Can I See You Again? by Allison Morgan Page B

chairs. A classic move to create a comfortable setting.
Well done, Candace.
    â€œOkay,” she says, “where’s the woman of the hour?”
    â€œRight here.” Randi sweeps her hand in my direction. “This is Bree Caxton. Owner and operator of Bree Caxton and Associates.”
    â€œSo you’re the puppet master, pulling the heartstrings untilthey’re tangled with love.” Before I have the chance to answer, she raises her index finger, then jots onto a notepad she pulled from her pocket. “Until they’re tangled with love. Love that line.”
    â€œNice to meet you,” I say, pumping our handshake. “And, now that I see it’s you, I’m a bit nervous.”
    â€œDon’t be. This won’t hurt a bit.”
    How I wish this were true. I know it’s a matter of time before Randi or Candace asks where the other half of my equation is.
    â€œCan I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” A red pen to strike out page six of the contract?
    â€œNo, thank you. Give me a couple minutes and then we’ll get started.”
    Scotty returns with a tall vase of artificial peonies and a rolled-up rug.
    â€œRight here, on the table.” Candace points, then repositions a few of the branches as Scotty unrolls the carpet. She slides my watercolor waterfall picture a few inches to the left and fluffs up the chair’s cushions. “Okay, I think we are all set. Ready, Bree?” She motions me toward the seat on the right.
    â€œYes. Ready.” I pop in an Altoid and force a smile.
He’s terribly sorry, but my boyfriend couldn’t make it today. Those are exquisite earrings. Turquoise? First question, please.
    Scotty unpacks his camera with its massive lens, then kneels beside me. Stubble from a missed morning shave dots his chin, and his breath is heavy with stale coffee. “May I?”
    â€œUm, sure?”
    Scotty picks at my bangs.
    â€œI told her to do something with those,” Randi says, shooting daggers at me while pointing at her watch. “Where is he?” she mouths.
    Before I have the chance to drown myself in the toilet, Scotty poses his camera inches from my face and snaps a few test shots.
    I’m totally nervous now. I don’t know what to do with my trembling hands. I tuck them underneath my thighs, but consider the weak impression I’m giving off and fold my hands, resting them on my lap, trying not to squeeze them tight.
Really sorry, he can’t make it. But let’s get going, shall we? Time is money.
    But as Candace places a voice recorder on the table between us and flips over a few pages of her notebook, my nerves settle. Maybe Candace won’t ask about my boyfriend. Maybe my relationship status isn’t that big a deal. The contract doesn’t specifically say,
Must have a boyfriend
. Perhaps Randi’s playing hardball with me. Acting safe. After all, she’s looking out for sales and the more bases covered, the better.
    The more I consider her perspective, the more I convince myself that I’ve gotten all worked up for nothing. This article is about me. Not Sean. Maybe the subject of my love life won’t even come up.
    I take a deep breath, exhaling my apprehension. Candace is right, this interview won’t hurt a bit. After all, we’ll discuss familiar territory, and I love talking about love. Facilitating relationships is what I do best. I almost laugh out loud at my foolish anxiety of moments ago. I mean, honestly, I can’t imagine one single question thrown by Candace that’ll rattle me.
    She clicks off her recorder. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
    Except that one.

nine
    Jo’s birthday is November second, two days after mine. On the day between my twelfth and her sixty-first birthday, a Saturday, nineteen years ago, we went to Chili’s for lunch, then visited Barnes & Noble at the Southcoast Plaza Mall. We wandered the afternoon through the romance,