach out and slide a stray curl behind my ear.
Then he says, "And if that means being Mr. Ava Woods until you see how perfect we are together, then that's what I'll be."
And suddenly I find myself faced with my own delicious dilemma...