Chapter 14

  Red Lipstick

  Kat comes in, all rosy cheeked and smiling—aglow from her yoga intensive. "You should have come with me. It was amazing. We had a bonfire and even went sledding after one of the yoga sessions. I would've been back early this afternoon, but the roads were awful. What did you do?"

  Kat must not have had cell service at the retreat or checked her phone because what I did is live, on the blog. Also, I'm afraid if I tell her about UBoss it'll further highlight how perfect her life is and how mine circles the drain.

  "Went to the library. Baked cookies."

  "Ooh, cookies? Any left?" she asks, bee-lining for the kitchen.

  "In the container next to the coffee maker."

  "Oh, thank you for getting more sugar. I meant to before I left, but it slipped my mind."

  I swallow. "Yeah."

  She comes back, takes a bite, and closes her eyes. "This is your grandmother's recipe isn't it? I remember when she'd send you care packages freshman and sophomore year."

  "You always made sure you were in the room when I unboxed my goodies." I also remember how sweet my grandma was, thoughtful, remembering my birthdays, and being a person I could turn to when I had a problem—fifth grade science project: baking soda and vinegar volcano. My first time being asked to a school dance and not feeling ready: a gracious way to decline. When everything happened with Zach and Claire: she's the sole reason I survived and was able to function and graduate. Now, wondering what I'm going to do with the rest of my life, I wish Grandma Mimi were here to help.

  Mimi, short for Miriam, just like Mimi Boss, the founder of UBoss. Maybe Kat and her yoga adherents are right and there's no such thing as coincidences.

  Oblivious to my line of thought, Kat goes on about the food at the yoga retreat. "It was delicious, don't get me wrong, but a girl can subsist on quinoa and kale only for so long." She takes another cookie. "For dinner I'm thinking pizza and laundry."

  "Laundry?"

  "There are machines in the basement. Ten of them."

  "Are you kidding me?" I ask. In a city where schlepping to the laundromat is commonplace, or having to share a single washer and dryer with the inhabitants of the entire building, a laundry room is heaven.

  We order pizza delivery and ride down to the basement in the elevator. The laundry room is spacious, well lit, and there's even a lounge area.

  "Tell me again how you found this place?" I ask Kat while we sort our lights and darks.

  "I met the leasing agent at a thing."

  "Do we need to talk about what kind of thing or why that's a questionable practice?"

  Katya stops mid-sort and points one elegant finger at my pile of dirty clothes. "No, but we do need to discuss where that white men's button down shirt came from."

  The laundry room must truly be a special, sacred place because before I can come up with an answer, the pizza guy ducks his head in, rescuing me from the incriminating evidence of my rendezvous with Spencer. "Plain cheese for Kat?"

  "That's us. Thank you. I'm starved," she says, handing him a twenty-dollar bill, and then pulling a slice from the box.

  I let my piece cool while I toss my dirty laundry into the machine, hoping she doesn't remember I didn't answer her question about the shirt. For all she knows I found it in my stuff when I was moving. It's not entirely unreasonable for me to have a men's shirt buried among my clothing collection. Really, it's not.

  "Navy Catherine Carrington," she shouts around a mouthful of pizza. Her eyes widen as she stares at her phone.

  I stop. I stiffen. I sense her cat-like approach.

  "I was gone for two nights and you—" Her stern reprimand goes silent. "Four times!"

  Highlighted by the glow of her phone, her expression shifts from shock to surprise—there's a fine distinction, but where I thought I'd find her I-told-you-so smug, instead, I find sheer and utter astonishment.

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I'm a pigeon."

  "Swan."

  "Same thing and they can't, um, talk," I try.

  "Was that Spencer's shirt?" she asks.

  "Shh, he might be around."

  "He doesn't look like the type who does his own laundry." She reads the rest of the post. "Four times! Navy, I'm not sure if I should congratulate you or stage an intervention. Are you making up for lost time or what?"

  "Did you get to the part about how I was locked out of the apartment overnight? It was just circumstance. He was there. I was there."

