Free More Like Her by Liza Palmer Page B

check just in case this whole Sam thing goes south. She has to prepare for the possibility of both outcomes this early on.
    I continue. “It’s such a catch-22. I have to allow myself to be vulnerable in order to be open to something, but being vulnerable to him opens me up to getting hurt.” Tears sting my eyes. You’re at the head of department mixer, Frannie. Lock it up.
    Jill can’t contain herself. “Maybe I can ask if Martin has some—”
    “Are you kidding me?”
    “What?”
    “How can you stand there and talk about other setups?” I ask.
    “I’m not understanding,” Jill says.
    “You talking about other setups makes me think that you think that this whole thing with Sam is over. That I’m—”
    Jill interrupts. “Makes you think that I think . . . what are you talking about right now? I want you to be happy. If another dude makes you happy, then Sam can take a long walk off a short pier is all I’m saying.” Jill’s voice is quiet and intense. She’s serious. For once in her life. And I should be listening. I get it. I’m the queen of putting all my eggs in one basket. I always had the fear of only having one batch of eggs and one basket. Everything’s more precious when you think there’s no hope of more. Saved voice mails. Treasured notes scrawled on the backs of envelopes. Always being on hand for fear that I wouldn’t be there on the day he decided to proclaim his undying love for me. I’m afraid everything about me is fleeting.
    Jill continues. “So, we’ll just play the whole setup thing by ear then?” She squeezes me close.
    “That’s Jill Code,” I say, waving down the waiter again. I better eat something if I’m going to continue drinking like this.
    “For lining up a rebound fuck, yes. Most assuredly—”
    “Ms. Reid? Mrs. Fleming.” Emma Dunham.
    “Oh, for crissakes,” Jill says under her breath. We straighten up.
    “Yes, Headmistress Dunham,” I say, shoulders back, head high.
    “Headmistress, I’m—” Jill starts.
    “Mrs. Fleming, I don’t need an explanation. It seems you’re catching on however—at least you’re not in a public hallway during Back-to-School Night. One has to acknowledge the little victories,” Emma says, giving the smallest of smiles. She is beyond dazzling. Her blond hair is sleek and falls in a Veronica Lake–style wave down the right side of her perfectly sculpted face. She has more makeup on than usual, but it only amplifies her already glorious features. She’s wearing a simple light pink, sleeveless shift dress and a pair of silver Grecian sandals. Effortless, stunning and completely beyond anything I’d ever consider wearing.
    “That’s right!” Jill says, guffawing.
    “Thank you so much for having us. Such a lovely home,” I say, shaking her hand.
    “Thank you. The board is anxious to speak with you two. We’re all so happy to have you,” Emma says, her eyes flitting from group to group, from Jill to me, from Jamie to the kitchen. She’s in complete control. Emma pulls over a well-heeled couple. “Jill Fleming, this is Mr. and Mrs. Murphy. Please.” Emma puts them together like an awkward pair of teenagers at a Sadie Hawkins dance. They fall into conversation easily. Weather. Markham. The usual.
    “I want to thank you again for the invitation and the opportunity to be considered for the head of the speech therapy department,” I say.
    “Frannie, you earned it, you don’t have to keep thanking me,” Emma says.
    “I guess it’s about you believing in me then. It means a lot,” I say.
    “You’re funny,” Emma says, smiling. Her smile is beautiful . . . and rare.
    “How am I funny?” I feel like Joe Pesci.
    “It’s just . . . your résumé is impressive, your educational background and work ethic are just as stellar, of course you’re in the running,” Emma says, taking a sip of her white wine.
    “Did you always want to work in school administration?”
    “Of course not.” Emma laughs. Another drink