Page 82 of Good Boy

Now I’m practically sputtering into the phone. “That is not an accurate diagnosis!” I don’t know who I’m more upset with right now—Dyson or Blake. “I’m confident. Ask anyone.”

“Uh-huh. This from the girl who didn’t like to cross the middle school cafeteria alone. You used to make me walk to the girls’ room with you and wait outside.”

“Dyson, if it’s fair to criticize the things we did in the seventh grade, I’m going to have to call you out on that awful polyester blazer with the satin lapels.”

There’s a puff of outrage in my ear. “I was wearing it ironically.”

Great. Now I’ve made him mad too. Everyone is mad at everyone else. “Look, I’m really tired. Sorry to whine in your ear.”

He sighs. “Get some sleep, Jessie. But my vote will be the same in the morning. I think he likes you. And I’m pretty sure we’ve been having this same chat since middle school.”

Well, ouch. “Good night, Dyson.”

“Night, hon.”

***

Two nights later, I don’t really feel like going out, but I promised my brother I’d accompany him to an event thrown by the wives and girlfriends of the hockey team. Jamie is an honorary member of the WAGs club. As far as I can tell, they have two purposes. First, to drink together at every home game. Second, they do charity work. Tonight is some kind of planning session for their annual holiday Christmas party. It raises money for the same children’s hospital where I visited the cancer ward for my very first hospital assignment.

“What are we bringing?” I ask my brother, eyeing the shopping bag under his arm.

“I brought a couple of six-packs. The WAGs like fruity drinks. So BYOB if you want something else.”

“I love fruity drinks.”

We’ve arrived at a downtown apartment building with a lobby even grander than the one where my brother lives. “Whose apartment is this again?”

“Katie and Ben Hewitt live here. Wait ’til you see this place.”

Jamie isn’t kidding. Their pad is swanky. It has a formal entry foyer with a chandelier. A uniformed maid takes our coats. When we step into the giant room beyond, my eyes lift to find the double-height ceiling. There’s a walkway around the upper part from which doors disappear to parts unknown.

“Cheezus,” I whisper.

Jamie cocks an eyebrow.

“I mean…” I clear my throat. “This is some place.”

The women spot us and then tackle Jamie like a tidal wave.

“You came!”

“You didn’t have to bring beer!”

“Have a cookie!”

Good lord. I love Jamie, but he’s not a celebrity.

They cluck on over to me. I’m hugged and patted too. “You look so much like him!”

“Would you believe there’re six of us?” I ask, shaking Katie Hewitt’s hand.

“Shut the front door!” she shrieks. “Six? Are you all gorgeous? I don’t know if the world can handle that much beauty.”

Her words turn me into a stuttering goofball, because I’ve never been good at taking a compliment. Luckily, someone brings me a strawberry daiquiri. Jamie’s wink says I told you so about the fruity drinks.

But the thing is delicious, and I’ve decided that these women know how to have fun. Starving nursing students don’t party like this, and it’s a nice treat.

I’m introduced around as “Jamie’s gorgeous sister.” Which means nothing, because everyone here is either glamorous or beautiful or both. Katie Hewitt has thick, glossy hair and diamond earrings so large that I’m surprised she can hold her head up. She’s a hoot too. Her brand of glam isn’t Rich and Stuffy. It’s Let’s Party Like Wild Women. She’s wearing a custom Toronto jersey with the logo done in rhinestones, and I’d lay odds that her red lipstick was color-matched to the team’s logo. Under one arm, she holds a chubby white poodle with a red bow on its curly little head.

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