Page 2 of Sure Shot
“Okay.” I hesitate. “So you don’t, um, have my phone, right?”
“Nope!” Alex says cheerfully. “You’ll have to wait five more minutes to get your baby back. Eric left this for you, though.” She reaches into her laptop bag and pulls out a big manila envelope.FOR BESS, it reads.These are the big emergency items from your week away.Do not open this until after the party! No cheating! We have a deal.
When I squeeze the envelope, I realize it’s awfully thick. I lay it down on the seat beside me while the limo inches forward in traffic.
I last atleastten seconds before I grab it off the seat and slip my finger under the flap, tearing it open.
“Uh-oh,” Alex says. “I thought you weren’t supposed to—”
“Shh!” I hiss. “Don’t rat me out, okay? Girl code.” I pull the pages out of the envelope. The top one says.GOT YOU!And when I flip to the one beneath, it reads,THERE WEREN’T ANY EMERGENCIES. And the one beneath that says,NOW YOU OWE ME A SUSHI LUNCH.
“Goddamn it!” I squeak. “Your man is such a jerk!”
“What did he… Oh my God.” Alex covers her mouth and laughs. “I’m sorry. That is so rude.”
“This isentrapment,” I sputter. “This would never stand up in court.”
“Oh, Bess,” Alex says. “How did you not see that coming?”
I drop the envelope onto the leather seat in disgust. “That’s just mean. I didn’t even cheat on this vacation. I didn’t look at my email, or even at the hockey news.”
For the first time since I’d started my own business six years ago, I’d left it all behind for ten days in Vermont with my brother and sister-in-law. It was time for me to make some changes in my life, and the vacation had been a first symbolic step.
Alex grabs the envelope and shoves it back in her bag. Then she pulls out her phone. “I’m texting him to tell him that we’re almost there. And also—as referee—that I consider this an illegal maneuver.”
“So illegal.” I pout.
She tucks the phone away and smiles at me. “Don’t be mad at Eric. He’s on your side.”
“I know,” I admit. “And you can take the boy out of the locker room, but you can’t take the locker room out of the boy.” Pranking people is a basic life skill in professional sports.
“Eric will have to make it up to you. Ask him for something fancy for your birthday. Are you doing anything special tomorrow?”
My birthday. The big 3-0. Honestly, I’m trying not to dwell on it. “My brother is taking me out for dinner. And then he’ll head back to Vermont the following day.”
“Make Dave take you to a musical,” Alex suggests. “The Book of Mormonis funny.”
I laugh out loud. “Can you imagine my brother sitting through a musical?”
“Then you definitely should ask. I mean—it’s your first birthday in New York!”
Except it isn’t. And this is the other reason I’ve been trying not to think about my birthday. Right after college I’d lived in Manhattan for three years, before moving back to Detroit to start my own business.
One month into my fledgling New York City career as a sports agent, I’d turned twenty-one. The night of my birthday had been magical and unexpected. It began at a business dinner and ended in the well-muscled arms of a sexy stranger.
Every year on my birthday I remember that night, but this year the memory really haunts me. I’m turning thirty, I’m still single, and I’m starting over in New York. So I’m feeling extra wistful. I’d been such a starry-eyed little optimist at twenty-one. I had thought my life was going to be a long montage of fancy dinners and passionate kisses.
Actually, the fancy dinners still happen. I’m on my way to a billionaire’s backyard party right now. My life is amazing.
The passion, though? That turned out to be short-lived.
But I’m working on that, I promise myself. I’m making some changes already. I’ve moved to Brooklyn and hired Eric, for starters.
The rest of the changes aren’t so easy to pull off. My business is flourishing, but my personal life is stunted. That’s why I spent part of my vacation drawing up a new five-year plan for my life. It’s indexed and color-coded. I’m ready.
“Here we are, ladies!” Duff says from the driver’s seat. He glides to a stop in front of Nate Kattenberger’s mansion on Pierrepont Place.
Eric Bayer opens the limo’s backdoor immediately, leaning in to smile at us. “Hey! All my favorite women in one place.”