  Kat sets down the crust of her pizza, steps closer, surveying me carefully. "You're not a swan, a pigeon, or even a peacock. You're a Cicinnurus Respublica."

  "Say what?"

  "A bird of paradise."

  My brow furrows.

  "I saw one when I was in Bali." She types on her phone and shows me a picture of a colorful bird with a yellow neck, blue feet, and two distinct curly tail feathers.

  "You do know that it's the male birds that are the bright, colorful attractive ones, right, Peahen? The females are usually drab brown."

  "Navy, you're missing the point. What I'm saying is that you’re a vixen."

  *

  I don't know that I'm a vixen like Kat said, but I do know that I'm tired. Between being awake half the night and now spending the last few hours when I should be fast asleep on the UBoss board, the dark circles forming beneath my eyes aren't very vixen-like.

  When I drag myself to the kitchen for some caffeine to jumpstart my morning, there's a coffee cup on the counter next to a folded piece of paper with my name on it. Kat is so thoughtful. I pop off the lid and bring it to the microwave to warm it. While the cup spins round and round, I remember today is the official start of UBoss.

  When the microwave beeps, on the side of the cup, I spot a phone number. Man-bun-barista. Of course, she had an ulterior motive. The note with my name explains.

  Good morning Navybean!

  I took the liberty of getting Man-bun's digits for you. BTW his name is Bash. I think we should stick with calling him Man-bun barista though or MBB for short. I'll be teaching most of today, but be home when I get back at five-thirty so I can help you get ready—you're having dinner at his place. Text him to confirm.

  Xo Kat

  A vixen I am not because there's no way I could text him to confirm. Instead, I rush getting ready, pick up Mr. Bouche's coffee, and bolt to the elevators, stuffing myself between a woman who keeps sneezing and a bald man who looks queasy. Cold and flu season is upon us. I spot Bouche stumping through the foyer toward elevator bank, and pound the up button to spare him the exposure to sickness, I swear.

  By some act of grace, I have his drink on his desk, am seated at mine, and looking busy when he passes. However, I'm not transcribing his messages or scheduling meetings. I reread what I wrote on my blog, feeling slightly mortified. I'm not the kind of girl who has sex four times in one night and certainly not one who writes about it. I am many things, but certainly not a vixen who goes on a date with someone she doesn't know less than forty-eight hours after the sex-capades, especially not one with a man-bun.

  I should delete the blog. End it right here, right now.

  Mr. Bouche signals me. "Meeting in ten, Miss Camelot."

  My email dings with a notification, a check-in from the UBoss moderator wondering why I haven't signed in yet. The note says success comes from working together and holding one another accountable each day.

  I have ten minutes.

  I sign on at the UBoss portal just to spite Mr. Bouche. At the top is a box with today's task: wear red lipstick with the addendum, out of the house.

  The four-week program is broken into modules each covering an important aspect of our lives. The first is daring (we have a week of "daily dares" to complete—enough with the dares already!), the second uncovering, the third dreaming, and the last becoming.

  I read the overviews so I know what to expect in the next few weeks.

  The daring module is about moving past comfort zones and understanding that we created boundaries to keep ourselves in a safe, familiar place, however pushing our edge, while it might be uncomfortable will ultimately make it so we live bigger lives, are seen, and are bold. There's that word daring again. My life has become one odd, twisted dare.

  In uncovering, we're going to shift inside and do some inner work, while still building off the first module. In dreaming, we take what we learned about ourselves in the previous two weeks and figure out what we want from our lives. And in the fourth, becoming we have to take action.

  When Mr. Bouche calls me, I quickly skim the note from Mimi Boss. Wearing red lipstick is a special, personal, sensual act, meant for oneself. It also lends confidence and a sense of invincibility. Every spoken word becomes an I kick ass anthem. She describes red as a power color and if nothing else, the UBoss program is about empowerment. Also, she says it looks pretty.

  I stumble at the sound of laughter, nearly tipping over the cart with the coffee urns and pastry tray.

  "Ah, Miss Cablecar."

