“Hi Callie, it’s Mom,”—she says this every time, like she’s convinced my move to New York means I’m going to forget her voice—“Just wanted to call and remind you that Hannah’s birthday party is coming up in three weeks, so make sure it’s on your calendar.”
Hannah is one of seven nieces and nephews which are spread out between my three older sisters. Though sometimes I swear that number is closer to twenty-seven because every time I turn around, there’s another birthday to celebrate. Or maybe it just feels that way because my mom is constantly reminding me.
“Oh, and you’ll never guess who I ran into at the store the other day?”
She pauses for dramatic effect, and I groan, assembling leftovers for dinner.
Here we go again.
I’d bet every puny dollar in my checking account—all two hundred and eighty-six of them—that the next words out of her mouth will be the name of some local Jersey boy who’s roughly my age. Usually, it’s someone that I went to high school with or one of her friends’ younger relatives who she’s almost sure is my perfect match, but every once in a while, she throws me a curveball.
“Remember Joshua Dell, that nice young man who used to pop into the beauty salon all the time to pick up his mom’s hair products? He’s so handsome, and still dresses like a million bucks. Anyway, I got his number, I figured maybe you could give him a call and try to meet up when you’re in town for Hannah’s party. I bet you two have a lot in common…”
Sure we do. Starting with the fact that we both prefer having sex with men.
I delete the message, bring my bowl of noodles to the window by the fire escape, and crawl out, to eat cross-legged on my little balcony. She never learns—or stops trying to fix me up. My older sisters were already married with kids by the time they turned twenty-five, but here I am, with thirty on the horizon and still at a loose end.
Because in my mom’s eyes, chasing my dreams and trying to build a one-woman makeup empire still falls short compared to a ring on my finger and a crib in the corner.
And, OK, maybe I am behind the curve. I know that twenty-eight is pretty late to be starting over, trying to build something from scratch, but that’s only because it took me so long to work up the courage to actually go after it.
I’ve been playing around with makeup since I was a kid, emptying out my mom’s old lipstick tubes and blending all kinds of fabulous concoctions, but I never thought my passion could get me more than a nice stack of tips at the local salon. It wasn’t until I took some business classes at the local community college that I started thinking seriously about making the leap, and after moving to Manhattan and working at Fleishman’s (for the research, and the discount), I’ve gone all-in on my dream.
In all its technicolor, glossy, sparkling glory.
I finish eating and climb back inside, turning my attention to the dining room, a.k.a., my workshop-slash-chemistry lab. The huge table is covered with bottles and jars, and the explosion of ingredients and half-completed experiments always makes me think of Frankenstein’s lab…
… If Viktor Frankenstein had ever decided to forego the nuts and bolts in favor of Jojoba oil and carnauba wax. One day, I hope to afford a real lab, but for now, I’m grateful for the space I do have.
I got carried away this morning mixing the perfect shade of fuchsia, and left it in a mess, so I get stuck in cleaning up and wiping down so the workspace is sparkling, when my phone vibrates across the table.
It’s from Lorelei.
‘Phineas Dashford IV??!!!???’
I blink. Who the what now?
‘Those words mean nothing to me,’ I text back.
Her reply pings, this time with a video link.
I click through… And promptly freeze in place.
It’s me.
Me, having my massive epic meltdown on the subway platform, just a couple of hours ago. Someone must have had their cellphone handy to record, because there I am, in all my shaky close-up glory.
“Are you serious right now?” I watch myself in horror on the tiny screen as I point my finger accusingly at Hot Guy, my face practically glowing with rage—or the new highlighter I swiped on before work. “Do you even know how long I’ve scrimped, and saved, and slathered anti-aging foundation on blue-rinsed ladies to afford to make those lipsticks?”
Nooo… The sight of my red cheeks and flailing arms is cringe-worthy enough without hearing my voice ratcheting up in volume. By the end, I’m screeching louder than Brando. Meanwhile, McDoucheyPants stands there, cool as a mouth wateringly attractive cucumber. His unruffled demeanor only serves to make me look more unhinged.
I check the number of views and choke. “What the…”
“Fuck! What the fuck!” Brando helpfully fills in as I trail off with my mouth hanging open.
Half a million views and counting.
I call Lorelei. “Why are so many strangers rejoicing in my momentary lapse of self-control?” I wail the instant she picks up. “Please, make it stop!”