Luc

My phone buzzes out yet another text. I must have over twenty messages left on read, half of which need a response. Is it crass to hire a second assistant whose sole job is responding to my incoming texts? I dismiss the idea as quickly as it came. I need to prioritize better. It's 6:30pm and my work day is no slower than it was this morning. I run a hand through my dark hair. Geez, I need a haircut. I lift my phone to set a reminder for the much needed trim when I notice the unusual number and freeze.

'Vivienne No-Hart' clear as cellophane stretches across the screen. Even her name makes me squirm in my seat. Why would the petite she-devil be texting me? The only reason her number's in my phone at all is because of the wedding group chat. But Adrian and Charlotte have been married over three months, and Vivi has been blessedly absent from my life. That girl is the sort of trouble I don't need right now. Or ever. So why am I aching to open her message when I have fifty others of greater importance?

I glimpse the opening words to her text before deciding whether to open it.

'It's Vivi, Charlotte's cousin...'

As if I could forget her.

'I know this is random and we aren't friends but...'

In true Vivi fashion she didn't begin with pleasantries. No hey, how are you? or it's more casual cousin sup? She skipped right to business. Could her text end on any more of a cliffhanger? My finger hovers over the unread message. I know I'm going to open it, but my delay is soothing. I can't give this woman any more power over me. My hesitation is a tiny act of rebellion.

Laying my phone facedown, I busy myself with wrapping up a few time-sensitive emails. Ultimately deciding ten minutes is long enough of a rebellion, I open her text.

     Vivienne No-Hart: It's Vivi, Charlotte's cousin. I know this is random and we aren't friends but the fact I'm texting you should show my level of desperation. I need financial advice. If you can help, I would be very grateful. And if not, I totally understand. LMK And please, will you keep it between us?

Vivi needs my help? Ladies and gentleman, grab your coats because Hades hath froze over. I imagine various scenarios which would bring her to seek my assistance, none of them good. I reread her text at least three times, over analyzing. Okay, maybe four of five times. She actually said please. Please keep it between us. My first instinct is to tell Vivi no or send her one of my employees contact info, but that please stops me. I can sense her despair coupled with vulnerability. And any version of Vivienne Hart that isn't strong and confident doesn't sit right with me. I need her to be okay. I type a quick response.

     Luc: Let's meet for lunch and you can fill me in on the details. Tomorrow@12:30? Steak 48?

I press send before I can overthink it. Tomorrow is soon but school is out for summer so she might be available. And if I'm going to help her, I need to rip it off like a bandaid. Quick and painless. Then I can go back to my Vivi-free life.

I stare a little too intensely waiting for her text dots to start jumping. One minute passes and static. I feel uncomfortable in my skin and put the phone face-down on my desk. Another thirty seconds and I turn it over to see if she responded but my phone somehow forgot to vibrate. And a) my phone works fine, b) my brain is the one short circuiting.

I dive back into work, admittedly distracted. She's the one who asked for my help, why would it take so long to respond? Is she already regretting asking for my help? Just as I'm spiraling with possibilities the phone buzzes beside me. If it's another client I'm going to be angry. I lift the offending electronic.

Vivienne No-Hart: Okay. I'll see you there

The short and pointed message leaves me wanting. I expected an argument about the time or at least the upscale restaurant I chose. But instead Vivi flatly accepted. I should be grateful for her easy compliance, but I itch to text back something antagonizing in order to illicit a response. I let self-control win. If she's going to be professionally civil, then I'll follow suit. I chose to 'like' her last message as a casual confirmation of our lunch plans.

Suddenly, my unfinished work doesn't seem so pressing. My assistant went home an hour ago so I've got to shift my schedule around for tomorrow and cancel the business lunch I'm abandoning in order to meet with Vivi. Why is she more important than two shareholders from Morgan and Yearwood? I tell myself that it's because she was desperate for my help. Or that helping her is, by extension, helping my little brother. Either way, I'm anxious to get home and relax.

I walk into my foyer, escaping the Houston heat with a blast of cold air. My thermostat is perpetually set to a satisfying sixty-five degrees. Guests either love it or hate the frigid temp but they're rarely indifferent. My interior designer put well placed throw blankets throughout the modern space, and I keep a stockpile of oversized sweatshirts for those who are thermally challenged.

I toss my keys into the Lalique crystal bowl, and notice a sweaty McDonald's cup adding rings to my rosewood entry table and groan. Only one person would come over unannounced and leave this obnoxious object in my otherwise spotless house. And judging by the discarded flip flops they are still here.

I call out to my intruder and best friend, "Adam?"

"In the kitchen!" he calls back, and I can tell his mouth is full.

I plop down his drink beside where he's sitting at my kitchen island. I realize he isn't eating McDonald's but has raided my fridge, stealing some leftover lasagna. I stand opposite him, both hands gripping the white quartz counter. "Help yourself, why don't you." I struggle to sound annoyed.

Adam doesn't acknowledge his presumptuousness, and with a mouth stuffed responds, "This lasagna is delicious! Who made it?"

"My step-mom. Lucky for you, she forced me to take home half a tray. I would tell you about the homemade garlic bread but that's only for friends who don't repeatedly leave drinks on my porous wood table."