  "Carrington," I say, my tongue ablaze, wishing I had a tube of red lipstick. I avoid meeting Carrick's eyes.

  "You remember Mr. Kennely, of course."

  Bouche doesn't seem to have trouble remembering his last name.

  "Good morning, Navy," Carrick says, not avoiding my glossy, non-red, lips.

  "Be a doll and get our newest client a coffee," Bouche orders. In the background, he drones to Carrick about what a great partnership this will be while waiting for Coco and Carlotta to arrive for the meeting.

  I should be preparing the coffees. I should be thinking about where to get a better job. I should be minding my own business, but I'm dying to know why Carrick needs a publicist. This firm deals with celebrities, authors, TV personalities, musicians, and high-level business people. Unless I missed something, he's none of those. Occasionally, they step in when someone has seriously screwed up their reputation—what misdeed could he have done to necessitate an intervention?

  Carrick charms the pants off Bouche and Albright, who's just arrived—her lips painted red—, when the coffee urn spits a steaming hot spout of brown liquid square in the chest of my white shirt—not Spencer's white shirt. This one has pearly buttons and seemed to be perfectly tailored to make my average shape look shapelier.

  I yelp, my skin scalding.

  Carrick rushes over to me as I hold my hands in front of the painful stain. "Hot. Coffee. Burns," I sputter before breaking free and rushing to the bathroom.

  Moments later, someone knocks on the bathroom door. "You okay in there?" It's Carrick's low, rumbling voice. His hulking outline fills the smoked glass window of the door.

  "Yes. Fine."

  "Are you sure? Can I do anything?"

  "Go away." The words are cold, unnecessary, rote. They're what I've been telling myself I want.

  His silhouette remains outside the door for another moment before disappearing.

  Coco sends me home. In a panic, I text Kat what happened. She directs me to a gooey balm in the bathroom cabinet that she got from one of her yoga students.

  It's cooling and soothing as I watch a UBoss video, eat leftover pizza, and read a PDF that goes into more depth about the week of daring, even citing a study about women with red lips. Next, there's a worksheet where I have to answer questions about my appearance, my relationship with my lips (and other parts of my body), and sign a contract (with myself) committing to the task by posting a picture on the group chat.

  I log on and already several of the women have bravely posted their photos. Some smile, others scowl, and more than a few wear deer in headlights looks of terror.

  When I read the conversation threads, most of them agree that at first wearing red lipstick felt scary, but halfway through the day they were feeling more confident. A stay at home mom even said that her children listened to her better today.

  I leave a few comments and then open a thread and describe my dating dilemma with MBB. There's unanimous encouragement. If this Man-bun is making you dinner, you're one lucky gal. Do you know what I would give if my boyfriend got his ass in the kitchen—to take out the trash, put away his dirty dishes, or cook something for goodness sakes?

  MelodyMiles who commented on my blog about UBoss asks What does he look like?

  He has dark hair, often in a bun, obvi, dark eyes, olive skin, and multiple tattoos. I think he might be Latin? I'm not sure.

  Sounds hot, writes ShellsXOX. I bet it's sexy when it's down. I love guys with long hair.

  We discuss today's task, being daring, and Kat's dare. They all insist I wear red lipstick tonight.

  I write But it's just at his place. We're not going out.

  DaisyDuke31 says It doesn't matter. It shows you care and are up for having fun—and fun doesn't necessarily mean sex just like red lipstick doesn't mean you're easy. Remember, red is a power color and you're in charge of your life.

  "I don't own red lipstick."

  "But I do," Kat says, leaning on the doorframe.

  Chapter 15

  Dirty Brownies

  I startle at Kat's unexpected appearance.

  "I'm so glad you're not stopping with Spencer," she says. "I was worried you'd see my note and throw it away. It wasn't easy getting his number again."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I practically had to fight a cougar in line."

  I raise an eyebrow.

  "A middle aged woman ready to get her manicured claws in him heard me ask for his number."

  "I'm glad it didn't result in a cat fight," I say around a giggle.

