Kissing Galileo Read online

  Turning onto her street, I felt galvanized to continue speaking my mind on the subject. “It’s not something you should be ashamed of. It’s just a job. I understand why you’d only want people you trust to know, but you should be able to trust your friends not to judge you.”

  “Calm down there, Gail.” I heard the teasing in her tone and knew Gail was a reference to Oprah Winfrey’s best friend. Whenever I became indignant on Emily’s behalf, she called me Gail. Inside joke. “I guess you’re right. I should tell her. I trust her. She’s a lot like you, actually.”

  “How so?” I worked to keep my voice light but being compared to Emily’s female best friend caused my tongue to taste like lemons. I liked Anna. I respected Anna. But I didn’t want to be another Anna to Emily.

  Then what are you doing? What is this? What do you want from her?

  Friendship.

  Liar.

  She distracted me from the frustrated voice in my head by saying, “You’re both smart. And nonjudgmental. And witty.”

  Okay. I liked that comparison.

  “I try to avoid ignorantly judgmental people as much as possible. It would make me intensely hypocritical if I was one.” I said this last part with more vehemence than I’d intended.

  “Yeah. You’re not intensely hypocritical. More hypocrite-lite.”

  I chuckled, pulling into a parking space outside her building. “Aren’t we all, though?”

  “Exactly.” She also laughed, but the sound tapered quickly, and her eyes turned searching. “Can I ask you a deeply personal question? You don’t have to answer. But, before I ask, you should know that I understand how deeply personal it is.”

  I hesitated, feeling my muscles tense and brace, my mind scrambling through possibilities and contingency plans should she ask something too personal. And what would I do if she asked me how I felt about her? If she asked me point-blank, I wouldn’t be able to lie.

  Would that be such a bad thing?

  “As long as you don’t mind the truth.” I paused to clear my throat, and then added, “You might not like my answer, and I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.”

  “Understood.” Her nod was faster than mine and she twisted to face me in her seat as I cut the engine. “Why’d you decide to lose the weight? I mean, what was the catalyst? What made you do it?”

  Oh.

  I relaxed and frowned, disappointed by her question for no discernable reason. Looking at her, it was easy to perceive this question, and my reaction to it had made her anxious.

  Putting her at ease was my first priority. I gave her a soft smile and kept my voice light. “It’s not a big mystery. I was experiencing joint pain, back pain. My doctor said I was pre-diabetes and my heart was in bad shape. That’s not the case for everyone who weighs what I did, but it was the case for me. At the airfield, safety and mobility were concerns in particular. I needed my body to work consistently, reliably, so it became clear I had to work for my body.”

  Her nerves seemed to dissipate as I spoke. “So, it was about being healthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the charity thing? Didn’t you raise money for a charity?”

  My eyelids lowered by half and I swallowed an abrupt, irrepressible bitterness. “That’s right,” I said numbly. Just thinking about it, the charity, still filled me with cold rage.

  I must’ve done a substandard job masking my feelings on the subject because Emily frowned at me, snatching my hand where it rested on my thigh and holding it with both of hers. “What? What happened? What’s that? What’s that look? Did I make you angry? Why do you look like that?”

  I exhaled, rolling my eyes at myself. “It’s a—it’s not a good story.”

  “Tell me. Tell me the bullet points if you don’t want to tell the whole thing. Just the movie version is fine.”

  The ice in my veins fizzled, warmed under her scrutiny, and I turned my hand to capture one of hers, bringing it back to my thigh and cradling it there. I studied her fingers as I spoke. “It was a setup.”

  “A—a setup?”

  “Yes. My father arranged it. He orchestrated the whole thing.” I’d been so stupid.

  “It was fake? They didn’t donate the money?”

