The Christmas Pic

20. Jo

CHAPTER 20

JO

Waking up to find Ava gone stings, even though I should have expected it.

What catches me off guard is the article Emma sends me–a blaring headline sprawled above a photo of me and Ava dancing together. Though the image captures nothing more scandalous than our dance, the implications won’t sit well with Ava. Her reputation, fragile enough for our radio spat to send her to Harmony Springs, is not equipped for this kind of exposure. The suggestion of partying on the job is one thing, but I am certain the deeper, unspoken implication of her dancing closely with another woman is likely to send her into a tailspin.

Why am I so certain she’s spiraling? It’s been two whole days since I’ve heard from her, and either her phone is off or I’m blocked, because neither Emma nor I have been able to reach her. Max also won’t pick up, which I can tell is bothering Emma enough to make her check her phone every two minutes as we sit across from each other at Sugar Daddy’s.

“What if she’s not having a big gay freakout?” Emma pitches. “Not every ‘straight girl’ loses her mind when she switches teams. ”

“Sure, only every straight girl I’ve hooked up with,” I say bitterly.

“Hadn’t you hooked up with exactly one straight girl prior to Ava?” Emma reminds me.

“Yes, and she was already one too many.”

“Ava’s getting dragged on TechTok, Elon Schmuck tweeted he wants to buy Gramsta, and the AvaGG subreddit is run amok with ‘Gayva’ rumors even if the general public didn’t read that much into the pic.” Emma takes a pointed sip of her drink. “Maybe it’s just 33% gay freakout. The rest could be… sheer existential chaos that has little to do with you.”

I cradle my face in my hands. “This is all my fault.”

“Hey. Hey. Breathe. We’re scrappy. We’ll figure this out, we always do. We can stretch that $10k pretty far. Far-ish. Far adjacent?”

In spite of my stress, my disobedient mind is fixated on a much different issue, one which comes into focus as I close my eyes and try to breathe. The issue of Ava’s soft thighs resting on my shoulders. The issue of Ava’s moans echoing in my ears. The issue of my incessant need to taste her, to hear her, to touch her.

“Earth to Jolene.” Emma is snapping her fingers in my face. “Lost you in the breathwork, buddy.”

I rack my brain for something helpful to contribute that isn’t a montage of Ava’s squirms. “We might as well start spending that $10k. It’s too bad we didn’t get to alleviate Gramsta of more cash, but that check might be able to cover the seat, the heat, and some updated finishes.”

Emma shoots back the rest of her hot chocolate. “Sounds like Mikey’s lucky day.”

Emma had no way of knowing how apt her prediction about Mikey was. A couple hours later, we’re standing in his office at the repair shop. I’m sure all of the blood has drained out of my face because Mikey actually pulls out a chair and beckons me to sit.

Mikey is heavily tatted and pierced up the wazoo, with a calming, dad-like energy that would normally put me at ease if he wasn’t also telling me it would be–

“Twelve thousand for the repairs?” As if things couldn’t get worse. Without further support from Gramsta beyond the initial $10k, there won't even be a business left to require a running truck.

Mikey is sympathetic but firm. “These aren’t any ol’ fixes, Jo. With a vintage truck like Chrissy, you're dealing with unique parts, most of which are out of production. For something like the seat and the heating system, it’s not a simple swap.”

He pauses, ensuring I'm following. “For the driver’s seat alone, we’re talking custom fabrication or hunting down on eBay. And the heat needs an overhaul of the HVAC, which, for this model, is like finding a needle in a haystack.”

I wish my dad was here to tell me what to do. I bury my head in my hands and try to conjure Roger’s wisdom, but there’s nothing but static in my mind.

Mikey puts a hand on my shoulder. “I admire what you’re doing with the truck, okay? I want you to know that,” he says solemnly. “If I’d been able to chase my dreams, maybe I’d be wielding a camera instead of a lug wrench.”

Mikey leans back. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I can tell you this: these are two relatively small fixes,” he clasps his hands, “But long-term? It’s going to be a continuous expense.”

I let out a slow breath.

“Right.” I gulp. “Well, we’re about two thousand dollars–and my sanity–short, but we will… get back to you.”

Mikey rubs his beard. “Jo, I can’t recommend that you continue driving the vehicle until repairs are made. It’s not road safe with the seat like that.”

My stomach clenches. Emma senses my panic is reaching Defcon 1, so she steps in. “Heard, chef. Don’t suppose we can hitch a ride back to my place?”

I lay on Emma’s living room floor with Duke flopped out like a weighted blanket over me while Emma reads job postings from Craigslist.

“Ooh, someone is having a unicorn party! They’re looking for a clean-up crew. That’s probably not too bad, like glitter and some polyester mane hairs to vacuum up?”

If my life wasn’t literally over, I could muster up a laugh. “I don’t think it’s that kind of unicorn, Em.”

“Oh.”

Duke licks my face, marvelously unaware of the downward spiral my existence has taken.

Emma clicks another link. “Okay, wait, how about boudoir?”

“I could do that.”

She leans closer to the laptop screen. “Nevermind, it’s boudoir photography for pets.”

I groan. “The sad thing is, I’m not sure we’re actually above any of these right now.”

Emma shuts her laptop. “Okay, that’s it. We need a full-throttle reset on–” she waves her hand at me on the ground, “–all of this.”

“How do you suggest we do that? Murder-suicide?” I posit wryly.

“Gosh, you get dark fast. No, dude, we make cinnamon popcorn and watch You’ve Got Mail and in about two hours, life will be infinitesimally more hopeful again.”

I’ll give it a shot before taking my first suggestion.

You’ve Got Mail is one of my favorite low-key Christmas movies, and yet, as we watch, I get angrier and angrier. By the time the credits roll, I’m seething.

