It’s true Jordi gets to do the thing that Jordi is specifically very good at, but as I survey our recent orders, I remind myself that what I’m doing matters, too. And if Maggie can look this relieved when I give her the updated report, hopefully she sees that, too.
But of course the truth is that I don’t know what Maggie’s thinking at all.
Maliah meets me at my house after work, and I’m glad we have plans tonight even though I just lost several minutes inside Jordi’s gate with my fingertips on the bare skin of her lower back and her lips on mine. There’s so much that I didn’t know before, like that you could see someone all day long and yet still feel physically unable to get enough of their kisses, or that someone’s hand on the back of your neck could make you feel like you’re melting but in a good way.
“Did you have to work late?” Maliah asks with a look to the time on her phone.
“Sure,” I say while realizing my lip gloss is probably smudged. “What do you want to do?”
Maliah pats the bumper of the Honda in the driveway. It’s covered in more than a fine layer of dust, dirt, and pollen. “Isn’t this your car?”
I shrug. “It’s technically my mom’s. Rachel got to use it, and now I could. If I wanted. Which I don’t.”
“You have been my best friend my entire life,” Maliah says.
“Since fifth grade,” I say.
“Ugh, details. Anyway, I know you better than anyone else.”
I don’t correct her, mainly because I know my connection with Rachel is different. Sisters and best friends are good in a lot of the same ways, but that doesn’t make them the same. Of course, maybe I don’t even have that with Rachel anymore.
“This is the thing I don’t get about you,” Maliah continues. “You could have so much more freedom with this!”
“You’ll never convince me,” I say. “I’m going to college in New York. And I like walking. I have exactly as much freedom as I need. Also, whatever! You’re always saying you don’t get things about me, like when I said strawberries aren’t overrated.”
“Oh my god, how can you even think that?” Maliah pauses and then bursts into laughter. “Why do I take that so seriously?”
“I’m terrified to know. Look, I don’t want to drive. Does it have to be a thing? Does it have to keep being a thing?”
We stare each other down because we are not the kind of best friends who like losing to each other. It hits me that if I were competing against Maliah for the Lemonberry job, I might have strong-armed my way into Maggie’s office for a social media meeting today.
Is it bad to know that?
Is it worse to know it and also that I might not do anything about it?
“What?” Maliah asks, because she’s right that we know each other extremely well.
“I wish I didn’t have to compete for the job at the store,” is what I tell her. “Please don’t say anything mean about Jordi. You don’t want secrets, so there you go.”
“You’re going to get the job,” Maliah tells me. “Don’t even worry about it.”
“That is not how not worrying works, Maliah!”
She laughs. “Come on. Zoe and Brooke are over at Wanderlust getting ice cream.”
“What? We could have already been walking toward ice cream and you took this long to tell me?”
“I’m a monster, right?”
CHAPTER 18
Maliah and Trevor are not exactly my favorite couple—whether or not that makes me a bad person—but one good thing about them is that there isn’t any drama. Before my best friend fell in love, that’s the main gist I got from overhearing other people’s relationship talk at school. There’s jealousy, misunderstanding, ignored texts, someone else. But Maliah and Trevor have never been that.
And maybe that’s a little why Jordi and I aren’t either, but also because I can’t even imagine wanting to fight with Jordi. I can’t imagine Jordi’s tone stern or angry with me. Instead I imagine the year stretching out before us, school and Homecoming and the tree-lighting at The Americana. I don’t know which one of us gets the job at Lemonberry but the other one can hang out there, at least the shifts when Laine’s working. Laine loves having us around.
Not that I don’t want to get the job. Not that I don’t still hope that it’s me. Not that I don’t keep a running tally in my head of our chances. Jordi gets fashion shows, but I get private sewing lessons. Jordi has the air of a professional, but I’m the one who lives and breathes fashion. Photographers are probably more expensive to pay than bloggers—I assume—but does the savings matter when the job is mainly going to be straightening clothes on racks and operating a cash register?
Also, I can’t help but worry that it’s not, like, morally sound to want to beat your girlfriend at something like this. Shouldn’t I want the best for her over myself? I’m not sure how it sorts out. I’ll be happy if the job’s awarded to her at the end of next month, but also I won’t be. So for now I’ll just try to do my best and put the rest out of my mind because otherwise I might lose it. My mind, that is, not the job.
Though I guess maybe the job, too.
“Hey, Abby?”
I look up as Maggie walks out of her office, or maybe she already walked in a moment ago while I was running through scenarios in my head. I’ve definitely been less daydreamy since my first day, but there’s
