Page 30 of The Tryst

On Monday, I make plans to see David at the end of the week, then I take a ferry across the river to meet Geeta at a tea shop in Hoboken. We mostly zoom and call, but we try to meet in person now and then, and I do my best to come out here since it’s easier for her. As she sips chai, we review my reports from the conference.

“I especially like Farm to Phone, and it’s not just because of the clever name,” I say, showing her the proposal from a hot-shot digital marketing firm that wants to work with us. “They’ve helped some of the best new apps rise up and get noticed. A handful of their apps have gone on to become part of Omega Media.”

One well-groomed brow rises at the mention of an app holding company with a sterling rep. Geeta sets down her cup. “Let’s sell this baby to Omega.”

The endgame for us has always been an exit. We want to sell The Makeover to a bigger company, one with a family of apps already. I have two years to make that happen with Mom’s timeline breathing down my neck.

“Definitely. Or Marcus Media. Or Limitless,” I say, naming some other app holding companies. “Which is why I think we should consider Farm to Phone. We need a marketing partner and, with our growth this spring, now’s the time to get The Makeover ready.”

As she reviews the proposal on screen, Geeta twirls a strand of magenta hair amongst her sheet of black locks, then shrugs her yes. “If you like their proposal, I like their proposal.”

When we’re done with the recap, I check the time. “I need to shoot some new videos today. I should take off.”

She sighs heavily. “Me too. This is my first time out in days. But I gotta jet. Dad’s PT is coming over.”

“Of course. Tell Dad I say hi,” I say, though I’ve never met her father. He has MS and she lives with him and takes care of him.

“I’ll send him your lipstick love. But I better get home before he flirts too hard with his PT,” she says.

Laughing, I scoop up my laptop and take off.

Once I’m back across the river and in my Manhattan neighborhood, I swing by Blush, one of my favorite makeup shops on Columbus Avenue, where I hunt for a few items. When I spot a new pink lipstick and liner from a company called Mia Jane, I’m too enthused to keep it to myself. “You have Mia Jane,” I say to no one in particular.

This brand is a dream. Started by the fashionista and former model Mia Jane, it’s all cruelty-free and made in the USA. She ruled the runway a couple decades ago, and since then she’s dabbled in several hustles from perfume, to cropped sweatshirts, to vegan purses. She finally jumped into the makeup world last year with a pop-up shop in Los Angeles for her brand. Hard to say if she’ll stick with this new project, but her taste is extraordinary, and her rep is strong, especially among young people, since she offers one of the largest lines of inclusive shades for a wide range of skin tones.

A stunningly pretty man at the counter looks up and flashes a grin. “We sure do. Have you tried Mia Jane yet?” he asks. He’s wearing silver eyeshadow, which pops beautifully against his skin. His name tag reads Storm/Store Manager.

“Yes! It’s my go-to brand whenever I can get it. I went to their pop-up shop in LA last time I was there, but I could only stow so much in my luggage.”

He laughs. “We’re birds of a feather. I stocked up on her ebony shades for myself. That color’s not easy to find.” Then he brings a finger to his lips. “But don’t tell anyone I wear foundation.”

I mime zipping my lips, then say breezily, “What foundation?”

He smiles. “I knew I liked you. Anyway, I hope her lines go big. We’ve started carrying all her stuff, and rumor has it she might be opening some Mia Jane shops soon.”

We both squeal.

I shop a bit more, then, goodies in hand, I head to the counter, where I study his lids. “Love that silver color, and your blend is perf, Storm.”

“Thank you, hun.” Then he blinks, points, grins. “Wait. Wait! You’re Lola!”

I smile, giddy from the recognition forthisreason. “That’s me.”

“Girl! You taught me how to fill in a brow with your series,” he says, then he strikes a pose and gestures to his perfectly groomed eyebrows.

“That’s fantastic. You should be doing videos,” I say, then head home, saying hello to Sylvester, the evening doorman, and Grady at the concierge desk before I head to the sixth floor, lock my apartment, then deadbolt it.

I turn on all the lights and look around.

Once I’m safely inside and alone, I take off my skull rings, I’ll put one on before I go to bed, since it’s always wise to have a weapon with you, and these are self-defense rings, with a tiny, serrated blade hidden under each skull. Next, I set up my lights and shoot several new videos. They’ll go on social, then Geeta will integrate them into the app.

Finally, Friday rolls around, and I head out to meet David. I haven’t seen him in months, and I’m ridiculously excited.

Seeing him feels like a reward. I’ve made it through the first week without looking up Nick Adams.

That handsome man will remain a dirty, delicious memory.

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