Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [59]
“Well, I’m out of this blowhole,” Josie sighs, and looks at her watch. It’s impossible not to detect her bitterness.
“Jo,” I start but am then unsure what else to say. Because I know that in the future, in the real future, she’s happily content with Art, and that whatever life choices she made, whatever hard choices she made, she seems satisfied with them. And I also now know that if I hadn’t come back, we never would have landed this print campaign, and she never would have been thrust so thoroughly back into her fantasy life with Bart. He never would have swirled around her head, like an escape hatch from her mundane doldrums, from the San Jose Opera, from a husband who now seemed to be a second-best choice.
Before I can speak, however, Bart walks in the studio, with the same nervous glance that Josie had cast about when she arrived earlier. The two lock eyes, and Josie erupts into a near-lunatic grin and then shuffles over to greet him with a peck on the cheek.
I watch her for a moment, then turn back to Allie, who has mesmerized both the crew and the photographer with her flawless charisma. She catches me staring and winks, then blows me an air kiss. I reach up to grab it, and she squeals in delight. Long after she’s returned to posing, I can still feel the kiss on my palm, like a seared scar that, try as I might, just won’t seem to fade.
MEGAN MEETS US at Serendipity for dinner.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she says, when I explained our change of plans. “It gives me good practice.”
“News to report?” I asked on the phone. I tried to remember when Meg announced that she was pregnant for the second time, but nothing jiggers in my brain.
“I can’t test for a few more days,” she responded, with either hope or nervousness: In both of our lives, the two are knotted so closely, they’re nearly indistinguishable.
The restaurant is a throwback to a tea shop from my grandmother’s era. Vivid blue and red and yellow and purple Tiffany lamps hang from the ceiling like stained-glass windows, elegant wire-backed chairs cushioned with blooming pastel fabrics are tucked under marble-topped tables. The unmistakable scent of chocolate envelops the space, and around us, families clutter booths, toddlers sitting on top of their older siblings, moms leaning into fathers and laughing in their ears. This sort of laughter crops up when you’re ensconced in something so quaint, so innocent, that it’s easy to forget that outside the glass doors, another world exists entirely.
“Can I order a hot chocolate for dinner?” Allie asks. Serendipity is famous, after all, for their hulking sundaes and their frozen hot chocolate.
“Absolutely not,” I tut. “Healthy dinner, then dessert after.” I grab a napkin and dip it into my ice water, then rub down her hands.
“Come on,” she whines. “Please?”
“Not even with a cherry on top.” I glance at the kids’ menu and twinges of the old me emerge; I’m more than a little horrified at the offerings: fried chicken fingers, (undoubtedly processed) hot dogs, pasta and butter. I’d never allow this crap past Katie’s lips. Never!
Megan nudges me in the booth. “What’s the big deal? Let her have the frozen hot chocolate for dinner.”
“Yesssssssssssssssss!” Allie shrieks. “Lemme, lemme, lemme, lemme!”
“No,” I say firmly. “Dinner first. Sorry, Al.”
“Aw, come on, Jill. She’s celebrating her first big shoot. She’s a near star!” Megan grins at Allie who is now standing opposite us, perched on the sparkly red leather cushion, as if she’s about to conquer the world. Or pounce on us like waiting prey. Whichever comes first.
“Uh-uh,” I say. “Nutritionally, it’s important that she get a mix of protein and fiber at dinner. It helps her sleep at night and ensures a deeper REM.”
Megan rotates her head to cast a suspicious sidelong stare. “And you know this how?”
“Parenting magazine.” I shrug.
“And you’re reading this why?” Megan says slowly.
It’s only then that I realize I have absolutely no excuse for amassing the knowledge that I’ve amassed, so, as a distraction,