  “Oh no, he had to donate it. He promised.” This was hard to explain, but for some reason I wanted to try. I wanted to tell her. “My father, he never—he didn’t—he hated what I looked like. He always hated how heavy I was. When I’d go to his house, as a kid, he’d put me on a diet.” And call me names, make me run behind the car, threaten to send me to fat camp. . . But she didn’t need to hear about all that. “Anyway, I started going to the gym on campus shortly after being hired. I ran into one of his friends—Professor Wilson, he also teaches research methods—and he apparently told my father that he’d seen me working out. So my father arranged the whole thing, secretly, making it a contest for charity. Dr. Wilson was the one who told me about it and suggested I go for it, enlisting a few other people in the program to also join. I didn’t find out that my father was behind the whole thing until after the check had been cut.”

  She looked horrified. “What? You mean he—it was all a deception? To get you to—”

  “Lose the weight, yeah. Extra incentive, and it worked.”

  “Oh my God. I’m—I’m so sorry.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know if I would’ve done it for myself. The deception definitely worked, perhaps the ends justified the means.” I stared unseeingly beyond her. The sun had just set, and a hazy twilight had taken its place. “He said to me, the week after it was all over, that it was the only time he’d ever donated money to a charity. But that every dollar had been worth it, now he was no longer ashamed to call me his son.”

  Chapter 14

  *Emily*

  “I think my coat hangers are out to destroy me.”

  “Not this again.”

  “What? I’ve never talked about my coat hangers before.” Anna narrowed her 100 percent unperturbed eyeballs, impressing me with her ability to chop onions without crying.

  “Yes. But you always think inanimate objects are out to destroy you.”

  “Because they are.”

  “Fine. How are your coat hangers plotting your doom?” I lowered the heat on our noodles and added a dash of olive oil. It was spaghetti night. We hadn’t had spaghetti night in a long, long time.

  “I go to pull my coat off of its hanger, right?” She popped a bit of diced onion in her mouth and chewed. “And it catches on my purple dress behind it—which was nowhere near the coat—and pulls my purple dress off its hanger and onto the floor of the closet, right on top of my muddy boots. Which means I have to get the dress dry-cleaned—again—before this weekend.”

  “Your wet boots? Which closet was this?”

  “The front closet, by the door.”

  “Why wasn’t your dress in your bedroom closet?”

  “You’re not listening. How is it possible that pulling out my coat could’ve caused a catastrophic clothing casualty? The coat was nowhere near the dress!”

  “Maybe it’s the dress, not the hangers.”

  “How do you mean?” Anna placed her hand on her hip, her expression far too serious for the ridiculousness of this conversation.

  “Perhaps your purple dress has masochistic tendencies and it’s not the hangers at all.”

  “Hmm. That’s a thought.” Now she rubbed her chin. “I’ll let you know if I’m suddenly inspired to have Luca spank me when I wear it and report back.”

  “ANNA!”

  “What?”

  “Overshare,” I said through my laughter.

  “What? How are scientific findings overshare? And what if the purple dress does make me a masochist? Wouldn’t you want to know? Maybe you’d like to borrow it for a hot date.”

  Still chuckling, I split my attention between her and my spaghetti sauce. “Yeah. Not likely anytime soon.”

  “Hey, so.” Anna wagged her eyebrows. “You and Professor Hanover sure are spending a lot of time together.”

  I frowned before I could halt the tragic change in my expression and had the displeasure of watching my friend’s face fall as a result.

  Pasting a persevering smile on my mouth, I concentrated on stirring the tomato sauce. “Not really. I only see him once a week or so.” We text every day, but that doesn’t count.

  She paused her onion chopping. “Anything you want to tell me?”

  “Nah.”

  “Nothing?”

  Unbidden, my brain conjured Victor’s handsome, earnest face. Also unbidden, remembering the story he’d told me (about his father and the deception and the charity) after my car-fail. How could anyone be so unfeeling toward their own child? And how had that lifetime of cruelty shaped my beloved, sweet Victor? I couldn’t shake the intermittent plagues of angry and melancholy now that I knew the whole story, they followed me around like gnats.

