Love in Lingerie - Grayson Dolan & Alissa Violet

2

Her.

"You got the job? Oh honey, that's terrific!" My mother's voice pumps out from my cell phone, and I can picture her legs moving, one hot pink lycra-ed leg before the other, her free hand swinging, as she moves down the street. "I am so proud of you! Do you like your new boss?"

"I'm not sure yet." I open the fridge and stare at the contents.

"I'm sure you will, I can just feel it." She inhales. "Plus, it's a new moon tomorrow, and that will help." There is the blare of a horn, and the muffled sound of her cursing. I put her on speaker and set the phone down on the counter. When she returns, her voice is bright and cheerful. "So! I'm assuming you gave L&L your two-week notice?"

"I tried. They had security escort me out."

"What?" I can almost hear the screech of her tennis shoes against the pavement.

"It's standard, Mom. They don't want me messing anything up on my way out."

"Well, that's ridiculous. I'm so sorry, Alissa." She huffs into the phone.

I find a box of stuffed green peppers in the freezer and pull it out. "Anyway, you can tell Jess tonight. It's not a secret."

"Are you sure you can't come? I've got plenty of food. And you can bring Craig! It'll be fun." Her voice pitches, as if in protest of her words, and I bite back a smile. There are many definitions of fun, but Craig and I—around my sister and her five kids—is never fun, at least not for him. It's entertaining for Jess and I, especially if Mom's pulled out the wine, but it is excruciatingly painful for him. And tonight, as much as I would enjoy seeing them all—I need some space, a quiet night to celebrate my time at Lavern & Lilly, and my fresh start at Dolan's Lingerie. "Another time. Give everyone a hug from me."

She promises to do so, and I turn on the oven as she hangs up. I call Craig, leaving him a voicemail with the good news, and then I go out to the garage, opening the car's trunk and grabbing the first cardboard box, carrying it into the apartment before returning for the second, and then the third.

Eleven years at L&L and all of it fits into three boxes. I open the first one, and pick through the contents. With the second box, I grab wine and put the green peppers in the oven. Before opening the third box, filled with nostalgia, I eat.

I find a framed photo from just before my Parsons graduation, with my old best friends. Four of us, all with maxed out credit cards and big dreams, clinking sugar-rimmed martini glasses in a dark club somewhere in Manhattan. I haven't looked at the photo in years, and haven't spoken to them in almost that long. Meredith is in Seattle now, Jen is in Miami, and Julie and I got in a fight four years ago and haven't spoken since. I wipe the dust off the frame and return it to the box, not interested in seeing it every day, not interested in feeling the pang of regret. Maybe I should call Julie. I take a long pull of wine and discard the idea. Truth be told, I haven't really missed her.

I sift through a pile of business cards, dropping a few of them into the kitchen trash. Maybe Craig and I can find new friends. He has a group he wants to join—Mensa—and brought home membership tests last week, his application already completed, typed into the form with neat precision. Apparently there are weekly events, parties where intelligence is tested and carefully orchestrated mingling occurs.

I haven't taken my membership test yet. It's an IQ exam, one that ignores any fashion abilities or reality-tv knowledge. Craig has pushed me to take it, sending reminders by email, spare tests brought to every date. I almost took it yesterday, but I'm torn over whether or not to cheat on it. My conscience says no. My common sense says that it's a stupid Mensa test and morals aren't really in play, but my fiancé's respect is. On the man's eHarmony profile, he had "intelligence" as his most important quality, above cleanliness and personality. Before our first date, he had asked for my GMAT scores. I may have overinflated mine a teensy bit out of competitive pride.