8. CASSANDRA

“What are the three greatest words in the English language?”

It’s not exactly the greeting I’m expecting when Tricia opens the door to her apartment, but I can play along.

“I don’t know,” I say as she ushers me in. “I love you?”

“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Wine. Sweatpants. Popcorn.” She counts out each one on a separate finger.

“Let me guess: you have all of them?”

“In spades.”

She leads me into the living room. Her place is a lot like her: bold and funky. The furniture is an eclectic mix of antiques and garage sale chic. A Matisse print and a portrait of dogs playing poker share space on the wall of the dining area.

In another place, in another time, it would look tacky. But not with Tricia.

Here, now, it fits.

I take a seat on an ancient sofa that sinks almost to the floor as it accepts my weight, leaving my knees almost under my chin. Tricia flops down in an overstuffed armchair that’s covered in a material that resembles fur, assuming there are pink-haired mammals somewhere in the world.

“I hope you’re okay with pinot grigio,” she says, pouring us each a glass of the straw-colored liquid. “I’m a sucker for a sale.”

“If it’s cold and it has alcohol in it, I’m okay with it,” I say, offering up my wine glass in an ironic cheer. “Besides, our days of buying wine on sale are rapidly coming to an end.”

Tricia pulls her oversized plastic bowl of popcorn into her lap with childlike glee.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” she asks, eyes glowing.

“It does indeed. Miranda Winthrop said if we can put up $3.5 million, Tate Capital will put up the rest for a two-thirds stake.”

She lets out a long breath and shakes her head. “It just seems like so much. I mean, all I have is a little equity in the building and what I have in retirement savings. That’s not even, what, two hundred thousand.”

“I told you to leave it to me.” I tilt my glass back and feel the chill glide down my throat, taste the fruity tartness on the back of my tongue. That’s the stuff.

“It’s easy to say that. It’s something else to do it.”

“I also told you I have someone on the hook who’s looking to buy the goodwill in my consulting business. My client list is worth $3 million on its own.”

That’s a flat-out lie, but Tricia never needs to know. I’ve been telling lies for a living for almost eight years now; I’m an expert in it.

But I am – partly – telling the truth. I will have the money soon; it just won’t be coming from the sale of my business.

After all, how could it? The business doesn’t exist. It never did, outside of a PO box address and a phone number that goes straight to voicemail.

“Besides,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast. “Miranda is absolutely gaga about your shop.”

“She said that?”

“Well, not those exact words, but the sentiment was there.”

She grins and drains her glass. I follow suit and pour us two more. We both stuff a handful of popcorn into our mouths and chew noisily, then giggle like girls.

“So,” I say. “Are you ready to be a big shot?”

“I honestly don’t know. I mean, I come from a working class family. My parents freaked out when I told them I wanted to open an ice cream shop. To this day they think I should drop it all and try to find a government job.”

Government job. My stomach cramps a bit at that. I’m currently in the process of leaving a government job, even though my name isn’t officially on any government records. Anywhere. No 401K, no benefits package.

“My dad works for the government,” I say. That much is true.

“There’s something to be said for a steady paycheck and job security.”

Job security only works when you know you’ll be home safe at the end of the workday. I never knew from one day to the next whether I’d even be alive, let alone still have a job.

I munch on some more popcorn and wash it down with more pinot. “I think there’s something limiting in that, though. You give up something in exchange for that security.”

“What do you mean, give up?”

“Jobs are about conforming to standards and following rules, especially with government. You give up your creativity, your individuality.”

She nods. “I see what you’re saying. I can’t picture you ever working for government. You’re way too smart to make a damn fool move like that.”

I’m terrible at taking compliments, always have been. And, like always, I’m still blushing. But Tricia’s right: a government job that wasn’t in the CIA probably would have driven me around the bend. Using my wits is what makes me happy, gives me purpose. Makes me feel like I’m doing something important.

The problem with the job, of course, is all the horrors that are part and parcel of trying to keep America safe for democracy.

Tricia gives me an appraising look. “I wonder what you were like in high school,” she says. “I bet that gorgeous red mop and your big brain made you the most popular girl in school. Am I right?”

I smile ruefully. “You couldn’t be more wrong. We moved around a lot, so I was always the new girl. And despite what you may think, the other kids tend to hate you when you blow the grading curve with your scores. And this?” I take a handful of my curls. “It was a lot redder and a lot frizzier in those days. And I was built like an artist’s model.”

“You mean curvy?”

“No, I mean like one of those featureless wooden figures that they pose into different positions. Calling my breasts mosquito bites would be overselling them.”

Tricia giggles and takes another sip. I down the rest of mine in a gulp. Thinking about those days always makes me feel uncomfortable.

“Did you have a boyfriend?” she asks, leaning forward and putting her elbows on her knees. “Give me the dirty details!”

I break eye contact and look away. Suddenly my heart hurts.

“For awhile,” I say. “But there wasn’t anything dirty. And it didn’t last.”

“So you two didn’t…?”

I blush again. “No. I’ve never actually… you know.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I just never had the time for a relationship,” I blurt. “And I never found the right guy again.”

How the hell did we end up in this discussion? This is the absolute last thing I want to be talking about right now, given my circumstances.

“Again? So you’re saying High School Boy was the right guy?”

“Look, can we talk about something else, please?” Anything else.

Tricia gets out of her chair and sits next to me on the sofa. She takes my hands in hers.

“Honey, the ‘losing it’ part is no great shakes,” she says. “But once you get that out of the way, it’s amazing what can happen. I mean, ah-may-zing.”

Once you get that out of the way. I won’t be in suspense much longer in that department. I guess that means I’ll be able to move on to the ah-may-zing part sooner. That’s a positive thing.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll start to believe it.