Jocelyn

“I take it by your message that things went superb?” Lindsay asks.

After Charli had worn herself out at the park, Boxer dropped me back at my office building. Instead of heading inside, I made my way to my car.

“Things were going well. I didn’t want to leave.” I respond as I buckle my seatbelt.

“Dare I say you sound... excited?”

“I think the playground went great! We got to talk. Boxer is really sweet, and—”

“Hold on.” Silence covers the line as Lindsay works through something in her brain. “You counted this lunch as a date. You enjoyed yourself. You sound happy, yet no business deal has been signed.”

“But—”

“You love Boxer!”

“What?!”

“You have a crush on him!”

“No, absolutely not.”

“All the signs are there,” she says. “He’s calling your cell phone—you never give out that number unless you’re really serious about someone as a client. You give them my number but never yours. You wore extra makeup today—yes, I noticed. You wore your nice black dress with an extra button undone at the top.”

My fingers fly near my throat and button it back up. “That’s not true.”

“It is too. Don’t you pretend it’s not true because you’re buttoning it up right now.”

I drop my hand, exasperated. She’s too psychic for my taste. “I’m taking a break,” I tell her. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“Flowers?”

“Yes,” I say. “Please hold my calls.”

~~

The gravesite is deserted, as it always is. Hidden out of the way from the glamour and glitter of Los Angeles, I pull onto an abandoned road on the outskirts of town.

The cemetery itself is clean, well-maintained, and I wave to the man at the front gates as I pull through. He nods back, just as he always does. We never speak, and I don’t know his name, but we’ve been through this same routine for years.

I park, thinking not for the first time that this might be the only place I don’t have to feed a meter in the entire LA metro area. Climbing from the car, I gather the bouquet of roses I bought at the nearby farmer’s market and hug it close to my chest.

“Hey, there, mom,” I murmur, strolling over to the two headstones placed next to one another. “Hi, dad.”

I kneel, clearing away some of the dirt and grime from the top of the headstone. Joseph and Prudence Jones have the same date of death, though my father was born five years before my mother. Five extra years of life.

Both of their lives ended when their car spiraled off the road during a storm and crashed. My mother died on impact, my dad one day later. At the time, despite the shock, I’d prayed for him to recover. Bargained with God, pleaded with the angels, but none of it had worked.

In retrospect, maybe it had all happened for a reason. I’d been only seven at the time, but what I could remember of their relationship shimmered in golden memories, dusted by years of happiness. Mornings filled with laughter and cups of hot chocolate, evenings drenched in moonlight as the three of us huddled under blankets in our backyard and watched for shooting stars.

We’d never seen a shooting star, I think, removing the now-dried flowers from the vase. The city was too bright for shooting stars, too polluted with light. We were going to go camping for my next birthday, but it hadn’t happened. That birthday had been spent in a foster home, and I don’t even remember how we celebrated. Or if we celebrated.

I blink, standing as I look down at the graves. I’d wished for years things hadn’t worked out like this, but wishing hadn’t gotten me anywhere. Neither had crying, and neither had hoping. Which is why I didn’t do any of that anymore.

The only thing that ever made a difference was hard work. If I filled enough hours in my day, I wasn’t plagued by the what-if’s and what could’ve beens. Falling asleep on the couch, exhausted, spares me the torturous hours spent remembering all that isn’t meant to be.

I miss them still, but I don’t cry any more. Not often, at least, and I don’t waste my breath on wishes. If I’ve learned anything in this world, it’s that life deals you a hand of cards, and sometimes that hand is pretty crappy. The only thing worse than a crappy hand of cards is giving up on the game, and I’d decided long ago that I wasn’t giving up on the game.

“There’s a guy,” I tell them, my closest confidants. I don’t stop to think whether it’s pathetic the only people I tell everything to are long dead. “His name is Boxer, and I’m not sure what to do about him.”

Of course they don’t respond, but speaking aloud makes something feel real. Them? Maybe. Or maybe it’s my way of working through problems, and this is the only place peaceful enough to speak from my heart. I don’t know.