  “As I’ve told you many times, Victor and I are just friends.”

  She gave me a small smile, openly inspecting me. “Well, there’s nothing ‘just’ about friends. Friends are the best.”

  “Yes. The best.” I worked to return her warm expression, but my eyes were having none of it.

  “So, uh, how’s your car? Is it all fixed?” Her tone sounded studiously casual.

  I’d told her that my car had broken down and was presently in the shop. I hadn’t told her that the shop was one of the large airplane or jet or whatever hangars where Victor built his planes. I don’t know why I hadn’t told her the whole story; it was definitely the kind of thing I would usually tell Anna right away, but talking about Victor these days felt personal.

  Which obviously didn’t make any sense since we were just friends. Just. Friends.


  “It’ll be another two weeks. They’re replacing the engine.”

  “Oh, yikes. That sounds expensive.”

  “Actually, no. I got a good deal.” Victor hadn’t been lying when he said he could fix up my car, nor had he been stretching the truth when he’d claimed he could do it on the cheap.

  “Still though.” Anna looked distressed. “Do you want me to talk to the restaurant and see if they have any openings before or after your post office shifts? You were a good waitress before college, and the tips there are mighty fine. Maybe you could just replace the car?”

  I stilled, my hand stopping mid-stir, and I stared at the bubbling surface of the tomato sauce. The conversation with Victor about my job had been on repeat in my brain for the last week. It’s not something you should be ashamed of. It’s just a job. I understand why you’d only want people you trust to know, but you should be able to trust your friends not to judge you.

  I’d been thinking about these words constantly. He was right. He was so right. I’d withheld this part of my life from Anna and my other friends because I didn’t trust them not to judge me or look at me differently. I preached about accepting other people, about being honest, about trust and bravery, but I’d been a coward.

  If I wanted and expected honesty from others, a chance to prove that I practiced what I preached, then I had to be honest as well.

  “Anna.” I set the spoon down and turned off the burner for the sauce, facing my friend, my best friend.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to tell you something.” Clasping my hands in front of me, I shifted my weight from foot to foot.

  Her eyes grew impossibly large. “You’re pregnant.”

  “What? No!”

  “Eh, I knew it was a long shot. But I’ve always wanted to be a godmother. What is it?”

  I shook my head. “This is serious.”

  “Oh. Serious. Okay.” She ceased onion chopping and wiped her hands on a towel. “You have my full attention.”

  My bloodstream was a river of guilt, thundering between my years. Gah. GAH GAH GAH! This was hard. My nose suddenly stung.

  “I’ve been lying to you. For two years.” Why do I feel like crying?

  Her expression turned solemn. “Okay. About what?”

  “My job.”

  “Your job.”

  “I’m not a postal worker. I don’t sort mail.”

  “You don’t work at the post office?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Okaaaay. Then what do you do?”

  “I’m a . . . a . . .” I sucked in a breath, held it, watched her through bracing, squinted eyes. “I’m a lingerie model down at the Pinkery.”

  Anna reared back, just a little, and her gaze darted down and then up. “You’re a what?”

  “Mainly stage three naked garments.”

  “Stage naked three who?”

  I covered my face. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I lied!”

  My friend was quiet for a moment—a long moment—during which my imagination attempted to go wild with worst-case scenarios as per usual until she said,

  “I’m so confused.”

  I peeked through my fingers. “About what?” My words were muffled because my hands were still in front of my face.

  Her nose wrinkled with plain confusion. “You model lingerie?”

  I nodded, my fingers sliding from my face to twist in front of my stomach.

  “Okay. But why would you keep this a secret from me? Why tell me you worked at the post office?”

  “You ask that question, but I think you know the answer.”

  She reared back again, her mouth dropping open. “Are you implying what I’m inferring?” I knew that face, that was her I’m extremely offended face.

  “Maybe?” My voice was high and strained.

