Olive Oil and White Bread (9 page)

Later that evening, Jillian and Angie sat at their breakfast bar counter and ate lasagna.

“I don't know why you let them get to you like that,” Angie said.

“I don't let
them
get to me. I let
her
get to me. I always have.” Jillian put a forkful from her second helping into her mouth and chewed. “I don't know why. She has this . . . this . . . power. I don't know what it is, but she can make me feel like I'm eight years old again just like that.” She snapped her fingers to punctuate the statement.

“You just want her approval,” Angie said. “We all want our mothers' approval. It's a basic need.”

“I guess.” Jillian continued as Angie headed to the refrigerator. “She's always been tough on me, but when I came out? God, I thought she'd disown me right there.”

“But she didn't.”

“Not officially. She thought I was simply copying Shay. Can you believe that? I really think she thought it would pass. We just never talked about it again. That's my family's M.O. We never talk about anything that involves feelings or emotions.”

“God, my family can't talk about anything
without
feelings or emotions.”

Jillian laughed. “We couldn't really have come from two more opposite ends of the spectrum, could we?”

“I don't think so. And now, to change the subject.” Angie pulled a bottle out of the fridge. “Ta da!”

“Champagne?”

“Well, not exactly champagne. Sparkling wine. Not as fancy, but still something with celebratory bubbles.”

“And what's that for? Why do we need celebratory bubbles?”

“Think about it,” Angie hinted, making a rolling gesture with her hand.

Jillian scrunched up her face, wracking her brains before gasping. “Did you get the Solomon program?”

“I did.”

Jillian squealed and jumped off her stool, running over to hug Angie, who joined in the squealing, and together they hopped in a squealing circle. “Baby, that's great! I am so proud of you. How many quotes did you end up sending all together?”

“Six, for god's sake.” Solomon was a huge payroll company and Angie had met with the head of marketing four separate times before they chose her. “You know how exhausting all the meetings and paperwork were. But today? Totally worth it.”

Jillian opened the wine and poured, then held up her glass. “To my girl, the most awesome,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “not to mention the sexiest, saleswoman around. Way to go, baby doll.”

They touched their glasses together and sipped. Angie took the cork, grabbed a Sharpie from the drawer, and wrote the date and the occasion for the celebration on it. Then she dropped it into a big glass jar on the windowsill, where the cork dated with their move-in date already sat.

“You know,” she said. “A program like this means pretty steady orders. I hope. And you know what steady orders mean?”

“Steady commission,” they said in unison.

Angie went on. “It'll make a nice supplement to my measly paycheck. And if I can work hard and grow this program, we only go up from here.”

Angie rolled over in bed. The clock read 1:17, and she sighed heavily. She couldn't seem to shut off her mind. The Solomon logo, in all its reflex blue glory, popped brightly into her head. Again. With a sigh of frustration, she quietly got out of bed, donned sweatpants and a baggy sweatshirt, and padded downstairs in her bare feet. She would
never get to sleep if she didn't dump some of this detail out of her head. Pad of paper and pen in hand, she curled up on the couch under the afghan her grandmother crocheted and began to list the things she needed to do.

A long while later, Angie exhaled slowly, set her pen down, and read the list. There. A bit better. There was so much to do; this was an enormous undertaking and creating the list had already alleviated much of the panic that had set in. This was the biggest account she'd ever had, and though she felt like she had a good handle on the business, it still made her jittery and nervous. Hope was confident in her. And proud of her; she'd told her so. Jillian's pride was obvious. Mr. Guelli? Angie had expected he'd be happier. After all, the Solomon account meant a nice profit for Logo Promo. Oh, he'd congratulated her with his signature pat on the behind, but still she didn't feel like he considered her an equal to some of the salesmen, as she'd been hoping. Stupidly, she was beginning to understand.

I'll just have to show him
, she thought.
I'll make him a ton of money, and then he'll have no choice but to see that I'm good at this
.

Even in her head she sounded like a petulant child, but she didn't care. This account was a big deal, and she was proud of landing it. And Jillian was proud of her for landing it. That's all that really mattered in the grand scheme of life. She laid her head back against the arm of the couch and closed her tired and scratchy eyes.

“Honey. Come on. Angie.”

Angie inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. Jillian's blue eyes looked down at her with concern, hair disheveled, clad in white boxers with light blue pinstripes and a blue tank top. She looked delicious. “Hi,” Angie croaked.

“What are you doing down here?” Jillian asked, a flash of hurt zipping across her face.

Angie sat up, stretched. “I couldn't sleep and didn't want to wake you up with all my tossing and turning and sighing.” She handed Jillian the list, explaining what had prompted her to make it. “I'm sorry, baby. For what it's worth, I would have much rather been in bed with you.”

Jillian kissed her quickly on the lips. “Well, it's after six. You wanted to get in early today, right?”

Angie's eyes widened. “Yes. Crap.” She kicked off the afghan and beelined for the stairs.

“I'll bring up your coffee,” Jillian called after her.

Seven

The second bedroom was perfect for Jillian's studio. She stood in the middle of the square room, a fingertip between her teeth, and studied each of the walls. She'd painted them a creamy Navajo white, nice and neutral and calming. Deciding on the wall to the left, she used a small level to help hang one of her own paintings, a small abstract in hues of blue and green that had been an experiment at first, but ended up being a piece she was rather proud of. She marked a spot for the nails, tapped two of them in with a hammer, and hung the large canvas.