My best friend barely glances up. "For how much that table costs, I should be able to set a boulder on it, much less a little drink." He has a fair point, but I didn't pick the dumb thing, my designer did. So, I choose to drop the subject.

A realization dawns on me. "Where is your car? It wasn't in the driveway."

Adam has sauce all over his mouth, so I pull open a drawer and toss a fabric napkin at his face, the barbarian.

He answers, "I'm getting new tires and didn't want to wait in the little waiting room so I had my sister drop me off here. But I kinda forgot what time they close. Now I gotta wait until morning to pick it up. You mind if I crash here tonight?"

"I'm surprised you bothered to ask," I note.

"Formality. I'm staying regardless of your answer."

That sounds about right. My exhaustion keeps me from truly appreciating the sort of friendship where last minute sleepovers are routine and welcome. Even though work leaves me mentally spent, I hate coming back to an empty house. Sometimes I think Adam plans these surprise visits to save me the embarrassment of admitting my loneliness. His version of an unspoken helping hand.

I grab a beer from the fridge and hold up an extra bottle toward him in offering. He shakes his full McDonald's cup in reply, so I return the second beer back to it's place, open mine, and lean back against the counter top. I rarely drink but needed something to loosen my nervous energy.

I want to tell him about Vivi texting, but I'm reluctant. Adam has his own ideas on why Vivienne and I don't get along and I'm not sure I want to rehash them. Plus, she said not to tell anyone. But I also know Adam can take secrets to the grave so I'm compelled to say, "Guess who text me today."

He freezes mid chew to analyze my face as if it's expression will reveal the answer. "Judging by that beer in your hand, I'm guessing it's no one good."

I frown, realizing just one beer signifies a cry for help. I've become uptight in my old age of twenty-nine. "If I tell you, you have to keep it a secret. She asked me not to tell anyone." I blanch a little realizing I'm already betraying her confidence, but I'll go crazy without at least one sounding board. I know the info will pass to and stop at Adam.

He looks intrigued. "So it's a she. Please tell me it isn't your ex, the one with the annoying laugh. If so, block her. Block her fast."

"Avery?" I question, but I know for certain that's who he's talking about. Adam complained about her laugh regularly, and I only dated the girl for three months. I didn't mind her laugh, but I wasn't a fan of her using my credit card without asking. I let her keep the five thousand dollar purse purchase as a parting gift. I'm not always a bad guy. "No, not her. Vivienne." No need for a last name. Adam automatically knows judging by the stunned look he's throwing my way. I take another swig of beer.

"Vivi, Vivienne?" I can see the question in his eyes.

"Yep."

"Andddddd?" Adam draws out, expecting me to elaborate.

I oblige. "I guess she needs some financial advice, but she asked me to keep it between us, so you can't say anything. She must not want Charlotte finding out for whatever reason."

Adam looks pensive. "Interesting. And are you gonna help her?"

Am I? I promised to meet her tomorrow to talk, but I'm not sure what help Vivi needs. So whether I can or will help her remains to be seen. I tell Adam exactly that.

"So tomorrow at twelve-thirty you'll be sharing steaks and financials with Vivi?" He looks annoyingly amused, and whistles low. "I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that. I bet twenty bucks someone gets stabbed with a fork or ya'll wind up married in Vegas."

I roll my eyes. I don't want him making a huge deal of it, but I like having his perspective. "It's just a business lunch. And sharing steaks? After the gluten-free cake debacle, I doubt she'll let me anywhere near her plate of food."

"A woman of principle. I like that." Adam unhelpfully adds, pushing his own empty plate in my direction.

"I'm just shocked Vivi asked me of all people." And I genuinely am. Despite her obvious hatred of me, there must be a measure of trust. A smidge of pride blooms in my chest.

Adam leans back in the barstool, lifting his arms to clasp them behind his head while he swivels side to side. "I'm surprised too but also I totally get it. If I needed financial advice, you're top tier. No question." I can't help but smile at my best friend's praise. I've worked my butt off trying to escape my father's successful shadow. And I've built something all my own. Something I'm thankful for and proud of. Adam was there to witness it all. I'm grateful for him.

He continues, "Plus, I think you and Vivi secretly enjoy your spats. Ya'll have more tension than a rope swing holding an elephant."

I can't suppress an escaping chuckle but defend, "I think that tension you're describing is the kind that leads to a first-degree murder charge. But I get your point."

Adam knows I'm physically attracted to Vivi. The first time I laid eyes on her at one of my brother's cocktail parties, hair swept up effortlessly with a simple lilac dress, she floored me. And Adam had witnessed my favorable assessment. I have a physical type and she happens to fit the exact mold. When I asked Adrian about her, my brother informed me of her then long-term boyfriend. And by the time Vivi dumped that jerk, her and I were already solidified as mortal enemies. I originally fought with her to keep my growing feelings at bay, while she fought out of genuine distaste for me. Now? I just steer clear of her altogether. I care a little too much what she thinks, and since none of it is positive in relation to me, I've chosen avoidance. But my Vivi sabbatical will end tomorrow at lunch.

"Well, I can't wait to know how it goes," Adam offers with a cheshire grin.

And I think to myself...same.

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