Page 71 of Most Likely to Score
Lily taps the November photo. “Yes! Fantastic! These are my favorites. You look so happy, so relaxed.”
I chime in, speaking the full truth. “I was very happy.”
Jillian’s eyes flutter closed for a brief second. “They’re all great.”
When we reach the December shot, Lily shuts the calendar. “I want to have a little party in a few weeks to celebrate. Maybe a fun little photo op at a local restaurant. What do you say, Jillian?”
Jillian nods, her tone crisp and cool. “Yes, that sounds like a great idea.”
Lily leaves and Jillian turns to me, her shoulderssagging, letting out a deep exhalation. “I felt like I was caught stealing.”
“But you weren’t,” I say under my breath.
“I know, but it felt like we were close. And I don’t know how much longer I can pull this off.”
I can’t argue with that.
28
JILLIAN
It’s official. I’ve worn a hole in the carpet in my office from pacing from the window to my desk. It’s a five-foot-long stretch, and the effort is all the more amazing considering it only took a day.
For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve mastered the art of pacing, along with stressing, along with worrying. I’ve also considered entering myself in a lip-synching contest because I’ve spent so much time mouthing words silently as I pace. For instance, consider these potential winners.
“Lily, I need to tell you something wild…”
“Well, it’s kind of a funny story . . .”
Ugh.
I sigh so deeply, the sound of my frustration burrows underground. But I meant it when I told Jones I’m not sure how much longer I can pull this off. How many secret dates, stolen moments, or hallway encounters can my nerves sustain?
Or my conscience, for that matter.
That’s the bigger issue, and in the last several hours it’s been an insistent drumbeat, telling me to do something, say something.
I don’t know if Jones and I will ever amount to anything, but I admire Lily. I respect Lily, and I don’t want to keep lying to her.
I want to find a way to come clean, no matter what awaits with him—if anything—on the other side.
I sink down in my desk chair, swiveling to the window and the view of the San Francisco skyline, the cresting hills of Pacific Heights, the choppy dark blue water of the bay, and the brilliant rust-colored bridge that majestically spans the seas.
I’m lucky to have this view.
I’m lucky to have this job.
I’m lucky to have this wonderful life.
Am I going to risk it all for a guy?
How could a man be worth it? Is it even possible that this feeling in my chest—this sense of champagne and wonder when he’s nearby—is worth gambling what I’ve worked so hard for?
My throat catches, and I swallow down another lump as I reach for a framed photo on my desk—a picture of my mom and dad lifting wineglasses at the camera as they shot a selfie in Florence for me.
They went to Italy a few months before her heart attack, rode bikes across Tuscany, visited the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. When they learned of my very first promotion with the Renegades while traveling, they shot this photo for me. Running my thumb over the glass frame, I want to ask my mom what to do.
I wish I knew what she’d say. She was so wise, so smart, so balanced.