“Perfect,” she said softly to nobody.

The late October sky was growing dark beyond the two windows that during the day let in copious amounts of natural light. Jillian frowned at the twilight, already missing the long days of summer. Winter would be here in no time.

With a sigh, she checked to see if anything else needed adjustment. “What else could I possibly want to do with my Friday night than arrange things?” she asked the empty room. She'd unpacked everything over the past few days and the room felt good to her, inviting. She could be creative here. Canvasses, paints, charcoal, paper, easel, desk, everything had fit. It was a bit crowded, but it felt warm and cozy, which was what she'd hoped for. She didn't have a lot, just the basics, because she didn't consider herself an artist—more an aficionado who liked to dabble. She would never sell her work because, honestly, she wasn't all that good; she simply enjoyed creating it.

Jillian didn't love spending this much time alone, but Angie was doing well with the Solomon account, and word of mouth from the Solomon higher-ups was bringing her new clients. That was the
beauty of the kind of sales job she had; if she pleased a client, they told their friends. More clients meant more business meant more money. It also meant more schmoozing. She often took clients to lunch, dinner, drinks, insisting that this was all about image. A successful, friendly, generous image. She came home exhausted, but happy.

There were days, though, when Jillian didn't want to forgive the late nights. Yes, Angie was working her butt off. Yes, Jillian was proud of her, but sometimes all she wanted was Angie home, sitting across the dinner table from her, the two of them talking about their day. That was the partnership she wanted. That's what she'd signed up for.

She hadn't embarked upon this relationship so she could spend this much time by herself while her girlfriend wined and dined people she hardly knew.

She tried not to feel like this.

Mostly, she managed.

It was nearing 7:30. Dinner had been a tuna sandwich, since Angie had told her that morning she'd be running late tonight. At the sound of the door downstairs, Jillian peeked out the window and saw Angie's car. A wave of relief washed through her, warm and comforting, as it always did when Angie came home.

“Where's my woman?” Angie's voice boomed up the stairs, low and comical, bringing a grin to Jillian's face.

“Up here, babe.”

Following her footsteps up the hardwood stairs, Angie appeared in the doorway. Her black suit still looked fresh—or at least fresher than it should have after a twelve-hour workday—but Angie looked decidedly tired. A faded darkness underscored each eye, and she didn't lean on the doorjamb so much as fall against it. But her dark eyes sparkled, and her smile was genuine. “How's my girl?”

Jillian set down her tools and walked the handful of steps into Angie's waiting arms. “Better now.” She snuggled in, burying her face in Angie's neck. “How was your day?”

Angie squeezed her tightly. “Brutal. Guelli was on the warpath. God, he's getting cranky in his old age. My jacket order for Matt Jones is
still
not done. I asked Ivan to show me some art three days ago, and he has yet to get to it. I'm sorry, but after three months,
you're not the new graphic artist any more. He has not impressed me. He's disorganized, arrogant, and slow.” She shook her head, annoyed. “I'm beat,” she said and blew out a breath. “However…” A mischievous grin appeared. “I have something for you.”

“For me?”

“Is anybody else in this house having a birthday this week?”

“Hmm.” Jillian scrunched up her face, a show of thought. “No, I can't think of anybody.”

“Well, then, I guess the little surprise I have is for you. Come with me.” Angie led her by the hand down the stairs into the living room and stopped. “Okay. Stay here. Close your eyes.”

Jillian did as she was told.

“No peeking.” Angie waved her hand in front of Jillian's face.

“I'm not.” Jillian listened as Angie moved away from her into the kitchen. There was some rustling of some sort, then what she was sure was a whimper. She furrowed her brow, trying to figure out from the sound what her girlfriend was up to. Finally, she heard Angie come back and stop in front of her.

“Okay. Open.” Angie stood with a small, white puppy cradled in her arms. “Happy birthday, baby.” The dog turned its head toward Jillian, its eyes a clear hazel color.

“Oh, my god,” Jillian said quietly. “You are
beautiful
.” She let the puppy smell her hand, get used to her scent, then leaned her face in. “Hi there, sweetheart.” Glancing up at Angie, she said, “You're sure?”

“I just wanted it to be the right time,” Angie told her. “Here. She's all yours.” She handed the puppy over to Jillian, who immediately cuddled her. “She's a pit bull-terrier mix, so she won't get very big. I was going to get you something purebred, but I went to the Humane Society and saw this one and her siblings, and I just couldn't walk away.”

It was just what Jillian would have done herself—adopt instead of buying—and she loved Angie even more for it. She held the warm body close. The puppy's fur was almost nonexistent, but what was there was white, thinly layered over soft, pink skin. Her feet and her head were too big for her little body, all out of proportion, which made Jillian smile as she brought a paw to her lips and kissed it. The puppy watched with big, clear eyes. “You look like a little ghost, you know
that?” she said to her. “I think your name should be Boo. What do you think? Hmm?” When she looked up, Angie was watching with a big grin.

“I knew she was the one for you.”

“I can't believe you did this,” Jillian said, and was surprised when her eyes welled up. “Thank you. I love you so much.”