  Anna heaved a sad sound and shuffled a few steps forward. “Emily Von. I don’t even know what to say to you right now.” Her hands came to her chest. “I am your best friend. Your best friend. Why would I possibly care what your job is? Do you really think I’m like that?”

  “No,” I said on an exhale, feeling abruptly tired. “No. I don’t. I don’t think you’re like that. Not at all.”

  “And yet you pretended to have a job at the post office.”

  “I was a coward.”

  “Yeah. You were.” Anna crossed her arms, the set of her jaw telling me she was angry. “Anything else you’re not telling me? Is this really your apartment? Is your car really in the shop?”

  Oh jeez. Now I had to tell her about Victor fixing my car. “Yes, this is my apartment. But . . .”

  “But?” Her eyebrows jumped high on her forehead. “But what?”

  “My car is in the shop, but Victor is the one doing the work. It’s in one of the hangars where he works on airplanes. I’m paying for the parts and we’re making a trade for his time.”

  She perked up, her irritation replaced by curiosity. “A trade? What does that mean?”

  “He’s fixing my car, body work and everything, and I’m doing lit searches for a grant he’s writing.”

  “Huh. Well, that’s cool of him.”

  “Yes. It is. And I’m also going to help him at the shop this Saturday morning, before work.”

  Now she frowned again. “You mean, before your job as a lingerie model?”

  “I’m not a model.”

  “You model lingerie, Emily. You’re a model.”

  “It’s in a private showroom, one client at a time. It’s not like I walk on a runway.”

  She didn’t seem to be listening. “No wonder you work out all the time and won’t eat my baked goods. I just thought you stopped liking my cookies.”

  “Oh no, I love your cookies. But garter belts and thongs don’t.”

  “Yikes.” Anna’s eyes grew rounded and she grimaced, but then her gaze turned introspective and she leaned back on the counter. “You know . . . I get it.”

  I ceased twisting my fingers and again clasped my hands in front of me. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I get why you didn’t tell me.” Her gaze flickered to mine and then away, her lips twisting to the side. “I’ve been known—on occasion—to make fun of Victoria Secret models, their poses, the expressions on their faces, how they lounge so sexily, how their bathrobes never seem to fit or stay on their shoulders.”

  “Yes, but I do too. If you remember, we used to make fun of those catalogs together.”

  “You know, I’d never considered that maybe their bathrobes have masochistic tendencies.” Her lips curved into a small smile. Picking up the knife again, she poked at the chopped onions with the tip.

  “It would explain a lot.” Watching my friend, her unfocused gaze on the onions, my heart constricted hopefully. “I am so sorry, Anna. I should have told you.”

  “You shouldn’t have lied,” she said firmly, and then gave me her eyes. They were full of sincerity and understanding. “But maybe I should be more open-minded too. It’s so easy, to split girls into sexy or nerdy, smart or pretty. One or the other. Us versus them. ‘There are two kinds of women, those who do xyz, or those who do abc.’ But that’s not true. There are billions of types of women, infinite possible combinations, and people change over time. Why do we want to regulate ourselves into a tidy little box? Limit ourselves?”

  “Because the idea of infinite possibilities can be frightening?”

  “Maybe.” She nodded absentmindedly.

  “Do you forgive me?”

  Her eyes cut to mine and she looked at me like I was crazy. “What are you talking about? Of course. Of course I do. I’m glad you told me, and I’m sorry you thought for one second that you couldn’t.”

  “I was being stupid.” I stumbled over to her—relieved, so relieved—opening my arms for a hug. “I will try to stop being so stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid.” Enfolding me in her arms, we rocked back and forth, and I felt her sigh before adding, “I love you, Em. I’ll always love you. Maybe even more now that I know why you won’t eat my cookies.”

  I gasped, my hand flying to my chest. “How dare you!”

  Victor turned, his questioning gaze moving down and then up. “What? What did I say?”

  “Pluto is a planet!”