“He’s a really nice guy,” I tell them. “I want him on my roster, but... ugh. I don’t know. I just can’t stop thinking about him.”

There. I’ve admitted it. Though I’ve only voiced it to my parents, gone nearly two decades, it’s something. Lindsay’s right. I like Boxer. I like him a lot—which is a huge problem.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say, still talking to air, to the whispers of a past life. “I’m a business woman. If I start mixing business and pleasure, I have the potential to lose everything. My clients, my reputation, my sole source of income.”

A breeze ruffles the grass, but I’m too distracted to shiver. It’s a cool January day, the sun that had shone so merrily at the park is now hidden behind the clouds.

“It’s not an option for me to look for something personal with Boxer. He made it plenty clear over lunch today that we have a strict business-only relationship.” I cross my arms, unable to ignore the larger gust of wind, and hug my body for warmth. “He’s got a daughter, and from the way he speaks about Charli, he’s not looking to introduce a new woman into his life—to their life, and their family. I’d be chiseling my way into a place I don’t belong.”

I pace back and forth, lost in the imagination of what that might look like. A life with Boxer, with Charli. A life as a mother, with one child at least, and the potential for more. It’s a future I haven’t much considered for myself. And frankly, I don’t know why I’m wasting time envisioning it now—I learned long ago that wishing doesn’t do much good.

I rest a hand against my mother’s name. “I think I’m going insane, mom. All of these nights eating Lean Cuisine by myself—maybe Lindsay’s right. I’m imagining a life with a man who doesn’t even like me. At least, not in any sort of real way. How sad is that?”

She doesn’t answer, but there’s a melancholy note to the air. It’s depressing, difficult to breathe. “I’m trying to sign him on as a client, but it doesn’t feel right. He’s not... he’s not out for money. I want him because he’ll get scooped up for big endorsements, and we’ll both make loads of cash. I’m using him, and it’s not fair.”

I can almost hear her asking why. Why I need him as a client at all. Lindsay’s voice pops into my head, too, echoing the sentiment. You don’t need the money, why not ask him on a date?

“Because!” I stand up and unfold my arms from across my chest. “If he says no, then I’ll lose him as a client and as a friend. If I have him as a client, at the very least I can make sure he’s taken care of, and Charli, too. That’s more than Andy will do.”

I’m breathing heavily, my chest heaving as I sort through my options. Business or pleasure, neither or both. The latter two options are just not going to work for me. The second option is too risky. Which leaves me with only one option—the same route I’ve been on since the beginning.

Secure Boxer as a client. Stop daydreaming that it could be something more, and take care of him and his daughter as best I can financially. It’s the only way that everyone ends up happy.

I think.

Before I can wonder where it leaves me on the happiness spectrum, my phone rings, and I’m grateful for the distraction. I click answer, straighten the flowers, and make my way back to the car.

“Jocelyn,” I say into the mouthpiece. “Who’s this?”

“Matthew Lucas,” a clipped, New York accent says. “I’m calling about the endorsement deal for ComfortBox.”

“Yes! What can I do for you?”

“Landon Boxer. Are you working with him yet? I’m not holding the spot open any longer. We want him, but if he’s not ready to move forward, we’re going with someone else.”

“Give me a week.”

“Two days.”

“Done,” I say with a smile.

That’s why I’ve succeeded in my career. I didn’t need a week to get the job done, I needed twenty-four hours. Now I’ve got two days, and that’ll be plenty of time.

I take one last look at my parents’ names, catching myself on the verge of a wish. I almost wished they could hear me, offer me advice, lead me to the right answer. To what question? I’m not even sure. All I can say for certain is that I like Boxer too much to corral him like I would any other client. If I can’t act on my feelings for him, the least I can do is make sure he’s happy.

A sense of peace rests on my shoulders as I turn away, a lightness in my chest. I’ve never quite figured out if it’s the act of speaking aloud, or remembering my parents, or what it is about these cemetery visits that eases my mind, but I keep coming back, and I keep solving my problems. It’s a little bit like magic.

And I plan to keep coming back again and again, and maybe a solution to my latest problem will present itself in time.