Hello Stranger(63)

Add to my list of grievances: Strappy sandals that were giving me a blister. A phone with three percent battery. The moment when I forgot my purse in a waiting room and had to race back to find it. Not to mention: The art store was still out of linden-green gouache, and the grocery store was out of the only vet-recommended dog food that Peanut would eat.

By the time I limped home, the sun was setting, my Achilles tendon was stinging, and I felt like the day was positively bullying me. Somewhere along the way, I’d started keeping a mental tally of the insults and injuries—almost as if I could submit the list and demand a refund.

Even the prospect of seeing Joe that night felt like an attack. Either he wouldn’t tell me about Parker—which would be bad. Or he would tell me—which would be worse.

One thing I knew: I did not want to know.

But there was no wriggling out of any of it. The only way out of this day was through. So as I geared up for the home stretch, I stopped at Bean Street for a half-caf latte—for both comfort and caffeine.

And that’s when Parker descended upon me, just as Hazel One handed me my coffee.

“Lucinda’s been trying to reach you all day,” Parker said.

Parker. Of course. Who else would reek of Poison and know that about Lucinda?

“Yeah. Well. I’ve been kind of busy.”

“I bet you have.”

She wanted me to ask her what that was supposed to mean. So I didn’t.

She went on. “Saw you smooching the Vespa guy last night. Which of course provoked me to retaliate.”

Retaliate? What did that mean? Did that explain his morning walk of shame? Had she shown up at his door at midnight in a bustier and garters? I felt disloyal to myself admitting this, but Parker was, technically, a good-looking person. She had enough to work with in the looks department that she could have pulled off a stunt like that.

She wanted me to react to that. So I didn’t.

And then I had a freeing thought. I didn’t have to stand here.

I could just … leave.

I didn’t have to stay. I didn’t have to let her push my buttons. I didn’t want to let this escalate. I just wanted to get outside. I could see the sunshine just past the windows.

I started walking toward the exit doors. But Parker followed me. I’d just reached them when she caught up.

“You didn’t let me give you my news,” she said. “I’m coming to your show.”

And there it was. So much for just leaving. She got me. I turned back. “My what?”

“Your little art thingy.”

The portrait show? The biggest, most important moment in my entire career? She was coming to that? “You can’t,” I said. “You’re not invited.”

But she shook her head and shrugged. “Open to the public. It’s on the website.”

“You’re not invited,” I said again.

“Sure I am.”

“You can’t.” Then, panicking—looking for a strong enough word: “I forbid it.”

She looked at me like I was contemptibly funny. “Lucinda and Daddy and I are all going.”

Had Parker just called my father Daddy? Nobody called my father Daddy. Not even me.

“We’re going to make a night of it,” she went on.

“No,” I said.

She went on, “Maybe hit a Brazilian steakhouse for dinner. Too bad you can’t join.”

“No,” I said again.

She absolutely loved how furious this was making me. “No what?” she asked, knowing perfectly well.

“No. This is my thing. And I don’t want you there.”

“That’s so funny,” she said. “Because, as usual, I don’t think you can stop me.” Then she waved at me all cutesy, like Buh-bye, before seeming to remember one last thing. “Oh! Did you get my comment?”

I shook my head. Curious, despite myself.

“The one I left at your Etsy store today.” Then she gave me a mischievous shrug and turned to go.

But I guess this was when the tsunami started to reach the shore. “Why?” I called after her.

Parker turned.

“Why?” I said again—all the pressure in my body making the sound tight and sharp. “Why, why, why, why, why can’t you just leave me the hell alone?”

And there it was. She got me in the end. As always. And now her work was done. “I don’t know,” she said with a cheerful shrug before turning to walk away. “It’s just so fun to watch you fall apart.”

I blinked after her for a second, and then I turned to push out the doors and escape into the sunshine. But as I did, all that building anger somehow shot into my arm like a bolt of lightning—and I accidentally on purpose slammed the coffee-shop door behind me.

The glass coffee-shop door.

Which, apparently—I was about to discover—had a broken soft-close hinge.

Because when I slammed it? It slammed. Hard.

It felt satisfying for a second, I’ll admit. But then, as if in slo-mo, all the glass popped, shattered, and rained to the floor.

I turned back at the sound and stared at the violence of what I’d done. The gaping hole of the empty doorframe. Glass everywhere. People staring. All movement and conversation frozen. A teenager started filming with his phone.