Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146548 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 733(@200wpm)___ 586(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Jane looks like I punctured her grand, elaborate plans for eternal life friendship. “Moffy.”
I feign confusion. “I could’ve fucking sworn I’m supposed to be your super amazing, unbiased taste-tester for all the nonalcoholic drinks.” I gesture to the bar. “Is my drink invisible?”
She smiles softly. “Fine. I’ll be solo until you change your mind.”
Last month, Jane finished her online degree and graduated from Princeton. Her deadline for finding her passion ended with the diploma. She was supposed to give up her search and become the full-time CFO of H.M.C. Philanthropies. But when I was ousted, she quit her position.
It’s an upside that I don’t forget. Because Janie as a CFO of any company sounds like a royal circle of hell for my best friend.
While Jane rattles the shaker again, I catch Thatcher risking a glance at her from the very end of the bar where he’s been standing guard on-duty.
I’ve been nice to Thatcher in the past. But Fuck Him with capital letters blares in my head on repeat. Fuck Him for punching my boyfriend. Fuck Him for thinking I’d cheat and hookup with my new bodyguard.
Fuck Him.
I drill a glare into his forehead, and he sees, rotating more towards the entrance. If he feels any sort of regret, I can’t tell. He just looks stern to me.
I rest my hand on my tight shoulder.
“Jane.” Jack Highland calls out to my cousin. The exec producer has a knee on the stool next to me. His frayed shorts and tank look more Long Beach style than Philly, and while he grips an expensive camera, he directs the lens at Jane. “Are you afraid that if your passion involves alcohol, the public might think it’s insensitive? Considering both of your uncles’ history of alcoholism?”
My head swerves to Jack. “Going with the hard-hitting questions there, Jack.” He’s filming us for We Are Calloway, and sometimes I forget he’s recording. Until the questions start rolling in.
Jack never shifts the camera off Jane. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he reminds her. “But this is naturally what people will think.”
Jane places a martini glass on the bar. “The public will always have an opinion,” she answers to Jack. We rarely speak into the camera unless it’s a sit-down interview. “So I can’t let them decide what my passion should be. Even when it’s easier pleasing other people, I need to try to be true to myself.”
“Plus,” I say to Jack and check my texts. “She loves beer.”
“Oui,” Jane smiles. “La brasserie est la semaine prochaine.” The brewery is next week.
No new texts.
I was hoping for an update from Farrow. And I’m strangely all caught up on family group messages. No unread emails. No notifications.
It’s almost like I have all this free time and no job.
Even my brain is making pitifully sad jokes. I’m an heir to multiple Fortune 500 companies. If I wanted to not work for the rest of my life, I could. My troubles are insignificant. You don’t need to tell me.
Jack translates French on his phone app and then asks, “If you’ve scheduled a brewery next week, do you already think mixology will fail?”
His questions will appear on TV with closed captions. The audience is led to believe a random producer is talking. No mention of “Jack Highland” will be on screen. You don’t know his name unless you search on IMDB.
The docuseries is cinéma vérité style. Where we acknowledge that we’re being filmed and talk directly to the producer.
Janie copies an earlier demonstration from the bartender and pours mint-green liquid into the martini glass. “I’m just following the numbers,” she says to Jack. “My success rate is zero percent. Chances are I need to have other options lined up.”
Jane plops a cherry and slides the glass to me. “Okay, give it to me, Moffy.”
She means my opinion, but the bartender interprets this differently. He makes a choked noise, then coughs to hide it.
I narrow my eyes while he wipes his hands on a dishrag.
Thatcher angles towards us again, arms crossed and out of camera shot. He glares at the bartender, who remains the only stranger in the speakeasy bar. He already signed an NDA.
All the buttoned booths and wooden tables are empty.
“That was not sexual,” Jane says to the bartender, beating me to the words. “You thinking it was—that says more about you than me.”
He fixes his fedora, cheeks reddened. “I’m sorry. I really don’t believe you two are…” He cringes, and he won’t even look at me.
My jaw is cut like sharp marble.
“I know it’s just a rumor,” he adds. That confirmation is a good indication that our FanCon tour helped.
Jane smiles more kindly than most would.
I exhale and motion to the guy. “We’ll move on if you do.” And I’d like to move on.
So would Jane. She wipes the wet counter around my nonalcoholic martini.