Olive Oil and White Bread (16 page)

“Mom, we're having a party to watch Ellen's coming out. You should come over.”

“I will never understand the need to announce such a thing.”
Jillian could see her face, how she'd purse her lips in disapproval, arch one eyebrow as she spoke.

“It's historical, Mom. It's visibility for the LGBT community.”

“You know, this is why you people have such trouble. Because you need to talk about it incessantly. It's private. Private things should stay that way. What you people do in your bedroom is your own business, but I don't need to hear about it.”

It would have been awful.

But still, having her here and irritated would be better than not having her here at all. Wouldn't it?

She still couldn't decide.

“Honey.” Angie's voice pulled her from her musings. “I'm cold. Come to bed and warm me up.”

Jillian finished up and crawled into bed, snuggling in close to Angie even as her thoughts whirled. “I kind of wish my mom had been here.”

“Really?” Angie didn't disguise her surprise, which made Jillian chuckle.

“Yeah, I know. She would've hated it. Honestly, she wouldn't have come. I don't know what I'm thinking.”

Angie squeezed her tight, placed a kiss on her forehead. “Sweetie, it's okay to miss her, to want her here.”

“But it's ridiculous, isn't it? I wish she'd been present at an event she would have despised. Vocally.”

“It's not ridiculous.”

After a pause, Jillian propped her head on her hand, looked down at Angie, and said quietly and with no small amount of wonder, “I feel proud tonight. Of being gay. I'm
proud
of who I am. I've never really felt that.”

Angie nodded. “That's why you wish your mom had been here.”

Jillian dropped back down to Angie's shoulder and blew out a breath. “Yeah, but she would've hated it.”

Her thoughts continued to swirl long after Angie had fallen asleep.

In the weeks that followed, the shift that Jillian had felt stayed with her, and it was on her mind often. She remembered reading somewhere that your thirties are the “age of enlightenment,” and she wondered now if maybe that was true. Somehow, she felt newly invested in her life, as if she'd suddenly started paying more attention. There was no way to explain it, though she tried on more than one occasion. Instead, she sat with it, embraced it, and then ran with it, feeling free and solid.

Unfortunately, the same feelings didn't seem to be affecting Angie, who was a million miles away during dinner on a night in early June.

“You should have seen Bradley today,” Jillian said, referring to one of her shyer students. “He had a color mix going, and I swear his paper looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. I'm not sure what got into him, but he found a combination he liked, and he just went with it.” She scooped a forkful of potato into her mouth and watched Angie push her food around her plate. After a moment of silence, she went on. “And then a mob of angry leprechauns broke into my classroom and demanded all the green paint.”

Angie gave a faint nod and took a slug from her wine glass.

Jillian blew out a breath. “What is wrong with you?”

Angie blinked at her. “What?”

“You haven't heard a word I've said. What's going on?”

With a grimace, Angie shook her head. “I think I'm on the verge of losing Davis Direct.”

“Seriously?” It was one of Angie's larger catalog companies. Jillian knew she'd worked hard to get it, that it contributed a nice percentage to her commission—and that the Davis head of marketing, Jim Carmen, was notoriously fickle. Angie had told her all of this when she'd landed the account over a year ago. “What happened?”

Angie's expression was grim. “Freaking Carmen. He's such a jerk. He's making me bid now. I set the whole program up for him, get everything stocked and printed and logo'd, present him with
very
fair pricing—honestly, I should be marking his stuff up a lot more than I am—and what does he do? He starts collecting quotes. So he gets a lower price, then shows it to me like I'm ripping him off.” She grabbed the wine bottle and topped off her glass. “How many times have I taken him out to dinner?
Nice
dinner. Or drinks? He's never paid for a thing. I take care of him. And this is the thanks I get? Asshole.”

It had been a while since Jillian had seen Angie quite this angry, and she winced as some of the red wine sloshed onto the table. “Babe. Calm down. It's okay.”

Angie shot her a look, and Jillian pressed her lips together. Obviously, Angie was in no mood to be talked down.
Maybe it's better to just let her vent
, she decided and kept quiet.

“Do these people think I'm not supposed to make any money? That I'm working for free?” She downed a third of her glass in one gulp. “Do you know what the worst part is?” Without waiting for Jillian to answer, she went on. “It's that the next guy who does the Davis Direct catalog will have it so easy because
I've already done all the work
. I found the products, I priced them out, I estimated shipping costs. All Carmen has to do is pass my catalog on to the new guy and tell him to come in just a little lower. It's so unfair.”

“I know, babe. What about Mr. Guelli? Can he help? Talk to Carmen maybe?”

Angie barked a sarcastic laugh and drained her glass. “If there's one thing I've come to realize, it's that Guelli is a guy who owns a sales company but has no idea how to sell a thing. He's a freaking dinosaur. Honestly, I'd rather keep him away from my clients than have him meet any of them. He's embarrassing. I hate this business.”

“I'm so sorry, honey. What can I do to help?”

Angie's scoff made Jillian flinch almost as much as Angie's next words. “No offense, Jill, but you work with six-year-olds all day. This is way beyond you.”