  "I'm serious, she wasn't fooling around." Kat claws the air with her hand. "Though she was wearing a giant rock so you probably don't have anything to worry about. Did you text him to confirm."

  I toss her my cellphone.

  "You want me to do the honors? Navy, this is about you stepping outside your comfort zone," she says, echoing the content of the UBoss program. She clicks away and a wicked grin blooms on her face.

  "What did you write?"

  She passes me my phone. I'll be the one with the red lips.

  I harrumph. "Serves me right."

  "We know that he serves up the perfect latte, espresso, and cappuccino. I wonder what else," she teases. "The good news is you'll probably find out. He has his own place."

  "No roommates?"

  She shakes her head.

  "On a barista's salary?"

  "Maybe that's his day job—and by night he's the next big social media app designer or he moonlights as a male model or he has a trust fund and likes making people happy by designing little leaves and hearts on the foam of their lattes. He can cook, that's what matters. When I get married, my fella better know his way around the kitchen."

  "Why?"

  "Because it's sexy. And so is red lipstick. Now, what are you going to wear?"

  After she has me try on five different outfits—one tighter and more revealing than the next—, she casually says, "I almost forgot. I ran into Carrick. It turns out he's staying near the gym where I teach my evening class. I got his number."

  "You don't want to date him."

  "Not for me, silly."

  "Not for me, surely."

  "Yes for you."

  "No way."

  "Number five. Technically speaking you already sorta went on a date with him."

  "Coffee doesn't count."

  "I made the dare. I make the rules." Kat's hands are on her hips like Wonder Woman in her power stance.

  I cross my arms in front of my chest. "Kat, we have a history and I can't go there."

  She ignores this. "He's cute."

  "Then you date him."

  "Nope, there's something about him. Maybe the way he said your name. The way he looks at you. I wouldn't lose this number if I were you," she says, passing me a slip of paper.

  This is exactly what I do. I crumple it up and toss it toward the heap of boxes in the corner of my room that I need to bring down to recycle in the basement.

  "Oh come on. I had to fish around in my bag for a pen and then his fingers were freezing when he wrote it down."

  "I'm not dating Carrick." I'm not talking to him or seeing him again if I can help it.

  *

  I bundle up and set out for Bash's apartment as Katya's farewell, "Have fun with the man bun," rings down the hall after me.

  Bash lives in the village where the cement turns to cobblestones and the squat buildings jumble down the narrow streets.

  I knock. From behind the wooden door of Bash's apartment, pots and pans clatter. Music pumps and footsteps approach.

  When he opens the door, Bash's dark, lidded eyes sweep over me, landing on my mouth.

  "Hi," I say.

  A rapid clicking sound approaches followed by a streak of mottled black and brown and white flying past Bash and knocking me onto the floor. A pink tongue licks and licks and licks the lipstick off my lips. The dog practically licks my entire face off.

  "This is Dude Taco," Bash says, patting his dog on the head, but not calling him off. "And I'm Bash. Like a party."

  A woman with almond shaped eyes and a small nose slips by. "I was just going."

  "You sure? Dinner should be ready in twenty."

  After the door slams, I stand there, puzzled as Dude Taco's tail slaps against my leg. He circles me in excited loops.

  Bash is at the stove and a flame erupts from a saucepan. He calls over the hum of the vent fan, "Don't mind Jazmin—my sister. She gets off on grand entrances and exits."

  "Oh. Yeah, you look a bit alike."

  "It's our strong mutt blood."

  "Mutt blood?" I ask.

  "Our family has been in the US for so long we're just about every nationality, but one-hundred percent all-American. I grew up outside Houston. How about you? Where are you from?" I detect a slight southern accent.

  "Cape Cod," I say, trying to pet Dude Taco and get him to calm down.

  Bash is an identical flurry in the kitchen, minus the fur, as he juliennes, sautés, and flambés. He keeps up an ongoing dialog about his parents' restaurant, what it was like growing up in Texas, a few embarrassing stories about his sister, and how he ended up in New York City. Business opportunity, apparently, but he leaves it at that.