Can I See You Again? by Allison Morgan Page A

house . . . what am I going to do?”
    â€œI have fifteen hundred in a CD,” Andrew says in a voice so tender it nearly splits my heart in pieces. “She’s my grandmother, too, you know.”
    And he means it. He really does. Given the arm’s-length distance at which his parents keep him, Jo’s the only family he really has.
    I reach out and stroke his hand. “Thanks, love, but I can’t take your money.”
    â€œThey’re here.” Randi steps into the break room. She swallows the last of her drink and tosses the empty cup into the trash. “Do not make me look like a goddamn fool. Your guy has exactly thirty seconds to walk through that door.” She storms out.
    Auction. Auction. Auction.
    â€œThere’s a way to come up with the rest of the money, you know,” he says.
    â€œHow? Sell my body on the street corner?”
    â€œThe escalator clause.”
    He’s right. If I pool together my available funds and Andrew’s sweet contribution, the bonus will put us at the mark. It’d be enough.
    â€œThat means my book has to make the list.”
    â€œIt does.”
    â€œAnd I have to find a boyfriend.”
    â€œThat, too.”
    â€œAnd I have to lie.”
    â€œIt’s the only way you can save Jo’s house.”
    â€œBree, let’s go,” Randi orders.
    â€œWhat are you going to do?” Andrew asks.
    I have no idea.

    â€œHello, welcome,” Randi says, greeting a woman hidden behind a pair of tortoise-shell sunglasses. Her hair is platinum and straight and angled sharp below bronzed cheekbones. She’s a sauntering blend of sophistication and edginess, dressed in black leggings, a taupe cashmere tunic, and sleek nude stilettos.
    â€œIt’s good to see you, Randi.” A chunky ivory bracelet slips toward her elbow as the woman slides her glasses on top of her head.
    â€œNo way. It’s Candace Porter,” I whisper to Andrew, who stepped close. “I recognize her from past articles in the
Close-Up
section. She won the Excellence in Feature Writing award the last three years. God, Andrew, Candace Porter is one of the most well-known journalists in Southern California. She was the first to interview that transgender football player, remember?”
    Not to mention, she’s married to a Los Angeles Kings hockey player and the pair is often spotted at trendy bars, hotels, and restaurants. Not only does she write for the paper, but photos of her frequent the
Who’s Who
section.
    She’s the kind of person that you love to hate until you get to know her and find out she donates her time at soup kitchens and Red Cross fund-raisers. Then you just hate yourself for not doing the same.
    The impact of the situation hits me. This is a bigger deal than I thought. Only a chosen few are spotlighted in
Close-Up
and even fewer are interviewed by Candace Porter. And she’s here for me.
Holy crap!
Her platform and its reach . . .
Andrew’s right, I can’t screw this up.
I wish I’d taken Randi up on the offer of a Bloody Mary.
    Following Candace inside is a rail-thin, surfs-before-work-looking young man decked out in a Metallica T-shirt and Volcom pants with tattered hems. He carries a duffel bag over his right shoulder.
    â€œWho’s that?” Andrew asks.
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œWonder if he needs my help,” Andrew jokes. “Or my phone number.”
    Candace scrutinizes my office, then points to my saddle chairs in the lobby and says to the guy, “Scotty, angle those forty-five degrees for better symmetry. Bring in the plant and rust-colored rug from my trunk. We’ll start here.”
    â€œI’m on it.” He disappears outside.
    Most people may not appreciate Candace’s presumption of sauntering into my office and rearranging my furniture like she owns the place. Not me. I’m impressed by her foresight. Look at her, positioning