Emma looks at me worriedly. “I’m sensing this didn’t help but I’m not sure why?”

I chew on a popcorn kernel. “You think it’s romantic, but no. Tom Hanks totally screws over Meg Ryan and puts her mother’s store out of business and he never so much as apologizes? ‘That’s business’?”

Emma mulls this over. “You’re not wrong. I dunno, maybe he apologized to her off-camera and we didn’t see it?”

“If something happens in a movie, then it happens in the movie,” I insist.

“It does feel like a bad sign that even Nora Ephron has pissed you off today,” she cops.

I sigh. “No kidding.”

I’m about to suggest we revisit the murder-suicide when Emma’s phone on the coffee table starts vibrating. MAX AVA HOT lights up on her screen.

“You did not see that,” she snaps as she picks up the phone. “May I ask who’s calling?”

I don’t hear Max’s response so all I have to go on is a “Hm” followed by “I’ll text it” from Emma before she hangs up without so much as a goodbye.

“Ava and Max are on their way over.”

I scramble up from the couch, suddenly panicking again. “Here? I look like shit. I’ve had your dog on top of me for the better part of three hours and I haven’t showered since yesterday morning!”

She studies me. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you’re the one having a big gay freakout.”

I don’t have a strong comeback so instead I march straight toward Emma’s shower. “I don’t want to hear it!” I shout behind me as I shut the door to the bathroom. “Also I’m borrowing a clean shirt. ”

I take the fastest shower known to womankind, steal a spritz from Emma’s bottle of Light Blue and pull on her Bnny shirt. Then I go stand by the door, trying to avoid Duke’s all-encompassing love so as not to immediately require another shower and change of clothes.

Emma goes to her kitchen for a seltzer. “Do you want a pickle or something?”

“Absolutely not, thank you.”

Three sharp raps at the front door. I swing it open to see Ava for the first time since our tryst, with Max beside her. If Max got the dirty details, their face reveals nothing as I greet them.

Ava’s hair is slicked back into a tight bun and she’s in a new variation of that tailored pinstripe suit she wore on our mall excursion. Her camel coat is impeccably dry-cleaned, and I’m not mad that it’s about to be coated in Duke hair. She’s back to the corporate distillation of Ava, all of her sincerity locked away under that same impersonal smile she gave me in the coffee shop on the day we met.

“May we come in?” she asks regally. I step to the side but not fully, forcing her to brush past me to enter.

Emma, eating a whole pickled carrot, comes out of the kitchen. She nods at Max and Ava. “Gramsta.” No names. Cold. “Have a seat in our… office.”

Our corporate guests take their place on Emma’s sofa. Duke hops up to squeeze between them, which I can tell is testing the composure Max is fighting to maintain.

“So,” Ava starts. “We hit a little hitch.”

“Is that what they call it?” I shoot back, but get no reaction from her.

“There was a lot to figure out with the Board, hence the radio silence.” She pauses, like she’s waiting for me to sign for delivery on the history she’s rewriting. “But the good news is, they think the best course of action is to press onward with revitalizing The Photo Truck. If we can document my revamp of your business by Christmas like I promised, then all this noise about how I haven’t walked the walk will be irrelevant.”

I’m not buying the nonchalant way she’s spinning this; there’s no way the Board didn’t rake her over the coals during her two-day absence. Clearly she won’t be presenting anything but the version she wants to tell.

“I’m glad this has all worked out so well for you,” I tell her flatly. I want so desperately to tell her we don’t need her help anymore, that she and Gramsta and her soft thighs and cold demeanor don’t belong here in Harmony Springs, much less my life. I’ve suffered enough at the hands of a closeted woman to realize this does not end well. Even if we never kiss again, that old pain of mine will linger in every subsequent encounter. I’ll be forced to repeatedly face yet another chapter of my life that ends with me being used and discarded by a confused straight woman.

But I’m in no position to say anything close to that. Instead I channel my resentment into driving a harder bargain. “It does sound like you need this.”

Ava’s eyes flit to mine and then away. “I think it’s mutually beneficial.”

“From where I’m standing, 99% of our problems could be fixed with a big fat check.”

Ava’s gaze holds a flicker of resolve. “That may be partially true,” she starts, her voice steadier, “but merely writing a check won’t quiet my critics or satisfy the Board. I need to be actively involved, not only in refurbishing the truck but in reshaping your business approach.” She glances uncomfortably to the side. “And documenting it for PR,” she adds.

I fold my arms. “The money might seem negligible to you compared to your precious reputation, but it’s not negligible for us. I want an unlimited budget for the projects we handle this month, and a cash infusion to set us up for success in the year ahead so that we have a safety net for testing whatever strategies you’re implementing.”

She starts to speak but I’m not done. “If you can commit to that, then I'll do what's necessary over the next week to support you, including playing the role of the cooperative Midwest business owner who sings your praises for the press and public.”

Ava waits for a moment, like she’s anticipating more demands. Then:

“Legally, there’s no such thing as an unlimited budget, but you have my word that no expense will be spared. Besides,” she looks faintly sad, “you’ve intuited what I need to get out of this, so I suppose that’s a bit of power back in your hands.”

I essentially blackmailed my way into everything I’ve been hoping for for the last five years, but I don’t feel very empowered. Nevertheless, I affix a winning smile on my face and hold out my hand to Ava. I sense her split-second of hesitation but then she acquiesces and we shake. Heat courses through me as our hands touch and I try to keep my dumb stuttering heart from beating out of my chest.

“Time to hit the ground running!” I proclaim.

All I have to do now is perform an Oscar-worthy display of composure. Jesus, Meryl, and Joseph.