Jillian poked at her cheek with her tongue, nodded slowly, and stood from the table. “Okay. Got it.” She whistled for Boo, grabbed her leash, and was on her way out the side door when she heard Angie finally speak up.

“Jillian. Wait.”

She kept going.

Fifteen

The merlot in her system made it impossible for Angie to remain awake until Jillian and Boo finally returned home. She must have passed out on the couch because the next thing she knew, it was after seven in the morning according to the cable box clock, and the sun was spearing her eyelids like tiny ice picks. There was barely time to register the clicking of Boo's nails as she scrambled down the hardwood stairs before her body landed like a boulder on top of Angie's chest, forcing all of the air and a loud “oof” from her lungs.

Jillian followed a moment later and didn't glance at Angie as she walked past and into the kitchen to let Boo out back.

“Hey,” Angie said, her voice a mere croak.

Jillian quickly tossed some leftover salad into a bowl for lunch. She didn't turn around as she moved to the back door and let Boo out.

“Jillian. Honey. I'm really sorry.” When Jillian continued to stare out the sliding glass door, Angie tried again. “I mean it. I'm sorry. I was a jerk last night.”

Jillian spun around, her blue eyes hot with anger, and it was only in that moment that Angie realized she'd really crossed a line. “No, Angie, you were not a jerk. You were an
asshole
. I'm really sorry that you had a shitty day. I have them, too, even though my job is apparently a piece of cake and not nearly as complex and as important as yours.”

Angie swallowed. “Yeah, that was out of line.”

“You think?”

“I'm sorry, Jill.”

“You should be.” She turned back to the door and let Boo in. On her way through the kitchen, she stopped, rinsed Angie's late-night
dishes, and put them in the dishwasher. “Was that so hard?” she said out loud, and Angie knew it was a direct shot at her. Then Jillian picked up the empty wine bottle, held it for Angie to see. “And this? Not helping.” She slammed it back to the counter with a thud and grabbed her keys off the rack. “I'm going to work. When I come back, I'll be going to see my father. And I'll be taking Boo with me. I don't know what time I'll be home.”

And she was gone.

Angie flopped back onto the couch with a groan. Boo sat on the floor so her face was inches from Angie's and cocked her head at the sound. “Oh, Boo. Mommy fucked up. Big time.” Boo blinked. No kisses, no nudges to play. It was as if the dog knew. Angie looked into the light brown eyes and felt judged. “I know. Big time,” Angie said again.

She knew she should get up, get moving, but the impending stress of the day kept her pressed into the couch. She didn't want to get up because her head was pounding, as if a little man with a sledgehammer were wandering around inside her skull just banging on random things. The idea of dealing with Jim Carmen made her want to retch. She hadn't yet told Mr. Guelli about the likely loss of business. He'd pretend he understood what happened, though he wouldn't have a clue, so he'd blame her. Subtly and indirectly, but blame her he would. And on top of all of that, she really, really needed to suck up to her girlfriend. What had she been thinking, saying something like that last night? What was wrong with her? She'd been so edgy, so furious over the situation, it was like a fog had invaded her brain, obscuring everything but her anger. She knew how hard it was to teach small children; she
knew
she could never do what Jillian did, and she had said as much, more than once. On any other day, she'd tell any person who would listen what an amazing and talented teacher Jillian was. What the hell had happened yesterday to turn her into a complete shit?

“Ugh.” She sat up slowly, then gradually stood. Shuffling like an eighty-year-old, she made her way into the kitchen for a glass of water, hoping it would help her headache. Had something died in her mouth? She needed to get rid of that taste, too, before she threw up all over the counter. Boo sat watching.

Angie stared at the empty wine bottle and then flashed on Jillian's glass of water with last night's dinner. Jillian hadn't had any wine at all.

“Christ,” she muttered. Popping a slice of bread into the toaster, Angie gazed out the kitchen window. The early June sun shone brightly on the patio set in the back yard, and she wished she could just go sit there, relax and breathe, and think of nothing for a few hours. She loved June in upstate New York. Not too hot, not too cold. Flowers in bloom. No bugs yet.

In a few short weeks, her girlfriend would be done with school, and then she'd get to spend her days outside, working on the flowers and the garden, determined to harvest bushels of tomatoes this year. That had been her goal every year they'd lived in the house . . . except she seemed to have a green thumb with everything except tomatoes. She'd never ended up with more than six; it had become a running joke.

“I'm growing tomatoes this year,” Jillian would say. “I mean it.”

“Again?” would be Angie's reply, and she'd wink at her girlfriend.

Angie could see them sitting out there at dusk, the portable black metal fire pit they bought last year filled with branches, Jillian arranging the wood to make her fire just so, Angie smacking at her own arms, legs, shooting a look of sheer frustration at Jillian, who was always left untouched by the bugs.

“Why don't the mosquitoes ever bite you?” she'd ask, just as she had a hundred times over their years together. “Why do they only feast on me?”

Jillian would chuckle, give the same answer she always did. “If you had the choice, which would you rather suck on? Olive oil or white bread?”

Looking out the window now, Angie smiled.

Summer was coming. There were so many good times ahead.

She blew out a huge breath.

“Shit.”