Page 53 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Tell me what you really want to say,” she says, easing down the stairs behind me.

I chew the inside of my lip in frustration. I’ve been this way for weeks. I can’t seem to get my thoughts in order, and my nerves feel like the end of a frayed wire, looking for its release point.

“Before I knew he was… well, him… I actually did kind of like him. Or at least, I thought I could.”

She drops the flamingos into a pile with the other stuff we’ve hauled into the shop. A “hm” sound escapes her, and I can’t tell if it’s in response to making it to the bottom of the stairwell or a prompt for me to keep talking.

“So if he had another job or another name, you could still like him or you would still like him?” she asks. “Because those are different things.”

“I dunno,” I say.

Unfortunately, it’s the truth. I don’t know anything about how I feel when it comes to him, especially now that we got way too close after hours, not once but twicenow.

“The reality, though, is that he doesn’t have another job or another name,” I conclude. “Hypotheticals are pointless.”

“Maybe, but they’re interesting,” she smiles. “What’s going on with work, anyway? One of the gossip accounts I follow is saying some pretty outrageous stuff about that big name client of yours.”

Auntie Lena’s guiltiest pleasure is celebrity gossip rags. I wonder if she’s also seen the things they’re saying about me. I heave another sigh, hugging Jack-the-mannequin’s torso to mine for moral support.

“Yeah, that’s a whole other issue.”

The more depositions we collect, the more unclear this case becomes. Everyone has an opinion about Teddy and Gigi’s relationship, and par for the course, they all vary wildly from each other. Her friends think he’s a scumbag. His friends think she’s a golddigger. The security team for their gated neighborhood thinks they’re a typical married couple. Their housekeeper refuses to comment. Unfortunately, Teddy’s first wife has also yet to respond to any of our attempts at contact. Quentin thinks that in itself may speak volumes. I remain unconvinced.

Auntie Lena takes Jack from me gingerly, as if I’ve drifted off somewhere and might look desperate enough to kidnap him. She plops his torso on the fake turf in the front window that reminds me of a mini golf course. Together, we survey the stacks of bright valencia tableware, clothing options mostly fun and floral, and a tangle of paper lanterns.

“I think if we just grab the yellow lawn furniture…” she considers.

I give her a resigned nod, and we make our third – or is it fourth? – trip back up the stuffy stairwell.

“Speaking of work,” I say, “when are you going to hire more help?”

“I’ve interviewed a few people,” she says, trailing behind me, “but none of them have been the right fit.”

“All you need is someone to organize merchandise and run the cash register,” I argue. “How particular do you really need to be?”

The help wanted sign has been stuck in the front window for almost three months. I’ve begged her to let me post it online, but she wants the whole thing to be “more organic”. I’ve reminded her weekly that we’re not talking about fruits and vegetables here.

“I spend a lot of time with these people,” she defends. “I don’t want them to be…”

Instead of finishing that sentence with actual words, she waves her hand vaguely.

“No, I actually have no idea what –” I pause, mimicking her hand gesture “– means. And apparently neither does anyone else. Why don’t you scope out the local gym, hang near the stairmaster? Those folks may have the skillset you’re looking for.”

She laughs, squeezing my shoulder as we come to the landing at the second floor. “Okay okay. Hint taken. It’s hot as hell up there. Let’s take a break.”

Much to Pimento’s delight, we head into the air conditioning of the second floor apartment. He weaves a figure eight around her ankles, which she navigates without ever breaking stride as she heads for the kitchen. I plop down on the well-loved pink sofa, immediately throwing my feet up on the cluttered sunburst coffee table. She returns with a neon plastic pitcher of stevia-sweetened lemonade and a pair of highball glasses adorned with a lemon pattern, pouring us each a tall glass before settling into her retro green armchair.

“I’m serious about the job ad, though. Where have you posted it?”

“Around,” she shrugs.

“Okay, as much as I love you, I am going on the record that I will not be doing this little exercise again in October.”

“It’ll be much cooler in October,” she says.

“So not the point,” I laugh.

I pause, taking a few long gulps of the refreshingly cold lemonade, but unfortunately the rest of our debate is lost to sudden chaos. When I move to set my glass down, I miss the edge of the coaster. The glass tips over with a clink, and the sticky liquid quickly begins to spread across the table. I begin grabbing magazines and junk mail instinctively, muttering curse words.

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